greta was time's person of the year a few years ago. she was adored by all liberal world leaders and parties. and when she learnt about people's struggle under occupation and colonialism, she stood in solidarity with them . she now stands with palestine and armenia and kashmir and every oppressed person in the world. she could have been rich as fuck by simply remaining as a climate activist. yet she chose to do the right thing. i love her for her integrity.
it's been like 2 years. i havent touched it. never needed to. "you don't really have a choice," are you so swift to forget the recent past? Bitch i still use itunes to download mp3s to so i have them forever and any song i want, then my sister burns them to CDs. When boycotts rolled out my other sister got no thanks to scan what products we shouldn't buy. i still use corded headphones not because "its older" but because it's easier. a fool criticizes those who buy candles 200 years after the invention of the electric light until the power goes out. become ungovernable. you are not immune to propaganda. you've never had Chatgpt forced upon you, the only thing forced upon you is the idea that Chatgpt is forced upon you. why claim you need something today that you didn't need yesterday. little bitch.
Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff, angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Requested by : anon
Word count : 15k whoops
Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
You were a tracker.
Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool.
So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes.
After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash.
“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”
You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.
You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest.
You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.
—
By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.
Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.
—
When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.
He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you.
He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.
—
At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all.
He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage.
Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated.
For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.
You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.
“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.
You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”
You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.
You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand.
If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity.
Over time, it turned into more than jars.
He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal.
He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.
Days passed like water through your fingers.
You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.
At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.
One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”
“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”
He looked at you like you were a miracle.
And one of those days, you fell in love with him.
You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.
You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.
So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”
“No,” you said, “but I—“
Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”
“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”
Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”
Nakia laughed.
“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”
“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.
“Because I might believe him.”
Nakia finally stopped laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”
You didn’t answer her.
—
Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”
T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”
“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”
Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”
“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”
There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”
Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.
“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”
Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”
—
Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.
You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.
He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”
He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.
Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.
Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.
Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”
“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together,
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.
“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.
But then you leaned in, and kissed him.
At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him.
He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”
The next few months unfolded in pieces.
You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.
Neither of you said “I love you.”
You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.
But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.
You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.
You both knew you might die here.
So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.
“I love you,” he said.
You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”
And then you let go and ran into the fire together.
—
The battle was chaos.
Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—
You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.
Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.
“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.
You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.
“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.
And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.
Bucky’s knees gave out next.
His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.
There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.
And then— nothing.
—
Five Years Later.
You came back gasping.
One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.
When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once.
You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.
That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.
“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”
He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.
“Talk to me,” you whispered.
And then— he broke.
His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”
You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”
“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“
“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall.
And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it.
And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.
After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.
—
You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago.
You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out.
And Bucky—God, Bucky.
Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.
Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.
You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.
Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.
You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.
And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”
He would nod against your chest and weep.
And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse.
He was still obsessed with not losing you again.
He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.
It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.
He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.
You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do.
None of it mattered.
To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.
When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”
“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”
He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life.
But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.
It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.
Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation.
You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.
And then one day— it was too much.
You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”
When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”
“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”
You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”
“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”
“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”
“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”
“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”
There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer.
You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”
That night, he promised he’d do better.
He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.
And for a while, he did.
But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.
Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.
Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.
He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.
When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.
“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.
“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”
“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”
He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”
“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.
“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”
His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”
“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”
He flinched.
“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”
“I do trust you—”
“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”
He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”
“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”
Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”
Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.
“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy.
You took a breath.
“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”
He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”
“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills.
His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”
You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.
But promises can rot when fed with obsession.
Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”
He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”
“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”
His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.
So you did.
“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”
He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.
“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”
You didn’t answer.
Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”
He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.
And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.
—
Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest.
He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”
Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”
Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”
“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”
Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”
“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”
Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.
“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”
Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you.
—
Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad.
He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.
She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.
He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.
Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”
He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”
That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”
“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”
Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”
Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.
“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”
She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”
Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”
Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.
“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”
Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.
Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.
Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.
—
Six Months Later
You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.
But there he was.
Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious.
“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”
The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky
You stopped breathing for a second.
Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.
You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.
You started to type.
Saw you on TV today. You looked—
You paused and backspaced.
Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.
Delete.
You looked okay.
No.
You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.
And then—
“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.
You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.
Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”
“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”
“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath.
Okoye gave you a really? look.
You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”
She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”
“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.
“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”
You laughed despite yourself.
—
One Year Later.
The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.
And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.
You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.
You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands.
You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.
And then the doorbell chimed.
You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.
In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.
It was a winter bouquet.
Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.
It was him. Bucky.
He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.
And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky.
You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?
You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.
Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?
Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.
You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.
You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.
And wasn’t this what you asked for?
You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.
A winter gift for a king.
You whispered, "I miss both of you."
—
You didn’t sleep much the year after that.
You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.
All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri.
But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.
You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.
You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.
But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.
You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.
Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.
At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours
You didn’t cry.
You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.
That night, your phone buzzed with a message.
Bucky : “You okay?”
That was it.
You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.
Are you okay?
You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.
Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.
A fucking text. Not even a call.
You set your phone down and didn’t respond.
You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb.
And that was the first night you drank.
You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.
You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.
It didn’t fix anything.
—
A Year Later.
You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.
You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.
Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”
You tilted your head, “What?”
She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.
You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”
Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”
“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.
You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”
Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.
“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”
Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.
For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.
Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening.
What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.
She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.
—
Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.
The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.
Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”
“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”
Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”
Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles.
Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He shouldn't be doing this, right?
Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs.
Focus, Barnes.
This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.
Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.
—
Call to Shuri, Wakandan Secure Channel.
“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”
“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”
A pause. “For whom?”
“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.
“Why?”
“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”
“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”
Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand.
—
You smelled him before he knocked.
He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood.
You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks.
The knock came a second later.
You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.
And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway.
His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it.
You froze for a moment.
“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”
You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”
Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”
You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”
He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”
“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”
“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”
Your brows rose. “You what?”
“Just for updates.”
“Bucky.”
“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”
“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”
“Okay, that was one time!”
“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.
“I know,” he said.
You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.
“You could’ve just called,” you said.
He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”
“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.
The silence stretched thin.
Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”
Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.
“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”
“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”
“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”
He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”
Oh.
He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”
Your breath hitched, just a little.
“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”
He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”
“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”
He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.
You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.
And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive.
Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”
You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”
Before you could respond, your nose twitched.
You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity.
“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”
He blinked. “...No?”
You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door. Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned.
You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.
Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”
You stared at them. Then at Bucky.
He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”
—
They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.
It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.
“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob.
Yelena, John, and Ava.
You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell.
You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.
“Got it,” you said, nodding once.
Then you turned, already moving.
Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.
You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.
—
Void, New York.
The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame.
People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.
You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him.
You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in.
The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.
Now it was just you and Bucky.
The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it.
You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.
And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.
You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.
You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.
But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand.
“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”
Right.
Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”
Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.
—
Bucky woke up in the snow.
He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.
Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.
He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.
He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.
Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.
He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey
And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.
He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—
Nothing.
No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.
“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”
He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.
“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”
But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.
He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.
He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.
He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.
He whispered your name over and over again.
The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.
Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier.
He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you.
You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.
The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.
You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.
You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.
You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.
You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.
It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked.
You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.
But they were gone.
T’Challa. Ramonda.
And Bucky.
He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.
Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”
The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.
You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.
And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”
Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.
The grief between you wasn’t just shared.
It was mirrored.
Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.
With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle.
It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.
And he was right.
He was there, with the real you.
You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.
That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.
Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.
And for a moment, you didn’t move.
But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.
You stayed like that for a while.
Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”
He just held you tighter.
You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”
“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”
Silence stretched again — for a while.
“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”
His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”
You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”
“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”
Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”
You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.
He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”
And this time, you walked out together.
—
Post-Void. New York, again.
You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him.
And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover.
Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.
Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?
You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.
Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?
And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.
M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.
You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.
The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest.
Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust.
“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”
You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”
He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”
You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”
Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”
You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”
Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”
She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.
As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”
You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.
You debated pretending you hadn’t either.
—
You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.
When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself.
The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.
Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.
Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.
The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken.
Oh.
The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.
You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.
Bucky stayed quiet.
He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.
When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.
He blinked, looking down to his feet.
“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.
And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”
He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.
“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”
You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.
“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”
Your throat tightened.
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”
Silence stretched for a long moment.
Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”
Bucky straightened a little.
“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”
You looked around the room again.
“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”
“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”
You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.
You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”
He looked… relieved.
He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.
“Okay,” he said.
And somehow, it was enough.
Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life.
—
You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.
But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.
The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.
But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.
“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.
You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.
He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.
“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”
“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”
You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”
“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”
When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’
“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”
Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.
You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.
“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.
—
Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.
She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.
“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”
You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”
“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”
You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”
She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found.
“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.
“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”
Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.
“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”
“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”
You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.
She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”
That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.
You smiled. Just a little.
—
Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.
He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.
“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.
You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”
He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”
You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.
You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”
“What does?”
“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”
“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”
You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”
His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”
—
Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.
It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.
You couldn’t sleep.
You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.
But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.
You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,
He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”
“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him.
He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.
You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.
“This place is too clean,” you said at last.
Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”
You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”
That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.
“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.
His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”
You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours.
—
The next few months passed easily.
You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.
Of course, the team noticed.
Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.
John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”
You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.
But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.
You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.
Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”
You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”
Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”
Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”
Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”
You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.
“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.
“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”
Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”
And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.
You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”
He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You tilted your head. “About what?”
He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”
That shut you up, but not in a bad way.
—
The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.
You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.
But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.
The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.
Bucky.
His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow
He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.
That’s when you saw John.
“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”
John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”
“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”
“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”
“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”
He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement
“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”
“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”
And just like that, you shut up.
He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.
And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.
“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”
Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”
You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”
He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”
You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”
“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.”
Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”
You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”
You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind.
Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”
John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.
The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.
You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.
“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.
So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.
Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.
He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.
You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”
Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb
You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.
“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”
You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.
“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.
Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”
“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”
“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”
Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”
You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”
He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.
“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.
Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t move yet.
“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.
“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.
“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”
Then he kissed you.
It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.
You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer
And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”
You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.
“You’re sure?” he asked again
“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”
His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.
“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”
You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”
He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.
You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.
Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.
“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.
You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.
Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.
“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”
Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”
“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”
You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified.
“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”
You CANNOT separate art from the artist when the artist is still alive and producing new media to profit off.
So on that note, do NOT watch the new Harry Potter series. Do not hate watch it. Do not watch it because “it’s going to be my childhood remade”. I do not care. Do not watch it. This is a direct move to erase the original trio who have all stood against jkr.
the uk's supreme court ruling is just the most insane thing ever these people are freaks. not ONCE in any of the bbc articles do they mention at all what they actually mean by 'biological sex' but im guessing they mean pussy . so . u want my big muscular hairy 100% 'passing' ftm bf in ur changing room?? in ur bathrooms?? would that make u feel comfy and safe??????? like they constantly leave out trans men of this argument most likely bc they know what adding them in completely dissolves their entire argument its so funny
and these arguments and "facts" are just not based in any sort of reality at all . like . what? all trans women are actually men and the reason why theyre doing all that is so they can infiltrate womens spaces to assault them? tfw ur a man and u want to assault a women but th door she went through has a little stick figure in a dress on it so u go 'damn' and walk away sadly. like. GIRLS. completely not only just disregarding any statistics that prove this is not in fact happening, or at the very least not happening to the degree they act like it is, but also ignoring the fact completely that women are very capable of assaulting women!! like that happens!!! women are not these perfect untouchable always-the-victim creatures . they're just people!! and all people are capable of evil!! trans, cis or otherwise!! YES men are more likely to assault women than any other group of people, but that is not because they are men and were born with evil in their hearts, its because of the way boys are raised and how normalised misogyny is in our society!!!!! by making everything about biology u completely disregard this fact, which both removes blame from the men who do assault women AND does nothing to help solve the social issues which cause this to happen in the first place!!! girls you are so weird!!!!!!!!
FUTHERMORE! im sorry but if u have intense trauma so bad that you cant spend any amount of time in the presence of man, that is ur problem to heal. you cannot expect the world to mold itself around YOUR trauma and triggers. it is your responsibility to keep yourself safe. just because u dont like something or something makes u uncomfy it doesnt give you the right to just campaign it out of existence sorry !
all my lovely uk trans women ESPECIALLYYYY my poc trans women i love you so so much you deserve the everything and the world is better and brighter with you in it!! one day everyone will see that and it will be a kinder existence for everyone because of it <33333 i love u so so much everything will be okay one day bc we will make it okay i prommy
it really is crazy how quickly people were willing to just let chatgpt do everything for them. i have never even tried it. brother i don't even know if it's just a website you go to or what. i do not know where chatgpt actually lives, because i can decide my own grocery list.
taking the threshold of adulthood as 18, you are likely to spend at least 52 years as a fully grown adult
at the age of 30 you have lived less than one quarter of your adult life (12/52 years)
'middle age' is typically considered to be between 45-65
it is extremely common to switch careers, start new relationships, emigrate, go to college for the first or second time, or make other life-changing decisions in middle age
it's wild that I even have to spell it out, but older adults (60+) still have social lives and hobbies and interests.
you can still date when you get old. you can still fuck. you can still learn new skills, be fashionable, be competitive. you can still gossip, you can still travel, you can still read. you can still transition. you can still come out.
young doesn't mean peaked. you're inexperienced in your 20s! you're still learning and practicing! you're developing social skills and muscle memory that will last decades!
there are a million things to do in the world, and they don't vanish overnight because an imaginary number gets too big
Summary: Accompanying your friend Javier to his holiday work party seemed simple enough until it gets a little too hard to just pretend to be dating.
Warnings: language, fake dating, one bed trope, sexual tension, jealousy, flirting, cigarette use, alcohol use, friends to lovers, reader has insecurities about her looks, fingering, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex
WC: 6.4K
dividers by @saradika-graphics
"Please, cariño, it's just one night. The party's at a casino about two hours outside the city. The DEA paid for hotel rooms 'cause they're worried about people drinking and driving. We'll be back by noon on Saturday, you'll still have your whole weekend to mope around over Travis," Javi begged as he followed you around your kitchen.
"Trent," you corrected with a glare over your shoulder. Javi just waved you off.
"Yeah, whatever. His name doesn't matter anymore, now does it?" he countered with an arched brow. You frowned and continued to put your dishes away.
Javier was right - Trent's name didn't matter anymore. Not after he dumped you out of the blue, two weeks before Christmas. He probably didn't want to buy you a gift, Javier had said when you called him up crying. It wasn't exactly the most comforting thing to hear, but at least he made you laugh.
"And why is it you don't want to attend this event by yourself? I thought you would have wanted to take some poor secretary back to your room for the evening," you said, flipping the dishwasher closed before playfully adding, "This better not be some sick move to try to get into my pants again." Javi pulled out his carton of cigarettes and began to anxiously tap it against his palm. When you whisked by, you smacked it out of his hand with a warning: do not smoke in my house.
"You've made it very clear I won't be touching your pants, hermosa," he chuckled, recalling a handful of failed attempts to get you into bed before giving up entirely. "But, uh, I've been taking one too many secretaries home lately," Javi admitted with a lopsided grin. "Got one real pissed at me for not calling her back. Had to make up a lie that I had gotten back together with an ex, so..."
Your jaw dropped and you stared daggers at him with your hands on your hips.
"So not only are you asking me to go with you to this party, but I'm supposed to pretend we're dating?" you clarified, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach. When he nodded sheepishly, you tossed your hands in the hair and began to curse under your breath.
"Oh, come on! It won't be that bad! It's not like she's gonna say anything. It's just for looks. Hell, you never know. Maybe you'll meet someone at this thing. I could be doing you the favor of a lifetime," he said before hopping up to sit on your kitchen island. You smacked his knee when you walked past and he grinned.
"I have barstools, you know."
"Yeah, but I like it up here. Better view," he winked and jutted his chin towards your v-neck shirt.
"Gross," you scowled, making him laugh. He took a handful of nuts from the bowl on your counter and shook them in his hand like dice.
"So? What's it gonna be? You in?"
You watched him tip his head back, pouring some peanuts in his mouth, and you sighed. What the hell. You didn't have anything better to do.
"Fine."
Javier jumped off the counter excitedly. "Thank you! I owe you one!" he exclaimed before heading for your door. "I gotta run. I'll pick you up around noon on Friday. And, hey - bring a dress. The party is a little formal."
You rolled your eyes and groaned, then shooed him out your door. "Thanks. Now I have to figure out a damn outfit."
"You're the best!" he shouted happily from his car. You shut your door and turned around to sag against the wood, finally surrounded with silence. Something you thought you were craving until you had it, and then suddenly you realized you had never felt more alone in your life.
"Where the hell is this place?" you asked, staring out the passenger seat of Javier's jeep. It felt like the car kept climbing higher and higher, and the way your ears were popping, you were thinking your hunch was right.
"It's a hotel slash casino up in the hills," he said with a nod towards the open, winding road. "Supposed to have a hell of a view."
"Yeah, guess so," you muttered, then gasped when a clearing came into view and you saw just how high up you really were. "Oh, my god! Javi - look!"
"I'm driving, cariño," he reminded you with a smirk, but his eyes still flickered quickly over the ridge.
"Wow," you said breathlessly. The view was spectacular. Miles and miles of hills and trees surrounded a sprawling hotel/casino. If you were closer to the edge, you would be able to see a lazy river snaking around the bottom of the mountain.
"Alright. So what's the story?" you asked when you settled back in your seat. There was still a ways to go until you reached the casino, but you could see it from the road nestled into the landscape.
"What story?"
"Our story," you said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You told a girl you got back together with an ex. So, why did we originally break up?"
"Oh," Javi said, scratching his chin. "I don't know. You really think it matters?"
"Maybe. Who knows? Probably a good idea we at least talk about it," you shrugged.
Javi thought about it for a minute before snapping his fingers. "You wanted marriage and I didn't."
You made a face and shook your head.
"That would imply we're on the path to getting engaged. You really think you can fake a whole marriage because you pissed off a girl at work?"
"Yeah, good point," he mumbled before falling quiet to think about it some more. After a few minutes, he came up with another idea. "How about you were gonna move away for a job and we didn't want to do long distance, but the job fell through and you stayed?"
You nodded slowly, rolling the idea around in your head.
"Yeah, that's good. That'll work. Then one day to explain why you're single again, you can say I got another job offer out of state or something."
"Exactly."
"Alright. Easy enough," you hummed, then turned to gaze out your window again. Javi watched you for a few minutes out of the corner of his eye, his jaw working back and forth while he tried to come up with the right words to express his gratitude.
"Hey, uh," he said, clearing his throat. You turned to look at him expectantly. "I just wanna thank you again. I know you're going through a tough time and all that-"
"Don't mention it," you said dismissively. "It's not a big deal. Plenty of guys out there, right?"
Javi gave you a tight smile. "Yeah. Sure."
One thing that you didn't have a chance to fully think through was the sleeping situation. As Javi checked you in and you heard the girl at the front desk confirm one king sized bed, you felt yourself stiffen. He signed and grabbed the keys, then shot you a warm smile before gesturing towards the elevators. From the looks of it, Javier didn't mind one bit. Then, of course, it was Javier...
"No funny business," you declared when you entered your room and Javier flopped down tiredly on the huge bed. "You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine."
"Whatever you say, cariño," he replied with his eyes closed. "I'll be reminding you of that later tonight when you're all over me after a few drinks."
"That was one time and I told you I was sorry!" you exclaimed, cheeks burning from the memory.
Your relationship in the past with Javier was... complicated. When you first met, it felt like you kept seeking each other out at all the worst times. Whenever you made a move, he was unavailable, and vice versa. Eventually, you had decided to just be friends and left it at that. And it worked well. You had an easy relationship where it felt effortless and natural to go to the other with some exciting news, and sought a shoulder to cry on if something bad happened. It just seemed to work better without the romantic element.
All of that aside, at the crux of the issue was you were a romantic, through and through. You liked being in long term relationships. You enjoyed the comfort and peace it brought. Javier, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. You couldn't even remember the last time he brought the same girl out for drinks more than once and you had a suspicion he had never been in love.
"I'm just messing with you. Can't help it, I like when you're all flustered," Javi said before sitting up with a groan. When he stretched, you found your eyes drifting down to where his shirt rode up, revealing a small sliver of bronzed skin. You swallowed and forced yourself to look away because no matter how many times you reminded yourself it would never work between you, it didn't stop you from being unbearably attracted to him.
It was the confidence that he exuded. That was what you had finally decided was the thing that kept you drawn to him in a decidedly less-than-friendly way. But of course, you were quick to remember you weren't the only one who was attracted to his charm. Half the women in the city noticed it, too. You had just gotten very good at hiding it.
"What time's the party start?" you asked, hauling your duffel bag onto the bed so you could begin to unpack your toiletries. The first thing you did was take out the dark red slinky dress you bought so you could steam out the wrinkles with the iron packed away in the coat closet. What you didn't notice was the way Javier's eyes greedily locked onto the fabric while you moved around the room.
"Uh..." he murmured, his pulse quickening when he saw the plunging neckline of your dress. "That new?"
You furrowed your brow and turned around. "Yeah. I didn't exactly have anything suitable so I went shopping. Why? You don't like it?"
"No, no... it's perfect," he assured you. Javier blinked a few times, snapping himself out of it, and looked at you. "Very... festive."
You grinned and hung up the dress on the back of the bathroom door. "Thanks. I thought so, too. So... the party? What time?"
"Oh, right. Cocktail hour starts at five, dinner's at seven then dancing or whatever til who knows when."
You glanced at your watch and made a face after you did a quick pass with the iron.
"I better get in the shower, then," you said, grabbing your things. Javier leaned back onto the headboard and flicked on the television with the ease of a man who didn't intend on putting in much work on his appearance for evening. However, once you finished your hair and makeup and stepped out of the bathroom in that damn dress, he suddenly felt like he should have tried a little harder.
"Maybe I should put something in my hair," he muttered, his fingers flicking through the dark locks as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. You appeared in the doorway of the bathroom looking way too fucking attractive to be his date, let alone masquerading as his girlfriend. Your brows pinched together as you looked at his hair and it took every last ounce of willpower not to let his eyes fall to your cleavage in that tight dress.
"I think your hair looks good," you said. When you reached up to fix a stray piece of his hair, he cleared his throat and twisted away.
"Alright, let's get this thing over with," he mumbled as he slid past you and headed towards the door.
"What's got you so grumpy?"
"Nothing. Just need a drink and a smoke."
"You're gonna abandon me with a bunch of DEA agents to go smoke for ten minutes?" you whined, following him out of your hotel room towards the elevators.
"You could always join me. You'd look like Bette Davis smoking a cigarette and wearing that dress," he replied when you both stepped inside the elevator. He tapped the lobby button and grinned down at you.
"You and Bette Davis," you laughed, rolling your eyes.
"What? She made smoking look so damn cool."
"Yeah, well, I think I'm going to pass," you told him. "I'll get a drink and mingle. Maybe find one of the girls you pissed off and have a cat fight."
Javi chuckled and shook his head. "That's a long list, baby. Shouldn't be too hard."
When the elevator doors slid open, you could hear the music thumping from the ballroom and laughter echoing off the walls.
"Sounds like they didn't waste any time," you said to Javier.
"Are you kidding? When the government gives you an open bar, you fucking milk it," he replied before taking one step towards the front doors. "You sure you're good for a few?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine," you said, waving him off. He nodded and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Before he even made it to the door, he slipped one in between his lips.
The ballroom was pretty full already, Javi was right: when government employees have a chance to let loose, they jump at the opportunity. The entire room was decorated in Christmas lights, garland, and at least five different trees. The DJ was cycling through a mix of Christmas carols, pop music, and classic rock. Some people already shaking their hips on the dance floor with drinks in their hands. You spotted two different bars set up, so you made your way to the nearest one and ordered a white wine. As you waited, you bopped your head along to the beat of Last Christmas while mindlessly scrolling on your phone.
"Jack Daniels, neat," a man's deep voice said from beside you when the bartender placed your wine glass on a coaster. You thanked him and slid a few dollars across the bar before taking a sip.
"Excuse me... have we met?"
You turned to look at your neighbor and slowly shook your head. He was cute. Blonde hair parted to one side, mustache, lean but strong physique and sparkling blue eyes.
"No, we haven't," you said before offering your hand and name.
"Steve," he grinned, giving your hand a firm shake before accepting his drink with a nod and a couple bucks in the tip jar. "What department do you work in?"
"Oh, I don't work for the DEA, I'm here with someone," you said, leaning closer. You watched his face fall when you implied you weren't single and you pursed your lips. How the hell would Javi expect you to meet anyone when you had to pretend to be his girlfriend?
"I mean, just a friend. A good friend," you added, praying you didn't blow Javi's cover the first time you opened your mouth. "Uh, what do you do?"
"I'm an agent," he told you, chest puffing with pride. "Takin' down drug rings one scumbag at a time."
"Wow. That's so impressive," you gushed. You saw the way his cheeks flushed a bit and preened when he glanced down at your chest. "That must be so hard. What's your favorite part about the job?"
"Goin' to the Christmas party and meeting beautiful women like you," he shot back smoothly, making you giggle and toss your hair flirtatiously over your shoulder. Steve's gaze dragged up and down your dress appreciatively before adding, "I mean it. You look stunning. Should've known someone like you didn't work for the DEA."
"Oh, stop," you giggled, feeling your face warm from his compliment.
"Where are you sitting? Maybe I can convince you to dance after dinner? Now fair warning, I got two left feet, but I got a feeling no one's gonna be lookin' at me," Steve grinned, taking a step closer and grazing his thumb along your bare arm.
"Hmm, that sounds-"
"Murphy."
You both twisted around to find Javier storming across the room. And storming was really the only word for it. His fists were clenched and his jaw pulled tight like he was about to take a swing at Steve.
"Javi," you greeted him sweetly with a smile. At the same time, Steve said, "Peña."
"What's going on here?" he asked, sidling up so he could wedge himself between you and Steve.
"Nothing. Steve and I were just talking," you said innocently.
"Looked like more than that," Javier huffed. His tone and the serious look on his face made you falter. Did you do something wrong?
"Well-"
"I was just asking her for a dance after dinner. Relax, Jav," Steve joked with a playful punch to his shoulder. When Javi remained stoic and unmoving at your side, the smile slowly slipped from Steve's face.
"Oh, shit. Sorry. I thought you were just friends."
"We are," you said quickly, but Steve was already backing away.
"Enjoy your night! It was lovely to meet you," Steve said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd. You swiveled on your heel to glare at Javi.
"Why didn't you correct him?" you seethed.
Javi just shrugged, his relaxed demeanor slipping back in place, and leaned up against the bar to flag down a bartender. "You can do better than Steve."
"Who are you to say?" you argued back after he ordered a whiskey. "We were clicking! And he's cute, why-"
"'Cause I don't want you fucking my partner, hermosa, that's why," Javi snapped. Your eyes widened and you clamped your mouth shut for a moment.
"He's your partner? Why didn't you ever introduce us before? He's-"
"C'mon, let's go find the appetizers or something," he said after snatching his glass from the bar top. It was very evident you wouldn't be getting any more information out of Javier so you decided to drop the subject. But as the happy hour inched along with your third drink in your hand and Javi's arm finding a permanent home around your waist as he introduced you to his coworkers, your mind kept drifting back to that hardened look he had given you and Steve. The butterflies in your stomach churned to life every time you thought about it, your memory twisting things so you could pretend he was jealous over you flirting with another man. It wasn't that hard to imagine, really. He could hardly keep himself from touching either your waist or lower back or grabbing your hand. It fed the little fantasy in your head, deluding yourself into thinking he was subtly trying to claim you in front of the whole party, warning others to stay away.
You had given up reminding yourself that the fake relationship schtick was just an act by the end of dinner. It was too nice to pretend otherwise.
Javi had been wrapped up in a long winded conversation with the man seated on the other side of him, but your heart was fluttering the whole time because from the moment he set his silverware down, his hand hadn't once left your leg.
With a dreamy smile plastered across your face, your eyes casually drifted around the room. People were already beginning to dance but many still remained at their dinner tables chatting. You had been quietly admiring the artwork on the walls and sipping from your glass when you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It was hard to explain, but you just felt like someone was staring at you. Doing your best to be subtle, you shifted in your seat and let your gaze wander around the room again until you found the source.
There was a table to your left, half of which was empty, but five young women remained staring in your direction. Some had drinks dangling from their fingers, one had a scowl and another was leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
There was no question one of the girls must have been one of Javi's scorned lovers. If not all of them. Your heart sunk a little when you saw how beautiful they were and you forced yourself to look away.
Javier was handsome, he had charm, and he was funny. A lethal combination that managed to get him in bed with some extremely drop dead gorgeous women. It was then you felt your insecurities flare up. How could anyone buy you were a couple when he was used to having girls like that on his arm?
With Javier still talking, you stood up from your chair, suddenly feeling flustered and overwhelmed.
He stopped speaking mid sentence to look up and ask, "Where are you going?"
"Uh," you glanced around and swallowed nervously. "I think I just need some fresh air. I'll be right back."
"I'll go with you," he said, immediately standing. "I'll catch up with you later, Jim," Javi added over his shoulder before hurrying to catch up with you. When his palm pressed against your back, your feet automatically slowed.
"What's going on? Drink too much?"
"No. Well, maybe. I don't know," you rambled, eyes scanning for the exit. "I just feel like I don't fit in here."
"What? Why?" he asked, grabbing your arm and spinning you around. His face was filled with concern as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "You're doing great, cariño. I thought you were having fun."
"I was. I am," you stammered, and then your gaze landed on the table of girls, most of which had moved on to something else.
Before you could tear your eyes away, Javier noticed where you were looking and sighed.
"Yeah, sorry. I told you, I pissed off a woman or two here."
"It's not that," you mumbled, now staring down at the floor.
"Then what is it?"
You felt your cheeks flush and you couldn't look him in the eye when you finally admitted, "They're really pretty, Javi."
He just scoffed and took your hand in his.
"You're prettier."
You laughed lightly and shook your head. "Yeah, right. It's a good thing there's an open bar. Otherwise, I'm not sure people would believe we're together when you're usually seen with girls like that."
"Hey," Javi said softly. He hooked a finger under your chin and tilted it up so you would look at him. "Don't say that. You look better than anyone else here. If you weren't already, I'd be trying to get you up to my room right now," he said with a smirk. You giggled a little and sighed.
"Sorry. I guess I just had a moment or something," you said, breathing deep. Javi looked around the room and noticed how the dance floor was beginning to fill up.
"Wanna dance?"
You smiled and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you watched others having fun on the dance floor. Without waiting for your answer, Javi tugged your hand and tilted his head, urging you to follow him. "C'mon, don't leave me hanging."
You laughed and let him lead you to the dance floor, weaving through the throngs of people until he found a little wiggle room, but right when he turned back to look at you with a big, goofy smile, the fast tempo switched to a much slower ballad. Javi cocked an eyebrow at you and extended a hand, unphased.
With a smile of your own, you took his hand and let him pull you in close. His fingers laced together with yours while his other arm wrapped around your middle and your free hand came to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, you can dance," he teased when you fell into rhythm with him effortlessly.
"Of course I can dance," you said, rolling your eyes. Being that close to him, you could smell his aftershave, the whiskey on his breath, and a faint hint of cigarette smoke from earlier. The smell you had unknowingly grown to love. The smell that was, simply put, Javier.
You gazed up at him, smiling at the little pink tinting his cheeks and the glassy look in his eye. He looked so fucking adorable it almost pained you.
"Can I ask you something, Javi?" you asked quietly. His eyes softened at your tone and he nodded. "Why were you so mad earlier when I was talking to Steve? Really?"
The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes flickered somewhere behind you as he considered his answer.
"I think you know why."
When he looked back down at you, the playfulness was gone. His eyes carried something else in them. Something he couldn't bring himself to say. Then your heart skipped a beat and your breath caught in your throat when you saw it. The look you had been aching to see from him for years. The same look you were giving him at the very same time.
And then it hit you. Yeah, you knew why.
It turned out Javier was much more popular at work than you ever expected. You had spent the rest of your dance trying to come up with the right thing to say, but you panicked and lost your chance when Javier's boss nudged his shoulder while dancing with his wife. The four of you fell into a conversation - the men about work, you and his boss's wife about Christmas bargains - in the middle of the dance floor. When you realized you were in the way, the conversation moved to the bar. After that, an investigator joined in the conversation with her girlfriend and before you knew it, it was nearly midnight and the moment you had with Javi on the dance floor was long forgotten.
Or so you thought.
It had been a long night. You were exhausted and your feet ached from the new shoes you picked out to match your dress. You had hoped to possibly find an opening and talk to Javi about what you thought he implied during your dance, but while you were waiting for him to wash up, you passed out cold.
One thing you knew for certain was you were on your side of the bed when you fell asleep. You knew that because your side faced the bathroom and you had rolled over to wait for Javi before you fell asleep. However, you couldn't explain why you woke up around three in the morning with your cheek resting on his shoulder and your arm wrapped around his waist.
Well, maybe you could explain it. It was probably your subconscious trying to seek him out after spending the evening being so close to him. No matter the reason, you knew you had to sneak back to your side of the bed before he woke up, so you slowly began to extract your arm.
"Where're you goin'?" Javi murmured sleepily. Your eyes widened and your heart began to race.
"Nowhere, just go back to sleep," you whispered, pulling your arm away. Just as you were about to roll over, Javi's hand shot out to grab your wrist. You froze, cheek still pressed against his shoulder, and slowly lifted your eyes up to meet his.
It was hard to see in the dark, but from what you could tell, he was wide awake. His dark brown eyes continued to study your face while you fumbled for words.
"Javi?" you said, voice sounding so small in the quiet room. His eyes flickered anxiously between yours for another moment before he came to his decision. In one quick movement, he had rolled you onto your back, his hips fitting perfectly between your legs as he caged you in.
"Javi," you said again, although this time sounding far more breathless and aroused than you intended.
He swallowed tightly, gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips before he whispered, "Do you feel it too, cariño?"
You shifted underneath him, eyelids fluttering when you felt his arousal pressing up against the inside of your thigh.
"Yes," you whispered back.
His mouth crashed against yours in an instant. It was rougher than you expected it to be but you didn't mind. You understood because you felt it, too. All that time wasted, dancing around something that was right in front of you the entire time. It was bound to drive anyone a little crazy, a little hungry.
Before you knew it, your fingers were in his hair, dragging down his shoulders, and then tugging at his shirt, and all the while his mouth remained cemented against yours. He had to pull away to yank his white tshirt over his head and you heard yourself make a pathetic little noise, like you couldn't possibly survive without his kiss, not even for one second.
"Take this off," he panted, lifting your oversized shirt halfway up your torso. You didn't need to be told twice. You flung it off and pulled Javier back down before he even had a chance to take a good look at your bare chest.
Everything was moving so fast but given the amount of time it took you to get there, it felt like a fucking eternity. He expertly tugged your shorts and underwear off while your tongues fought for dominance in each other's mouths. It wasn't even until you felt his fingers brush against your cunt that you realized you were entirely undressed.
"Oh, god... Javi!" you cried out brokenly when he slipped two fingers inside of you.
His mouth fell to your chin and he made a strangled sound, curling his fingers when he said, "Fuck, baby, when you say my name like that..."
His hand maintained a steady rhythm between your legs, reaching for that spot that made your back curl off the bed every time he thrusted inside. His other hand got lost in your hair, tipping your face so he could feverishly lock his lips with yours while dragging your first orgasm to the surface with a few circles over your sensitive clit.
"Javi! Wait... I'm gonna - I'm gonna come -" you gasped, unable to stop your hips from rolling up and meeting his hand.
"Go ahead, hermosa. I got you."
"No," you whimpered, muscles going tense. You were getting to the point of no return and you needed to stop him. "I wanna - I want you to fuck me, Javi. I - I wanna -"
Your head fell back into the pillow, unable to complete your sentence.
"I am. I'm gonna fuck you," he assured you, lips ghosting the shell of your ear and wrist snapping faster between your thighs. "I'll make you come on my cock, don't worry, baby. Just let go, c'mon, you can do that for me, right?"
"Christ, cariño, you're gonna wake the whole fucking hotel," he chuckled, but you were too far gone to care. You tilted your chin to the ceiling, his name echoing off the walls as you came. It felt like your heart was going to beat right out of your chest, like your legs were so weak you may never walk again, yet somehow it wasn't enough. Not for either of you. In fact, it only seemed to make you each more desperate.
Your kisses on his skin became messy, both of you so eager to have the other that there was no room to worry about being too fast or abrasive. Your teeth clashed together when your arm curved around his neck, yanking him down to your level. Your shared hot breaths mingled with each pant and gasp. When you reached down to wrap your fingers around the heavy weight of his cock, he moaned into your open mouth and slid his fingers from your pussy so you could line him up with your entrance, neither of you in any mood to wait a second longer.
"Fu-uck," he groaned when he pushed inside of you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. You gasped and sharply bit down on his shoulder when tears sprung up and threatened to spill down your cheeks.
"You okay?" he panted, planting weak kisses against the side of your face. All you could do was nod. He filled you and stretched you so perfectly that it took your breath away and left you speechless. He nodded, too, lips parted as he puffed for air, then began to rock his hips. Slow at first, then steady and deep.
"Javi," you moaned in his ear, sending a shiver through his body. "Shit, just like that. Oh my god, Javi, just like that!"
Javier smirked into your shoulder, fucking you with deep, long strokes as you continued to fill the room with your cries and moans.
"Never thought you'd be so goddamn loud, baby," he teased, nipping playfully at your shoulder.
"Sorry," you whined into the air. Your jaw was clenched tight, fingers clawing uselessly at his broad shoulders while he continued to pump in and out a little bit harder, a little bit faster, setting loose one of the tears that welled up in your eyes.
"Don't be sorry, I fucking love it," he groaned. He lifted himself up so he could watch your face contort with each devastating thrust. "Fucking love how you say my name. Dreamed about it for so long, you have no idea-"
"Me, too," you moaned, a second tear trickling down your cheek. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him tightly as he began to fuck you faster. His eyes flickered down to your bare chest, breasts bouncing from the force of his thrusts. Craning his neck down, he latched onto one with a groan, teeth grazing enticingly over your nipple before sucking the other one into his mouth.
"God, you're so perfect," he mumbled into the space between your breasts. "So fucking perfect, hermosa. Drove me fucking crazy all night."
Your heart stuttered before grabbing the sides of his head and pulling him up for a deep kiss. Every time he slammed inside of you, it had you seeing stars. You felt completely at his mercy, unable to think about anything else except him, him, him.
"Tell me you want more," he demanded, pulling away from your kiss so he could look you in the eye. His eyes were blown wide with lust and a few dark hairs were beginning to stick to his forehead, the image so captivating that he had you nodding dumbly to his request.
"Yes, Javi, please," you moaned, "more, please, fuck me-"
"No, I mean-"
His hips slowed and he cupped your face, chest heaving and lips parted for air as he stared down at you imploringly. "I mean, tell me you want more than just tonight. Tell me there's something else here."
You blinked rapidly and nodded, stunned he would even have to ask when you had always been the one to prefer relationships. Hardly trusting yourself to speak, you whispered, "Yeah. I want more than just tonight. I want more than just this."
A smile stretched across his face right before he lunged down to capture your lips with his own. His hips resumed their pace, snapping steadily into you and pushing you higher and higher until you stiffened and cried out his name.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, shit," he muttered, hips stuttering against you, his name still tumbling from your mouth as the last of your orgasm rippled through your body. "Baby - look at me," he begged, and it wasn't until that moment you realized your eyelids had even shut.
Tiredly, you opened your eyes to gaze up at him. The way he was looking at you caused a lump to form in your throat and you had to suppress a shiver. It was too intense all of the sudden, the air thickening between you in a matter of seconds.
"Come for me, Javi," you murmured lowly. You brought a shaky hand up to card through his damp hair, watching as his eyebrows pinched and his chin dropped, pulling out of you quickly and sitting back on his heels to fist his cock. Your hand fell back to the cool sheets beside you, unable to look away. He was hunched above you, one fist pressed into the mattress and the other jerking himself off until he stilled with a deep groan, painting your stomach with his sticky release. You couldn't even let yourself blink, doing your best to commit every detail to memory until he collapsed next to you with a heavy sigh.
"Fucking Christ," he grumbled, forearm tossed over his eyes. You giggled, face warming when you heard how raspy you sounded. Javier removed his arm and turned his head to look at you with a lopsided grin.
"You're a screamer, hermosa."
"Javi!" you cried out softly, but your broken voice only further proved his argument. He chuckled and rolled onto his side to push some hair away from your eyes.
"I was expecting a phone call from the front desk ten minutes ago."
"Shut up, Javi!" you whined, covering your face with your palms.
"Don't be embarrassed, baby, I love it," he said while pulling your hands away. You bit your lip and peered up at him, searching his face for any sign of regret and finding none. Then his face softened and he swallowed nervously before adding, "I'm in love with you."
He said it so quietly, so sweetly, that it had you wondering if you were hearing things. But then you saw the anxious look in his eye and your pulse skyrocketed.
"Really?" you asked in disbelief. Slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah. I think I've been in love with you for a while," he admitted, tracing an invisible line down your cheek.
You laughed and two fresh tears fell when you said, "I love you, too."
His mouth crashed against yours in relief and you wrapped your arms around his neck, matching smiles pressing together in stunned happiness.
"I'm sorry I wasted so much time and didn't tell you sooner," he murmured while stroking your hair.
"It doesn't matter," you replied, "we have each other now."
Javi smiled and kissed the tip of your nose.
"So, now what?" he asked.
"Now? Now I would really like to take a shower," you said, then grinned when you added, "and maybe in the morning we can do this all over again."
He laughed and rolled to his side so you could get out of bed. When his eyes locked onto your ass as you made your way to the bathroom in the dark, he flung the covers off and leapt out of bed to follow you.
"I think we're gonna need a late check out."
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Negan stared up at your front door from the bottom of the steps. He glanced sideways at Carol who gave him a knowing look. "What're we doing here?" he asked, adjusting his grip on the strap of his pack.
"I think you know," Carol said. She checked her watch. "You've got five minutes before I come back, and then I'm walking you out of here," she said firmly. Negan watched her turn and walk away. He glanced back up at your door and pulled in a nervous breath. His feet felt heavy as he climbed the steps and he hesitated with his fist hovering above the wood but he finally knocked, loud and clear.
He heard your footsteps approach on the other side and then the door was pulled open. "Oh," you said, your expression a little startled. Your hair was a bit wild, as if you hadn't yet looked in a mirror since getting out of bed. "Negan. Hi."
He couldn't help smiling at the tousled flyaways framing your face. "Hey, doll."
You gulped nervously and they caught sight of his pack slung over his shoulder. "What's—what's going on?" Your brow furrowed.
"Ah... Carol says I've been—what was the fuckin' word? Banished. Right..."
"Council voted. So... seems I'm out of this shithole," Negan said wryly, a joking smile on his handsome face.
"Wait—" Confusion muddled your features again. "I didn't hear anything about a council vote." You leaned to one side, looking around. "Where is Carol?"
Negan ignored the question, eager instead to just drink you in with his eyes, possibly for the last time. "Listen, doll, I just came to say one thing. And I promise I'll make it quick."
Your eyes met his again, still anxious and confused.
"I'm in love with you."
All your breath seemed pulled out of your lungs by some unknown force. Your mouth opened and for a moment you couldn't force any sound out. "I—"
Negan shrugged. "It's alright. You don't have to say it back," he said quickly. He looked almost sheepish. "I just—I needed you to know that. Once. Take care of yourself, doll."
It was with a strangely unsettled and slightly sick feeling that you watched him turn and leave, descend the steps, and approach Carol's waiting figure down the street.
Prompt: "I'm in love with you." / "I—" / "It's alright. You don't have to say it back."
Does anyone else remember when Elon was like "if anyone knows how to end world hunger for 6 billion USD, I'll fund it" and UNICEF was like "we're going to spend a month to make a plan to end world hunger for 6 billion USD and Elon is going to fund it" and Elon was like "actually, nah" and then bought Twitter instead?
I think that was one of the worst things I'll ever see in my life.
I still think that should be the thing for which he's the most famous. It should be brought up every time he's mentioned. In any news article, any interview, any history book. "Elon Musk, who was offered a chance to end world hunger and turned it down." Put it on his fucking gravestone.
you foster a hot and cold relationship with your desk buddy, James, until things start to change, and you both fail to ignore your new feelings. fem, sfw
you and James have to share a bed
you slip outside of the office
you offer the very first olive branch
James defends you from a coworker
James assures you that you’re pretty
James pretends you aren’t cute at karaoke
you faint at the office
you realise James isn’t fully insufferable
you fall asleep on James’ shoulder
James forgets why he doesn’t like you
you buy James a new smiski for his desk
you come onto your period unexpectedly
James accidentally calls you lovely
you and James get stuck in a lift
James hates when people flirt with you
James jumpstarts your car, you ogle
James is upset when others treat you badly
you call James ‘Jamie’ for the first time
James antagonises you into a kiss
you and James hide your feelings
James takes you out for coffee
At least two major artists (Lady Gaga and Chappell Roan) making a point to vocally support trans people the Grammys is a big deal in this political climate.
Also I think it's worth highlighting that they are both cis women, because bigots want us to believe cis women and trans women/trans people are at odds with each other.
Lady Gaga has ALWAYS been like this and ALWAYS been in our corner.
She used to be slandered as a trans woman tricking the public back when she debuted, and her response was literally "and so what if I was? Would it be so terrible?", rather than the expected "no I'm not but I support them!" or honestly the more normal for the time "I'm not a freak, Ew.".
This was at her debut, btw, so when her star power was at its weakest. And she still stood by us completely unflinchingly.
Lady Gaga has ALWAYS been like this. I fuckin love her.
There is a very important point here that they are both CIS women who have always been allies in every meaning of the word. This is important: TERFs would like to pit trans women and cis women against each other because when we are divided, both sides are weaker. We all must refuse that. Feminism has always been about supporting the group that is currently under attack and needs support.
(Remember when the miners and other labour groups were supported by the LGTBQ community? That was because THEY KNEW what it was to be disenfranchised and ignored. When we stand together, we are stronger.)
summary — when a new member of the waitstaff starts undermining you, you worry that your job might be in jeapordy. carmen knows you better than you think.
warnings — swearing, i think that's it
pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!waitress reader, semi (?) established relationship
pronouns — she/her
word count — 2.2k
note — i know i fully dropped off the face of the earth but unfortunately i was too busy channeling waitress reader a little too hard, i actually have to leave for work in a few hours but i really wanted to get something out. this 100% isn't inspired by true events or me projecting in any way, anyway i hope you enjoy!! <3
Being the only waitress at a successful restaurant is hard. During the dinner rush, between wiping tables, grabbing drinks and running food, you’ve slowly learned to be more adaptable to the Bear’s new clientele base. That’s not without its struggles, of course.
Fortunately, Carmy and Natalie seem to understand that it’s a major handful to simply do your job. Which is why Richie thought it appropriate to call you in two hours early to meet the new waiter.
Liam’s nice from what you’ve gathered. He’s been working with you at the Bear for about two months at this point, most of that has involved you and Richie training him, and he’s been very receptive to your instruction.
Sure, sometimes he mutters under his breath when a customer asks him for something, but hey, they’re annoying sometimes. And sure, sometimes you find him in the walk-in on his phone, but you’d be lying if you said you were never on your phone at work. He’s had no complaints, and the work is always done to a standard that’s expected (he is still in training, you’re not delusional).
You’ve worked at the Bear since they were still the Beef, right after Carmen took over. He realised Richie couldn’t keep up with the stuff at the front by himself, so he’d gone with the cheapest option available and thanked god every day that you weren’t awful at your job. You had just graduated from UofC and if you didn’t get a job when you had, you would have been pretty much out of options. You had no work experience outside of being a TA in college (which apparently didn’t have a lot of transferable skills, according to most of your potential bosses). You hadn’t been able to score an insane internship, you didn’t make super stellar grades, you’d been too busy being desperately poor and struggling to keep up.
You’d been really lucky that Carmen had taken a chance on you when he had, and you had been desperate to show him you were aware of that. Liam didn’t seem to have the same sentiment.
He was the same age as you, and he’d actually gone to UofC as well. He’d gotten a pre-med degree but wanted to take some time off before he went for his MD at Rosalind Franklin.
He picked up on the work fairly easily, remembered when you showed him where the cleaning supplies were, showed him how to work the buttons on the till to ring in orders, and introduced him to all the staff. They were nice to him, nice enough. It took them a while to warm up to him, just like it took them a second to warm up to Carmen, to Sydney, to you.
But now, several months in, they all got along enough that work was going well. You didn’t have to work six days a week if you didn’t want to now that Liam was there to lighten the load (you did, you made sure Natalie knew that). Now, you could actually take your lunch break without worrying they were being completely overrun.
On the whole, things seemed to really improve.
Until, of course, they didn’t.
You started hearing whispers, soft remarks of “Oh, I did that for her,” to Richie about greeting table seventeen. Small “I wonder why that wasn’t done, I’ll just do it quickly.”
“Not to be that person, but I noticed that a lot of the straws haven’t been stocked up. I feel like I have to do it every time. I just wonder what she’s doing when she’s back here…”
You do your best to not let it get to you. He’s never worked in the service industry before, he’s probably just doing his best to make sure that his efforts are being noticed. You were almost lucky, in that way, that you were the only real waitress they’d hired.
It’s an unusually warm day as you slide in through the back entrance to work. You’re your usual twenty minutes early, lucky that there’s enough work to do that Carmen often encourages punctuality (and thus, fairly compensates for it).
Liam is scheduled today, but he’s leaving after the lunch shift. You get your break while the kitchen does prep-work for dinner, and then you’re coming back for dinner as well.
Marcus is in his corner, kneading bread dough with a concentrated look on his face. You brush past him with an airy hello that he returns with a half-hearted wave, not looking up from his task.
Tina is on vegetables, and she stops you for a moment to ask about a shipment arriving. You assure her that you’ll check when you get to the other side of the kitchen, making your way to the front.
The chairs are already all down, table cloths clean and freshly washed. Sydney went down to the laundromat to get them all clean that morning; she’d texted you and asked if you wanted to come but you told her that you really, really didn’t.
Your first job is a pre-opening sweep, then a restock, then a menu review. You have 87 minutes until service, and Liam should be here in the next fifteen minutes or so. You have just enough time to go and bug Richie into showing you more pictures of Eva’s last birthday party.
You stick your head into the office just in time to catch the tail end of a sentence that you definitely weren’t meant to hear; “...doesn’t even stack the chairs? What is she doing here?”
Your work anxieties - the idea that every time something goes wrong it was your fault, that one missed drink or late appetiser would have you fired, that every time a customer berated you it was actually your fault - had definitely eased some in the six months you’d been working there. You’d stopped thinking that every time someone was complaining it was about you, but that meant that when they really were talking about you, you knew.
Liam’s standing there, leaning up against a pile of papers that Carmen is staring roughly at. He looks tired - when doesn’t he? - and like he doesn’t really want to hear whatever it was that Liam was saying.
“A lot more than you do,” Carmen grumbles. He runs a hand over his face from the bottom up, coming to a rest when it’s gripping onto his curls.
“I’m always covering her sections,” Liam groans. “The amount of time that Rich’s given me her table’s drinks, it’s insane. We should start pooling our tips.”
Carmen wants to say a lot back to that. That his name is Richie, and calling him Rich doesn’t make him any more like the finance frat bros that Liam is so desperate to associate with. That tip pooling would be insanely unfair to you considering Carmy’s pretty sure Liam’s made less than what you make in a day. That he stacks the chairs because he likes to, and you know that.
Instead, he settles on “you’re always covering her sections because she’s always covering up for you when you screw up.”
Liam looks like he’s unsure whether or not to go ghostly pale or beet red at the statement. “Wh- has my performance not been up to scratch, sir?”
Carmen stands. “I didn’t really notice it, at first, cause everything was going so well. She’d never tell on you, she knows what it’s like to struggle at a job.” He looks disdainfully down at Liam’s too-new dress shoes. Professional but impractical as a waiter. From what Carmen’s noticed, this is the second pair he’s ruined. “She’d never tell me that your silverware is never rolled, so she’s been staying late and rolling every single one of them. She’d never tell me that your tables are never cleared away. She’d never tell me that you had six meals comped in your first month because you couldn’t be fucked writing shit down.
So yeah, maybe you get her tables a refill when she’s too busy telling one of us one of your guests was coeliac because you forgot to, but that does not give you the right to look down your entitled fucking nose at her.” Carmen gets close, not close enough to the point where it could be uncomfortable, but much closer than he’d ever get to Liam if he could help it.
“You don’t like picking up her slack? That’s fine, that’s fucking fine, because to be honest, it seems like you’re creating more work for her anyway. You’re done.”
He looks pointedly towards the door to the small office.
Liam knows exactly what Carmy’s telling him. “Sir, I-”
Carmen raises a finger and points. “You’re fucking done.”
Liam scampers away so quickly he doesn’t even see you eavesdropping.
Carmy knows, though. He seems to have a sixth sense for when you walk into a room. If you’re not planning on coming in to confront him about firing Liam then he has no intention of bringing it up with you. He sits down, putting his forehead on his fist. “Sir.”
You’re standing right in the door, it’s practically impossible for Carmen not to notice you. But he pretends, allowing you the chance to slip away and act like you hadn’t just witnessed him firing Liam for being slightly mean to you.
He opens his eyes to see you standing there still.
“You didn’t have to do that,” your voice is soft. The collar of your shirt is tucked underneath on one side, and Carmen has to resist the urge to reach up and smooth it out. He’s not quite sure why and he doesn’t feel like unpacking it. “He’s still learning, I don’t mind helping him out.”
Carmen doesn’t mince his words. “He’s a dick, don’t defend him.”
He swivels away from his desk and gestures for you to sit. After a second of hesitation, you perch yourself on top of the small surface. You’re not sure who moves first, Carmen to reach up and take your hands or you to reach down to let him. Neither of you have ever spoken about it, like a lot of things. How he always makes sure you get extra food and you make sure Carmen isn’t bothered while he sets up the dining room.
You hadn’t realised how much Liam had been heightening your anxiety while he was there. “He’s not allowed to do that to you.” Carmy sounds genuinely pissed. “You do fucking everything out there, he’s not allowed to come in and treat you like some sanctimonious fuck. You… you should’ve come to talk to me about it.” He gives in. “You could’ve.”
“I didn’t want to be a problem.” You admit quietly. “You have enough without me.”
Plenty goes unsaid between you and Carmen. You don’t talk when he drives you home in the dark, in the snow. But he’d be naive to believe that the same rules applied to everyone else. The kitchen staff talks, none more than Richie. Carmy is surprised he hadn’t decked that pre-med asshole already.
“You’re not a problem, honey,” he says gruffly. You stay silent for a moment before realising that’s probably all you’re going to get out of him.
“I need to go prep dining for service,” you say after a moment, not wanting to speak too loudly.
Camry’s grip on your hand tightens and for a brief second he feels panic set in. You clearly are feeling okay, so it’s not that he needs to check on you. You’re well ahead of schedule. There’s no reason for Carmen to keep his hand enclosed around yours. And yet he does. And yet you let him.
“Liam was just in here bragging about how dining room prep was already done,” he says after a short while. “You’re well ahead of time.”
“He is,” you point out airily. “I’d never want to take credit for his work.”
Carmen squeezes your hands once, eyes crinkling at the sides. You both know you need to go over everything Liam did in an attempt to make himself look better, not one hundred percent trusting him to have done it properly. There’s 56 minutes until service before Carmen finally lets you go (and only because he has prep he needs to get done).
Plenty goes unsaid between you and Carmen. You don’t say anything when he cracks his office door open for you when you need a breather. You don’t say anything when his station’s been cleaned for him miraculously while you’re waiting for him to finish paperwork.
Luckily for you, the rest of your coworkers seem to understand this time. Nobody mentions Liam or his absence. No one mentions the stars drawn on the band-aid on Carmen’s wrist. And, most surprisingly pleasant, no one mentions how Carmen has started calling you honey more than perhaps your real name.
It makes it even nicer when everyone heads out, leaving you and Carmen alone in the restaurant for the night. They seem to have miraculously developed tact over the last 24 hours, but you’re pretty sure nothing could have stopped Richie from telling everyone about the way that Carmen holds your hand the entire way to your apartment.
izzy806
ellievsbear
