summary - your break up with jack causes more than just emotional scars
warning - angst, medical inaccuracies, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, reader has hair long enough to curl and breasts big enough to put in a bra
an - this was originally a robby fic but changed to jack. inspired by the condition takotsubo syndrome. i will make a part two!
part two
part three
part four
masterlist
The break up had come out of nowhere. Sure, you’d had some arguments but you were under the assumption that the conversations that followed, the compromises and tender affection had corrected the issues you were fighting about in the first place. He’d come home after work. You’d prepared a breakfast, choosing all of his favourite dishes to surprise him after what you knew would have been a horrific shift. He’d come in, completely drenched from his walk home in the morning rain. Shoving his bag on top the wooden table to his right, head falling against the door as he pushed it closed. You’d already got out a dry set of clothes and towels ready for him, the items laying neatly on your shared freshly laundered bed.
You stepped into the hallway, heart faltering at the way he was carrying himself.
“My love, I’ve laid out some stuff for you, why don’t you go have a shower whilst I finish getting breakfast ready?” He didn’t reply, just continued staring up at the ceiling.
“I think I need to step back from this. From us.” Those statements caused the first pang, like an invisible hand reaching into your chest and gripping your heart tightly. You stumbled back, gripping onto the doorframe. Your actions caused the vase he’d got you on your first anniversary to clamber to the floor, glass splintering around your bare feet. He’d immediately looked towards the sound, eyes flittering from yours, which were now filled with tears to the blood now erupting from your skin, small shards sticking out.
“Shit-“ he walked towards you. You took another step away, wincing as the glass crunched under your soles. “Stop moving.” he pleaded. He could see the way your chin had begun to tremble, the way you were trying to hold it all in.
“I think you should leave.” you managed to spit out.
“Please, sweetheart. Let me help you clean up.” He went to reach for you again but you stood your ground.
“I’m a doctor, Jack. I know how to clean myself up.” You turned the best you could, gently staggering over the broken vase into the kitchen, a trail of crimson following behind you. Every step you took caused a sting to flood over you. You could hear him following you, the glass nothing against his combat boots.
“I want to talk. I don’t want this to be like this. I-“
“Like what?” You took a seat at the breakfast bar, bringing one of your feet into your lap the best you could. “You have clearly thought about this a lot and have already decided what you wanted. So why bother?” He took it upon himself to reach into the medicine cabinet, pulling out all the necessary equipment.
“I just want a break. I don’t want to be in a relationship right now. I can’t give you what you deserve.” He hands over the kit. You snatch it away, beginning to lay it out against the granite side.
“So after two and a half years you’re just done?”
“Things have changed.” he sighed. You ignore him, choosing to don the latex gloves and start cleaning the wounds that littered your skin. He watches you flinch as the antiseptic brushes over the cuts. He wants to help, wants to take over and give you all the love and care you deserve. But he knows he’s not in a place to. Not permanently.
He’d silently observed you wrap the bandages over your feet, taking the plush pink socks he’d dug out of the clean washing basket in the laundry room. You hadn’t said anything as you gently got down from the bar stool, reaching for the dustpan and brush to begin sweeping the broken glass. He’d chosen to leave you to it, going to the bedroom to sort out the bag he didn’t want to pack. He could hear your sobs, his heart breaking at the sound. He knew he was doing this for you. He needed help. He needed to be better for you, free from the terrors of his past that plagued his mind. That meant letting you go. Maybe the universe would bring you back together again when he was in a more solid place.
“I’m staying at Michael’s. If you need anything.” He mumbles, bag straps tight in his grasp. You were sat on the couch, staring at the photo frame that sat above the fireplace. The fireplace that made you want to buy the place when you first discussed living together nearly a year ago. Dana had ordered a blown up version of your favourite photo of the two of you. You’d been at some medical gala not long after you got together. You were looking towards the camera, however Jack’s face was turned towards you, love and adoration flooding his eyes.
When you didn’t acknowledge him again, he hesitantly took a step towards your side, pressing a gentle kiss into the soft curls you’d done earlier that night. You were still in the soft satin skirt you’d put on especially for him, however it was now creased and crumpled. His action caused the tears to begin falling again, shoulders shaking as the sobs took over.
“Please get out.” you begged, clutching against your chest as it ached. He obliged, grabbing his keys he’d dropped earlier before quietly shutting the door behind him.
That was 8 weeks ago. The pain had persisted. You were a senior resident and had been for years. You knew the red flags your body was presenting but you didn’t have the energy to give it space in your mind. He’d kept the distance and you’d respected it. Limiting your interactions at work. Switching to the day shift much to the chagrin of Michael Robinavitch, who was trying to stay out of the situation the best he could.
Parker had called out, an issue with a family member she needed to sort out, leading to Dana asking if you were free to work a double or at least until they could call someone else to cover. You’d hesitantly agreed, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest as you prepared to work with Jack for more than 20 minutes.
You’d done well, remaining professional during assessments and always ensuring there was at least one other person in your conversation. However at hour 18 of your shift, you’d crumbled. Your eyes gazed over the department, stopping on the two figures stood by the scrub machine. They were deep in conversation, head thrown back in laughter. The pain erupting across your chest deepened. The night shift attending and the day shift senior resident looked as natural as anything. Her hand rested against his bicep, his lingering just beside her hip. You could see even from your position nearly 10 metres away that she was slowly clenching her fingers around his flesh. If he was bothered, he didn’t make it known.
You tried to tear away from the display, returning your attention to the tablet in your grasp. The 45 year old female presenting with severe abdominal cramping had been discharged nearly 12 minutes before. A simple case that needed a simple chart, however your brain could not do its job. Instead running a hundred miles an hour at the sight of the love of your life and the girl everyone thought he wouldve ended up with getting chummy .
“Sweetheart, you don’t look the best. You feeling ok?” Dana’s shoulder gently nudged yours, already reaching up to rest her palm against your forehead. “You look a bit pale.” She moves her hand down to feel your cheeks, before returning it back down to her side.
“I’m fine.” you mumbled, trying to block the spreading agony. “I just need a minute.” Her face fell into a softened expression, sliding the device across the desk towards herself.
“Go take a break, you clearly need it.” You look up to observe the cause of your discomfort, noticing they had taken a step closer to one another, torsos only inches away from each other.
“Dana,” the tears had formed quickly. She followed your line of sight towards Jack and Samira, an angry huff leaving her lips.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” she muttered, throwing her arm around your back, beginning to lead you away. You made it to an empty room across the floor without drawing attention to the mascara running down your face. “You’re going to stay in here until I say so. Got it?” you nod at her, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you,” you sniffed, accepting the tissue box she’d pulled from the inventory drawer. “I’m just being dramatic. I’ll be fine in a bit.”
“I know you will,” she patted your knee, giving you a quick wink. “I’ll try and snag a sandwich on the way back to you. No tuna, right?”
You’d sat in your own thoughts for another 10 minutes before you realised Dana had probably got side tracked. The heaviness on your chest had increased, your pulse racing and you swear you could feel the way your heart was beating in your ears. You’d been tempted to hook yourself up to the EKG machine that had been left in after the last patient had been discharged. You’d reached for the electrodes when a loud crash sounded behind the closed curtain. You stood just as wave of dizziness hits, and you can feel the sweat dripping down your face despite the cool air of the ED. You sway, gripping the nearest surface, fighting the urge to collapse. Your stomach churned violently, and a nauseous panic began rising in your throat. Time stretched. Each second a fight. Each breath a battle.
You grasp for the blue scratchy fabric separating you from the chaos of your workplace. It gives, revealing everyone going about as normal. You can vaguely make out a number of your colleagues, however your vision is going as quickly as your balance. The pain is no longer just in your chest, you can feel it everywhere. Your body was screaming, and in that moment, you’d never felt more desperate and utterly powerless at the same time.
Langdon notices you first. You’re clutching the sliding door 10 metres away, figure hunched tight towards the metal. He taps Mel’s shoulder, getting her attention before sprinting over towards you.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, looking you up and down for injuries. You can’t catch your breath enough to reply, mustering up just enough energy to snatch the fabric of your scrubs that sat against your chest. He doesn’t even think before he throws his arms under your knees, lifting you up onto his torso and spinning on his feet. “Dana, I need a trauma room!” he yelled, running towards the desired room. His raised voice alerting numerous other people to the situation.
“Trauma 1 is open!” she’s already stepping along side him, watching as he lowered you onto the gurney. Hands instantly reach towards you, clipping various devices to your paling body.
“I want an EKG now.” Langdon demands, shears heavy in his hands as he cuts up through your black scrub top. He spoke a silent apology to you, continuing to slice through the lace middle of your grey bra, leaving your chest completely bare to your colleagues.
“BP is 179 over 102, O2 is 89% and heart rate 112.” You can hear Princess relaying your vitals. You can barely focus, your thoughts scattered, racing between fear and confusion.
“She’s been having chest pains for weeks. She’s been trying to hide them but I can see it in her face. It’s ever since-“ Dana’s voice trails off at the body now stood in the doorway.
“EKG reads a STEMI.” The rest of the room continues.
“Ok, aspirin and heparin now. It’s going to need a PCI. Someone call Cardiology.”
Jack’s gaze falls to your shaking frame, watching as his colleagues work above you. He hears you gasping through the oxygen masks. Mel is already beginning to insert the tube in your arm for the treatment.
“Abbot, you can’t be in here if you’re going to be biased.” Robby’s voice cuts over the noise of the machines as he takes over from his resident. Jack hadn’t even noticed he’d come past him. Jack’s eyes flicker up to his friend’s, wincing when he’s already looking directly at him.
“She’s-“ he mumbles, hands getting sweaty under the grip of his cargos. “Is she going to-“ his words get caught in his throat.
“We’re going to do everything we can,” Robby nods.
A loud continuous beep rings out, flooding the room with anxiety.
“Asystole!” Princess yells. Frank doesn’t wait for a command, immediately locking his hands and positioning them over your bare chest, pumping up and down.
“Fuck,” Jack mutters, his body taking a step towards the scene.
“Get him out of here.” Robby yells to anyone who would listen. Jack feels Dana’s grip on his arms, pulling him backwards. Her quiet words of attempted comfort go in one ear and out the other, he couldn’t care for what she was saying. His mind fills with the sound of your ribs cracking under his colleagues hands as he attempts to get your heart working again.
“Please,” his balance falters and he stumbles towards the ground, falling into the charge nurse’s embrace. “Please save her.”
✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
main masterlist
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab
author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.
i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Soulmate.
A word that fills most people with hope and peace.
Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.
For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.
But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.
Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.
“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”
She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.
You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.
It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!
It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.
“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.
Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.
It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.
Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.
You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.
But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.
They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.
Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.
“Chocolate chip?”
A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.
“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.
“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”
“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”
“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”
Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.
No matter how much you may wish that was the case.
You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.
You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?
Or is he still searching, all these decades later?
As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.
You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”
There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”
“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”
“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”
“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”
You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.
“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”
He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.
You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”
He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”
“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”
“I think I can handle that.”
You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.
Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.
It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.
It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.
For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.
He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.
“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.
So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.
Well, partially lied.
Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.
But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.
What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.
No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.
You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.
Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.
He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.
Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?
But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.
He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.
Right where his soul mark used to be.
Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.
It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.
He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.
He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.
Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.
Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.
But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.
So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”
The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.
There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.
Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”
You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—
Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.
You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.
“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.
“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”
Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”
“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.
He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.
“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.
“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—
Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”
Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.
As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.
“I have a confession to make.”
You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”
“Nope.”
You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.
“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”
You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.
From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”
“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”
You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.
“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”
The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.
You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.
“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.
“Soulmates?”
“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.
“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”
You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”
“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”
When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”
You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”
You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.
Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.
But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.
That was before Bucky.
“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”
She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”
“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”
“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”
As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?
No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.
Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.
He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.
You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.
You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.
It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.
Reality is never quite as sweet.
Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.
You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.
“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.
“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.
Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.
He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.
Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.
“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”
“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”
“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”
Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.
“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”
Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.
Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.
“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”
“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”
“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”
“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”
“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”
And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.
Bucky doesn’t move.
You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.
“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”
You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”
You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”
He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”
“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”
You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.
He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.
It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
You don’t go back to your room.
You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.
There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.
There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.
You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.
Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.
Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.
Archives with information about you.
You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.
It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.
And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?
You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.
You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.
Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.
Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?
If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?
Or would you still love him?
Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.
But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.
That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.
“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”
The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.
“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”
You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”
Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.
“Like I said. I know you well enough.”
You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.
Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.
He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”
You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.
“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”
He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”
You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.
“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”
For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”
We.
You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.
It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.
It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?
But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.
“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”
“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.
Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.
And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.
But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.
Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.
Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”
Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.
A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.
“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”
“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”
He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”
You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.
“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”
You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”
He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”
That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.
For better or for worse.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.
Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.
You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.
Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.
The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.
“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”
Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”
You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.
A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.
Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”
You swallow and nod once.
Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.
Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.
You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.
Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”
He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?
You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.
“Okay,” you whisper.
You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.
Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.
Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.
You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.
You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.
Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.
You grab one at random and flip it open.
Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.
You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?
“Any luck yet?”
Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.
“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”
You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.
Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—
Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.
“Bucky.”
Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.
“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.
You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.
Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.
But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.
You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.
“Wait.”
Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.
“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”
He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.
You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.
Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”
You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.
“Bucky—”
Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.
Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.
“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”
Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.
Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.
“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”
You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”
It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.
And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.
You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.
You do none of these things, of course.
Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.
You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.
“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”
You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.
But you don’t pull your hand away, either.
“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”
His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”
God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.
You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.
Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.
Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.
Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.
As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.
You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.
Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.
You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.
I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.
Say something. Anything.
But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.
Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.
The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.
Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.
The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.
The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.
He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.
And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.
You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.
Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.
And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.
He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.
He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.
Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.
And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.
That wasn’t fair.
He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.
A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.
He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.
“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.
He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.
“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.
Bucky swallows. “Hi.”
“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”
For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.
He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”
“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.
“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”
His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”
“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”
You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.
He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.
Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.
The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.
He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.
You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.
He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.
You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.
He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.
“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.
He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.
“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”
You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”
He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.
I love you, Bucky. I choose you.
Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.
It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.
Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.
“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.
Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.
You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”
You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”
“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”
You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”
He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”
You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.
His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.
You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.
He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.
“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.
His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.
A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.
“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.
The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.
His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.
Home.
“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.
He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.
The picture nearly falls out of his hands.
“дом.”
“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”
But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.
“Bucky?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.
He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.
In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.
He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—
There.
A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.
Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.
A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.
Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.
Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.
That you’re his soulmate.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.
You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.
He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”
He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.
“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.
“Home?”
You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.
Home.
It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.
You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.
“Does this really mean what I hope—”
“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”
You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”
They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.
“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”
You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.
He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.
He’s really yours.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.
“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.
His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.
“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.
“Yeah? You should do that now.”
Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.
This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.
You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.
He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.
There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.
You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.
With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.
“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.
He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”
“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”
He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.
You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.
His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.
Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.
“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.
He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.
Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”
You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.
He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.
“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”
Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.
“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.
“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”
“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”
His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.
He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.
The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.
Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.
When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”
Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”
“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.
“All of me.”
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”
Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.
It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.
But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.
Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.
Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.
Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.
“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”
Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.
“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”
You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”
You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.
“Dead serious.”
“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”
By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.
“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.
His soulmate.
“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”
“Okay.”
“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”
You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”
A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”
“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”
He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”
He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.
“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”
The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”
You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.
Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”
“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”
He was so hoping you would say that.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3
synopsis Robby is known to speak before he thinks sometimes, but when the cost of his words is losing you, he’d rather die (6.6k words)
warningheavy angst, language, hospital stuff, mention of drowning, near death experience, robby is constipated emotionally as always, jack to the rescue, kinda yearning Jack if you squint, inaccurate medical practices I am noooo doctor!
authornotethannk you so much for the request!!! and thank you for your kind words! I had so much fun writing, I think angst is probably my favourite to write over anything especially when Robby is the one yearning. I hope you liked! (Gif credits @emziess :)
Pitt masterlist Last robby fic!
As a resident in the Emergency Department there was a lot you knew.
You knew that preeclampsia effected about eight percent of all pregnant women worldwide. You knew how to intubate and had in fact done so many in your time at PTMC that you were sure you could do it with your eyes closed. You knew that in the bottom draw of Dana's select spot at the nurses station was a pack of nicotine gum hardly used because Dana thought they were a bunch of bull; in spite of the literal doctors orders.
You knew there was a leaky faucet in the women's bathrooms that drove everyone insane when they went in there to steal a moment's peace. You knew the computer in central fourteen was the faultiest one which was why you avoided charting in there all together.
So you knew there must have been a reason why Noelle from insurance was biding her time with your new boyfriend. There must have been a reason why he was grinning big at her like he hadn't with you for days.
“Hey!” said Samira falling at your side at the counter.
You were still too distracted by the two to even tear your gaze away and look at her. “Hey.”
Samira followed your eyeline. “You're staring, you know that?”
You nodded.
Robby rubbed at the side of his face as his cheeks flushed, Noelle shifted her weight onto her other heeled foot- apparently getting herself comfortable.
“Who is that, again?” asked Doctor Mohan.
“Noelle. She's from insurance.”
Samira nodded. “Noelle from insurance. Annnd do we like Noelle, from insurance?”
At that you realised just how transparent your glares might have been.
“Oh, you know,” you mumbled, finally looking back down to your tablet that had grown dark in the absence of movement. “It's our job to like everyone.”
Santos passed by you then, dropping herself down into your favourite chair in exhaustion. “Not everyone.”
“So we're all having a great day, I see,” you commented, sarcastically. However the sardonic tone of your voice was over-saturated with a loud laugh.
Your head practically snapped up to see Noelle laughing at something Robby had said. Even his face was scrunched up at his joke. You watched as Noelle's hand darted to his bicep, playfully hitting him in a way that could only be recognised as flirting.
You watched as Robby looked down to her hand on him and then he looked up, finding you and finding your watchful gaze. Only then did the pink in his cheeks subside and the wrinkles of amusement die.
“Didn't they have a thing before you and him got together?” asked Santos.
You sighed. “Yes, they did, thank you, Trinity.”
“Hey, just trying to be helpful.”
“Save it for the patients,” you said.
Robby took one step in your direction but you'd already dismissed yourself from Santos and Mohan, walking the ward like it was a battle field.
But you could hear your boyfriends heavy boots close behind you.
“Don't do that,” he said, calling after you.
“Do what? See a patient?”
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“Of course it's not,” you said, trying your best to be indifferent.
You knew about Noelle and Robby's history, just as you knew about his and Heathers, and his and the pathologist from upstairs, and the one from ortho. You knew and you understood, heck you'd even been around to joke about with Landon. Robby's famous seven-week itch.
Rumour had it before he finally got to hold your hand and kiss you whenever he liked he'd been trying to nail you down for years, but you weren't sure how much you believed.
It had been nine months, maybe closer to ten since you and Robby had officially started seeing each other. It was the real boyfriend-girlfriend deal where you could call each other at any moments of the day, could get take out together and discuss the boring things together.
Yet, you did none of that.
Robby and you didn't talk.
You fucked- but only each other. You worked on cases together- strictly professional. On the days where you were desperate there was an on-call room Robby could book out and steal time away with you.
But you didn't remember the last time you'd laughed like that with him.
“It's not,” said Robby again.
“Of course it's not.”
Robby sighed, falling closer behind you. “Well, it doesn't really sound like you believe me.”
“I believe you,” you said. “Do I believe Noelle...”
“Oh, c'mon,” Robby chuckled, like the very idea of them was ridiculous. Like the two of you didn't begin where they ended. “You seriously gonna be hung up on that?”
“Don't,” you warn, shaking your head.
You reached for an exam room door, where a sixteen year old boy was complaining of migraines but Robby grabbed your wrist and stirred you away.
“You wanna argue, not here,” he said.
“I don't want to argue.”
Robby led you out to the ambulance bay. Any nurses stealing a couple minutes of peace quickly diverted back in and even ambulances seemed to divert away. He let go of you, standing away and folding his arms over his chest, defensive. “So come on, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You're mad because I was talking to Noelle- about a case, might I add,” he said. There was nothing soft in his tone, nothing that calmed your nerves on edge. He said it all like it was a joke that he already knew the punchline to.
You rubbed at your temple. “You can talk to Noelle about cases, of course you can-”
“- Oh, thank you, glad I have your permission,” he chuckled.
“Can you just not be a dick about this, for once!” you snapped.
Robby's brows rose to his head, almost shocked at your snap at him. He held out his hands. “Okay, I'm not being a dick.”
“You are, and it's like sometimes you don't even realise.”
His hands were worn with the mornings patients and you could see the stress he tried to hide away as he wiped up and down his face.
You took a deep breath. “Robby, if you don't want this to work out all you have to do is say.” You said it, un-sure if you even meant it. Un-sure that you could ever go back to who you were before meeting Robby, let alone sharing in his life. In the small moments grabbing take out together and eating it on his sofa. In the mornings where you both naturally woke up early enough to just admire each other before you had to get to work.
Robby chuckled dryly, hands on his hips. “Oh my god, all of this because I spoke to another woman?”
“Because you laughed with her like you haven't with me for weeks!” you argued.
For once, Robby was silent.
You told yourself after the seven week mark that it would be any day now, that he'd tell you you were better off friends; colleagues. Every day and week it didn't come, every month he got more comfortable in your bed you figured you'd easily get rid of him in your life as easily as you welcomed him.
Now you stood across from him in the early morning light of the ambulance bay knowing if he left you now you'd never get back on your feet again.
“I see the way Noelle looks at you, how the others from upstairs do to,” you begin.
Robby shook his head, something earnest in his gaze. “They're not- they don't-”
“- I know, I know,” you said, cutting him off with a grimace of a smile. “ ”I know you don't love them, Robby. I'm just not sure you love me either.”
As un-cultured as you were with your own relationships you weren't sure when the right time to say I love you was. You knew Santos had said it to Garcia drunk one night and woke up with regret pinning her to the bed. You knew Dana and Benji had said it to each other a week in. You knew you loved Robby before you even kissed him.
Robby looked down to his boots, shaking his head. “That's not fair.”
Your heart pinched. “I know I love you, Robby. But I can't watch all these woman over you and-and wonder.”
“Your insecurities are not my fault!” Robby snapped.
You knew he didn't mean it, or hoped he didn't. You knew in the very small arguments you'd had that he spoke without thinking and came grovelling back.
Maybe it was worse this time because you knew it was the truth. You knew these women- his ex something's- didn't get to see Robby in the early mornings and be the last thing he spoke to at night. You knew Robby wasn't inviting them into his self, but he wasn't pushing them away either.
They'd all been quick, snaps of bands on wrists. You were supposed to be something more.
Maybe you weren't.
Biting on the inside of your cheek, you felt the familiar burning in your chest, rising up to your neck.
“Okay.” You held yourself tight, heading past him and to the doors that were already welcoming you back.
Robby was hot on your heels, quicker even as he pushed himself ahead of you. “No, no, no- hey- wait, no I-I didn't mean that.” His eyes were wide, hands held out in front of you, not quite clasped together, pointing to the sky but pleading none the less.
“We shouldn't talk about this now, Robby-”
“- I- we... honey, please.”
He stood in between you and the doors. Beyond him you saw the chaos of the room, the charts being passed, the labs being reported. The world still turned.
Robby's hands fell to your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “Let me- jus' let me-let me-”
“Hey! You two!”
Robby didn't jump apart from you, he squeezed your arms tighter as the two of you looked back to Dana who rushed out, wisps of grey hair falling around her. “What is it?”
“There's been a crash down the docks, all hands on deck!”
You thought you knew chaos, having seen all sorts of terror and oddities in the Pitt but the scenes at the dock were nothing like it. A complication with a boat, an explosion- small enough- rattled ferries and had them crashing into one another like terrible scene of dominoes.
Heck, you weren't even sure if the docks were safe to be standing on.
There were fire trucks and ambulances that didn't just respond to PTMC but Presby too. Police were corning off the area, talking to any witnesses but everyone blurred in one as you weaved in and out of them.
You'd been sent as an emergency respondent thanks to how level-headed and sturdy you were in the Pittfest. You still remembered how Robby nominated you as well as Whitaker to go with some from surgery, his eyes dark on you, a trusting nod passed before you were handed a jacket and pushed into an ambulance.
You'd already pulled a sheet over three bodies, one of them too small for your liking.
“Any for me?” asked a first emergency responder, you think his name was Spencer, catching it in the rig you caught a ride in. “We can take two.”
“Yeah!” you yelled and led him away. “This guy, approximately in his thirties, head lack to the right, needs to go to surgery immediately. This woman, late twenties, lost consciousness, possible pelvic bleed but she's stabilised, need's a ultrasound.”
“Got it!”
You'd gone through almost all the gloves you had in your pockets. There was blood seeping into your scrub uniform at your knees. You'd forgone your coat to a little girl who took an ambulance back with her mother, trembling from the cold.
A steady, firm hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“How you holding on, Slugger?”
Your heart soared in relief when you recognised Jack's voice, felt his steady hand and saw his easy smile in the middle of all the pain.
“Jack, thank god. Are you here with your team?” you asked, eying the uniform he was in.
“Yeah, we came to secure the area, doing everything I can to help,” he said, the two of you nudging your way through the people, stepping over the rubble and pools of water or blood. “How you holding up?”
“Lost three,” you told him.
Jack looked down at you, the weight of his gaze always heavy. “And how many you saved, huh? Focus on that number.”
The wind picked up, sending a chill over your bones.
“Hey, where's your jacket?” asked Jack, a frown taking over his features.
You chuckled. “Probably half way to Presby by now, think we've handed off all the traumas PTMC can take.”
Jack tutted and shook his head aside. “I reckon they've got one more in them.”
You didn't know how you and Jack had got so close, somewhere along the lines of hand-offs and covering night shifts you just always gravitated toward each other, working well and saving lives. Every daring procedure you'd taken was with him over your shoulder only for him to go and boast about you to Robby later.
Jack led you to Robby, for that you always had to be thankful.
“Hey! I've got a guy seizing over here!”
With your case in hand the two of you rushed off.
The man seemed middle-aged with no obvious wound to him as you and Jack took either side. The man was at the edge of the docks, the crashing of the waves fighting against you as you worked to stablilse him.
Jack steadied him. “Check if there's any medication on him! It might be a disorder!”
You checked, coming up empty pocketed. You fumbled in your bag and tried your pockets before finding the vial and clean needle. “Pushing diazepam!”
With five cc's in his seizing slowed to dull twitches.
“We need a back board and neck brace,” said Jack, looking around to try and flag down anyone.
Nobody was catching your eyes. This close to the water you were out of the way of most of the chaos.
“Go!” you told Jack. “I'll stay with him, make sure he doesn't sieze again.”
Jack's brows pinched together for a second. “You sure?”
You nodded. Your hands remained on your patient, feeling his tremors and already timing his pulse with your watch. “I've got it, go!”
In hind sight you should have thought about the implications. You'd been grabbed and yelled at and spat at in the ED by less sever patients but once you'd been attacked by a man who just woke up from a seizure, dazed and confused and naming you his enemy.
Robby had never been so close to murder.
It took weeks for the bruises to go down, for your hand to heal properly from the fall and you were on bed rest for a week.
You knew what it meant to be alone with a patient, but sometimes you supposed it couldn't be helped.
The diazepam should have helped- you've seen it help- but soon enough the man started twitching, slow at first, before it started to fit and his whole body moved.
He was a strong man. You weren't.
“It's okay, sir- sir!” you threw your weight against him to hold him still, wonder what you can do to stop him biting down on his tongue with the little equipment you had.
The man was mumbling to himself, thrashing violently.
“C'mon Jack, c'mon-”
It only took a wide sweep of the mans arm to send you hurtling back and crashing into the icy water.
The sky was darkening by the time Robby counted off his thirtieth patient of the day. Twenty-five of them had been from the incident at the docks. Only one he couldn't save, two sent up to the OR.
He counted the patients, counted the hours that ticked by, counted every ambulance that came by not carrying you. He'd expected you back by now, expected to have a little piece of mind with seeing you back in his eyeline.
Robby's heart was being squeezed progressively as the day went on, ever since he'd snapped and said words he never even meant.
Every second, passing from patient to patient and tearing off gloves to replace them with clean ones he checked his phone for any update from you.
Nothing.
You must have been busy down there.
But just three ambulances ago Whitaker returned saying he lost sight of you practically immediately.
So where the hell were you?
“Hey, Dana-” he called, rounding on the nurses station.
She looked as dishevelled as he felt, wisps of hair, dark circles under her eyes.
“Can you get a hold of transport, ask where the hell is my resident.”
“I just got off the phone with them, Robby-” she reached over and placed a hand on his, the one that had been tapping relentlessly. “She's on her way in now.”
Before Robby could even wonder why Dana had to hold his hand to tell him, why her eyes were glassed over and her voice trembled to tell him the doors bust open.
“Robby!” Jack yelled out.
He turned, catching sight of his old friend, the greying hair damp and sticking to his skin. He was half dressed in SWAT gear, his jacket discarded and bits of tinfoil falling from his shoulders. Jack was set over a gurney, hammering down on a chest and going in for CPR the old fashioned way.
“What happened? You fall in-”
Robby got to the other side of the gurney and breath caught in his chest.
“She's been down thirty- thirty-five minutes, I dunno, man,” said Jack as he continued hammering down on your chest.
It was you. Blue in the face and eyes closed, droplets of water at your lashes. Your hair was turning to ice fanned out underneath you. He'd been running his hand through your hair just that morning, had he not. There was a blanket, maybe two, thrown over you but your body only reacted to the thumping Jack delivered on your chest, pinching your nose to breath down your open mouth.
This morning you'd been warm, so warm, with a leg thrown over his hips in attempts to keep him in your bed. And he'd been close, so close to burying himself in your warmth.
He didn't even have to touch you to know you were cold.
“I found her- in the water- pulled her out-” gasped Jack as he continued compressions.
“What do you mean in the water?” asked Robby, surprising himself by how calm he sounded.
“She- she fell, or-or something, I dunno man-”
“You don't know?” he snapped. “Why isn't she bagged?”
“We ran out,” said the paramedic pushing you in.
“You ran out?!”
“Robby- Robby!” Dana's hands were on his chest, keeping him at bay before Robby even knew what he was going to do.
Robby shook her off. “What's open?”
“Trauma two just got cleaned up-”
He grabbed the gurney and pushed you into the room. The weight of Jack on top of you trying to save your life squeaking the wheels against the floor not long wiped from blood. Robby was aware of other voices, of people wondering if that was Jack and was it... no... it couldn't have been.
The doors closed behind a team of people all teaming in, stuttering when they saw you.
“Hook her up!” ordered Robby, ignoring any protocol of gowns and gloves. If he was going to get you back he was going to feel the beat of your heart under his palms. “Jack, move!”
Jack slowly climbed down and Robby jumped up next, quickly taking over compressions.
He remembered kissing down your chest, hiding himself there on mornings he wanted to steal away five minutes, pulling the covers up past the two of you. How he was breaking ribs to keep you alive. “Somebody get a bag on her, now!”
“She's- she's been down a long time,” said Jack, catching his breath.
Robby thumped down on your chest, kidding himself with the dull flutter of your eyelashes, knowing it was only through the force of his hammering down on you. “She's alive.”
“Jesus, Jack, you're as cold as ice,” said Dana from somewhere behind Robby.
“I'm fine,” he dismissed. “Robby, you shouldn't be working on her, brother.”
Others in the room stopped, hearing that.
It was protocol family waited outside, that if family or friends ever came in demanding help the same DNA did not attend. They were too emotionally clouded. To invested to think straight. The last time Robby found himself in this situation: blood pumping in his ears, chest tight was trying to save Jake's girlfriends life.
He'd failed.
The only person to pull him back from that was you.
There'd be nobody if you didn't pull through. He'd be left in that pedes room, never to leave.
“Robby!” Jack tried again.
“Shut up and get me some warm saline!”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, walking around till he was on the other side of your gurney. “No, I'm not going anywhere.”
Robby was still pressing his hands down on your chest when Jack reached over, past the bag they'd finally clamped over on you, and stroked back your hair.
“We're gonna get you through this,” he uttered in an oddly tender moment.
“We need to get a central line in her,” said Matteo.
Jack looked at Robby. “Brother.”
“No.”
“You have to move, we need to get a line in her.”
Robby knew that. He knew so much as a doctor, as chief attending. But he couldn't stop, he physically couldn't bring himself to.
“Robby, man, you gotta let go.”
“I can't... I can't... I can't...” he said. The only thing keeping him sane was the one, two, three, four count in his head, was the cold feeling of your flesh under his hands. “Push three milligrams of epi.”
Jack huffed in frustration, probably the only thing keeping him warm. He marched around your bed to his side. “Robby, so help me god I will drag you out of here if you don't let her go!”
“I can't!” he yelled.
It was selfish but Robby had some how convinced himself he could be selfish with you. He could hold on tighter in the mornings and let you go for the rest of the day. He could watch patients get close to you because he knew it was him who got to kiss you. He could hold back the worst parts of himself to keep you, no matter how much it tore him apart to push you away on the days he wanted to be closest.
No, Robby could never let you go.
If you ever tried to leave him, he'd hold on tighter.
Robby dropped his voice low. “I can't.”
Jack took in a slow breath, a gentle hand on Robby's bicep. “Okay. Okay. You don't have to let her go... but to save her you have to move aside.”
A monitor somewhere in the room beeped.
Slowly, Robby moved from your chest.
The people swarmed you. Someone cut into you, getting a central line in on your other side.
Robby stayed where he was, a hand holding yours tightly as if he could squeeze his own life into yours. He cried- maybe loudly- at the feel of how cold you were.
“What's her temp?” asked Jack.
“Eighty.”
Robby looked up to the monitor reading your vitals. “That's- that's too low.”
“We're getting her warmed up.”
“Get the warm saline.”
“We are.”
Robby leaned over you once the line was placed, brushing back your hair and trying desperately to ignore how cold you were. “You're not dead, you're not,” he said, low for you. Your vitals may have been saying different. “You're not dead.”
“Doctor Robby-”
“Please,” he begged with trembling lips. “Please, don't do this to me.”
A monitor sung low and dry. The classic song of a flatline.
His head jerked up.
Jack caught his stupor and pushed him from you, sending him into Dana's ready hold. “She's going into V-fib!”
Dana held Robby. Physically she wasn't strong enough to hold him back but Robby wasn't strong enough to fight against her. “Robby... Robby, c'mon, let's wait outside.”
He was shaking his head.
“Panels, charge to three hundred!” called out Jack.
Dana had just managed to push him out the doors as he shouted clear!
Through the glass Robby watched your body jerk but not respond.
“Please, please, please,” he uttered. His back hit the nurses station, his knees giving out as he slowly slid and sank to the floor.
“Okay, okay,” muttered Dana, falling with him and holding him there.
The Pitt seemed to stand still at the sight of their boss, white faced and hands trembling, brushing back his hair. Noise travelled quick, that it was you in the bed, ribs breaking from compressions, chest hurting from the shock.
Robby's hands clasped in front of him, his star of David chain clenched in his hands. “Please.... she can't do this to me, please.”
Dana tugged on his body, bringing him in closer. With her sharp gaze she pushed everyone else that dared try and get closer away. “C'mon, Robby, she's strong, you know that. And stubborn like hell, huh?”
Robby nodded along with her words, un-sure if he could believe it.
“Charge again, three hundred, let's go!” called Jack, rubbing the panels before everyone backed up. “Clear!”
There was a small beep, a pick up in the line.
“There! Resume compressions!”
“Doctor Robby!” Santos ran up, her gown like a cape around her. She slowed to a stop in front of the two slumped. “Dana. Dana, is it- is it true, is it?”
Robby looked up, tear stained cheeks red.
“Yeah, kid,” said Dana, sadly.
Santo's jaw trembled before she shook her head in resolute, saying one simple word. No. Then she stormed into the room.
Robby knew you favoured Santos and somewhere along the way Robby had come to look for her when an interesting case came in. He came to favour the way you smiled at Santos when she did things right and Robby searched for any smile he could get from you.
So, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and followed her in- back into the chaos that was your room. The blankets had slipped from your body in the shocks and he desperately tried to hold himself back from fixing them.
“Doctor Abbot-” said a nurse or a intern or someone in the room. “It's been thirty minutes.”
“Hold compressions.”
Robby knew it was to check your pulse but he winced when they paused, when your body didn't respond.
“Still asystole, resume compressions.” Jack caught Robby's gaze.
He'd seen that look on Jack's face. Had seen the hopelessness and the devastation at losing a patient not only in his face but in his own reflection. “Don't-”
Jack lowered his head. “Robby.”
“No, Jack, her temp is not up! She's cold,” he said, walking back around the room. He rolled his shoulders back, pulling on gloves. If nobody else was going to save you he would. “She is not dead! She's not- She's not dead till she's warm and dead! Push another round of epi!”
Matteo jumped at the chance.
Jack stood by Robby's side. “Just... prepare yourself, okay? She's been down a long time. She might not come back from this.”
Robby glanced back at him. “She will.”
“And even if she did-”
Robby cut him off. “She will.”
They couldn't send you up to the OR- there was nothing surgical to do. They couldn't send you to the ICU- you weren't stable. They could work on you for hours, in the pitts of hell.
Robby didn't stop Jesse from compressions but he leant over you, leaning his lips into your forehead. “You'll come back, you have to come back.”
“What's her temp?”
“We're up to eighty-eight.”
“When was our last epi?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Push again.”
At some point Santos pushed her through the crowd, taking compressions from Jesse who she deemed weak-armed.
“Doctor Santos-” said Jack, the only one seeing this for what it was. A disaster. One more emotional person in the room wasn't going to help. If you woke you might just choke on tears from them all.
“I can do it,” she argued, nodding to the night attending. “I can do it.”
Santos was as stubborn as you. If anyone might have been able to beat her heart into beating, it would be her.
Robby leant over you. Robby could feel your skin cold against his lips and he pet back any bit of you he could reach, trying to warm you. He caught Jack's tired gaze, his lifeless stare like he was already grieving you. “I never told her I love her, Jack.”
“Get an APG,” said Santos.
Jack clasped his shoulder. “Tell her now.”
Robby looked back down to you, past the bag pushing your breath, through Santos keeping your heart beat. He kissed your forehead. “I-” he chocked on the words. He couldn't remember a time where he'd said it and meant it like he does now.
He knew Jack was giving him a way out. He knew Jack was giving him the chance to live with no regrets.
But Robby would regret not dying with you if you didn't make it.
There was a silence throughout the room, not even the beating of a monitor keeping him sane.
Robby's hot tears hit your cheeks.
“Temp?”
“Up to neinty.”
“Halt compressions.”
Santos paused.
Nothing.
Then a shrill beeping.
If Robby thought it was life he was going to be souly mistaken.
“She's in V-fib again!”
Robby backed away, tucking his head down to his chest as he watched Jack get the panels, rub the gel on.
“Charge to three hundred- clear!”
Your body jolted again, blankets slipping down your bare body and Robby suddenly wanted to cover you, wanted to pull every tube keeping you alive out and just hold you. Warm or cold. He just wanted to hold you.
“Again, charge. Clear!”
There was a silence. Maybe you were so angry at him you were proving a point by dying. You were a good swimmer. Why didn't you swim?
Everyone in the room paused, seeming to wait for someone to call it.
Jack looked at Robby.
“No,” he said, pushing past everyone.
“Robby-” interjected Jack.
He snatched the panels from Jack. “Charge again, three hundred-”
“-Robby-”
“I said charge again!”
The room was heavy as Jesse moved to do so, charging them up.
“Clear!”
Your body jerked again, violent. Your face remained peaceful, Santos remained off to the side, waiting for orders, waiting to know. Everyone else was looking to each other, silently deciding who would be the one to drag Robby away from your body.
“Wait- there!”
In the middle of them all there sat a pick up in your heart.
The room jumped into discussion about how to carry on, about how to keep the momentum going while Robby pressed his stethoscope into his ears and the other down on you. He listened, catching the beat of your heart.
“She's warm, she's warm and she's alive,” said Jack with a smile.
You were dreaming. It was a sweet sort of thing.
It was a warm body blanketing you and hands holding you. It was lips you knew pressing along you and drawing out pleasure. There were three tiny words spoken into flesh.
It was Robby, his head laid upon your chest in your bed and mumbling the words, tracing every letter over your ribs. When you reached for his hair, when you tried to say the words again you coughed up water instead. You clawed at your throat. You chocked in panic-
Then there was a beeping bringing you out of sweet dreams.
“Hey, hey. Honey? Honey, can you look at me?” a warm hand was running over your head, pushing back your hair. “Open your eyes.”
You tried to. They felt heavy. Sleep heavy.
But someone was coaxing you through it, holding your hand and brushing back your hair.
“Yeah, there we go... there we go, hey.”
The lights were bright, almost painfully so as they blared in your eyes. It took you a couple blinks to get them right but when you did there was a dark shadow looming over you, blocking out the lights.
There was the ragged pull of a beard and the slope of a well known nose.
You breathed in and smelt burnt coffee and hand sanitiser. “Robby?”
He smiled, crows feet at his eyes. “Hey, honey.”
You pushed up your arm, finding it oddly weak like it had been weighted down. You found an IV down in your arm. The white lights... the white walls and the IV all made slow sense.
“Wh-what?”
“Easy, easy.” Robby grabbed at your arms, holding you. He helped you sit up, reaching over and plumping your pillow and holding you there.
Only when you heard the monitor calming down and felt the pain lessen did Robby let you go, perching close on the bed next to you and grabbing your hand again.
“What happened?” you asked, finding your throat parched.
Robby sighed, pulling your hand into your lap. “There was an accident at the docks. You went with the responders to help. Your patient had a seizure and...”
You remembered the dock, the wind cold and the yells. You remembered Jack was there and the patient, he was seizing. “What happened to him?” you asked.
Robby stared at you, a small shake in his head as his brows pinched together.
“The seizing, the patient.”
There was a small look of disbelief, a soft smile creasing his chapped lips.
“What?”
His smile turned sharp with affection as he looked down. Your hand, engulfed in his, was pressed to his lips. He stayed like that as the scenes played in his head and the smile slowly started to fall. “You were brought in, your body temp was eighty. Jack was- was doing compressions. We- we had to shock you, so much, you don't- ” Robby sighed out a shaky breath. “You don't know what it was like.”
The dock, the bodies, Jack. The bite of cold water like a thousand daggers piercing into your skin. You had gasped for breath, limbs flailing.
It had felt like dying.
“Oh.”
You rubbed at your chest, pain blooming.
“You might be a bit burnt, from the shocks. And we were- we did compressions for a while so you broke a rib,” he said, chocking down a cry.
You squeezed his hand. “We?”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest. His lips were pursed.
You'd seen Robby cry before, in shades of red face and clenched palms and always trying to hide it away. But you'd never seen him try to hide away as much as he was now. Your hand escaped his hold, caressing down his cheek.
“Robby.... hey....”
His lips puckered to your palm, pressing a kiss there. His palm was large as he held your hand up to his cheek.
“Hey,” you cooed.
Robby glanced up at you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“No, no it's not, it's not okay,” Robby took a shaky breath and scooted closer. His arm came over you, bracing himself on the bed. “You almost died.”
You searched his eyes but only found pain and defeat. He looked tired. Really tired. “But I didn't.”
“That's not the point,” he said. He brushed back strands of your hair, kept petting it down in a way you guessed comforted him more. “Jack was doing compressions for almost an hour. Your temp was down the whole time. We shocked you four times. Four.”
Robby's voice broke.
“You almost died and the last thing we did was argue.”
You didn't know what to say to that. The words I'm sorry were already rising and like he sensed it, Robby gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah... probably wasn't the best timing.”
“We're never arguing again, you understand?”
You smirked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You could feel the race of his pulse. “Give us a week.”
“No,” said Robby. “Never.”
Something sour tasted it your mouth.
“Because we- are we, broken up?”
“No. No. We are not,” he said sternly.
You let out a breath. “Good. Good. I'd have hated to wake up from near death to that.”
“I should have listened to you,” he uttered. “Noelle is nothing, everyone else is nothing, nobody means anything to me, only you. Only ever you. And I am never letting you go again, ever.” He kissed your hand again.
You smiled at him. “What if I need to pee?”
“You can hold my hand.”
“And on mornings where I have really bad morning breath?” you teased.
“That doesn't happen, you know that,” Robby smiled.
Without any arguments left you gave up, sinking into your sheets with a shiver.
Robby frowned. “Are you cold?” he was up at once, pulling at the covers over you and the blankets. He was all but tucking you in as you laid there, taking it.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” he hummed.
You tugged at his arm, pulling him down.
“What are you- what are you doing?” he chuckled, lightly.
“I'm cold, you're a human furnace, hold me.”
Robby was on the verge of complaining even as you pulled him down on the bed. He grunted at the squeak of the bed, was careful of the monitors assessing you. He squeezed in, pulling the rail back up as you curled up to the side to give him space. “These beds are not made for two.”
“You'll have to get onto the attending about that,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Yeah, first thing tomorrow.”
“Meh, I can persuade him, if you like.”
Robby smirked. “He'll do whatever you say.”
His arm slung over your shoulder and rested there, holding your body into him till your head was on his chest and you could feel the beat of his heart. It was just like you dream. Of comfort and warmth.
Robby said your name in a whisper.
You looked up at him to see his eyes screwed shut before releasing them.
“I...”
You watched the move of his lips. “Robby, you don't have to-”
“No, I want to,” he said. Robby's hand was careful as he cupped your face.
“You don't have to say it just because of what happened.”
“I'm not, believe me, I'm not,” he said. “I love you.”
It was the words you wanted to hear, the words you needed to know, the very thing to finish off your dream.
“Robby-” you interjected.
“I love you,” he smiled, grinning wide at you. “I've said it now, I don't think you'll get me to shut up.” There was fake remorse in his voice, a feigned sort of sorry.
“I can think of a few ways.”
Robby's lips were warm and giving as you puckered your up to his, kissing him slow. If you lost your breath kissing him it'd be a hell of a way to go.
Robby smiled against your lips. “That might work.”
His body half rolled onto yours, the bed creaking in protest. Only when your monitor warned of you losing breath did he pull away and check the machine.
“Get some rest, Robby, you look like you need it,” you said, kissing his cheek slow.
There was fight of protest in him that quickly gave up.
Robby looked up at you, wide eyed. “Can I stay?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words he'd given you, the words he'd never forget to say. The words he'd spoken and would never take back.
✮ synopsis: the soulmate au where touch is everything.
✮ pairing: catws!bucky x soulmate!reader; catws!steve x soulmate!reader
✮ warnings: fem!reader, soulmate au, violence/action sequences, descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past trauma, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, (18+) MDNI: explicit sexual content (marked with a **)
✮ a/n: only ever planned for the one-shot but i'm having too much fun with drabbles so alas. a landing page. (currently taking requests!)
mains:
touch and go (14.3k)—he’s the winter soldier, and you’re just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again. (or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.) bucky x reader, (18+) MDNI
phantom limb (17.2k)—steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm's length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he's built starts crumbling. (or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can't fight.) steve x reader, (18+) MDNI
drabbles:
loose threads (2.4k)—two years later. nightmares & healing.
bucky x reader, (18+) MDNI
overkill (1.5k)—you get hurt. bucky absolutely does not overreact. bucky x reader
18+ mdni simon riley is a horrible lay, everyone says.
that’s what you’ve heard around base, from men and women alike. he’s too fucking big, apparently, fucks like the mean bastard that he is. hurts. apparently, he’s so cold he doesn’t even care for his partner. and apparently, every time anyone’s tried to sleep with him, they’ve always stormed out of his room, pissed off at him because his room is a hellhole.
apparently. it’s all word of mouth, but you believe it.
but after the end of the month drinks at the local spoons, you can barely get simon off you, he’s pawing at you with his big hands. the two of you split a cider in two, and he looks at you with his big brown eyes, “y- you’re really fucking hot.” he blurts out, kissing your nose with chapped lips.
his face is red, blushing deeply as you try your best to not flush the same. “and johnny told me you can’t ever think about the pretty lass on floor 3 with the filing cabinet, but guess what, i can.” he kisses you on the side of your head this time, and you’re enjoying his affections.
it’s only back in his room on base that he fumbles with his belt, before he looks at you again, “s-sorry, it’s just, i don’t really get to spend the night with pretty women like you-“
you want to hide your face in his pillows, his room is really fucking nice. he has plants, actual plants growing from gaz, sketch drawings from johnny, photographs of him and the captain.
his cock is huge, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach, but he still looks at you with his sweet brown eyes, “love, it’s okay if it’s too big…” he sounds dejected already, but you just shake your head, it’s nowhere near as big what the word around base was.
“it’s fine simon-“ you whisper, licking your lips and placing kitten licks on his length, feeling the taste of him coat your tongue.
“no no no-“ he shakes his head, pulling away before his hands touch your wet panties, “fuck, you’re so wet love.”
and then he dives in, tugging them off, before licking at your cunt with a sloppy tongue, he doesn’t have a technique down but whatever the fuck he’s doing it’s good, your legs are shaking as his tongue dips inside you.
“gotta make sure it’s good for you-“ okay, what the fuck was anyone talking about?
he slides into you with ease, and thrusts into you? his hands above your head, his eyes still looking at you. “you’re very fuckin’… mmmph… hot.” he says, with a grin on his scarred face that would look terrifying if it wasn’t for the way his brown eyes shone with sweetness.
it wasn’t long before his cock twitches inside of you, and his eyes roll back, “oh fuck love, right there— fuck!” he was filling you deep, his cum thick in your stomach.
“love?” he asks, whimpering, his head on your chest, “love, did you find it good?” he’s desperate for your fucking approval.
you kiss his head, his soft curls growing out of army regs.
“yes darling.” fuck the word of mouth, did anyone even try this with him?
“th-thank you dove-“ he pants, his cock deep inside you as you keep stroking his hair, feeling his breath even out.
Sheets clung to your body, wrapping you up while soft sunlight poured into the room. Frank never liked mornings like this—or at least, he always pretended to hate them. He would wince at the idea of this type of slow intimacy. It was the type that made his heart swell, only for it to sting immediately after, plagued with every moment where he thought he would never find himself here again.
“G’morning,” you mumbled, rolling over to your side, voice still a little caught up with sleep. Your eyes stayed shut, trying to hold onto every last ounce of sleep left in your body. You were warm, and cozy, and the weight of his body next to you gave you all the reassurance you needed.
Frank sat up against the headboard, patched up skin on full display. He didn’t worry about it, though—the scars and stitches weren’t important now that his attention was on you.
“Hey,” he replied, voice equally groggy. There was a roughness in his tone, one that could only be shaken by speaking. He swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t sound as rough, wanting you to enjoy the comfort of these early mornings.
Without saying anything else, he reached out his hand, his fingers a little bit hesitant. They waited over your skin, like he would allow himself to give in to this domestic temptation. They nonetheless found their way to your naked figure. He traced up your arm, letting it sooth you back asleep.
His chest rose and fell, finding a steady rhythm in his actions. Slowly, his hand migrated higher, finding your head as he gently pet your hair, making sure to not let his fingers get caught in any knots.
“Didya sleep well?” He asked, knowing you weren’t fully away yet. Dipping into your scalp he tenderly scratched, watching how you pushed yourself into his touch.
“Mhm,” you hummed, cranking your neck just the slightest, letting him catch a glance at the love-bites that he shamelessly put there the night before.
“Good,” he grunted, content. “Good,” he repeated, this time quieter, letting his eyes close and letting the morning light sink into his skin.
And while he wasn’t a man of many words, you knew he loved you, even if he couldn’t find the right words.
"Nah, I need a real woman." Is all Ghost has to say about the group of objectively hot, young women at the bar. The type that wants to fuck a soldier or even looks for a husband. The type that thinks they want a dominant man but they only read 50 shades and play the tradwife but never commit to either of it. Looking for the dark romance type of shit where the guy is cruel but never with them. The type that plays games.
"You daft? What do you mean 'a real woman'?" Soap stares at him. The Scot knows that Ghost had fun with pretty things like this before.
"You know. A woman who knows that it's not always good times. Who knows hard work and understands. Getting tired of just a few weeks or months. I need more... More substance."
Soap still stares at him. "Are you saying you are looking for long term? Are you for real?"
"Positive. Sure, we might not come back the next time. But we might come back more damaged than medical can fix. And then? Would be nice to have something to return to?"
His eyes are searching the room and land on you, one of the local gardeners that tend to the vegetation on base. He has seen you haul bags of soil and equipment, knows you work out at the gym after work. Since you are allowed to work on base you have had basic background checks already. And he knows you also work in a small flower shop on occasions. He knows that because you brought flowers for Price when you heard about his baby's birthday the other week. The flowers were for his wife. "People always forget to congratulate the parents for taking such good care of their kids. So these are for the mother. And don't worry, I won't mind if you pretend it was your idea, captain, I know you have been busy."
At first Ghost was alarmed that you knew so much but when he followed you around he realized it was just the way you interacted with people. You talked to them, about mundane things, as if they were just normal people. And you never asked about missions. You even avoided looking at any file on a desk, strictly focusing on the plants.
And maybe you are not pretty with your messy hair and dirty hands, crooked teeth and big ass. You don't have to. You know who you are and what you do. You don't need to find a man to validate you. And considering you sit with some soldiers and other base personnel at a table, laughing and drinking, you know how to have a social life. Still, it doesn't explain why he is drawn to you. Maybe it is the way you never shy away from his presence. Or because you remembered his allergies and plant flowers under his window that don't trigger it. Or because you snort at his jokes, even when you are not part of the conversation and just in proximity.
Or maybe it is the way you suddenly stand before him, a small grin on your face. "Oi, big boy. If ya keep starin, you'll be buying the next round. Or ask me out for a proper date."
Soap is snickering next to him but Ghost knows an opportunity when he sees it.
"Tomorrow, 8 pm, pick you up from your shop. Wear whatever you want." He ignores the choked laughter from Soap, and also that Gaz is handing a bill over. All he needs to see is the surprised look on your face and then something that could be hope and the beautiful rose tint your cheeks are suddenly showing.
"Alright. But not the pub or any other place you'd go with your boys. When I say proper date, I mean it."
"Yea ma'am."
You seem satisfied and continue to the bar. When you pass him on the way back, you slip him your number. "Just in case the world needs you more."
This time Soap hands money to Gaz.
Later Ghost finds out they were betting on you, not him. Apparently you had been eyeing Ghost for quite some time.
~~~~~~~~
Edit: I wrote this for myself, but I also wrote this for my gorgeous "ugly" girls out there. Don't let your teeth or double chin or curves that are definitely not in all the right places hold you back. We are so much more than our looks.
summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.
warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst. (both characters in this fic are fully consensual)
word count : 16 k (oops ?)
a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me
The warehouse is quiet.
Too quiet.
Frank knows better than to trust quiet.
He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.
Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.
Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.
Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.
"He's over there!"
"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four.
All down.
His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.
"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.
"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.
Too late.
The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.
He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.
"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.
Frank waits.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.
"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.
It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.
"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.
His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.
The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.
Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.
Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.
The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.
You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.
The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He should go to the bathroom.
Turn on a cold shower.
Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.
He knows this, logically. He knows it.
But his body doesn't care about logic.
His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.
His fingertips make contact.
It's a mistake.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.
'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.
He should go.
Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.
But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.
But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.
You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.
He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.
The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.
“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.
“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.
“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.
“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.
“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.
He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.
You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.
He doesn’t stop.
He’s not going to stop.
You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.
“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:
“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.
He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.
His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.
The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.
“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.
“Frank, what-”
“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.
Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.
The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.
You try to reach for him again.
“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.
“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”
“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.
“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.
“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.
“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—
“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.
“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.
You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.
You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.
“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.
“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.
He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.
He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.
“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.
“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.
“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.
“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.
“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.
“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.
You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.
Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.
You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.
“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.
“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”
“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.
You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”
He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.
He’s in pain. You can tell.
He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.
“Frankie-”
“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.
“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.
“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.
“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”
“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.
“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.
“Frankie-”
“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.
“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.
“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.
“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.
"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.
His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.
It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:
“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.
You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.
He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.
He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.
The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.
You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.
He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.
He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.
The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.
“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.
He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.
He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.
“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time.
Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.
You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.
You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.
He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.
“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.
“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.
“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out.
Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.
“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.
“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.
Bruises.
Bite marks.
The indentation of his fingers.
You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.
You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.
You could sleep forever.
Or die.
Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.
Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.
“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.
"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.
"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."
"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.
"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.
"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."
"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.
"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.
"No. No fucking way."
"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."
"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.
"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."
"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.
"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.
"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.
"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.
"Frank—"
"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.
"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.
"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."
"You were drugged."
"I did that."
"It wasn't your choice."
"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.
"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."
"You were."
"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."
"No."
"I do."
"Frank."
"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming here."
"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."
"Frank."
"I'm filthy."
"No."
"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.
"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.
"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.
"That doesn't make this disappear."
"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.
Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.
Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.
Gone.
He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.
"Why?"
"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.
You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.
You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.
"It's okay," you whisper.
He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.
-------
Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.
One arm is around your waist.
The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.
One leg is hooked over yours.
You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.
"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm protecting you."
"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.
"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.
"Frankie."
"Hm?"
"I need circulation."
"You've got circulation."
"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.
"That's because you're dramatic."
"Oh, I'm dramatic?"
"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What hurts?" You sigh.
"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.
"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."
"Frank."
"I'm so—"
"Frank."
"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.
"You flicked me."
"You were spiraling."
"I wasn't."
"You apologized three times in six seconds."
"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."
He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.
"I'm sore," you admit.
"I know."
"But I'm okay."
"I know."
"You look like you're about to throw up."
"I might." You roll your eyes.
"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.
"You'd miss me."
"I would."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.
"I'll make coffee."
"And pancakes."
"I'll make pancakes."
"And bacon."
"I'll make bacon."
"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.
"Now you're pushing it." You grin.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"My grumpy husband."
"I was always here."
"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.
"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.
"We're still here." He nods.
"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.
"It betrayed me."
"You forgot to push it down."
"I was distracted."
"By?" He glances at you.
"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.
"…Excuse me?"
"You winced."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I tripped."
"You tripped while standing still."
"I was thinking."
"You were limping."
"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.
"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.
"Thoughtfully."
"Exactly."
"You've got a hitch in your step."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.
"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.
"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You reach across the table.
"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.
"I've never…" His voice trails off.
"I know."
"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."
"You never did."
"I almost did."
"You came home because you trusted me."
"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."
"And that's okay." He nods slowly.
"Still hate that you're hurting."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
"I've survived your cooking."
"The toast wasn't that bad."
"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."
"It was artisanal."
"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,
"…Sweetheart?"
"What?"
"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.
"The… freezer bags?"
"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"
"I'm not touching that stuff."
"You literally fought an entire warehouse."
"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.
"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.
"He says one word—"
"He'll say at least twelve."
"I'll leave."
"You can't."
"I absolutely can."
"You need him."
"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.
"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.
"…Don't even joke."
"I'm serious."
"He'll make a PowerPoint."
"He'll make merch."
"He'll name the chemical after me."
"'Castle Syndrome.'"
"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"
"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I hate all of you."
"You haven't even left the house yet."
"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.
"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.
"You sure you're okay to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"
"I will."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.
"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.
"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.
"…I'm driving."
"You say that like it solves the problem."
"It solves my problem."
The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.
"You okay?" You nod.
"I'm okay." Five minutes later—
"You sure?" You smile faintly.
"I'm still okay." Another red light.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"You nauseous?"
"A little." His grip tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You've asked me twenty-three questions."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.
"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.
"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.
"…Frank."
"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.
"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.
"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.
"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.
"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.
"…Good?"
"I wasn't touching 'em."
"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.
"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.
"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.
"They were clean."
"They're definitely not anymore."
"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.
"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.
"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.
"You alright?"
"Yep."
"You just made a face."
"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.
"Thoughtfully?" You glare.
"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.
"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.
"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.
"It's… not exactly what I expected."
"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.
"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.
"In English." Bruce sighs.
"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."
"…English."
"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.
"So…" Bruce clears his throat.
"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."
"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.
"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."
Silence.
Frank rubs both hands over his face.
"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.
"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"
Tony.
Of course.
He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.
"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.
"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.
"I called it!"
"You weren't here."
"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,
"I absolutely did not tell him."
"I have ears."
"You have surveillance software."
"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.
"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.
"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.
"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.
"Tony."
"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."
Bruce looks back toward the monitor.
"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.
"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.
"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"
"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.
"Stark, I swear to God—"
"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"
"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.
"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.
"Tony, for the love of God, stop."
"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.
"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.
"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.
"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.
"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.
"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.
"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."
"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."
"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.
"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"
"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.
"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.
"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.
"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.
"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.
"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."
"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.
"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.
"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.
"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."
"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."
"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.
"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.
"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.
"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."
"I hurt you."
"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."
"It felt like me," he says quietly.
"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.
"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."
18+ Big scary men who let you slap them during sex.
He’s massive beneath you — broad chest, thick arms, powerful thighs that could easily pin you down if he wanted. But right now he’s on his back, letting you ride him however you want. His hands rest on your hips, not guiding, just holding you steady as you sink down on him.
You lean forward, bracing one hand on his chest, and bring the other down hard across his cheek. The sound is sharp. His head snaps to the side with the force of it. A low, guttural groan rumbles out of his chest as he twitches hard inside you. “Fuck… do it again,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
You slap him again, harder this time, watching the way his eyes flutter and his jaw clenches. His hips buck up sharply, driving deeper into you. The sting on his cheek blooms red against his flushed skin, but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, he looks drunk on it. “Harder, baby,” he begs, voice hoarse. “I can take it.”
You ride him faster, grinding down on him while you slap him again and again. Each hit makes him groan louder, his grip on your hips tightening as he lets you use him. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, dark and hazy with lust.
When you finally come, clenching hard around him, you slap him one last time, right as your orgasm hits. That’s what breaks him. He groans deep and filthy, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, thick and hot, pulsing with every slap you land.
Afterward, he’s breathing hard, cheek bright red, but he pulls you down against his chest and kisses you soft and attentively. His hand strokes your back gently, almost apologetically, like he’s the one who should be sorry.
“Again next time?” he murmurs against your lips, voice still rough.
You smile and kiss the reddened mark on his cheek.
𝐁𝐍𝐃!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑
╱ with abnormally thick, excessive cum headcanons
╱ 18+ . bnd!peter parker x fem!reader . explicit smut . mutation kink . excessive cum . breeding kink . cum play . oral sex . anal play . sex toys . web restraints . overstimulation . edging . possessiveness . public play . consensual filming . dirty talk . praise . objectification . messy sex . mdni
navigation : kofi .
bnd!peter whose mutation makes his cum almost unnaturally dense, each load coming out in thick, heavy spurts that you can physically feel striking deep inside your cunt. his cock jerks so violently with every pulse that your thighs shake around his hips, and the release just keeps coming until your pussy feels stretched, hot, and packed far beyond anything you thought your body could hold.
bnd!peter who leaves a visible swell in your lower stomach after filling you, a soft, rounded bulge forming beneath your skin while his cock remains buried against your cervix. he presses his palm over it and groans when he feels the fullness shift beneath his hand, completely consumed by the knowledge that the curve is there because he’s pumped so much cum into you that your body has nowhere else to put it.
bnd!peter whose breeding kink becomes vicious whenever he sees that bulge, his fingers spreading possessively across your stomach while he tells you how perfectly your womb takes him. he starts grinding deeper instead of pulling out, forcing the head of his cock against the deepest point of your pussy while promising he’ll keep filling you until your body finally gives him exactly what he wants.
bnd!peter who makes you hold your own stomach while he cums, trapping your hand beneath his so you can feel the subtle swelling yourself. he keeps thrusting in short, rough movements as each fresh rope joins the rest, making you feel the pressure build until you’re sobbing from fullness and clenching helplessly around his twitching cock.
bnd!peter who loves fucking you from behind because he can watch your belly move, one hand under your stomach while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. every deep thrust makes the rounded fullness shift against his palm, and he becomes increasingly frantic when he realises he can feel his own cum sloshing inside you while he adds another load.
bnd!peter who who keeps detailed measurements of how much he produces, collecting his release in a marked glass after edging himself for hours. he watches the level rise with shameless fascination, stroking himself through every prolonged pulse until thick white strands coat the inside of the container and slide down so slowly that they barely move.
bnd!peter who who makes you drink the entire glass while sitting naked in his lap, his cock hard against your thigh as he holds the rim to your mouth. the cum is so thick that it clings to your tongue and coats the back of your throat, forcing you to swallow repeatedly while peter watches every movement of your neck with dark, possessive eyes.
bnd!peter who insists you show him your mouth afterward, gripping your chin and making you open wide so he can check whether you swallowed every drop. if he finds even a small streak left on your tongue, he pushes two fingers into your mouth, scrapes it forward, and makes you suck them clean while praising you for taking everything he made.
bnd!peter who pours his cum through a funnel directly into your mouth, keeping you lying beneath him with your wrists webbed apart. he lets the thick release slide down in slow ropes, pausing whenever you struggle so he can watch it pool across your tongue before telling you to swallow and opening the funnel again.
bnd!peter who freezes portions of his cum into small cubes, then presses one against your clit and watches it melt over your swollen folds. the contrast between the cold cube and the heat of your pussy makes you jerk against the webbing while he slowly rubs the slippery mess over your entrance with his thumb.
bnd!peter who uses a clear dildo after filling you, pushing it slowly into your cunt so he can watch thick white cum smear across the toy from the inside. he films every inch disappearing into you, especially the moment the base presses against your soaked folds and forces his release to spill around it in creamy waves.
bnd!peter who records close-up videos of his cock stretching your cum-filled pussy, positioning his phone between your spread thighs while he thrusts slowly enough for the camera to catch every detail. the footage shows his shaft emerging coated in thick white streaks before plunging back inside and dragging the mess deeper with every stroke.
bnd!peter who takes photographs of your stomach immediately after breeding you, making you lie flat while the low bulge remains visible. he places his hand beside it for scale, then takes another picture with his fingers pressing lightly into the curve while your pussy leaks between your legs below.
bnd!peter who keeps a private folder devoted entirely to your creampies, organised by date, position, number of loads, and how long it took for his cum to begin spilling out. he remembers every video perfectly and can tell which one he wants just from the sound of your moans in the opening seconds.
bnd!peter who webs a vibrator directly over your clit and makes you watch those recordings, keeping your thighs spread so widely that you can’t close them around the sensation. he plays footage of himself filling you while the toy buzzes relentlessly against your swollen clit, increasing the setting each time the recorded version of his cock starts pulsing inside you.
bnd!peter who makes you narrate the videos aloud, forcing you to describe the way your cunt stretches, how much cum is dripping from you, and exactly what you felt when your stomach began to swell. whenever you become too embarrassed to continue, he turns the vibrator higher and waits until desperation loosens your tongue.
bnd!peter who pauses the video on the filthiest frame, usually the moment his thick release gushes around the base of his cock or spills from your open pussy. he makes you stare at the frozen image while he rubs your clit with two fingers, quietly asking whether you think your cunt can hold even more next time.
bnd!peter who uses his webbing to secure two vibrators at once, one pressed against your clit and another held firmly against your filled entrance. the vibrations travel through the plug and stir the cum packed inside you, leaving your lower stomach aching pleasantly while thick droplets gradually tremble free around the toy.
bnd!peter who makes you wear a glass plug after he fills your ass, fascinated by the sight of his cum visible through the transparent base. he keeps your pussy stuffed separately with his cock, alternating between watching the cloudy glass and staring at the bulge forming low in your stomach from the load he’s pumping into your cunt.
bnd!peter who loves double-filling you with saved cum and a fresh load, first pouring an entire glass slowly into your pussy while holding your hips elevated. once the last sticky strand slides from the rim, he pushes his cock inside and cums on top of it, packing you with so much that the combined pressure leaves your belly visibly rounded.
bnd!peter who collects the cum that spills from you afterward, holding a clean glass beneath your pussy while he presses carefully against your lower stomach. thick streams slide from your entrance in slow pulses, and he watches the container refill with the mixture before bringing it to your lips and telling you not to waste what your cunt couldn’t keep.
bnd!peter who masturbates over your spread pussy without touching you, ordering you to remain completely still while he strokes his cock above your entrance. when he finally cums, the first ropes land across your clit and folds, but the later spurts fall directly into your open cunt, gradually pooling inside while you’re forbidden from closing your legs.
bnd!peter who ejaculates so forcefully during oral that his cum floods your mouth faster than you can swallow, thick spurts coating your tongue, cheeks, and throat while his cock continues pulsing between your lips. he holds the back of your head without forcing you deeper, groaning as each swallow draws another release from his oversensitive body.
bnd!peter who loves watching his cum stretch between your mouth and his cock, withdrawing slowly after finishing so sticky strands remain connected to your lips. he gathers them against the head with his thumb, smears the mess over your tongue, and pushes his cock back into your mouth so you can clean every remaining drop from his slit.
bnd!peter who smears one load over your breasts before producing another for you to drink, coating your nipples in thick white ropes that cling instead of running off. he sucks the cum from your skin, lets it gather on his tongue, then kisses it into your mouth before handing you the full glass waiting beside him.
bnd!peter who makes you kneel between his legs while he fills a glass, keeping his eyes fixed on your face as he strokes himself. you have to watch each heavy spurt strike the bottom, listen to the wet sound of it accumulating, and wait until he’s completely empty before he finally allows you to lift the glass and taste it.
bnd!peter who becomes obsessed with seeing how long his cum remains inside you, taking timed photographs over several hours while you wear nothing beneath an oversized shirt. whenever a thick drip finally slides down your inner thigh, he records it, catches it on his fingers, and pushes it back into your pussy to restart the timer.
bnd!peter who webs your thighs tightly against your chest after breeding you, folding you open so gravity forces every drop deeper instead of letting it escape. he sits in front of you and watches your stuffed cunt contract around nothing, occasionally pressing a finger over your entrance whenever the first creamy bead tries to push through.
bnd!peter who uses his enhanced hearing to track every internal sound, pressing his ear against your lower stomach after filling you. he listens to the faint movement of his cum inside you, then looks up with a filthy grin and tells you that he can hear how full he’s made you.
bnd!peter who becomes painfully hard from the smell of his cum on your skin, his heightened senses picking it up even after you’ve cleaned yourself. he follows the scent beneath your clothes, finds the last sticky traces between your thighs, and licks them away before deciding your pussy smells too empty and needs to be filled again.
bnd!peter who makes you wear his cum beneath your clothes in public, filling your pussy before securing a plug with thin strands of webbing. throughout the day, he texts you still images from the video he took that morning, reminding you exactly what’s trapped inside your cunt while your stomach remains faintly swollen beneath your outfit.
bnd!peter who remotely activates the vibrator webbed under your underwear, increasing it whenever you try to behave normally around other people. the vibration shakes the cum around the plug, leaving you struggling to keep your expression neutral while peter watches from across the room and sends you clips of your pussy being filled.
bnd!peter who makes you choose where every load goes, offering you three options in that falsely sweet voice of his: your mouth, your pussy, or the waiting glass. whatever you choose first only determines the order because his mutated body can produce enough to fill all three before the night is over.
bnd!peter who deliberately edges himself for days to make the eventual release even larger, refusing to cum no matter how desperately his cock throbs. by the time he finally sinks into you, his balls are so heavy and sensitive that the first clench of your cunt triggers a load strong enough to leave your stomach visibly protruding beneath his hand.
bnd!peter who gets off on the contrast between his sweetness and the obscene mess he makes, kissing your forehead and calling you his good girl while his cock continues flooding your pussy. his voice remains gentle even as he tells you he’s going to breed every coherent thought out of your head and leave you too full of cum to close your legs.
bnd!peter who combines everything into one carefully planned night, filming your belly swelling as he breeds you, webbing a vibrator against your clit, and placing a full glass of saved cum in your hands. he makes you drink while watching the live recording on a screen beside the bed, the vibrator forcing your stuffed cunt to spasm around his cock as he adds another thick, prolonged load.
bnd!peter who ends every session by documenting the aftermath, recording the empty glass, your cum-coated lips, the low swell of your stomach, and the thick release still leaking around the plug in your pussy. he finishes with a close-up of his hand resting possessively over the bulge while he quietly promises that next time he’ll make it even bigger.
request: from anon, “Peter Parker x reader where reader remembers him because I can't get over that 'I don't love you' 😭”
summary: where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)
word count: 4.5k
tags: brand new day spoilers!!!! , angst, fluff?, memory loss, literally plucked some lines from the movie, didn’t proof read and idk what else to say
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It's debilitating. He feels so familiar. Like a memory so strong that you can smell the fresh crayons from elementary school without having touched a box of them in the last several years. Or maybe it's more of a muted blur trying restlessly to revive itself. Watching your younger self in the mirror, head bobbing side to side as you feel that humming in your chest even all these years later. When did being seven happen fifteen years ago?
Didn't you know him then? At seven? It's so convincing to go along with the idea that you did. If your brain didn't scream otherwise, you'd go along with the thought. But why is your mind so against it?
His confession is crumpled in your hands, thumb smoothing over the wrinkles and regrets folded into the pages. It stings, or burns, or… ignites something in your person.
"I'm so sorry…" His cheeks are pink, but his eyes can't leave yours. Do you remember? He can't commit to that risk.
He's fully masked, fully guarded, standing across from you and trying his best to come up with something to say. He's had years to consider this conversation. He's replayed it countless times, but it always ends the same. Now that it's happening, now that it's not just a show of puppetry with the strings tied to the ends of hisfingers, there's something more real at stake.
"No, don't apologize." Your reassurance is quick but comes out in a whisper.
Maybe Peter's a fool for letting hope wash in, for focusing on your immediate response rather than the lack of conviction behind it, but he can't help himself. How many times had he passed your place, hoping you'd lock eyes like some clandestine meeting and just… know? And now you're here, just a few feet away and looking right past the Spider-Man mask and straight into his soul. It almost feels like fate.
He's a fool that can't look away, but you're just as much a fool that can't stop seeking.
It's beyond niceties. Confrontation of the letter says something. You didn't awkwardly pretend to never have read it, or offer up a pitiful apology and wish him a good day as you backed out. You're here. Eyes turning glassy, head tilting in some faint recognition—he knows it.
His middle finger taps rhythmically against his thumb, taking the invitation to a conversation. "I should have told you."
It's a hidden apology, an admission of doing something wrong. And it is wrong. Him pulling a trigger that you didn't even know existed, making a call that you had no clue was on the table of possibilities. Entirely unpredictable, and completely unfair. And it just aches.
You swallow, trying to solve the puzzle. "Why didn't you?"
He watches you for a moment. The temptation to run is faint, the need to curl up into a ball and cry is overwhelming. This isn't how it was supposed to be but it's been his own hands making this bed. Avoid the moon all you want, but he'd end up lying in that bed in the end.
"I didn't know how," he admits.
"You wrote a letter," you hold the paper up. "You could've read it to me. You could've reintroduced yourself, or mailed it, or… or sent a fucking carrier pigeon, I don't know!"
Frustration cracks your ribs open, lungs shaking in a broken breath. Are you mad? It doesn't feel like anger. It's almost indescribable, an adjective on the tip of your tongue but you just can't spit it out. It tastes aged and ruined.
Whatever it is, he lets you feel it. He lets himself falter, taking a step back to shadow himself in his shame. Sinking into a depth within his mind where he knows that he'd be digging his own grave the same way he'd made his bed. Where he thinks he deserves to be, but you aren't so sure.
"I'm sorry," you murmur and set his confession letter on the table. "I'm just trying to understand this."
"No, please say whatever you feel." His voice is stronger when defending you than it was for himself. "It was wrong— it is wrong. I shouldn't have kept it from you, and I can't imagine how it must feel."
In theory, you know that his words should anger you. That you didn't owe him any utterance of an apology and that he should be groveling at your feet. In practice, you can tell he's already paid every price imaginable for his actions. You don't want revenge, you just want to fill in that blank page in your memories.
The memories scrawled on those pages are meant to be yours, but he can tell that you don't own them anymore. He sees the desperate search that your mind has been on to somehow plug these memories back into your hard drive. It's exhausting. Something is always wrong about it.
Peter wonders what it was like for you. If he was standing here, face revealed, would it bring back any memory? Right now, even with the mask on, are your memories of him gone entirely? Or filled in with something that never really happened? Stress is written so plainly on your face, he doesn't pry. You rub your fingers into your temples to try and self soothe, but it's a failed attempt.
His fingers twitch, wanting reach out and try to do it for you. He knows better. His palm flattens against his thigh.
For whatever reason, you recognize his distress too. Without a face, without words, without reason. You know him. Of course, all of New York thinks they know Spider-Man.
His attempts to put himself in your shoes, to encourage you to call him out with a vengeance. It's a little ironic after having kept the secret for four years, but he still welcomes you with open arms even if it means accepting harsh words. You see the way he has to keep his hand to himself, the way that he wants to take care of you because it's just in his nature.
"Take off the mask." You say it more like a demand than request.
"I can't—" he pauses.
Can't what? You already knew his name, it's in the first line of his letter to you. But his face is much different. What if it brings light to the shaded parts of your past? Both fear and excitement feast on the idea of that.
"I think I deserve to see the face that wrote me this." Your finger taps the pages on the table. Body feeling weighted like when emerging from water, you force yourself to stand. "To see who would deny me my own memories, who would make such a huge decision for me."
"I wasn't trying to…" Peter's defense falls flat. How can he keep denying? "Does it matter? What I look like?"
"Matters enough for you to hide it." You take a small step forward, hand still on those pages.
His chest falls. You're right. Thinking on it, this is part of why he has avoided you. He has a way of intertwining right into whatever string of reasons you sent his way. Always has.
"It was magic, even if you see me you won't remember." He tries to defend his cause anyway.
You shake your head, "I never said I want to remember, I said I want to see who did this."
"Right." His voice is hardly audible.
You deserve the dignity of knowing, he knows it. Of having a face to pin to the hole inside your head. A visual of who to blame, who to point fingers to. And he deserves the consequence of secrecy. Doesn't mean it didn't sting when you rejected the idea of remembering.
Just as he knows the sun will rise in the east each morning, he knows he will reveal himself to you again. Hesitance feels like some form of self pity. The thing is, he hasn't been the only victim to the avoidance and he can't fathom hurting you any more than he already has.
Gloved fingers rise to his neck, peeling up the fabric of his mask with a movement that he'll label as caution instead of reluctance. It'll meaning nothing, his mind offers. It will change nothing.
Your eyes are carefully kept on his form, capturing each bit of evidence possible. A freckle on his neck, short brown hair poking out from the back, a nose that looked like it had been broken one times too many. Brown eyes filled with worry. With fear. With love. With tears.
Breathing in, your spine slowly straightens. Had you expected some crashing wave? Maybe a visceral feeling that screamed, how could you forget? It just feels blank. But there is curiosity in the unknown.
"Peter Parker," you whisper to yourself.
He feels like he himself has somehow become some personification of a fever. He melts, eyes softening into a brand of resignation he hasn't known for the last four years. Hearing you say his name encourages his heart to be excited. Maybe it's wrong, or selfish, or maybe just morally ambiguous, but he wants to hear it over and over and over.
Of course, he knows you're just tasting it. Trying his name out, or maybe committing his face and name to memory so you know who to avoid from here on out. But at least your eyes are on him again. He didn't know how badly he missed being seen by you.
His hands, unsure of what to do, both hold onto his Spider-Man mask. It somehow makes him feel less vulnerable. How is it possible to feel so naked with 90% of your body covered?
"Why didn't you just tell me?" You ask it again, and answering has become unavoidable.
Saying the wrong thing would be incredibly easy right now. He really, really doesn't want to make you run, but also knows you're halfway out the door. He can't blame you.
"Because I was afraid," he says the truth. He swallows the lump in his throat, teary eyed but refusing to let them fall. "I lost someone very important, and it was my fault. I've been afraid of letting you know me because…"
The holes in his argument are massive, he's just as aware of that as you are. But you let him go on anyway. You offer him a level of patience that doesn't feel deserved.
He continues, "Because knowing me is a risk. And if I lost you, I wouldn't know how to live. I couldn't."
"A risk for me to decide on," you point out.
"I know," he nods, entirely agreeing. "I've been selfish."
"Is you acknowledging that supposed to make it okay?" Your arms cross over, hugging yourself through this uncharted territory.
"No," he says quickly. "No, it just… You wanted to know why, and that's it. It was because I can't lose someone else so important to me. I love you, that's my reason."
His knuckles are nearly white, gripping his mask with an intense concern that he's losing you anyway. Just as the prophecy read, it would be his own fault.
"I love you." He repeats. What if this is the last time he gets to say it?
You're unsure how the new confession hits you. You don't even know what else you could've expected having read the letter. Of course that's his reason or he never would've written the letter in the first place. Some part of you knows that you just wanted to hear him say it.
Those three words ring through you with a vague familiarity. You'd heard them before, you heard them just yesterday when saying goodbye to Ned before his weekend trip. But that was between friends. This just… lingers. Has been lingering. Festering. Eating your brain as you cry for the loss of something you didn't recognize.
Your foot lifts from the metal floor, taking two steps closer to the man standing on trial. He stays planted, like a deer staring into the headlights of a crashing car. He's accepting of his fate.
The proximity feels comforting. Now that you're closer, you see the color of his eyes is brown. That somehow perfectly fits the vision you had of him. A color that is warm and gentle, fitting the persona Spider-Man had to have in order to help civilians feel safe.
His name had been perfect too. An alliteration that scratched every itch when you spoke it. It soaks into your mind, firing off neurons that tell you you aren't supposed to know that. You aren't supposed to know him.
But how can you ignore the simultaneous tug of your heart that is begging you to step closer? Muscle memory takes over, guiding your hand to his face. His eyes watch as you near and he stays still.
You quietly ask, hand frozen less than an inch away from its destination, "Can I?"
"Please." He whispers back. It's all it takes.
Your fingers finally land, brushing backwards on his cheek as your hand simply knows how to find its place there. His jaw unclenches beneath your touch as if his body is allowing him to relax for the first time in ages.
Peter feels sure that he is about to burn up as crashes back into your atmosphere. His eyes are still set straight ahead, locked with yours. But your eyes are still scanning and determining how close you'll let him get.
First, your eyes land on the freckle to the left of his nose. Something that you figure past you had memorized away as a place to put casual kisses. Then, you look at the curls that laid messily against his forehead and can assume your fingers used to coil around them with ease. Last, you see the absolute exhaustion in his eyes that likely always ratted him out for pushing himself too hard.
Thumb smoothing the skin beneath his eyes, you connect your gaze with his again. You see it now. Really, truly see it.
"You look so lonely," you murmur the concern.
Accuracy can be presumed by the way he leans into your touch, head guiding him to press his face flat against your hand. The tips of your fingers brush into the brown curls by his ear. Your fingers know just what to do to hold him properly, relaxing and parting around his ear.
This is his punishment, he imagines. To feel the touch of your skin again, and immediate relief of being back in your orbit. To feel the physical acceptance that your muscles just know you used to give him, but with that reminder that your brain wasn't going to allow it. To know that, eventually, you would push him away and he'd be aimlessly floating.
"Ah, you know… hard to feel alone when I stay busy as Spider-Man." Peter tries to shake it. It's in him to try keeping it light.
You shake your head, thumb moving across his cheek bone now. "Lonely, not alone."
He knows the difference well. Admittedly, though, the call out is right but slightly off. Those tears that had refused to budge before let loose now. No point in avoiding it anymore.
"I think I've been both." He confesses and his chest sputters a breath. "I know I have."
Pulling him in for a hug is careful and smooth, bodies pressing together with ease. Your hand wrapped around, resting on the back of his head to cradle him through this pain. The other hand goes to his back and presses him closer to your heart.
You could tell yourself that it's just kindness. That you are simply comforting another human in a time of need. It's so much more, though.
The beating of his heart makes it feel like it's trying to break through just to be held in the palm of your hand. The hold that surrounds you as his arms wrap around brings a desperate comfort that you recognize as one of those things you knew you were somehow missing. His fingers splay across your back, frantically gripping the fabric of your shirt and pulling you in with a fervor that begged you to stay.
Sobbing tears roll from his eyes before he squeezes them shut, desperate to focus absolutely everything on this feeling of holding you again just in case he never gets to do it after this. Trying his hardest to calm down, to not entirely fall apart in the arms of this person that hardly knows who he is, he takes in slow, staggered breaths that only stab his heart again as he breathes in your perfume. At least it's something else to hold on to.
"I'm so sorry," he cries into your neck. "I'm so sorry, I should've told you. I should've—I'm sorry."
"It's okay," you coo.
"It was so selfish, I'm sorry." He repeats himself, not really sure what else to do. "I love you, and I've been so afraid."
Your eyes close, deciding to be fully present in the feeling of being held and holding him. "It's okay, Pete. I'm here."
There is some sense of overwhelm that is beginning to wash over you. You almost let it scare you, but it's right. It's fucked up, and it's dirty, but it's truth.
You've felt his arms around you before, and not just on the absolutely, mind blowing-ly terrifying web swinging ride here. No. You've felt this desperate claw for comfort. You've held him through tears, and sobbing, and failures to self soothe.
"May," you utter the name. "It was May that you lost, wasn't it?"
Peter freezes, and you do too. The names were spoken before you had even actually processed them. Pete is excused, too common of a nickname to read in to. But May? You don't even know where it came from, you just trusted your heart that it was right.
Pulling back but keeping his hands on your upper arms, he looks at you through his reddened eyes. "Where did you…"
"I don't know." You feel almost guilty for knowing the name. "Your letter must've mentioned her."
"No," he shakes his head. "No, I didn't write her name. I… I wasn't ready to write her name, I've not even been able to say it."
He's not anything but sorrowful, seeking for answers just the same as you. Hoping that he'll find the answer to it all by looking into your eyes, just like you had hoped seeing his face would unlock floodgates. What catches you off guard is that it's not a flood, but a stream.
"It was May, I just remember." Your gaze turns itself away, realizing tears were streaming from your eyes too. Were you ready to remember?
"It was, but…" Peter's chest rises and falls with exaggerated flow. He doesn't want to get his hopes too high. "Did I say her name? Is it because of the name Parker? You helped put at F.E.A.S.T. sometimes, do you just remember her from that?"
He doesn't mean to overwhelm, he really doesn't.
"I don't know," your voice is quiet again.
Gripping his arms, your eyes squeeze shut like trying to regain balance just to find out that your footing is stable. Your brain feels fogged. Which… isn't anything new for these last four years. It's just that now the fog is turning acidic, biting at you and making itself known rather than concealing something's existence.
He reacts, cupping your cheeks and ducking his head to follow your avoidance and be sure that you're okay. Again, meant to comfort you. Physically, you feel his gloved hands brushing over your skin with a tenderness that was well practiced. Muscle memory steps in again, leaning yourself into his touch because your body simply knows that you belong in his hands.
Emotionally, you're coming undone into a million pieces. Working overtime, your brain is scrambling to build up a dam to stop a crashing wave that ends up coming out more like a trickle regardless. Why does it feel like something grand is supposed to happen?
"I just knew," you helplessly repeat. Your brain is throbbing.
"Okay." Peter gently accepts, seeing that it's overwhelming.
Excitement came over him. He wants you to remember, he needs you to remember. But he can't force it.
He's glad to see your acceptance of his touch. He thought that he'd surely never get to hold you again. It's so much sweeter than he remembered, and the memory had been one dipped in honey.
"It's okay." He speaks softly. "I'm not trying to push, I'm sorry. It's just…"
"No, I know." You slowly exhale and opt to keep your eyes shut. It feels nice to just float in his hold.
You're grounding yourself, same method that Peter recognizes from four years ago. Slow, deep breaths, controlling your senses so you can recenter. Letting his hands be a guiding force.
Taking the chance, his eyes scan your face. The way it looks in his touch. The way it looks when standing so close. He's missed you so terribly.
Focus shifts, your hand coming up to press his hand closer into your cheek. The warmth feels just like returning to bed in the middle of the night. His fingertips pressing into the plush apples of your cheeks feels exactly like sipping a hot cup of tea after being showered in a relentless rain. His patient silence fills you with that same exact excitement of clicking the last piece of a thousand count puzzle into place.
"Peter." You say it another time. This time it hurts.
He never stopped crying. Taking one step closer, coming when called upon, the edge of his boot brushes your shoe. He almost lets his forehead rest on yours but that's your call not his.
"Yeah?" His voice is broken, though there's a faint glow of hope.
A laugh breaks through your overwhelming crisis. It's bitter, aimed at your own heart and memory. You want to tear yourself to shreds.
"I've known you," you cry, gripping onto his wrist because you need to his hands to stay there. "I've known you this whole time, haven't I? You've been that void in my head?"
Is it sick to say he hopes so?
Instead he says, "You read the letter." It allows you to process however you need.
You shake your head, sniffling and leaning your forehead against his chest. "But I've known, in some way. I've known something was missing. I know something is missing. I know you, I knew Aunt May."
His hand cradles the back of your head. There's some sort of peace in the fact that him holding you is bringing comfort. You'd feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind the way he used to. He needs to be seen by you, held by you, absorbed by you.
Trying to brush everything off with a quick lash of doubt was becoming increasingly difficult. He had never said May's name to you, and he certainly never told you she was his aunt. How could he keep denying hope entry when the walls were being torn apart brick by brick?
Chin resting ontop of your head, he whispers, "You did. You do."
"Oh my god, I've missed you." You speak as a deep sighed cry comes out, your arms wrapping around him again but this time with a deathly grip.
It would be more lethal… were Peter not genetically enhanced, and if he wasn't so desperate for you to never let go. Weld yourself into his ribs for all he cared, he'd bring the flame if you brought the torch.
"I've missed you so much, this entire time. I knew." You're spewing anything just to talk to him again.
You can't even remember each and every detail of why you missed him, it's just a sense of knowing. You love this man. You have loved this man, prior to these last four years of separation. It's the reason your life feels stalled. The explanation for why things just never felt complete. He has been missing.
"I missed you, I love you." Your heart just lets it all out.
Peter's brain feels nearly as thrown as yours. He can't believe the words he's hearing. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare, or one of Mysterio's cruel trick visions. It feels surreal.
But it's you. You, in his arms, on his chest. You telling him you love him, and remembering May on your own. If it was a dream it would be immediate, and if it was Mysterio it would be over the top. It's real, and it's you. Taking time to mend the broken pieces, but that connection between the two of you letting itself be known.
Still. He has been tricked so many times before. You read him plainly, you called out his loneliness. Was this just a stranger trying to offer someone kindness in their time of grief?
"You don't have to say that." Peter regrets feeling the need to say it. "Please don't say it unless you really mean it."
"Pete, I mean it." You pull your head from his chest, though it longs to stay. "I wish I'd known it months ago, years ago. I wish I'd seen you sooner, or read that letter, or— it doesn't matter. I've missed you."
The more you say it, the more you feel how true it is. It's a fact. You know him, and there is a giant mass of empty space in the life you've been pretending to live while he has been gone. You may not remember his favorite bodega, or how he takes his coffee, but you're absolutely certain that…
"I love you." You say it with a heavenly sigh because you get to say it at all.
Your hands cup his face, coming in for a soft and tender kiss. Peter thinks he's dying. But your lips feel exactly how he remembers. Precisely how they've felt when he has imagined feeling it again. Even if his heart was giving out, the connection of your lips sends a spark to revive him.
"Say it again." He says it almost silently. "Please, say it again."
You do. "I love you." Followed with another magnetic kiss.
It isn't a crashing wave. There are no fireworks, and there is no flash of every single memory that you'd lost in this unfair story. Sure, you could make it something dramatic and theatrical, but at its core it's so simple.
It's just you with him. It's what is right. A blissful, all consuming, lasting love that will take its sweet time to reconnect you. How thrilling, to fall in love again.
pairing: peter parker x reader
summary: your body remembers him, maybe your brain just needs to catch up... and perhaps making new memories with you might not be as bad as peter once believed.
warnings: fluff, angst, comfort, minor spoilers for BND, memories, handholding, slightly awkward encounter, awkward/flustered!peter, past relationships, hospitals, bad 'first' encounter, Ned and MJ mentions, Frank helps reader a lil, 'kid' as a nickname . . .
word count: 3.4k
a/n: if you saw this already, that's because i got shadowbanned a few hours after i initially posted this fic :/ tumblr hates me and i wanna move somewhere else but unfortunately i love making moodboards :")
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"You sure it's okay?"
"I'on know how many times i've gotta tell you, kid." Frank grumbles, boots thudding on the linoleum.
The incessant beeps and chatter wraps around you, lives on standby even as bodies move as if powered by machine — really just a culmination of adrenaline and SharkFire Energy.
Your thumbs wipe against the rough cardboard of the carrier, one cup sits warm in the divot, numbers sprawled messily on the side with a stubborn sharpie and spontaneity, meanwhile the other's clasped in Franks hand. He doesn't sip yet, holding it by his side by the lid, and you can't help your eyes from glancing down, nervous for a spillage that never comes. You feel out of place, as if taking up too much room, as if another person should be in your spot. But you cant stop the glaring ache in your chest as you walk the ling stretch of hallway, florescence glaring down, paling the already white walls.
"Sorry." You mumble back, already turning in on yourself as the noise dims into a hum and clicks of pens bleed into muffled chimes of monitors.
"Eh, don't be," he shrugs with a wave of his arm, holding an ease of nonchalance you cant help but be intimidated and impressed by. "All I know, and all you gotta know is that he'd be happy to see you."
Happy.
The last time you saw Peter he was anything but.
In the days after, no matter how hard you'd shut your eyes and repeat his name as if you were Dorothy wishing her way back home, no memory seemed to have conjured. No flicker of a face, a body part, even the still of familiar waves. But your body seemed to have something your brain didn't, and that was… good? Right?
"I don't know, Frank," You sigh. Pausing at the wall, you tip your head back and stare at the lights. It hurts, all of it. Your chest bares a memory that your mind cant seem to process, to will. "Last time, I couldn't remember anything — I still don't — and I just, I can see that look in his face, you know, the one where his jaw does that thing and… and his eyes…"
You trail off with hands gesturing to nowhere in particular. Frustration wracks up your spine and settles on your shoulders.
Frank watches, nodding slowly, because he gets it. And it pisses you off.
"I don't wanna make him sad again."
"I get it. I do. But one thing I'm sure about is that he'll be happy you showed up," a firm hand pats your shoulder, settling warm through your hoodie. He keeps it there with a soft squeeze to keep you in the present. "It shows you care, yeah?"
He shakes your shoulder, so you nod and hum. You care. Your body cares.
"Course you do, s'why you showed up."
The glint of a smile hovers over your lips and you huff. The tiniest glint if hope in the smallest bits of affection, the hints that you can gather the bits of the puzzle once smashed back into a thousand pieces, no matter how far they've strayed, and put it back together.
You shrug abashedly. "Just need my mind to catch up."
"You're, what, twenty-ish?"
"Twenty-two."
"Hell, you've got the rest if your life to catch up," he says. "Even then, you've got the rest of your life to," his free hand moves aimlessly. "Do whatever it is you wanna do. Make new memories with the kid."
"An' if not," he sucks his teeth, "he'd just want you happy."
Frank doesn't miss the flex of your chin and the wobble of your lip, no matter how hard you tried to bite the inside of your cheek.
"Man, don't cry on me, shit's above my pay grade and I already got my ass whooped by the Hulk."
It sets free a rickety and wet laugh, unstable yet minutely freeing as your chest starts to loosen and shoulders slack. Even when tiny pricks of tears threaten to fall, you wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie.
"Fine," you sniffle, voice croaky and soft. But you inhale and exhale, clear your throat into your elbow and straighten. "What's rooms he in?"
With a nod of his head, Frank beckons you forward with a quiet 'cmon'. The overheads feel less like spotlights, even as they glare down and hum, but its all background noise as you begin box breathing and keeping up with Frank's strides.
Heart monitors are so pretentious, you cant help but think it as you stand stiffly at the foot of the bed.
Hospital rooms are all the same, a copy of a copy, white and baby-blues culminated into a saturated grey, always does if you stay long enough for your eyes to only focus on one thing in particular. The taps from the linoleum, restless, robotic sounds of machines working overtime. You let your eyes flicker around once just to gather, and your heart twinges sweetly at the assortment of cards and balloons on his right. A weak breath expels from your nose, lighthearted and heavy.
The fact Peter was Spider-Man wasn't lost on you, but it felt infinitesimal through the forgotten memories and the way your bones creaked with the need to remember. It's as if the blue and red that streaks the homemade cards beside him and the fabric of his suit that laid on the base of the cot hadn't registered.
Because this was all Peter. With his mask off, beaten and bare in a hospital room that smells like sickly, sweet anti-septic and lemon cleaner.
A thin, white bed-sheets laid crumpled just over his chest, a hospital gown baggy around his arms, but you stayed locked to his balmy face. Soft with rest, yet you can see the twinge of muscle between his eyebrows and your fingers tingle with the need to calm it. His dark auburn hair was knotted with sweat, his skin pale yet ruddy with cuts and afflictions.
Frank moved around him with a quiet sturdiness and a flex in his jaw, moving a chair from the far corner to his bedside, next to his own with so much of a grunt. And with a pat to the backrest, he talks.
"Sit 'own." It's not a demand, but you can't fault him when it sounds like one, or when you immediately take his request and stiffly sit, setting the lone cup of coffee by the bedside, still in it's carrier.
"Listen, I — ah," he nods to himself, walking out back from behind, keeping a firm hand to the back of your chair. "I'm gonna give you guys some space. Jus' sit and be with him, talk to him,"
With one last sigh and a pat, he walks back to the door, catching the handle before leaving you both alone. "Call me when he wakes up."
As the heavy door clicks shut, you don't miss a beat, turning your head to the man beside you. He looks aggravatingly restful, calm and serene, even under an oxygen mask and dim white lights overhead.
It all gets lodged in your throat. The picture in front of you, how soft he looks, how his chest rises and falls, how his hands stay empty beside him.
And it feels automatic when you reach for one. The scrape of the scratchy fabric lost in the whirr of machinery and murmurs of the crowd in the parking lot outside. Your fingertips move first, a brush over the back of his hand where his skin feels extra silky. Tiny hairs stand from your touch, right where you caress and up his arm, before you fully envelop his palm to yours. Fingers intertwined.
A deep heaviness seeps into your bones where the embrace begins, latching onto your wrist like a tonne of bricks.
Recognition. The annoying kind where you know, you just know, but nothing will appear in your head. No matter the amount of references, how hard you search or try to repeat a quote like a mantra, nothing will change.
Your fingers tighten slightly in his hold as you breathe. Shakily, in and out, and again, and again. Until the weight envelops your body. Liquid through your limbs, and the stress of remembrance, of the day, of the hand in your own, pulls your eyelids down.
The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up, eyes achy, head still dully pounding, is the weight in his hand.
His eyes are still shut when he realises, as he groans softly and the noises slowly start to separate from the cacophony outside of the square room. Fingers twitch minutely, settling the warmth in his body and it feels like everything was a bad dream. It's all comfort, and good.
But the incessant beeps, the crowd and the chorus of shoes and heels clicking on plastic start to wrap around him, as well as the tightness around his mouth.
The mask comes off first, still averse to move his hand from the safe position it's found, like it was always meant to be there. The elastic tangles slightly, but it snaps off the back of his head and Peter begins to look.
Grey and white, yet the array of motley cards and balloons beside him catches his eye.
His thumb grazes the heat between his instinctively, and suddenly a grunt pulls him out of his reverie, head snapping to where the sleepy sound pulled from.
It's enough to make all the air in his lungs run. Your figure balled up on a chair, both legs up, face scrunched and tired, aggravated by the pain in your neck and back, and the sudden pull from unconsciousness.
Peter watches on. Memories of tired study nights with you, Ned and MJ, energy drinks clicked open, half-drunk or already crushed down and tossed to the side, arrays of textbooks open midway, citations highlighted, sticky notes scribbled — only to be stuck to foreheads in a jittery game of heads up. He remembers how you grumbled through the whole thing, feigning sleep even as your head found refuge on his shoulder and your eyes closed and breath evened out.
He remembers the exact crease between your brows and the pout of your lips when he softly nudged you up, how you whined and he laughed softly, only to guide you on top of his bed where you spent the rest of the night catching up on dreams while the others kept playing and tossing screwed up flashcards at each other.
Peter also remembers the widening of your eyes when you realised where you were and how long you were out. How he didn't keep you awake and how you were gonna fail (but you didn't).
It's the same as now. Hand still in his, albeit balmy, but God, does it feel nice. And your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, a kid caught in the pantry.
He gets lost in it for a moment. Memorising the colour as if he hadn't been thinking about it since the last time he saw you, held you and spoke to you like a companion. Not a lost memory or a stranger.
Willing his throat to move, to relieve himself of dryness, he speaks softly.
"Hi."
"Hi," you copy, equally as breathless. Your fingers flex, sweaty and warm, your thumb grazes the soft side of his knuckle, suddenly realising your hands have been entangled together. You pull back as fast as you figured out. "Oh, God. Sorry."
"Don't be," He cuts in with a breath. As much as Peter wants to chase, his lips stick together before moving to a stiff smile. "It was nice."
"Yeah," Gulping thickly, you nod.
It was nice. Heavy with one sided memories. With an annoyed body that understands and wants the brain to realise. It aches your gums and stings through your spine like restless needle pricks.
Your palm lays cold, bare in a way you didn't realise it could be until now, ripped away from his in a moment of weakness.
Slowly you ease your hand back up to the mattress, itching closer to his in a silent question he has no problem answering.
It's not a full clasp, not sleepy palms rested against another — it's more shy, like a timid whisper of pinkies while tip-toeing past inevitable. The tips of your fingers touch his and it feels more full and safe than any hold could bring; it's a breath of fresh air, falling from a height only to be caught by firm hands and gentle oaths
Silence slips between the two of you in an amalgamation of comfort and questions left unanswered, hope quietly withering and chests equally weighted.
Your fingertips tap on his own, fiddling with a crease in your brow and a knot in your stomach.
"I know you," you whisper to yourself, and Peter's heart lurches. "I know I do, I just don't remember."
It dissipates as quick as it came. Dissolving like starch, thickening in his chest. "It's okay."
"It's not," a short breath leaves you like a punch, "It's really not okay, Peter."
An ache crawls through his arms with a phantom touch, from his hands to his shoulders, he needs to hold you. To shush you into his chest and embrace you like he used to. Mumbling words into your hair with his chin sat atop your head, saying something stupid to make you laugh wetly into his shirt.
"Can I…" he falters for a moment, rethinking his words with a sharp inhale of breath. "Look this is gonna sound real weird but… do you want a hug?"
A chuckle leaves your lips, wet and suppressed like if you laugh too hard you'll disturb the nursery on the next floor.
He hates how full everything feels now. Loves it, too. Loves hearing your voice again, soft and tired, hates that it quietly lacks familiarity. The laughter from deep in your chest. Your eyes on his. Your hands. And now…
You pause before nodding. "That would be nice, thank you."
It isn't cinematic. No burst of colour once you stand up and lean in, because he's still tired and achy, even though he wants to lunge up and breathe you in. There's no orchestra, or 'aww's from a few passersby. It's just you and Peter, and the weight of the past, the crowd outside, the AC blasting and the heart monitor beeping.
But it's you. And you're warm. And you feel different, surer and stronger, older in a way, and you smell the same.
His hands fist at the back of your hoodie, one to your middle, the other rubbing light lines up and down, and its instinctive how he inhales so deeply. You don't wear the same perfume anymore, its less sweet, more natural and woodsy, but underneath its all you.
And when your hand finds the nape of his neck through the embrace, Peter realises he's a goner. You fiddle with the tufts the same, even though his hair's a little matted with sweat and blood, your fingers are light on the fuzz of tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he can feel your inner dialogue.
Can you bury your hand in his hair? Should you?
But you pull back before you could decide on a possibility. Keeping your hand on his neck for a moment longer, his own hands on your biceps and forearms, just looking, before you step back into the chair with a sigh.
Your fingers find his again.
"Thank you." You whisper. Throat tight, unable to fully talk.
Peter just nods, a shy smile on his face. "Don't mention it."
It makes you laugh. You wonder how easy he used to do that before. How often he'd poke your sides, or tell you a joke or pun about chemistry that had your cheeks hurting and eyes rolling.
"You give good hugs, Peter."
His chest caves at that. Chin dimpling in restraint, swallowing, unblinking as if the stale air could dry the wetness threatening his waterline.
"Yeah, well," he hums, tilting his head back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling, but he can't stop looking at you. "You ain't seen nothing. Just wait until I get out of this bed,"
He cringes with a crease of his face. "That sounded so weird, it was better in my head—"
"No, no, please," You giggle again, and your face hurts. "I wanna see what the fuss is about now."
Soft laughter dissipates into a thick, deep silence.
"Can I say something," he swallows. "About before."
You nod, shuffling in the chair. "Of course."
Peter inhales. The ceiling his sanctuary, it's incredibly interesting. He stares and breathes, picking and choosing what to say, what to bring up.
"I remember you told me I give good hugs the first time we," he gestures, hands up, holding around the air in an embrace. You hum in acknowledgement. "Sorry, it just reminded me."
"Don't be sorry, Peter."
"It's my fault you don't remember," his throat works. "I'm stuck with my own memories and you, Ned and MJ, don't remember anything."
You sigh. Unable to say anything, comforting words cant fix the pain, like bringing a bandage to open heart surgery.
You have your whole life ahead of you.
Memories to be made. A life to live. Starting now, restarting. Would it be so bad?
"I wouldn't mind possibly, hopefully, making new memories with you," You say. Gulping away at the thickness in your throat, the weight of which your hand goes back to his with more confidence this time, balmy skin to balmy skin. "If, I mean, if that's okay… with you?"
"That's, I…" Peter gulps through a dry mouth, eyes hesitant to blink or tear away from your own. he shakes his head almost disbelieving, smile already aching his cheeks.
"That's all I ever wanted," his eyes begin to water and his voice catches. "Thank you."
You nod. Twin smiles on each of your faces, eyes twinkling under the florescent lights, and it almost feels like colour flushes through the room, between the two of you.
"Thank you,"
"I should, uh," you swallow and look back at the door. "I should get Frank. Bring him in"
Peter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
There's an easiness to him now. Tension shed to reveal a lighter coating of the Peter Parker beneath the suit, now hospital gown.
The both of you stare down at your hands, not unable to move, more reluctance. To you its a familiar kind of feeling, sweet nostalgia that makes the sun shine a little brighter. To Peter its a soft kind of finality. It's you, again. After years of working up the courage, and figuring out times and dates and the tiniest details, only for the universe to push him to the deep end — it's a chance to be by your side again.
"Your coffee's probably cold." He cuts through, quietly through the comfort.
Your eyebrows tug in question, but you quickly turn to your side to find the lone cardboard cup.
"Shit," you curse under your breath, snorting under your breath. You smile in mild embarrassment, shrugging. "I, uh, got that for you, actually."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but," you brush it off with a wave. "It's cold now. S'what I get trying to make a small gesture."
Peter shrugs to, pulling his lips in indifference. "I mean, I don't mind iced coffee, so."
A small, shy laugh tugs from your lungs, but Peter just watches. Enamoured by the modesty.
"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you nod. Giving his hand one last squeeze you stand, making your way to the door. "My numbers on the side of the cup, by the way."
Peter smiles as he turns to look, only getting the first couple digits before your writing curves on the other side.
"Are you leaving now?"
"I'm just getting Frank," you reiterate, pointing outside from over your shoulder. "But, I mean, I can stay."
"That would be nice," with a stutter he adds. "Maybe we could get more coffee, later, I mean—"
"That would be nice." You nod, cutting into his ramblings like a knife through butter.
The door clicks open, a wave of noise and light flash through the crack before your presence is swallowed up behind it. Peter's giddy. Light in his chest, bulky and fresh, he doesn't know what to do with it other than sit in the cot and gulp, fingers fiddling with the thin bed-sheet while one palm tingles with your ghost.
Summary: you invite Andrew over to your apartment for the first time and he becomes obsessed with cleaning for you.
warnings: fluff!! kissing, groping (of the breasts)
author note: alright guys I just wanted to write this idea I had about Andy cleaning your apartment and that's his way of saying he likes you
wc: ~1.6k
“You can just leave your shoes there.”
Andrew walked through your apartment door, already scanning the place like he always does when he’s in an unfamiliar environment.
It was the first time he’d been over your apartment. You were nervous. The past month or so you’d only interacted with him at Smurf’s place when Deran invited you over. He’d always told you about his brothers, but it was different to put faces to a name. You two knew each other from surfing, actually becoming really good friends. The night he invited you over for family dinner, you had no idea his older brother they called Pope would be so breathtaking.
His brown curls, the way he glared at you from down the hallway, the way he mechanically passed you a plate, avoiding brushing on your fingertips to not scare you. He wasn’t the mean older brother Deran painted out to be. He was careful, difficult to trust, but you know there was something kind about him.
After that you were always welcomed to come by for a swim. You and Deran would lay outside on the lawn chairs, soaking up the sun. Pope would be outside doing yard work. He couldn’t help but stare. You looked great in the tiny bikinis you wore. He could see the tan lines on your shoulders, the way your breasts pushed together and glistened from all the sunscreen. How high up the ties to your bikini really went, how smooth the skin on your ass looked, how smooth your pussy looked when he caught glimpses of your thighs spreading apart. You knew of course that he was always looking. It made you blush. It made you keep coming around, made you curious about him. He wasn’t bad to look at either. He’d take his shirt off after a while, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His freckled arms so toned, his abs wet from sweat creating droplets on his skin.
Then you two began to speak to each other. On a random day you were in the kitchen and he happened to come in. You poured him a glass of water.
“You look nice today Andrew.” you said shyly.
It stopped him in his tracks. He turned to you, trying so hard to keep a composed face. “Thank you.” From that moment, he was yours. Though he still, up to this point, hadn’t confessed it. He started talking to you any chance he could get. Taking breaks from his lawn work to come over and block out the sun from your face to say something. Sitting next to you at family dinner and always serving you food. You didn’t know what this was, but it was nice. So you mustered up the courage to invite him to your apartment. No more just hanging out at Smurfs. You proposed a movie and maybe ordering takeout.
So there he was slowly taking off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door, and walking into your living room.
“This is it! It’s no house of course but—”
“Yeah. It’s nice.” He said stepping in further. He walked into the kitchen. He noticed right away the dishes in your sink, and the dishes still on the dish rack. Oh my god why is this all still there? He thought to himself. His eyes fixated on the dried food crusted onto plates, cups sugared with residue of soda. He felt himself getting worked up, knuckles tightening until they turned white.
“Andrew?”
“You shouldn’t leave your dishes in the sink like that.” He said moving towards the sink. “You’ll attract pests.”
“I had planned on doing them later?” You watched as he grabbed your cleaning gloves and turned on the faucet.
“And put away your dishes that are already dried so you have more space for them.” He covered your sponge in soap and began scrubbing. You stood there completely confused. He’s actually washing my fucking plates?
“Andrew, you really don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do.”
You knew better to protest. So you sat at your breakfast nook and watched Andrew Cody be domestic and wash your dishes. He was precise, checking each plate front to back to see if he missed a spot. He grabbed a dish rag and meticulously wiped off water before lining them up on your dish rack in an militarized fashion. This is weirdly hot you thought biting your lip. He looked so good focused on something.
The rest of the night you guys were able to watch the movie, eat, and actually sit very close to each other. You hated how slow this was going, but you loved spending time with him. It became a regular thing for him to come over, and get to cleaning. It was like he had x-ray vision on something else needed to get to.
“You have to dust every week,” he said, dragging his index finger on your TV console.
“I do!”
“No you don’t.”
Dusting, sweeping, mopping, changing lightbulbs, hell even fixing your garbage disposal he was doing it all. And you started to like it. Purposefully leaving something out of place, forgetting to do the dishes, leaving a mess for him to clean up. It was so sexy how he got to work, scrubbing, the shape of his shoulder peeking out from his shirt. He looked so sexy down on two knees on the ground, you began daydreaming about him on his knees begging for you. Or you on your knees begging for him.
And he loved it. Every time you invited him over, he thought of another thing to do to impress you. Show you he can take care of you. Show you just how much he cares about you. A man of few words, but a lifetime of actions he was willing to do.
After a couple of weeks you did start to feel guilty. But you also started to wonder where this was going. A friendship? More than that? You two exchanged glances all the time. Sat closer and closer to each other. He would brush his fingertips with yours while reaching for something. There had to be more to this than just Andrew coming over to clean your apartment and then watch a movie.
One night while he washed your dishes you finally mustered up the courage to make a move. You walked over, leaning against the kitchen counter watching him. His face a little scrunched, his big brown eyes scanning a plate, his freckles lightly scattered all over. He was gorgeous.
“Andrew?”
“Hm?”
“Maybe you stop doing the dishes?”
“Almost done.”
“Just finish them later?”
“No, because then I’m gonna mop the bathroom.”
“But you already did that last week.”
“Yeah and do you know how many germs live on the bathroom floor?”
You took a deep breath and grabbed his wrists. It was the first time you ever touched him. He looked up into your eyes, frantic, confused, unsure what was going on.
“Andrew,” you whispered. “Stop doing the dishes.”
“Why?” he whispered back.
You couldn’t help but smile. Your hands moved from his wrist to slowly dragging up his arms and around his neck. “Because I don’t invite you to come over to clean my apartment. I invite you over because…I like you.”
Andrew was terrified. He never expected to hear those sweet words from you. He hoped, but never thought it would be real. His feelings for you had developed so much he wasn’t ready to even begin to make a move. He’d rather live in the fantasies that kept him up at night, than ever telling you. But here you were. The gorgeous woman he’d think of all the time. The woman that always smiled when he walked into a room. The woman that always asked for him when he wasn’t around. The woman that never called him Pope. He took a deep breath, his signature glare melting away from his face.
He slowly placed the dish back into the sink. Taking off the gloves, gently placing them over the sink head to dry. You watched his face, still smiling, because you knew he was trying so hard not to blush. When his eyes finally met back with yours, he couldn’t help but smile.
“You like me?”
“Yes you idiot. Why else have I been inviting you over?” You laughed, pulling him a little closer. “I don’t invite you over to come clean, although I have to admit it’s pretty sexy to watch you.”
“Yeah?” He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile. His hands were still at his sides, so scared to touch you. To hurt you. To damage this perfect woman he’s been wanting the minute she walked through the front door. In that moment without thinking, you leaned forward to kiss him. It was quick. You pulled away to see his face. His cheeks with flushed wink pink and red, his smile growing bigger until he leaned forward and kissed you. This time it was sweet, tender, and long. Your fingers ran through his hair, and you slowly grabbed his hand and placed it on your waist.
With this permission he gripped onto your waist, making you moan slightly. Both of his hands grabbed your ass, causing you to wrap your legs around him as he lifted you onto the kitchen counter. Kissing, sliding his tongue around your mouth, nipping your bottom lip with a neediness you never knew he had. He’d been waiting so long to touch you, and now he didn’t even know what to do. His hands traveled around your body. Caressing your thighs, squeezing and digging his fingers into them leaving a mark. Feeling your arms, grazing over your breasts until he found your nipple and began to pinch. You let him. You let his hands explore everywhere as the kiss got more and more hungry.
When you both finally pulled away, you both were out of breath.
“Does that mean you like me back?” you teased.
He rolled his eyes, and began kissing you again.
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