halfwaythereroyalâs writing blog! My thirst for Star Wars, Marvel, Narcos etc. overflowed and here we are. Join me. She/her. 18+ MAIN BLOG + MASTERLIST + Ao3
Iâve got an older Maverick request if you like it!
One of the boys from top gun is trying to flirt with the new younger bartender penny is training but they are no match for Maverick whoâs polite, handsome, and his charm is effortless and mesmerizing to her
Quiet Gravity
pete âmaverickâ mitchell x reader
warnings: none really, maybe fluff?
wc: 846
a/n: slowly but surely working on requests Iâm sorry to keep you all waiting for so long đ„Č
The Hard Deck was already humming when Penny tossed you a bar towel and an encouraging grin.
âBusy night,â she said. âPerfect training conditions.â
You laughed, flipping the towel over your shoulder. âYou mean chaos?â
âSame thing.â Penny winked. âRemember, smile, pour with confidence, and donât let these pilots charm you into forgetting what youâre doing.â
You saluted her playfully, but before you could make another joke, someone slid onto the barstool in front of you with all the swagger of a man who practiced it in the mirror.
âHey there,â he pauses to read your name tag, ây/n.â
âWhat can I get you?â you ask politely.
âNo, no, what can I get you?â
âI donât drink on the job.â
âCome on, just one drink,â the pilot begs you.
âAre you going to order something or not? I have a bar full of people to serve,â you say, slightly annoyed.
âFiesty, arenât we?â
Out of the corner of your eye, another man sits down at the bar.
âJust doing my job,â you say shortly.
âYouâre no fun,â the pilot pouts.
You turn your attention to the man who sat down. Itâs the one person Penny has repeatedly warned you about - Pete âMaverickâ Mitchell.
âIs he bothering you?â Maverick asks, calm, cool, and collected.
You chuckle. âNah, heâs just upset I havenât taken a liking to him.â
âIâm right here!â
Maverick smirks. âDonât worry about them.â
The pilot sighs and leaves, defeated.
âWhat would you like, Maverick?â
Maverick chuckles. âPenny told you about me.â
âYes she did,â you smile. You pull a beer out and place the bottle in front of him.
He shakes his head. âIâm not trying to cause harm.â
âShe told me you pour on the charm.â
âWhat else did she tell you?â
You laugh. âEnough.â
âCome on, you gotta tell me!â
You smile and walk away, helping the next guy at the bar.
Later that night, as youâre cleaning up, you feel a set of eyes on you, and you know itâs not Penny.
âWhat are you still doing here?â you ask him.
âItâs late. I donât want you walking to your car alone,â Maverick states plainly.
âNo other intentions?â you continue, turning around and tossing the rag on your shoulder. You lean against the bar and cross your arms.
âI canât be a gentleman?â
âNot with your reputation,â you tease, moving to behind the bar.
âWhat did Penny say to you?â Maverick asks, half actually asking and half rhetorical.
You throw the rag into the dirty bin and grab your keys.
âTime to go,â you state plainly.
Maverick heads towards the door, with you behind. He opens the door for you, and waits there as you lock it.
âYou did well tonight,â he says.
âEven with all those military guys flirting with me?â
âYou handled them very well.â
âYeah, well thereâs one Iâm not handling well.â
âOh yeah?â A smile creeps across Maverickâs face.
âYeah, and I donât think Penny will be pleased,â you laugh slightly.
You reached your car without really noticing, the quiet tension stretching between you like a pulled thread.
Maverick stopped at your door, fingers brushing the handle before stepping aside to give you space. But he didnât step far. His presence pressed into the air around you, thick and unmistakable.
âIâm okay,â you whispered. âThanks to you.â
He held your gaze. Too long. Just long enough that you felt something shift, like the moment before a plane breaks the sound barrier.
âMaverick,â you say, almost like a confession.
His eyes dropped. Briefly, achingly, to your lips.
Not a mistake. Not an accident.
âMaverickâŠâ you repeated, softer, and the air snapped tighter.
He took half a step closer, close enough for your shoulders to almost touch, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. His hand hovered like he wanted to touch you - your arm, your waist, your face, but he held still, held back.
âYou should get home,â he murmured, though it sounded nothing like a dismissal.
âShould I?â you asked.
His laugh was exhaled more than spoken. âYouâre making this hard.â
âAm I?â
He tilted his head, eyes closing for a moment as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, the look in them made your stomach dip hard.
âIâm trying to be a gentleman here,â he said quietly.
You chuckle. âI know,â you mumble, glancing away.
His hand finally touched you - just two fingers at your wrist, barely there, but the jolt of heat shot straight through you.
He leaned in, so close you could feel his breath on your face.
âGet home safe,â he whispered.
Reluctantly, painfully, he let your wrist go.
You slipped into your car, heart pounding, hands trembling on the wheel. Maverick stepped back, watching you with that same unreadable, molten look.
You started the engine.
But he didnât turn away until you pulled out of the lot.
And even then, you felt his gaze on you long after the Hard Deck disappeared in your rearview mirror.
SUMMARY: Jake "Hangman" Seresin had a reputation for flirting with anything that breathed, which is exactly why you never paid him much attention whenever the Dagger Squad rolled into the Hard Deck. But the more time you spend around him, the more you realize heâs not the arrogant jerk you assumed he was. Against all odds, you fall for him, hard. So when you suddenly start pulling away, Jake can't help but wonder what he did wrong.
WARNINGS: One-sided miscommunication, angst, self-deprecating thoughts, implied daddy issues, jealousy, fluff, cursing, platonic reader x Dagger Squad, lovesick!Jake, making out, probably some inaccurate military details (sorry)!
A/N: Literally hated his character when I first watched the movie, yet the more I watch edits and read fanfiction the more this man has grown on me... which is how this came about. Hope y'all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3
The Hard Deck was buzzing as it usually was on a Friday night. You and Penny moved in perfect sync behind the bar, dodging each other with practiced ease as the room filled with the clamor of laughter, clinking bottles, and the low hum of music from the jukebox in the corner. The scent of citrus and salt clung to your skin, your fingers sticky from pouring whiskey sours and popping lime wedges into beers.
You wiped your hands on a towel tucked into your apron, catching Pennyâs eye just as she slid a beer down to a waiting customer. Penny leaned in as she wiped down the bar, eyes flicking toward the entrance. âTheyâre here.â She murmured, barely suppressing a grin. You didnât need to ask who. The sound of boots scuffing the floor and the unmistakable blend of egos and energy meant only one thing: The Dagger Squad, fresh off another brutal day of training.
Maverick mustâve put them through hell, judging by the way Bradley dragged his hand through his hair like he might tear it out. Natasha looked like she was already plotting revenge, and Mickey was slumped against the pool table like gravity had it out for him personally. âThey look like death.â You noted, already lining up glasses. Penny smirked. âExcept for a certain blonde whoâs looking at you like youâre his reward for surviving it.â
You threw her a dry look, but heat bloomed at the back of your neck. âYouâre imagining things.â Penny rolled her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. âOh, sure, I must be also imagining the way you check your lip gloss every time he walks in.â You snorted and turned away to hide your smirk, reaching for the tequila. âGod, youâre even worse than Amelia.â Penny raised an eyebrow. âIâll take that as a compliment.â
The squad fanned out across the pool tables, dropping into their usual spots with groans and exaggerated sighs. Bradley clinked his dog tags against the counter like a bell, while Natasha stretched out her shoulders and grumbled something about Maverick trying to kill them. And then, right on cue, Jake Seresin. He swaggered in a few beats behind the rest, as if the doors themselves had waited for his entrance.
His hair was a little messy, his skin kissed by the sun, dog tags catching the low light as they swung against his collarbone. He moved like he owned the room, like heâd fought gravity and won. But you knew better now. Heâd fooled you once. That cocky smile, that drawl, that insufferable nickname, Hangman. Youâd pegged him for exactly the kind of man who flirted with anything that moved and forgot the names of anyone who didnât. So you ignored him.
Every night he came in, you barely spared him a glance. And every night, he tried again. But Jake didnât win you over with charm. He won you with patience. When your car wouldnât start after a long shift and you were ready to scream into the night, he appeared, hands in his pockets, smile soft. No teasing, no smug remarks. Just a quiet offer to take a look. Thirty minutes later, he had it running again. He didnât ask for anything in return.
He started walking you to your car after closing, no pressure, no flirting. Just company. And then he started showing up on your off days. Not in uniform. Not with the squad. Just Jake. Heâd sit at the bar, nursing a soda or a single beer, and talk to you while you cut garnishes or cleaned glasses. He asked about your family. Your hometown. Whether you liked working nights or if you ever thought about leaving the beach behind.
He never made it about himself, not at first. And when he finally did, it was different. One night, long after the bar had emptied, you found him leaning against the jukebox, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him. âMy dad never thought Iâd amount to much,â He murmured when you passed him. âGuess part of me still tries to prove him wrong.â Youâd stopped in your tracks. That was the moment something cracked. Not in him, in you.
Because behind all that swagger, Jake Seresin was carrying something heavy. Something private. And he trusted you enough to let you see it. That was when you started falling. It wasnât dramatic. It wasnât sudden. It was slow. Unavoidable. A creeping warmth that found its way under your skin and settled there. So now, as Jake leaned across the bar, sweat-damp and sun-touched from a long day of dogfights, you didnât feel annoyance anymore. You felt fear.
Because youâd let him in. Because he wasnât who you thought he was. Because he looked at you like you were more than just a bartender, and you werenât sure what to do with that. âEveninâ, darlinâ.â His voice dropped low into that familiar Southern drawl, thick like honey and rough at the edges, and it sent goosebumps skittering down your spine before you could stop them. Jake leaned one elbow against the bar, casual as ever, but his presence was anything but forgettable.
Sunlight from the open doors caught in his windswept hair, and sweat still clung to the base of his throat. Those hypnotic green eyes, greener tonight under the warm, flickering lights, swept over your face with the same lazy intensity they always did, as if he were memorizing you every time. You arched a brow, letting your hands stay busy with the shaker. The clink of ice helped mask the fact that your heartbeat had kicked up a notch. âYou look like Maverick dragged you through a jet wash.â
Jakeâs grin curled slow, but it didnât quite reach his eyes. There was an edge in them, subtle, but there. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else. âHe sure as hell tried,â He muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince that was half hidden. âBut itâs nothinâ I canât handle.â You slid a cold beer across the polished wood without looking up, but your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than they should have.
His hand was warm, calloused and steady, and instead of pulling away, he lingered. Just a breath longer. Just enough to make your skin tingle where he touched you. You hated that it made your pulse skip. Hated it even more that he seemed to know exactly what it did to you. Jake gave you that heartbreaker wink before peeling away to join the others, the beer already raised in a half-salute. âThanks, sweetheart.â
You watched him walk, shoulders still squared from the cockpit, tags clinking lightly against his chest, and tried not to let your eyes linger too long. Penny had, of course, seen all of it. As she restocked the limes with a knowing look, one perfectly sculpted brow lifted in dry amusement. âYou keep looking at him like that,â She murmured, voice low as she tossed a handful of garnishes into a silver tray. âHeâs gonna think that you actually like him.â
âHe already thinks that.â You rolled your eyes, mostly to distract from the flutter blooming in your chest. âBecause you do,â She countered without missing a beat, slicing through a lemon with precision. âMight as well admit it before you combust.â You didnât answer. Not because she was wrong, but because she wasnât. And you hated how easily she saw through you. The truth was⊠you did like him. Too much. In ways you didnât want to admit out loud.
Jake Seresin had wormed his way past your sarcasm and rolled eyes and cool indifference like it was nothing. And the scariest part? He hadnât even tried that hard. âIâll be right back.â You muttered, grabbing five beers from the cooler and sliding them onto a tray with practiced ease. You tucked a cold can of Coca-Cola into the front pocket of your apron, Bobâs usual, always sipped with quiet contentment while the others knocked back drinks like they were on shore leave. Penny caught the gesture and smirked.
âGo get your man.â You didnât dignify her with a reply. Just rolled your eyes and turned on your heel, weaving between the crowds with practiced grace, the tray balanced effortlessly in your hands. But your stomach flipped all the same, traitorous and fluttering, because the moment your eyes found Jake again, laughing with Bradley. And you werenât sure how long you could pretend you werenât. Taking a deep breath, and squaring your shoulders you shook those thoughts from your head.
âYou all look like you could use a pick-me-up.â Every head at the table turned toward you, some sluggishly, others like your voice alone had jolted them back to life. âA beer for you,â You chirped, placing the cold glass in front of Mickey, who looked like heâd barely survived the day. His forehead rested on the edge of the table until he forced himself upright. âYouâre an angel.â He groaned, already reaching for the glass like it might bring him back from the dead.
âAnd a Coke for you.â You placed the soda down with a satisfying clink in front of Bob, who was seated slightly off to the side, content with his quiet corner and a half-eaten bowl of peanuts. His cheeks turned pink as he straightened his glasses and smiled shyly. âFor my favorite WSOs.â You added with a playful wink. Both men flushed under your gaze and responded with a thank you, in perfect unison.
You kept moving, passing out drinks with ease and affection. Natasha muttered something about you being a godsend as she reached for her beer, lifting it in a silent toast before taking a long, grateful sip. Rooster gave you a wink and a crooked smile that probably worked on half of San Diego, though it never really had an effect on you. Javy nodded with an appreciative grin, and Reuben gave you a friendly fist-bump.
âFor my favorite pilots.â You teased, grinning as you finally came to rest beside Natasha. She leaned her head onto your shoulder with a contented sigh, her hair brushing against your cheek. âMarry me.â She mumbled, half-serious, half-drunk on exhaustion. Before you could even talk, a familiar voice, smooth, smug, and laced with that Southern twang, broke the silence. âThatâs just cruel,â Jake drawled. âI thought I was your favorite.â
Your head turned before you could stop yourself. And just like that, your heart didnât just skip a beat, it slammed into your ribs like it was trying to break free. Jake stood at the pool table, cue stick in hand, body bent low as he lined up a shot. His back arched just enough to make your mouth go dry. His biceps flexed as he adjusted his grip, veins prominent, forearms corded with strength. His khakis clung low on his hips, his flight belt hanging lazily from a loop.
He looked ridiculous. Unfair. Like heâd walked straight out of a damn recruiting ad, but dirtier. Infinitely more dangerous. Jakeâs head lifted slowly, eyes cutting toward you from beneath those long lashes. The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk when he caught you looking. Caught staring. âYou wound me, sweetheart,â He added, standing to his full height. âAll that charm, and I donât even rank in your top five?â
You masked your thudding heart with a dry laugh. âI said favorite pilots,â You shot back. âDidnât say anything about most high-maintenance.â The squad erupted in low chuckles, a few of them tossing mock âoofsâ in Jakeâs direction. Jake only grinned, unbothered, sauntering toward the group with that same easy swagger that made it impossible to tell whether he was teasing or flirting, or both. You forced yourself to look away, turning back toward the tray.
Yet, your stomach was doing somersaults, and the heat creeping up your neck wasnât from the warm summer air drifting through the doors. You leaned your hip against the edge of the table, tray balanced on one hand, the soft clink of glass against wood fading into the background as you glanced around the table. Everyone looked a little less dead now, drinks in hand, shoulders relaxing bit by bit. âDo I need to talk to Maverick for all of you?â You teased, eyes flicking from one exhausted pilot to the next.
Bradley groaned loud enough to turn heads. âPlease do. Tell him we're human. Or at least that some of us are.â Natasha scoffed, lifting her beer toward her mouth with a half-glare, half-laugh. âWe were human. Until Mr. Hotshot over there decided he could outfly Mav.â All eyes slid toward Jake. âOkay, whoa. Letâs not point fingers here.â He was already making a face. âYou tried to buzz Maverick,â Mickey interjected, half-leaning across the table with animated hands. âIn a tight turn. In a no-fly zone.â
âAnd missed.â Reuben added between mouthfuls of peanuts, a smug grin spreading across his face. Jake raised both hands, feigning innocence with the precision of someone whoâd practiced. âI wasnât trying to buzz him. I was maneuvering. Strategically.â Javy snorted covering it up with a cough as he received a glare from Jake. âAnd we all got punished for it,â Bob chimed in quietly, lifting his Coke as if to toast to their shared suffering. âOne hundred push-ups.â You winced at his words, that sounded brutal.
âIn flight suits.â Reuben groaned, rubbing his shoulder like the soreness was still setting in. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, the image forming vividly in your mind, Jake, cocky as ever, probably smirking even as Maverick made them drop. The others glaring daggers at him while dripping sweat onto the tarmac. Jake, of course, leaned into the attention with no shame. âYouâre welcome, push-ups build character.â He grinned, sliding into the empty chair beside you with smooth ease.
You barely had time to register the motion before his arm draped over the back of your chair, knuckles grazing your shoulder. âYouâre lucky they didnât bury you under the tarmac.â Natasha muttered, but her lips twitched. Jake leaned a little closer, the heat of his body now radiating into your side. His voice dropped a note, low and velvety. âYou know, I think I could use a little personal motivation to recover from today.â Your breath caught before you could control it.
His fingers brushed lightly against the bare skin of your upper arm as they âaccidentallyâ adjusted across the tables edge. You turned toward him, ready to make some smart remark, maybe put him back in his place before he got too cocky again, but your gaze collided with his, and just like that⊠you froze. His eyes werenât just green, they were alive with something deeper. Mischief, sure. But behind it, a flicker of something that made your stomach swoop. Like he wasnât just teasing you tonight. He was waiting.
âJakeââ
âY/N!â Your name snapped through the air like a whip, pulling you back to earth. You turned sharply toward the bar where Penny stood, waving a bar rag like a battle flag. âBus just pulled up, I need you.â You groaned under your breath but moved fast, peeling yourself away from the table. Jakeâs arm slid off your shoulders with a warmth that lingered longer than it should have, his fingers brushing your back as you stood. The moment broke, but not before you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
âTry not to cause anymore trouble while Iâm gone.â You grabbed the empty tray and backed away from the table, shaking your head. âNo promises, sweetheart!â He called after you, voice lazy, teasing. But his eyes, they lingered. Watching you like a man who knew the exact altitude youâd started falling. You spun on your heel and disappeared behind the bar, pulse still hammering, trying to remind yourself that you were here to work.
But even as Penny tossed you a bar towel and pointed toward the flood of sailors crowding toward the taps, all you could think about was the warmth of Jakeâs body next to yours, and how dangerously easy it would be to let yourself fall. Thankfully, the flood of newcomers provided the perfect excuse to busy your hands and bury your thoughts. You moved, mixing cocktails with quick flicks of the wrist, pouring beers until foam kissed the rim, sliding credit cards back with a polite nod and a practiced smile.
Every small task became a wall, something to hide behind. Something to keep your mind off of Jake. Or at least, thatâs what you told yourself. As the crowd dwindled and the bar quieted into a low murmur, the shield began to crack. The last round of locals had migrated toward the dartboard. The jukebox slowed to soft rock. A few scattered voices still rose in laughter near the back where the Dagger Squad remained, sunburnt, beer-drowsy and content.
You peeled off your apron with a sigh and glanced at Penny, who gave you a reassuring nod and a knowing smile, motioning for you to take a breath, take a break. Your feet moved before your heart could object. You stepped out from behind the bar, every movement purposeful, steady, because if you hesitated, you knew the ache lingering just beneath your ribs might crawl up into your throat and give you away. You smoothed a hand down your shirt and walked toward the group, fully prepared to ask if they wanted one more round before last call. But then you heard it.
Jakeâs voice.
Clear. Familiar. Cruel. Coated with disgust. âI just cannot stand her.â The words stopped you mid-step, your sneakers suddenly glued to the hardwood floor. The air left your lungs in one cold rush, and your feet carried you just far enough to place yourself behind the wooden beam beside the jukebox, half-hidden in the low light, half-ashamed for eavesdropping, but too frozen to move. âShe walks around following me like a puppy, flirting, even her voice is annoying.â
Your pulse thudded in your ears, louder than the low hum of music, louder than the clatter of a dropped glass in the far corner. His voice cut straight through you, each syllable like a shard of glass. âShe just doesnât get the hint. Iâm not interested in girls like her.â The blood drained from your face. You knew it. God, deep down, you always knew it. Jake Seresin was never going to want someone like you.
Youâd seen the women he flirted with, tall, perfectly made-up, curves in all the right places, confident, playful, bright in the way that lit up a whole room. You? You were just the bartender. The convenience. The friend. The joke. The girl with rough hands from long shifts. The girl who hid behind sarcasm because confidence never came easy. The girl who, despite everything, had let herself believe, hope, that the way Jake looked at you sometimes meant something real. A dull ache bloomed in your chest. You pressed your hand against it like that would stop it from spreading.
At least now you knew. At least now the daydream could die. Now you could stop pretending. You swallowed down the lump clawing its way up your throat, nails digging into your palm as you pivoted, quick, silent and fast, back toward the bar. You didnât even bother pretending to smile. Didnât care who saw your glassy eyes or the way your breath came out shaky as you ripped the apron from its hook and slung it over the counter.
Penny turned, concern flickering across her face clearly noticing the entire shift in your demeanor, but you simply waved her off with a weak motion and a whispered goodbye. Not trusting your voice to hold steady. Not trusting her not to ask. If she so much as asked if you were okay, youâd break. You were out the door before Jake could even glance up. Before he could offer that sweet, mocking drawl. Before he could try to walk you to your car like he always did, like it meant something. Your heart couldn't take it. Not now. Not after that.
Back at the bar, Jake still reclined in the chair, nursing the same beer he hadnât touched in ten minutes, finishing his train of thought with a huff. âI just hope Mav doesnât put her on our training rotation again,â He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâve told her time and time again Iâm not interested,â He continued with a groan. âShe just doesnât get the hint that sheâs not my type.â Mickey nearly choked on his drink.
âYeah, Hangman, we all know what girl is your type.â He grinned, elbowing Bob. Bradley leaned in, all smugness and raised brows. âThe pretty bartender you make eyes at every time sheâs near? The one you nearly punched me over for breathing near last week?â Jake froze. Bradley tilted his beer toward him, that smirk spreading. âThe one you pretend not to care about, then sulk like a teenager when she walks away with anyone else?â Javy whistled. âDude, just admit it. Youâre into her. Bad.â
Jake ran a hand over his face, jaw tightening. âShut up before she hears you.â But as he turned to glance toward the bar, expecting to find you rolling your eyes behind the counter, maybe catching his gaze just long enough to blush, his brows drew together. You werenât there. Your station was empty. No apron. No sarcastic smile. No parting wave. Just⊠gone. His chest tightened without reason. You never left without saying goodnight.
A flicker of unease passed through him, but the others were still laughing, throwing teasing comments like darts, unaware of the sudden shift in his expression. He forced a grin, let the moment pass. But something inside him knew. Something felt wrong. And you, already halfway down the boardwalk with tears blurring your vision, didnât get to hear the rest. Didnât get to hear the way his voice softened when he talked about you.
You were cautious, careful, even. Every move you made around him became intentional. Guarded. Since that night, since the moment his words gutted you like a blade between the ribs, youâd started pulling away. Not all at once. No. That wouldâve been too obvious. And despite the ache still lodged in your chest like a stone, you refused to let Jake, or anyone else, see you unravel. Instead, it was subtle. Gradual. A slow withdrawal masked as busyness, exhaustion, distraction.
When Jake came to the bar now, you didnât linger. You took his order without looking him in the eye, handed him his beer with a polite smile that didnât quite reach your eyes. No teasing remark. No small talk. Just efficient, impersonal service. The kind you gave to strangers. The kind you gave to men you didnât want to know. And you definitely didnât allow his touch to linger, not that heâd had much chance.
Gone were the moments where his fingers brushed yours over a glass, or the way his hand would rest at the small of your back when you passed too close. You kept distance now. Measured it. Maintained it like it was a lifeline. You didnât let him close. And Jake? He noticed. At first, it was subtle confusion. A longer-than-usual pause when you walked away. A look that lingered too long as you joked with Bob or nudged Natashaâs shoulder with a grin that used to be his.
Then it turned into something else, hesitation, maybe even hurt, though if it was, he didnât show it outright. Luckily, or maybe tragically, the squad had been kept busy by Maverick all week. Long hours on the tarmac. Briefings that dragged past sunset. Extra sims, surprise drills, and mock dogfights that left them sore, sweating, and barely able to keep their eyes open when they dragged themselves into the Hard Deck each night. It gave you an excuse.
To work the bar, serve the drinks, and disappear behind orders before Jake could try and ask what was wrong. It was easier this way. Safer. You told yourself it would fade, the sting, the weight in your chest, the memory of hearing her voice is annoying and Iâm not interested in girls like her whispered in that same drawl that used to melt you. But it didnât fade. It stayed. Like smoke in your lungs.
You heard it in the silence after your shift when the beach was quiet and the waves were the only sound. You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when someone mentioned his name in passing. You even dreamed about it, twisting memories into warped versions where his words echoed again and again, his face turned away from you, laughter in his throat while you stood invisible behind the jukebox. You hated how much it hurt.
You hated that it still mattered.
The fifth night after it happened, the bar was quieter than usual, just a slow Thursday, a break between storms. You were stacking clean glasses behind the bar when Jake walked in alone. No squad. No backup. Just him. He looked tired. Disheveled in a way that felt different than post-training exhaustion. Like he hadnât been sleeping much. His hair was messier than usual, shirt a little wrinkled, tags tucked into his collar like they were suddenly too heavy to wear out in the open.
You felt his eyes on you the second he stepped through the door. You didnât look up. You couldnât. He approached the bar slower than normal, his boots echoing too loudly in the now-quiet space. You busied yourself with organizing lemons. Limes. Anything not him. He stopped a few feet short of the bar. Didnât speak. Not right away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low, cautious, unsure. âYou alright?â You kept your gaze focused on the citrus you were already over-slicing. âFine.â
âYouâve been distant.â He murmured, like he was still trying to piece it together. âDid I do something?â You shrugged. Cool. Detached. âJust tired, Jake.â A lie. But he didnât push. He just studied you, jaw working slightly like he was chewing on whatever thoughts were flooding in. âRight,â He said eventually, voice quieter. âOf course.â You turned to put the knife down, finally meeting his eyes for a split second. And it nearly undid you.
Because Jake wasnât smirking. He wasnât cocky. He lookedâŠconfused. A little wounded. The way someone does when theyâve lost their grip on something they didnât even know they were holding. But you couldnât tell him the truth. You couldnât admit that the thing youâd overheard, the words that werenât meant for your ears, had unraveled you completely. Because what if you were the only one who misunderstood?
What if, worse⊠you hadn't? So you turned away. Left him standing there with his fingers curled slightly over the edge of the bar, like he wasnât sure whether to stay or walk away. Jake didnât push. He never did. But that didnât mean he didnât notice. And tonight, you knew heâd felt it, that little bit of space youâd suddenly started putting between the two of you. Because if he kept getting closer, you wouldnât just fall.
Youâd crash.
The days blurred. Long shifts, short sleep, aching feet, and a heart you couldnât seem to quiet. You kept your rhythm sharp, precise, like it was armor. You showed up, moved through the motions, mixed drinks, gave smiles, told stories to sailors who needed a little kindness. And avoided Jake Seresin like he was a fault line waiting to break beneath your feet. You werenât cold. Just distant. Detached in a way that made you feel like you were watching your life from the outside in.
It didnât go unnoticed. Late one night, the bar winding down into a lazy hum, Penny passed you a glass of water and leaned her elbows onto the bar. You felt her gaze before she spoke, quiet, steady, knowing. âYou alright, Y/N?â You didnât look at her. Just nodded, wiping down a spill that didnât need wiping. âIâm fine.â It was clipped. Dismissive. Enough to signal that the door was closed. You had mastered the lies and excuses, yet Penny wasnât stupid.
She knew you like the back of her hand. She watched you for a few seconds longer, watched the way your eyes didnât meet hers, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for the towel. She gave a tiny, imperceptible sigh, then pushed away without pressing no matter how much she wanted to know what was wrong with you. Safe to say, you were grateful for it. Because if she had asked again, your walls mightâve just cracked.
Jake wasnât doing any better. After your "talk", if you could even call it that, heâd been a wreck. Not the kind anyone outside the Dagger Squad would immediately notice. No, Jake Seresin still smiled at the rookies. Still strutted across the tarmac with his usual confidence, boots scuffing against the concrete, sunglasses low on his nose like he didnât have a care in the world. But those who knew him best could see the cracks forming.
The way he flinched when your name was mentioned. The way he scanned the bar every time he walked into the Hard Deck, hoping, praying, that this would be the night you looked at him like you used to, eyes soft, smirk tucked behind your lip, leaning on the bar like you were daring him to flirt first. But that look never came. And it was driving him insane. Even in the air, his escape, his safe place, he felt off. Slower. Sloppy in a way that set off alarm bells in every seasoned pilotâs gut.
His reaction times were lagging, the sharp, lethal precision that earned him the call sign Hangman dulled under the weight of something heavier than G-forces. Natasha had picked up on it immediately. âYouâre flying like youâve got a piano strapped to your back,â She muttered through comms one afternoon after a sim run went sideways. âThe hellâs going on with you?â Jakeâs jaw had locked so tight, he didnât even answer. Back on the ground, it was no better.
Bradley had cornered him near the locker room the next morning. âYouâre off, you look like you havenât slept in weeks.â He told him bluntly. Jake ran a hand through his hair, matted from the helmet. âIâm fine.â Even he didnât believe the words coming out of his mouth. âYouâre not.â Jake simply shrugged. âLet it go, Rooster.â But they didnât. Not really. They just watched. Waited. Wondered what the hell had happened that turned cocky, unshakable Jake Seresin into a man unraveling from the inside out.
What they didnât know, what he wouldnât dare say aloud, was that it was you. The problem was you, or more accurately, the way youâd slipped through his fingers before he even realized how tightly heâd been trying to hold on. He didnât understand it. How things had gone from warm glances and shared touches and that night where you had almost let something real slip between you⊠to now. To this cold distance. Where you wouldnât so much as look at him unless it was absolutely necessary. And the worst part?
He didnât know what heâd done.
The nights dragged on like this. Jake would come in with the squad, sit down like nothing was wrong, but the light in his eyes was gone. His jokes were duller. His smirk half-hearted. Even his beer sat untouched longer than usual, condensation dripping down the bottle as he watched you move around the bar like a ghost he couldnât reach. Sometimes, heâd almost say something. His hand would twitch, or heâd lean half out of his seat, like he was on the verge of getting up.
Of walking over. Of fixing it. But you never gave him the chance. You never looked long enough to invite it. A deep, sinking pull in his gut. Like something was breaking open inside him and he didnât know how to stop it. And so the distance remained, a thick, aching thing that hovered between you both, invisible to everyone else but suffocating just the same. Neither of you said a word. Neither of you walked away. But neither of you dared to move closer, either.
And it was killing you both.
Four days later, the Hard Deck was full, buzzing with heat and voices and that low, salty tension that clung to late summer nights on the coast. Dagger Squad was there, scattered across their usual pool table. Jake wasnât with them yet. And for once, you were thankful. You could breathe without feeling his eyes track your every move. Or so you thought. You were behind the bar when you saw her walk in. Tall. Glossy.
Designer jeans that clung perfectly to her long legs and a strappy black tank that dipped low in the back. Blonde hair curled, nails perfect, and a walk like she owned every pair of eyes in the room. You recognized her instantly, one of the women youâd seen Jake flirt with a few times before. Only this time⊠she wasnât looking at you. She was looking for him. And then, like a movie in slow motion, Jake walked in. He hadnât seen her yet.
He was laughing with Bradley, dragging a hand through his hair, unaware of the way her eyes locked on him like a target. She moved toward him with purpose, lips already curling into a smile, like she knew heâd be hers the second he looked up. Your chest constricted so sharply it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You turned away fast, heart hammering like youâd been punched. God. You were such an idiot. What were you expecting? That heâd pine over you?
That heâd choose you over someone like that? You braced your hands on the edge of the bar, the stainless steel biting into your palms. Donât cry. Donât cry here. Not in front of him. You grabbed two beers off the counter, trying to ground yourself in the moment. If she was what he wanted⊠fine. You werenât going to compete for someone whoâd already made their choice. But you could prove that he didnât affect you anymore. At least, not on the surface.
So when you saw Bradley standing alone near the dartboard, you moved toward him without thinking, hips swaying just a touch more than usual, the corner of your mouth lifting in a practiced smirk. âHey, Bradshaw,â You breathed as you passed him a beer, your fingers brushing his arm as you leaned close. âYou winning?â He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in your tone, then chuckled low in his throat, catching on quickly. âI am now.â You laughed, light and teasing, and let your hand linger just long enough to be seen.
It wasnât real. Not really. But it didnât have to be. Not when Jake was watching. Because he was watching. Across the room, Jake's head snapped around the second he heard your voice. Heâd been leaning against the bar, cornered by a girl with glossy lips and a laugh that grated on his nerves. She was touching his chest, twirling her straw between her fingers like a goddamn prop, but he hadnât registered a single word sheâd been saying.
Not since he walked in and saw you glowing in that golden Hard Deck light, laughing with everyone but him. But now? Now you were touching Rooster? His jaw clenched. There it was, that look. That flicker of heat buried deep in his eyes, something possessive and raw curling beneath his cool exterior. He was trying to keep it contained. Failing. Youâd been giving him nothing but distance all week. Cold shoulders. Professional smiles.
And now you were here, cozying up to Bradley fucking Bradshaw, touching his arm like it meant something. Jake barely acknowledged the girl in front of him. Didnât even glance her way when she laughed again, too loud, too fake. He stepped away like she wasnât even there, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he moved. Fast. Direct. Heat rolling off him like the pavement in July. You tried to stay cool. Calm. Unbothered. But the second you felt him behind you, everything inside you began to splinter.
His shadow fell over you before his voice did, low and rough, like he was holding back something sharp. âCan we please talk?â No drawl. No swagger. Just those four words, spoken low enough for only you to hear. You turned slowly, lifting your gaze to meet his. And what you saw there made your throat go dry. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together like he couldnât trust what might come out next. His breathing was shallow.
His chest rose and fell like heâd just finished a sprint. And his eyes, God, those eyes, were burning. Not with arrogance. Not even with anger. But with desperation. Desperation and hurt. Something cracked in your resolve. You'd spent days convincing yourself you didnât care. That you were over it. Over him. That whatever you thought was between you had been imagined, one-sided. Stupid. But the way he was looking at you now? There was nothing one-sided about it. You hesitated. Your mouth didnât move. But your heart answered for you.
You nodded.
And Jake exhaled like it was the first real breath heâd taken in days. Wordlessly, he led you outside to the back patio where the air was cooler, salt-stung and quieter than the inside. The string lights overhead glowed gold against the dark, and the music became just a dull vibration through the wood beneath your feet. Jake stopped near the railing, raking a hand through his hair like he didnât know whether to speak or scream. His chest rose, then fell, like the effort to stay composed was costing him something.
âWhat the hellâs going on with you?â His voice wasnât angry. It wasnât even demanding. It was tired, frayed around the edges. You folded your arms across your chest, forcing your spine straight, your eyes sharp. âNothing.â Jake scoffed. Harsh. Humorless. âBullshit.â He stepped forward. âYouâve been avoiding me for days. You won't even look at me anymore.â You turned your face away, blinking too fast. The ache in your throat burned. âMaybe Iâve just been busy.â He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. âDid I do something?â
You wanted to scream. To shove the words into his chest and make him feel what youâd been carrying since that night. But fear twisted around your tongue like barbed wire. So you said nothing. Jake took a step closer. Slower now. Careful. Like you were something on the edge of shattering. And you hated it, hated how much you wanted him to reach out. To touch you. To say something that made it all make sense. âIâI heard what you said,â You whispered, voice thin and raw. His brow furrowed.
âThat night. After training.â You swallowed hard. âYou were talking to the squad. You said you werenât interested. That I wasnât your type.â A bitter laugh escaped your throat, hollow and trembling. âGod, itâs my fault, really. I was stupid enough to believe that Jake Hangman Seresin, serial flirt, legendary pain in the ass, would ever want someone like me⊠when he could have Malibu Barbie throwing herself at him.â The words spilled out before you could catch them. Sharp. Bare. Bleeding.
Jake flinched. Confusion flashed first, wide-eyed, disoriented, then understanding slammed into him like a punch to the gut. âNo,â He breathed, face paling, panic crashing behind his eyes. âYou thought I was talking about you?â Your silence was answer enough. He stumbled back half a step, hands dragging down his face. Like he needed to wipe the guilt from his skin just to breathe. âJesus Christ, Y/N.â His voice cracked. Rough. Gutted. âI wasnât talking about you. God, no. I didnât even know you were there.â
âDoesnât matter.â You looked away, arms tightening around yourself like armor. âIt does matter,â He snapped, voice raw. âYou think I could ever, ever, talk about you like that?â His voice faltered, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair again, pacing once before turning back. âYou think Iâd look at you and say your voice is annoying? That Iâm not interested? Are you serious?â You finally met his gaze, and what he saw nearly dropped him to his knees.
You werenât angry. You were hurt. Really hurt. âI donât think you meant to,â You whispered. âBut you don't see me. You never do.â Jake looked like heâd been hit. The silence stretched, tangled between you, trembling and thick. Then he stepped closer. One step. Then another. His voice came softer now. Hoarse. Frightened. âI see you.â You shook your head. âI see you,â He repeated, louder this time, like if he said it enough it would finally reach you. âMore than anyone ever has. And it scares the hell out of me.â
Your lips parted. A sound escaped, half-breath, half-sob, and the first tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, but his hand lifted, gently brushing the drop from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. He hesitated, fingers twitching near yours, unsure if he was allowed. Then, with a breathless whisper, âDarlinâ⊠I donât want Malibu Barbie in there,â You blinked brows drawing in confusion. His hand hovered near yours, trembling.
âI want you. The girl who makes Bob blush. The one who doesnât back down when I flirt, who gives it right back. Who knows when Iâm lying through my teeth even when I donât.â He reached again, this time slower, curling his hand around yours like it was sacred. Like letting go would ruin him. To his surprise, you let him. You didnât flinch. Didnât pull away. His fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there, like theyâd always belonged there. And God help you⊠they did.
You were silent for a long time. Then, finally, so quiet it almost wasnât real, you spoke pushing past the lump in your throat. âI thought I wasnât enough.â Jakeâs heart cracked clean in two. âYouâre everything,â He whispered. âEverything, Y/N." Jakeâs thumb brushed over the back of your hand like he couldnât stop touching you now that youâd let him. His gaze was locked on yours, open in a way youâd never seen before, no walls, no smirk, no cocky bravado. Just Jake. Real. Unfiltered. Bleeding.
âIâve been gone for you since the day you rolled your eyes at me instead of blushing.â You blinked, caught off guard. He huffed a breath that mightâve been a laugh if it werenât so wrecked. âI flirted. God, I poured it on. You remember? That night I tried to buy you a drink and you told me to grow up and learn how to pour my own?â A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. âYou called me a heartbreaker.â You whispered recalling the moment as if it were yesterday. âBecause you were,â He whispered, voice cracking just slightly.
âYou are.â You swallowed, hard, but he didnât stop. âI kept telling myself I just liked the chase. That I could move on. That you were just another pretty face behind the bar, exceptââ He shook his head, jaw tightening. âYouâre not.â Your brows knit, but you didnât look away. âI told you about my dad.â Jakeâs voice dropped, softer now. âI didnât even realize Iâd done it until after. Iâve never talked about him. Not to anyone. Not like that.â The memory came back instantly. That night after last call, lights dimmed, your elbows resting on the bar between you.
Heâd looked so tired, so open. Youâd asked one small question, something about his hometown, and suddenly he was talking about Texas and silence and a man who never really told his son he was proud. Jake stared at you now, breathing hard like he was barely holding himself together. âYou didnât say anything when I told you. You just⊠listened.â He looked down, eyes catching on your joined hands. âYou let me be someone I donât let anyone see.â He swallowed. âI noticed everything about you, Y/N.â Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
âI know you hate wearing your hair down when youâre working because it sticks to your lip gloss and drives you crazy. I know you pretend to be annoyed when Bob leaves peanut shells on the bar, but you never actually throw them away until after he leaves, because you donât want to make him feel bad.â Your eyes stung. His voice was reverent now, like he was listing truths heâd memorized like scripture. âI know you tie your apron the same way every night, double knot on the left, even though youâre right-handed,"
"You hum when you count cash. You clench your jaw when youâre about to cry and you never cry in front of people, andââ He exhaled, blinking fast. âI know how it felt. That night you sat beside me after training, shoulder to shoulder, not talking much.â He was close now. Closer than before. âI replay that night more than I want to admit,â Jake murmured. âThe way your knee brushed mine and you didnât move it. The way you leaned into me without even realizing it. I wanted to grab your hand so bad, but I was scared itâd ruin it. Scared youâd pull away.â
You hadnât realized your breath had hitched until he reached up, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. âIâm not scared now.â You were blinking back tears. âI was falling for you then,â He breathed, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. âAnd Iâve just kept falling. Every damn day. Even when you stopped talking to me. Even when it felt like you were slipping through my fingers and I didnât know why.â His voice dropped to something trembling and soft. âYouâre it for me, Y/N."
"The real thing. No games. No stupid lines. Just you.â You opened your mouth and closed it. Shaking your head, just slightly. âBut Iâm not your type.â You whispered, voice thick with emotion. Jake smiled, and it wrecked you. âDarlinâ,â He coaxed, stepping even closer, pressing your joined hands gently against his chest. âYou are every type I didnât know I needed. Youâre the only girl Iâve ever wanted to stay for.â Your heart was a drumbeat in your throat. Jake leaned in, breath warm and uneven between you.
âI want late nights on this patio with you. I want to sit on your kitchen counter while you complain about your day and steal your snacks. I want you in my bed. In my arms. In my life. All of it. You.â The tears spilled freely now. âI donât want Malibu Barbie, or any of those girls who laugh at jokes I didnât even tell. I want the girl who saw straight through me before I even knew who I was.â Your fingers clutched his shirt now, knuckles white. Jake leaned his forehead gently against yours, voice barely a whisper now.
âI love you, Y/N.â
The words hung there, raw, open, real. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest lifted. Because he meant it. And heâd never looked more terrified⊠or more certain. Your breath caught. There it was, laid bare between you. His heart, stripped and beating in your hands. Jake Seresin, the man everyone thought was untouchable, cocky, invincible was standing here, terrified. Loving you with everything he had. For the first time in weeks, the fear that had been curling like smoke in your chest started to ease.
But it didnât vanish. Because you were still scared. Not of him. Of you. Of how badly you wanted this. How deeply you felt it. How vulnerable it made you to need someone this much. You lifted your head slowly, his forehead still resting lightly against yours, your breaths mingling in the salt-tinged air. âI love you too Jake.â You whispered, and it cracked something open inside both of you. His eyes squeezed shut as he let out a slow, unsteady breath, like heâd been drowning, and those words were the air heâd needed for weeks.
âBut Iâm scared,â You admitted, your voice trembling, fingers still clutching his shirt. âScared that this is just a moment. That youâll wake up one day and realize Iâm not what you want. That Iâll never be enough.â Jake opened his eyes, and the look on his face made your chest cave in. There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Just devotion. He cupped your face like you were something fragile but precious, like he was honored just to hold you. âY/NâŠâ He breathed, stepping even closer, until your body was flush against his.
âIâm gonna spend every damn second we have proving just how wrong that voice in your head is. Every second.â You blinked fast, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to reach him. âIâll show you,â He whispered, thumb sweeping along your cheek. âNot just once. Not just tonight. Every day. Iâll show you in the mornings, when youâre grumpy and still half-asleep and stealing the covers. Iâll show you when youâre mad at me, and Iâll deserve it, but Iâll still be there, because Iâm not going anywhere.â He kissed the corner of your mouth, just barely.
Like he didnât want to overwhelm you, only remind you he was there. âIâll show you when things get hard. When I have a bad day, and you have worse, and weâre tired and angry and still choosing each other anyway. Thatâs love, darlinâ. And Iâve got it bad for you.â Your breath hitched, and your hands came up to grip his forearms. âIâll prove it in every single look, every word, every time I hold your hand or brush your hair behind your ear or make you laugh after a long shift,â He murmured.
âIâll remind you that youâre it for me. Youâve always been it.â The tears returned, but this time they came softer. You looked at him through the blur, voice nearly lost. âWhat if I fall even harder?â Jake smiled, gently resting his forehead against yours again. âThen Iâll be there to catch you. Every damn time.â You didnât mean to lean in first. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, wild with devotion, soft with fear. Maybe it was the way he said youâre everything like it was the simplest truth in the world.
Maybe it was just that you couldnât take it anymore, the aching distance, the space youâd both been tiptoeing around for too long. But suddenly your lips were on his. It was slow, searching. Like you were both discovering what it meant to be held this close by someone who knew you, who had seen you, in the mess, in the fear, in the fire, and chose you anyway. Jake let out a broken breath against your mouth.
Like heâd been waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, and kissed you like it might kill him not to. It started slow, trembling. His hands cradled your face with aching reverence, thumbs trembling slightly against your cheekbones. But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted on a gasp, everything between you snapped, weeks of tension combusting all at once. He kissed you harder. Hungrier.
One hand slid into your hair, curling into your ponytail, while the other held your waist like he needed you closer. Like he couldnât bear another second of space between you. His mouth moved against yours with heat and purpose, lips molding, tongue brushing yours, breath hitching as your bodies pressed together like magnets pulled tight. You whimpered softly against his mouth when he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, the sound swallowed by him as if heâd been starving for it.
He tasted like mint and beer and Jake, home, somehow, even in the chaos of it. Your teeth grazed, breath catching. Then your tongues slid together again and it was messy and warm and real. His hand fisted gently in your hair. You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, dizzy from how easily your body molded to his, how his chest rose and fell in stuttering exhales, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. He kissed you like it was a promise.
And you kissed him like it was the first breath after drowning. Jake finally broke the kiss, gasping softly, but only just enough to press his forehead back to yours, breath mingling, both of you shaking. âBelieve me now?â Jake grinned, the edges of his mouth still curved from that kiss, the one you were still trying to catch your breath from. He leaned in, nudging your nose with his playfully. Your lips twitched into a smile, still dazed. âItâs hard not to after a kiss like that.â
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and rich, before dipping his head to press one last, lingering kiss to your lips, this one slower, softer, like a promise more than punctuation. âCome on,â He murmured against your mouth, hand already sliding into yours. âI want to show off my girl.â Your heart fluttered hard in your chest, giddy and unsteady. His girl. You could definitely get used to that. The two of you walked back toward the patio doors hand-in-hand, the cool ocean breeze still trailing behind you.
Jake was practically glowing, his grin wide, his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadnât been in weeks. You could feel his thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles as you walked, grounding you in the surrealness of the moment. As you stepped into the warm buzz of the Hard Deck, the shift in the room was instant. Bradley let out a long, low whistle, raising his beer. âWell, finally.â You flushed instantly, heat crawling up your neck as Natasha gave you a knowing grin from across the table.
Jake didnât even hesitate. Still beaming, he strolled right up to the squadâs table, pulled out an empty chair, and dropped into it without letting go of your hand. Before you could react, he tugged you gently down into his lap. You gasped, startled by the sudden PDA, hands bracing against his chest as he held you there, one arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, the other resting lazily on your thigh. His body was warm beneath you, solid and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didnât feel like you had to hide.
Now that he had you, really had you, Jake Seresin clearly had absolutely no intention of letting go. The squad erupted in cheers and teasing jeers, beers clinking, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. But then something caught your eye. You watched, wide-eyed, as Mickey, Reuben, and Javy each reached into their wallets and started sliding bills across the table, straight into the waiting hands of Natasha and Bradley. âHold on,â Jake barked, brows shooting up. âYou assholes had a bet going?â
âPlease. Weâve been placing bets since the second she didnât slap you the first night.â Natasha leaned back smugly, counting her winnings with all the grace of a champion poker player. âI thought I heard someone say âby Valentineâs Day or bust.ââ You muttered, staring at Bradley as he fanned out a crisp stack of twenties. Jake turned, brows raised in mock betrayal. âBob.â You looked toward the quietest member of the group, who was sheepishly sliding a twenty toward Natasha, cheeks flaming.
âNot you too!â You gasped dramatically. âI-It was obvious.â He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. âWe were all just waiting for the two of you to stop being blind and realize you were already in love.â Mickey stayed matter-of-factly. Jake groaned, shaking his head with a dramatic flair. âUnbelievable.â But then he turned, eyes softening as he looked at you. âWell youâre right about one thing Fanboy, damn straight I love her.â He declared, suddenly and loudly.
His words were loud enough to carry over the music, his drawl curling around the words like honey. The table lost it, laughter exploding around you, but all you could do was stare at him, your cheeks burning, your heart thundering in your chest as he tugged you tighter into him, pressing his lips to your temple, warm and unashamed. And just over Jakeâs shoulder, you caught a glimpse of the blonde from earlier, the one whoâd been leaning against him when your heart had first started to break.
Her mouth twisted, her eyes narrowed. She scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the bar without so much as a backward glance. Only, Jake didnât even see her leave. Because his focus was entirely on you. Not some bottle blonde who he didnât know the name of. As you leaned back into his chest, the smell of salt and citrus and something utterly Jake wrapped around you like a memory, you realized you werenât afraid anymore. Not of falling. Not of love. Not with him holding you like this, like heâd waited a lifetime to.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader
summary: itâs your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)
word count: 11.4k words
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes
Youâve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.
Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. Itâs a small rebellionâpointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own.Â
The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You donât touch it. Havenât in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The nameâs still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand.Â
You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.
You were thirteen the first time you felt it â not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldnât name.
"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.
Then, the name came in the middle of the night.
Youâd woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own.Â
You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there â James Buchanan Barnes.
You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real.Â
The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
Thisâthis definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someone⊠someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someone⊠someone who was alive.
It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably wouldâve blocked if they knew what they were doing. You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.
That was when your chest started to ache.
He wasnât a boy.
He wasnât even a man in the way people are alive.Â
He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like youâd been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.
And you loved him. You didnât mean to. But there it was.
That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."
You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. âCarsick?â she asked.
"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.
At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war displayâjust a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.
You didnât touch your mark.Â
Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.
That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.
That summer, you grieved a stranger.
The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time youâd missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.
At night, you lay awake imagining what it wouldâve been like to meet him before the fall. What youâd say. If heâd be kind. If heâd recognize you.
If heâd regret it.
By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save peopleâthough you didâbut because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. Youâd learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.
You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.
You didnât say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.
You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someoneâs chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.
And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it fadedâit never didâbut because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didnât tell anymore, because no one would believe it.
Because you hardly believed it yourself.
.
You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesnât stay hot for long, but you donât need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time youâre dressed and out the door, youâve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterdayâs coffee.
The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful.Â
The cityâs in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers havenât yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe.Â
You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwellânurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. Youâve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe youâve just run out of energy to perform it.
The hospital doesnât smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner thatâs supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years.Â
Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.
Thereâs a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your nameâhis nameâcomes up sometimes. You donât engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what theyâd do if it were them.
The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.
You donât know if you agree. You donât know if you disagree either.
Most days, you just ignore it.
Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesnât remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You donât think about her name, or her face, or what mightâve been the last thing she said.
You think about the steps. You think about the chart.
This is what makes you good at your job.
You care. You just donât let it show anymore.
Lunchtimeâif you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couchâis spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.
One of your colleaguesâZoya, you think, though youâve never quite decided if you like her or notâslides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone whoâs been on her feet for nine hours. Sheâs got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.
âI read the polls,â she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. âPeople are actually fired up this time around.â
You hum in response. Noncommittal. You donât take the bait.
âThey say Barnes is running for Congress,â she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. âThat surprises me. Who woulda thought?â
You donât blink. Donât flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like itâs offended you. âGuess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.â
Zoya snorts. âSeriously. You think heâs for real?â
You lift one shoulder. âI think Iâve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.â
She lets out a low whistle. âStill wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, like⊠that guy.â
You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. âYeah,â you say. âImagine.â
She doesnât press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.
Itâs easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesnât matter. Pretending you donât know his voice by heart. Donât remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Donât still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. Itâs a skill.
And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.
.
When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.
Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You donât call back.
Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.
You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.
Just enough to remember that itâs still there.
.
You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.
It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and youâd spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.
BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.
You didnât flinch when the words came up. At first, they didnât mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinctâa security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.
There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.
You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.
They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didnât. It was just ⊠incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldnât square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didnât stop you from watching.
You didnât leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.
You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the webâhim running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.
And then, all at once, the world tilted.
He was real.
Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skinâlouder than your heartbeat, sharper than breathâthat said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasnât the most destabilizing fact youâd ever known.
You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.
At some point, you realized you were shaking.
That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didnât tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if youâd seen the news. You said you hadnât.
You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.
In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasnât obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.
Then came the reveal: it wasnât him. Not exactly. Not only him.
Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.
You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didnât. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera againârestrained, confused, a man unraveling.
You hated that you understood it.
.
Then came the Blip.
The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man whoâd been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just ⊠gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.
Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bitsâsomeone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.
When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.
You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.
Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.
James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.
You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, âNo. No, no, noââ
You didnât go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasnât speculation anymore.
You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didnât cry. Not in the way that wouldâve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.
Grief like that doesnât come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetimeâs worth of maybes collecting in your throat.
You tried to tell yourself he wasnât yours.
That you didnât know him.
That the mark didnât mean anything.
That you didnât feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.
But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his nameâeven in passingâit felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if youâd bleed.
Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.
âHave you tried meditating?â someone asked once.
âHave you tried shutting the fuck up?â you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.
You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly onesâthe resuscitations that didnât work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.
You were so good at pretending you didnât care that even you started to believe it.
But sometimes, on the drive homeâwhen the city was too quiet and the sky too emptyâyou caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like youâd forgotten to pick him up.
You imagined what heâd be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.
Just⊠a person.
Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too?Â
The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didnât. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.
You donât know if that made it better or worse.
All you knew was this: it didnât matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.
And he was gone.
And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.
.
Time passed. You got used to the silence.
Then, five years later, he came back.
Just like that.
No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.
You didnât sleep for three days after that either.
.
He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhereâa year or two laterâhe announced his candidacy for Congress.
You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he wasâyour mark, your ghostâprinted five feet tall next to a mattress ad.Â
You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasnât a hallucination.
You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.
His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why Iâm Running.
You clicked play.
It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.
âIâm not here to pretend Iâve always done the right thing,â he said. âIâm not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. Iâve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.â
There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few daysâ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didnât mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldnât agree on.
But he didnât need to.
You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.
And you didnât vote for him.
You didnât vote against him either.
You just⊠waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patientâs vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldnât all combust before the finish line.
When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Just⊠a strange, anchored kind of knowing.
He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.
And somehow, that meant something to you, too.
.
You still donât talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend itâs because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isnât.
Youâve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.
But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.
The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.
And maybe heâs never thought of you at all.
It starts with a nosebleed.
Youâre just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. Youâre half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.
At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than youâd like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thighâcontrolled, but shakyâand the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? Thatâs not intoxication.
Thatâs pain.
You cross the street. Instinct before thought.
âHey,â you call, crouching near him. âYou okay?â
He looks up. Thereâs a beatâhalf-second, maybe lessâwhere neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And heâs not just handsome, heâs specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.
You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.
Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left handâcovered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.
Finally, he blinks. âIâmâyeah. Fine.â
âThatâs a lie,â you say, because youâre too tired to be polite. âYouâre about to pass out. Iâm guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.â
He breathes through his nose like itâs an old habit, like heâs used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. âI was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.â
âDrink anything?â
âTwo coffees and a Red Bull.â
You stare at him. âJesus Christ.â
His mouth twitches. Just barely. âI didnât say it was a good idea.â
You glance around. Itâs midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no oneâs stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.
âAlright, Mr. Barnes,â you say, because you donât want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. âCan you stand up?â
He lifts an eyebrow. âYou know who I am?â
You consider lying. âYeah.â
His expression doesnât change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like heâs running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.
âAnd you still came over,â he says.
âDonât take it personally. It's my civic duty; Iâd help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.â
A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: âLucky me.â
You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesnât quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You donât ask for reimbursement.
He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like heâs out of practice with kindness.
âThanks,â he says. Eventually.
You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. âYou should probably have a handler.â
âI do,â he says dryly. âShe left five minutes before I remembered I hadnât eaten.â
You glance at him sidelong. âSo what, sheâs in the wind?â
âTexted her,â he replies. âTold her I was fine.â
âYou always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?â
Something flickers at thatâtoo fast to name. âSometimes.â
A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.
You glance down at your hands, then back at him. âDo you get nosebleeds a lot?â
âNot usually.â
âGood. If it starts again, youâre going to the hospital.â
His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. âYou work there?â
âYeah.â
âDoctor?â
âNurse.â
He gives a little hum. âMakes sense.â
You frown. âWhy?â
âBecause you didnât flinch.â
The statement lands oddly. âNew Yorkers donât usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.â
âNot that,â he says. âMe.â
You meet his gaze. Donât look away. âWell. Maybe they should.â
He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense heâs parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.
âYou didnât tell me your name,â he says.
You open your mouth. Then close it.
And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, heâll know.
Youâre not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.
He notices the hesitation. His eyes dropâunintentionally, you thinkâtoward your ribs. Just a flicker.
You say, quietly, âDonât do that.â
He nods once. Doesnât ask again.
Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.
He doesnât say thank you again. He just eats it.
Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesnât.
Instead, he looks at you like heâs memorizing something. Then:
âYou know,â he says, âthere was a time I thought sheâd be dead.â
Your heart skips.
You try to sound normal. âWho?â
He doesnât smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.
âMy soulmate.â
You freeze.
âFigured sheâd died during the Blip,â he continues. âOr worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.â
You inhale slowly. âWhat would you have done if it was gone?â
âMoved on,â he says.
You nod. Try to play it off. âThat easy, huh?â
âNo.â His voice drops a register. âBut I wouldâve had to.â
Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.
âWell,â he says. âThanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.â
You stand too. âWasnât gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."
He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. âCall me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.â
Then, softer: âSee you around.â
You donât say anything. Just watch him go.
When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.
It isnât.
Itâs just there. Quiet. Permanent.
.
You donât see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.
Not in person.
You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weatherâwarily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You donât pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. Theyâre sent in to handle things that the rest of the government wonât touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.
Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.
For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.
It starts mid-shift.
Youâre in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickersâjust once, like the buildingâs held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.
You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, âIs it just us?â
Someone else says, âNo, itâs the whole block.â
And then your phone buzzes.
Not a call. A national alert.
EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.
You finish the procedure anyway. You donât panic. You donât run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. Thatâs the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You donât get to pause.
Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skylineâwide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.
They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.
And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.
The void collapses into itself like it was never there.
And just like that, you keep working.
Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, theyâre classified. What isnât: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.
You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.
The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoeverâs left, whoever didnât run, whoeverâs willing to keep showing up.
Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.
He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.
You watch the broadcast until it ends.
You donât say a word.
.
Two weeks later, you run into him again. And itâs so dumb, so ordinary, you donât even realize whatâs happening until youâve already said yes.
Youâre coming out of the pharmacy with three daysâ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and heâs just⊠there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasnât shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.
âHey,â he says, not quite surprised. âFunny seeing you here.â
You squint. âYou okay?â
âI was gonna ask you the same thing.â
You glance down at the bag in your hand. âPharmacy run.â
He nods. âIâm heading to get coffee. Want one?â
You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, âYeah. Sure.â
You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But thereâs something in the air between youâcharged, familiar. Like a room youâve walked into before in a dream.
âStill at the hospital?â he asks.
âYeah. We donât really get to retire. Or take vacations.â
âThatâs a shame.â
You shrug. âItâs a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.â
âI know the feeling.â
You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesnât eat it.
Thereâs a pause. Thenâ
âYou never told me your name,â he says again. Not quite a question.
You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.
You set your cup down.
âI didnât think you wanted it.â
He blinks. âWhy wouldnât I?â
You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didnât almost end. Like the two of you arenât teetering on some invisible edge.
âI donât know,â you say finally. âBecause you didnât press.â
He doesnât speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.
Then he smiles. Soft. A little tired.
âBecause I wanted you to give it when you were ready.â
The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.
You say your name.
It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.
He breathes it in like it means something.
âCan I see you again?â he asks.
Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.
The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You donât expect to see him again so soon. Not really.
But you do.
Twice that week, by accident.
First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. Heâs coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-donât-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done.Â
You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."
He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesnât call you on it.
The second time, youâre on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you donât want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap.Â
Itâs him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. âDidnât take you for a turkey club kind of girl,â he says, like this is the kind of thing youâve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.
Itâs not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmerâs market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesnât make it obvious. He doesnât insert himself. But heâs there.
And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.
Thereâs a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then donât. Youâre standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.
A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.
You squint into the window, and of course, itâs him. âStalking me?â
He straightens, just a little. âYou said your shift ended at seven.â
âI did,â you say slowly, walking toward him. âDidnât mean it was an invitation.â
His mouth twitches. âConsider it a standing offer.â
You glance at the car, then back at him. âYou gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?â
He opens the passenger door. âPerks of being an Avenger.â
You eye him. âIs this kidnapping?â
âIf it is, itâs the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.â
You get in.
It becomes a habit after that.
Thatâs the first ride.
It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesnât. Heâs unpredictable in the way thunderstorms areâsudden, insistent, quietly necessary. Heâs just⊠there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending itâs odd.
You donât talk about the soulmark. Not directly.
But you talk about other things.
The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him youâve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.
One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says itâs because you looked like you hadnât slept. You want to ask how he knew. You donât.
You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like heâs forgotten itâs not flesh.
He learns your tells. Which sigh means youâre burned out and which means youâre hungry. He doesnât always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.
And slowlyâterrifyinglyâyou start to want him to be there.
.
Bucky never texts.
Not once.
He calls.
Always.
Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-youâre-done. Sometimes you donât pick up, and he doesnât leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
One day, you ask him why.
Heâs driving, one hand on the wheel, the otherâmetalâresting on the gearshift like it belongs there.
âI donât like waiting for a response,â he says, after a beat. âFeels like talking to a wall.â
You nod. âMakes sense.â
He glances at you, then adds, âAlso, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks Iâm a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen."
You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.
Then, the first time you see the arm up close, heâs asleep on your couch.
Youâre supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodieâs bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.
You donât stare. Not really. But you donât look away either.
Itâs not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This oneâs different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented platesâWakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.
It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.
You wonder if he remembers itâs there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.
You donât ask.
Not yet.
He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes.Â
âDid I miss the plot twist?â
âYou missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.â
âDamn,â he mutters, stretching. His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machineâlike an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. âWe can rewind.â
You shrug, smirking into your mug. âI donât know. Iâm kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.
You donât rewind.
You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it againâthat pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldnât fade.
This is what soulmates are about, you think. What theyâre meant to be.
Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. Itâs quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.
You think maybe itâs this â the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you donât want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.
Itâs the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when youâre not trying to be. When your armorâs off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.
Thereâs something in your chest that loosens when heâs near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.
And maybe thatâs what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yesâbut one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.
And every day you donât walk away, youâre choosing him.
Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.
âYou ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?â you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. Youâve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists theyâre a cornerstone of civilization, and youâre learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.
He takes a sip. Shrugs. âUsed to.â
âAnd now?â
âNow I donât care.â A pause. âIt helps that you donât.â
You look over. Heâs not smiling, but heâs softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.
âI used to,â you admit. âWhen I was younger. I thought itâd fade. The mark.â
He nods, like heâs heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.
âIt didnât,â you add.
He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.
âGood,â he says, so quietly you almost miss it.
You stop walking. âWhy?â
He doesnât look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.
âBecause Iâm still here,â he says, like it should be obvious.
And it is.
Somehow, it is.
He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.
Youâre still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, âFine. Next time, we order.â
âThereâs gonna be a next time?â
He gives you a look. âUnless Iâm banned from your kitchen.â
You pick up half a sandwich. âYouâre on probation.â
He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.
You chew. Swallow. âTastes like regret and cheese.â
That gets a huff of laughter. He doesnât laugh easilyânot fullyâbut youâre learning the sounds he makes when heâs amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.
Youâre learning all of it.
And youâre starting to think heâs learning you too.
One night, heâs quiet.
Not in the usual way â not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, Iâve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing heâs hiding from you, but a thing heâs holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You donât know what it is yet, but you feel it.
Youâre curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movieâs still playing, long-forgotten. Itâs just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.
He inhales like it hurts. And thenâ
âCan I tell you something?â
His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And heâs not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.
You blink, slowly. âYeah,â you say, just as softly. âOf course.â
That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like itâs safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.
âI used to hate it,â he says. âThe mark.â
You donât move.
You donât breathe.
âI thoughtââ He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. âI thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.â
Your heart twists.
He still wonât meet your eyes. But heâs speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.
âI didnât know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didnât mean anything. Just letters. A future that didnât make sense.â
His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.
âAnd then it did mean something. And it got worse.â
He swallows. Hard.
âBecause I looked you up.â His voice dips, almost like heâs ashamed of it. âWhen I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didnâtâI didnât do anything about it. But I knew.â
Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.
âI kept thinkingâif I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.â
Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine heâs given a thousand times in battle â checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.
âAnd I thought I could carry that,â he says. âI thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe itâd fade. That maybe youâd forget, or never know. And I could justâlive around it.â
His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.
âBut it didnât fade. You didnât fade.â
You feel like youâve stopped breathing entirely.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.
âYou know whatâs worse than feeling like you donât deserve someone?â he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. âFeeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadnât already happened.â
He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.
Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.
âI used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.â Bucky finally looks at you again, and thereâs nothing distant about it. Itâs searing. Devastating. âBut then you showed up. That day at the library. And Iââ
His voice falters.
He swallows again, blinking hard. âIâve spent so long being looked at like Iâm a weapon. Like Iâm a ghost. But you looked at me likeââ He stops, breath caught in his throat. âLike I was real. Like youâd known me. Like I wasnât a mistake.â
You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.
âAnd I didnât know what to do with that. I still donât know what to do with that,â He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. âI donât know if Iâll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.â
He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesnât look away.
âI want to try,â he says, softly. âIf youâll let me.â
You reach for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like itâs something sacred, and your fingers meet his.
You donât say anything right away. Thereâs no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it â not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.
He doesnât let go of your hand.
His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like heâs learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe youâre something breakableâbut not fragile.
Youâre not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.
The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulseâyours tooâskipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.
Heâs still watching you like heâs waiting for you to vanish.
You speak first. Barely a whisper. âI think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.â
His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. Youâre not sure which.
âI used to feel you before I understood how,â you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. âNot in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. Iâd be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and thinkâIâm not alone. Not really.â
His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesnât speak. Not yet. Youâre not done.
âI hated you for it too, for a while,â you admit. âFor making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.â
You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesnât flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.
âI didnât want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.â
He breathes out your name. Just once.
You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. He leans into it like heâs forgotten what it means to be held. âI see you,â you whisper. âI see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Just⊠you.â
And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently, deliberately, until whatâs been bound up for too long begins to loosen.
âI love you,â he says, and itâs not polished. Not pretty. Itâs real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. âI love you, and itâs terrifying.â
You nod. Because you know.
He exhales. Then moves.
He kisses you like he means it. Like itâs the first and last time heâll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like heâs trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.
He doesnât rush.
His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like heâs relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closerânot to possess, but to be sure youâre still there.
When he parts from you, itâs just for breath.
You lean your forehead against his. âWeâve already survived so much,â you whisper. âWhatâs one more impossible thing?â
His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.
You tilt your face, kiss him againâdeeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe thisâyouâwas what the mark was always meant to lead to.
Not fate. Choice.
His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like heâs memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.
âCome here,â he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.
Youâre already there.
Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesnât rush the way his hands roamâcareful, reverent, like heâs turning pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way he's real.Â
When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, Iâ"
He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'mâ" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.
"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."
The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs. "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, youâfuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"
"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel goodâjust be with me."
He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"
Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'mâI didn't bring anything with me. I don't wannaâ"
You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."
He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"
"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."
When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.
He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.
Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"
You nod, moaning out his name in reply.
One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.
When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babblesâbaby, sweet thing, the love of my life.
Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you'reâthe mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of yourâ
"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.
It doesn't end there.
You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.
Thenâall at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."
"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."
You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."
When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it'sâgod, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say itâ"
He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin.Â
There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."
You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, beggingâ
Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.
"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."
All at once, it all comes back to you.
The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesnât speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesnât tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly asideâenough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like itâs instinct now.
The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesnât flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like youâre something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.
You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.
You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, heâs already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.
âPass me the soap,â you murmur.
He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and deliberately plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palmâcedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.
He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.
âUh-uh,â you chide gently. âGet back here.â
His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when itâs you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forwardâcloser than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.
You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.
Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly stillâexcept for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.
He watches you like heâs never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.
You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh hand⊠it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.
Thatâs when you look up. Thatâs when you see it.
He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from thisâthis ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like youâre not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.
Just love.
And he knows. You can see itâsee the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What youâve been. What you are.
You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You donât.
He takes your wrist gently in his flesh oneâfingers cradling the inside like itâs something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin, slow and deliberate.
He traces a letter. Then another.
Itâs not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.
Your throat tightens.
âYou,â he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.
He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. âAnd me.â
You stare down at the mark heâs making, not because itâs visible, but because itâs real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.
âYou and me,â he murmurs again. âAlways was gonna be.â
Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.
Thereâs nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.
Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.
Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.
But right now, itâs this.
Itâs weightlessness.
Itâs your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly across your skin.
going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
"Bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on" might be the greatest line in the history of literature
I just got home from a night club Iâm drunk and feeling preciouĂ andi canât decide on reading âName Callingâ again or âMischief Meet Your Matchâ again.
Not everything is catered to you. The marvel brand is so huge and expansive and there are so many different genres and styles and creators and directions involved that not everything can be catered to your specific wants.
Agatha All Along was most likely not made or marketed for you. The Marvels was most likely nor made or marketed for you. Black Widow was most likely not made or marketed for you.
You don't have to watch every mcu movie and show and short. I haven't, because some of them just aren't for me. They aren't made for me and what I like. The days where you had to watch every single MCU property are over, you can pick and choose ones made for your demographic if you're really that allergic to trying new things and expanding your media diet.
You didnât need to rewatch Black Widow before thunderbolts if you didnât want to. You didnât need to rewatch tfatws before thunderbolts if you didnât want to. You didnât need to rewatch Ant Man and the Wasp before thunderbolts if you didnât want to. But some people did because they enjoyed those films.
Your opinion isnât gospel. You arenât entitled to telling people what is or isnât objectively good. Art is subjective
To all the fans in the Pedro fandom who feel like they don't belong
I see you. We see you. You have a place here among all of us, and we want you to be here - we really do.
No, this isn't a Kumbaya post, I'm fuckin' for real.
To all the writers...
... who receive racist messages, death threats, are being told their reader insert isn't good enough, that this and this character wouldn't be with someone who looks and sounds like you, that you're not using the right words or that you misspelled something --
I am so fucking sorry people had the fuckin' gall to direct that hate at you, because you don't deserve it. You share your stories and characters with us, and they are adored and read and celebrated exactly for who they are - not despite of who they are.
To everybody who lurks, reads, but doesn't feel like they can participate...
... who see how their skin tone, language, identity, gender, body type, sexual orientation, culture, type of relationships, and so much more is underrepresented or actively treated with hostility --
I'm so fucking sorry, and I - as many of us - understand completely why you feel that way, because it's absolutely valid. But I promise it's not how the majority of people feel about you. I know that doesn't make up for shit, but I do want you to know that most of us care a lot.
Nobody should stay in an environment where they feel like they're not wanted, or where remarks are made carelessly without regard for how hurtful stereotypes are. But if this has ever happened to you, be it out of ignorance (or at times malice), please know - your presence matters.
To everybody who has ever felt insecure about their kinks or liking smut...
...please don't. Seriously. Your kinks are what they are and they are completely fine. Liking smut is fine. Liking Pedro characters in smutty fic is fine too. Kink exploration in fic should be a safe space and respected.
Don't shame others here, especially not as an anon. Yes, certain topics that writers address in fic may be challenging for you for a number of reasons, but guess what? You don't have to read it! You don't have to dissect *why* someone wrote that! Don't like smutty fic? Cool, so don't wade into fics marked as explicit. Don't like certain kinks? That's cool, just read the warnings and skip fic when it doesn't appeal to you. Sure you're entitled to your own opinions, but you do not need to air them out in public or trash an author because you didn't like how they wrote something.
To everybody in this fandom...
... especially those of us who are white, able-bodied, straight, cisgender, had formal education, are a native English speaker, and/or many of the other privileges that a lot of us carry in our backpack every day:
We need to do better. Please. For so many reasons.
We need to be aware of our blind spots, biases, the fact that at times everybody fucks up - because we live in a racist, homophobic capitalist patriarchy -, and that occasionally means admitting we were wrong. That we unintentionally said something that was hurtful and that we're sorry for hurting people with our words. That ignorance can slip so easily into words that we type, and that the only way. But own up to it and please don't pull the 'I'm sorry you feel hurt' card - no. Take actual responsibility. Particularly when underrepresented voices explained to you why something is wrong.
And please, call out your friends on things like this - especially if you're white/straight/cis. It's your responsibility to speak up because you're closer to them. White people should be the first to call out racism; it's not up to the people that already are on the receiving end of prejudice (or worse, hatred) to fight that battle.
Exclusion doesn't only happen if you're actively spreading hate - it also happens by not taking accountability for when you fuck up, or when you are erasing and ignoring identities. If the word 'representation' doesn't mean much to you, that's probably because you constantly see yourself reflected in the stories and people in society (that, in itself, is privilege too) - and hey, good for you! But there are many of us who that doesn't apply to in the same measure.
I've had many conversations lately about this with fellow queers as well as brown/black/Latinx folks, so I really wanted to post this. Not as virtue signaling or whatever the hell, but because I know a lot of people are seeing and reading things that are understandably make them reluctant to engage.
So hey, let's do better and look after folks in our community whether we directly engage with them or not. The amount of comments that are always gushing about 'I love how Pedro cares about others/is an ally!' is very disproportionate to seeing similar support expressed for creators and fellow fans. Let's also not forget he's a Chilean man, the son of socialist refugees, who has always actively been on the barricades for LGBTQIA+, rallies against white supremacy and the toxicity of patriarchy -- so if you appreciate his dedication to 'causes', lets apply that to the very real people in this fandom too. And fyi, this isn't just about a single instance or a single person - it's so much bigger than that, and we all know it.
(oh, and if you feel like I'm being a moralist about this - feel free to unfollow or block my ass. You do you! I don't care. I care about the people here who don't want the community harmed by anons who get their kicks from being a bully.)
Listen, sometimes a ship is less about wanting them to kiss or have sex or whatever, and more about needing them to be so endlessly intertwined and connected to the point where they might as well be one creature.
Royalâs Writing @halfwaythereroyalwrites - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
