꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki always wondered what the hell his father saw in his old hag of a mother. it takes twenty years, a nasty fight with you, a near-death experience, and a trip to the hospital before he finally gets it
── ✶ word count: 5.8k words ; my drabbles always do this bro
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou ; established relationship ; arguing ; (temporary) relationship troubles ; injuries + villain attacks + hospitals (bakugou) ; tame angst with a happy ending! ; communication + resolving arguments ; bakugou’s father makes an appearance ; fluff and banter at the end ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ at the end of the day i will never not be a sucker for the trope where u argue just before a major life threatening incident occurs
It’s 9:32 PM when Katsuki begrudgingly leaves his patrol area and finally calls it quits for the night.
Patrol was supposed to end an hour and thirty-two minutes ago, but he’s been dragging his feet ever since. Taking the long route. Responding to calls that technically aren’t under his jurisdiction. Circling blocks he’s already cleared twice. Anything to kill time. It’s only when Kirishima actively tells him to get the fuck out and stop interfering with his villain count for the night that Katsuki finally accepts defeat and ends his workday.
Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.
If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume.
And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.
He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.
“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.
Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.
“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”
“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.
“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”
The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.
“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”
His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.
Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”
Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.
“Yeah, that’s real mature.”
“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”
“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”
“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”
“Well, I wasn’t!”
“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”
Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red.
“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”
Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”
The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet.
“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”
You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before.
“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”
“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”
“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”
“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”
“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”
Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special.
But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.
“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”
“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”
“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”
It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you.
“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”
“Katsuki—”
“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.
“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure.”
“I was angry—”
“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”
Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.
“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”
“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”
“That’s not—”
“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”
He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”
His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”
“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”
Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
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Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly.
“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”
Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”
“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”
“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”
“Well, she’s mean.”
“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused.
No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.
“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.
“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”
Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.
“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”
The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”
Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s funny?”
“Very.”
“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.
Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”
“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”
“Exactly.”
“And she says it loud.”
“That’s true.”
“She says it really loud, Dad.”
Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”
“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little.
“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”
“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”
Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head.
His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.
His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.
“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.
Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”
“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!
“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”
Katsuki deflates on the spot.
More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.
His mother, however, has no such excuse.
“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”
“Then why does she like you?”
Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”
His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”
“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.
“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”
That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.
“I think you will, son.”
“I definitely won’t.”
Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.
He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.
“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”
“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”
────────────────────────
Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.
You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.
He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.
You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you.
Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.
He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.
The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.
He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.
The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.
But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.
By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.
Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.
His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.
By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.
The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it.
“Shit—”
The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it.
Then everything goes dark.
────────────────────────
It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.
Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.
The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you.
“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”
The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.
“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”
At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.
Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it
Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there
Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry
Kiri <3: Keep me updated?
You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u
You: Thank you and pls be safe
You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out
Kiri <3: Take it easy okay?
Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright
——
Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.
Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.
“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”
The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”
You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.
When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”
You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.
“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”
You’re already moving.
By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?
You aren’t sure.
You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.
But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.
You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.
“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.
He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.
“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”
He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”
You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes.
You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.
“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”
“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”
“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”
“Listen—”
“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.
His eyes soften. “I know, but—”
“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”
You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.
“I love you too—”
“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”
His expression tightens. “That’s not—”
“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”
“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”
You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”
A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”
“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”
“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”
He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.
After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”
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Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.
It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”
His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.
“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”
“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.
“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”
Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”
There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.
“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.
“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”
He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”
“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”
“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”
“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.
His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”
The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”
Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Will my son be paying?”
Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”
“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”
Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”
so anyway i had an argument with my bf the other day but he did not get into an accident and he did not get injured so dont worry. the argument was technically my fault, but im cute and he loves me so its okay <3
Summary: Steve assigns a mission to you and the Bucky, knowing full well you don’t get along. You don’t know why, but one day Bucky decided he couldn't stand you anymore, and it’s been a battle since. What you didn’t expect was for Stark’s tech to give out on a mission to one of the coldest regions on the planet. Or for the stereo system to be the last straw.
Words: 11.9k (I did this instead of work on my novel)
Warnings/Tags: No use of Y/N. Not canon compliant in the slightest. 40s inspired outfits and music (I did lots of research for this one but I’m sorry if it’s historically inaccurate). Mean!Bucky, but also soft!Bucky. Enemies-to-lovers but really, they’re idiots. Lots of pining. Forced proximity. Lack of communication because do we really think he knows how? Reader has abandonment issues. Reader is described to use a curled hairstyle briefly. Reader has an engineering background, but I don’t so it’s not perfect. The pictures above are not meant to describe reader. Age gap (he’s 106…). Symptoms of hypothermia. Hurt/comfort. Major groveling. Angst, always HEA. if I missed anything lmk.
Proofread by me... and only me lol. masterlist in pinned
PRIOR
It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else.
Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating.
Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there?
Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together.
The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave.
Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out.
And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand.
₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·
PRESENT
Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering.
“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once.
“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?
“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion.
But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.
You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall.
“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.”
You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him.
You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark.
Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for.
You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.
Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal.
Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.
You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission.
But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders.
You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?”
But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable.
That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.”
The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently.
The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question.
“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.
“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you.
He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.”
It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet.
Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet.
Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.
“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine.
“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.”
“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge.
Fine then.
You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees.
“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place.
“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation.
His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”
Okay, ouch, but fair.
“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person.
You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany.
“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”
“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”
“Well you might as well have–”
“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.
Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth.
“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!”
“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength.
“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires.
“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew.
Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this.
Small victories.
You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.”
Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring.
Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit.
After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear.
Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve?
You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck.
You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear.
You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door.
“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond.
“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.”
It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in.
“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”
With her.
With her?
You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain.
Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite.
Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you.
You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.”
His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?”
You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.
He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.”
Right.
Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.
Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.
“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent.
The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy.
When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better.
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening.
“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out.
“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–”
“That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”
You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry.
He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you.
You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff.
So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much.
“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing.
He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing.
Your eyes widened, was he…?
“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?” He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.
“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering?
As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature.
You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.
A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder.
What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good.
He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.”
He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.
“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing.
“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”
You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either.
He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled.
And there it was.
You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.
Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged.
The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name.
By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing.
You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away.
“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument.
You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie.
When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.
“Bucky–”
“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move.
“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”
“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant.
He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—
“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE.
You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–”
He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly.
“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”
“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.”
You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”
“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin.
You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth.
Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth.
An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.
But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.
The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern.
Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just.
You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…
“Okay, come here.”
His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead.
“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours.
“Are you not…?”
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you.
He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere.
His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain.
You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back.
What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture.
You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question…
“…Why?”
You were asleep before you could hear his response.
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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light.
The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome.
So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms.
You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–
You stood, took several steps back.
That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy.
You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver.
One more time.
You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…
Little more to the left.
Angle, and–
Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system.
Rock… country… rap… pop…
“What are you doing?”
His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.
You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was.
You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.”
Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said.
You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least.
You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood.
“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment.
You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”
He growled your name, but it was too late.
The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers.
You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.
You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–
Until the music stopped completely.
You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you.
Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.
But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong?
You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door.
But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it.
You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go.
You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for.
It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.
“Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you.
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?”
“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.”
You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will.
“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.
“Because you go and do shit like this!”
“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”
“You remind me of the 40s!”
His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place?
You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra.
“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”
“What are you–”
“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–”
You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything.
The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.
Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved.
“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”
“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger.
“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!”
“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–”
“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!”
“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.
It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns.
But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks.
“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst.
“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them.
“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha.
She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.
You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight.
When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day.
The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen. What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?”
You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention?
She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…”
You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.
Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.”
“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more.
“Maybe you need a distraction?”
“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”
“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother.
But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”
“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’
She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory.
You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble.
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“You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress.
He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record.
Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get?
There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.”
Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest.
Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all.
And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked.
Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.”
He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it.
When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.”
“Did you try to make it right?” He asked.
“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.”
“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”
Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.”
Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”
“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement.
And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.”
Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”
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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you.
You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor.
You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers.
Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner.
It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.
You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.
You cleared your throat, “Yes?”
There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”
Oh. Straight to the point.
You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.
But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them.
You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard.
And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”
“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”
“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction.
You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?”
The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet.
You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–”
“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.”
What?
You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words.
But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”
“I walk in a room, and you leave–”
“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant.
But he couldn’t possibly–
“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.”
Oh.
But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”
“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.”
Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels.
“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.”
You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words.
He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…”
Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…”
He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”
That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was…
You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!”
He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–”
But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you, and you knew better than to get your hopes up.
He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head.
You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–”
You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt.
And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.
Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this.
The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into.
And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.”
note: this is my first time posting in a long time, and also my longest fic so far! I haven't gotten to write creatively for a long time (fuck you college) so this was honestly a challenge. I hope everyone enjoyed it. And if not, it will improve as I get back into the swing of things lol
Bakugou remembered it in flashes: the sterile smell of antiseptic, the ache in his ribs, your voice cracking like dry earth under summer heat. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness, but the image stuck—your fingers tangled in his, your forehead pressed against the back of his hand as you whispered, "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please just wake up."
It was all wrong. You were supposed to be the unshakable one, the one who rolled your eyes when he yelled, who countered his explosions with a gust of wind so precise it snuffed them out like candles.
Not this. Not trembling.
When he woke fully, the bed beside him was empty, sheets cold. A nurse clicked her tongue, adjusting his IV. "Ceremony’s starting soon," she said, crisp as starched linen. "You fit to go, or do I need to strap you down?"
Bakugou growled, ripping the needle from his arm. "The hell happened to—" He bit the question back. He wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.
He remembered. Second place. You hadn’t even used fire on him—just wind, just earth, like he was some extra in your goddamn highlight reel.
But Half-and-Half? You’d scorched the bastard’s eyebrows off. The memory boiled under his skin. Was he weak? Was that why you held back? The thought tasted like gasoline, and he wanted to spit it out.
Next thing he was on the podium in restraints. The bandages did nothing to muffle his snarl. "You held back," he spat, his voice raw as stripped wire. "I saw your fucking fire against Half-n-Half. Why’d you cripple yourself against me?"
His pupils burned—not with pain, but fury that you’d refused to unleash fire against him, opting instead to pummel him with wind, water and stone until his ribs cracked audibly over the arena speakers.
All Might’s fingers faltered midair when Bakugou snapped his teeth at the silver medal like a rabid dog.
Bakugou’s wrists strained against the medical restraints, his pulse visibly hammering beneath the thin skin where your earthen spikes had grazed too deep. "Young Bakugou," All Might murmured, his voice stripped of its usual boom—just hollowed-out baritone, the kind reserved for grieving widows at funerals.
Bakugou recoiled like the words were physical blows, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of pity clinging to All Might’s suit. The silver medal hovered between them, its chain catching the stadium lights in a way that made it look like molten mercury.
Bakugou snarled, his lips peeling back from bloodied teeth—but All Might didn’t flinch.
Instead, he pressed the medal’s cold metal edge against Bakugou’s lower lip, silencing him with the weight of it. Bakugou’s breath hitched audibly; the silver tasted like gunpowder and defeat.
"Sometimes," All Might said, his thumb brushing the medal’s embossed surface—once, twice—before letting it settle heavy against Bakugou’s collarbones, "the greatest victory is surviving what could’ve killed you."
The words landed like a detonation in the silence, sending shockwaves through Bakugou’s rigid posture. His fingers twitched against the medical restraints, tendons standing out like live wires beneath his skin.
He felt like he was going insane. Him. Second place. You. Not even looking at him. Were you pitying him too? He didn’t need it. The thought coiled around his ribs like barbed wire, tightening with every shallow breath.
He would make you use fire. You’ll see. He locked onto you at the top step, holding your gold medal with fingers that weren’t shaking—weren’t fucking trembling like his had when he’d reached for yours in the infirmary.
Your eyes flicked to him then away, like he was just another obstacle you’ conquered. Like he was nothing.
That night, you dreamt of fire licking up Bakugou’s forearms, his skin blistering black under your palms. His scream wasn’t human—it was the same wet, guttural sound your father made when that villain split them open like rotten fruit.
The flames curled higher, twisting into the ceiling beams of your childhood home, and suddenly you were six again, kneeling in blood-soaked carpet.
Your mother’s head lolled toward you, her neck bent at a grotesque angle, lips parting around words that weren’t hers: "You could’ve stopped him. Why didn’t you use fire?"
The accusation slithered from her slack mouth, mingling with the smoke choking your lungs. The house groaned around you, beams collapsing as your father’s corpse twitched, pointing a rigor-mortis-stiff finger at your chest.
"You let us burn," he rasped, and you screamed—
You woke with your fireproof bedroom curtains in cinders, the air thick with the stench of charred linoleum. The orphanage staff had learned long ago to bolt your door from the outside at night—your palms pressed flat against the blackened walls, fingers trembling as you traced the fresh scorch marks spider webbing outward from where you’d slept. The burns were worse than usual, deeper, angrier.
You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. Somewhere in his house, Bakugou was alive. You’d felt his pulse thundering against your fingertips in the infirmary. So why did your fire still taste like ash?
You’d never dreamt of anyone else—not the kindly foster mother who’d brushed your hair, not the therapist who’d taught you grounding techniques—just your parents and that monster’s laughter echoing through the flames.
Until now. Until Bakugou’s sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, his ragged breaths syncing with yours as you pressed your forehead to his knuckles.
The realization hit like a backdraft: you’d dreamed of him alive and burning because part of you wanted him to. Because if he burned, he’d stay still long enough for you to—
Your phone buzzed. Mina’s contact photo—pink skin smeared with neon face paint—lit up the screen: "GIRL! ARE YOU COMING TO SCHOOL?"
You checked the time. 10 minutes before class started. You’d never been late before. Never.
The orphanage director used to dock your allowance if you missed curfew by five seconds—rigid schedules were your lifeline, the only thing keeping your fire from licking up the edges of your existence.
But today? Your uniform smelled like smoke, your palms still stinging from scrubbing Bakugou’s blood out from under your nails. You stared at your reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror; the girl staring back had hollowed-out eyes and singed bangs.
The bus screeched past your stop just as you sprinted onto the sidewalk. You could’ve summoned a gust to catch it—could’ve melted the tires into rubber puddles if you wanted—but your fingers twitched uselessly at your sides.
No quirks. Not today. Not when Bakugou’s voice kept looping in your skull: "Why’d you cripple yourself against me?"
By the time you shoved through UA’s gates, your shoelaces were frayed from tripping over them, your tie knotted crooked where you’d yanked it on mid-run.
Uraraka’s gasp sliced through the morning chatter as you skidded into the classroom—late—your chest heaving. Deku’s notebook slipped from his fingers. Iida’s arms froze mid-chopping motion.
Bakugou’s desk was empty.
The realization punched through your ribs like a dull spike. His absence was louder than any explosion—the vacant space where his scowl should’ve been, the untouched pencil lying parallel to the desk’s edge like he’d measured its placement.
You swallowed hard. Yesterday, you’d pinned him with earthen shackles. Yesterday, you’d watched his pupils dilate when your knee pressed into his fractured rib. Yesterday, you’d whispered apologies into his unconscious skin like they could undo what you’d done—what you hadn’t done.
Aizawa’s capture scarf twitched as he eyed your singed uniform sleeves. "Sit down," he said, monotone. "We’re discussing hero names."
You moved toward your seat, the silence thick enough to choke on. Then—
"Oi."
The voice came from the doorway, rough as gravel under boots. Bakugou leaned against the frame, his uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, bandages peeking from beneath his collar.
His nose was taped, his split lip glistening with ointment. He looked like hell. He looked alive.
Your pulse stuttered.
He didn’t glance at you. Just shouldered past, his gait uneven but deliberate, like every step cost him something. The classroom held its breath as he dropped into his seat—right on time.
You exhaled.
Bakugou cracked his knuckles. The sound was obscenely loud. "Well?" he snapped at Aizawa. "Aren’t we fucking starting?"
The tension shattered.
You slid into your chair, your knees bumping the underside of the desk. Bakugou’s presence burned against your back—not with fire, but something hotter, something you couldn’t name.
Something that made your fingertips itch for wind, for earth, for anything to put distance between you and the way his bandages smelled like antiseptic and burnt sugar.
Midnight clapped her hands, her grin sharp as a scalpel. “Hero names, kittens! Make ‘em cool or don’t bother.” The class erupted into chatter, pens scratching paper.
You stared at your own blank sheet. Names flitted through your mind—Aerion, Pyre, Terra—but each felt wrong, like trying to fit a corpse into a prom dress.
You wiped the whiteboard clean again, the marker squeaking. The sound grated against your skull. Midnight’s heels clicked toward you, her perfume cloying.
“Darling,” she murmured, her voice dripping with pity you didn’t want, “you’re white-knuckling that marker.” You hadn’t noticed. Her gloved fingers pried it from your grip.
The classroom blurred at the edges, the scent of her cherry-blossom perfume twisting into antiseptic. Suddenly you were back on that podium, Bakugou’s blood crusted under your nails while Midnight’s painted smile stretched too wide.
She’d leaned in then, her breath warm against your ear—Smile, sweetheart, the cameras love a winner—as your lungs seized.
You’d done it. You’d grinned like your ribs weren’t cracked, waved like your fingers weren’t still trembling from channeling enough earth to fracture the stadium floor.
The second the feed cut, you’d bolted for the infirmary, your shoes slipping in Bakugou’s dried blood.
Midnight’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward hers. Her pupils dilated, concern flickering behind her usual sultry mask.
“You’re not okay,” she murmured—not a question, but an indictment. The classroom noise faded into static. You jerked your head away, your pulse thundering in your ears.
“I’m fine, Midnight, just still shaken up since yesterday,” you muttered, focusing on the whiteboard where Kirishima had scrawled RED RIOT in jagged letters.
The lie tasted like copper, like the blood you’d bitten through your cheek when Bakugou’s ribs cracked under your knee. Midnight exhaled through her nose, her perfume cloying as embalming fluid.
Midnight sighed and looked at Bakugou behind you, her lips close to your ear as she whispered, "Have you spoken to him? He looks like he wants to."
Considering Bakugou, he probably wanted to kill you—his glare drilled between your shoulder blades like a mortar strike, his fingers drumming against his desk in a rhythm too sharp to be casual.
You resisted the urge to turn, knowing exactly what you’d find: his jaw clenched tight enough to snap molars, his bandaged knuckles flexing like he was imagining them wrapped around your throat.
"I talk to him later," you said, and Midnight nodded before going to other students to check on them, her hips swaying like she hadn’t just carved your ribs open with a single glance.
The moment she turned away, Bakugou’s pencil snapped between his fingers. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sudden quiet of the classroom.
You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not when every muscle in your body was wound tight as a tripwire, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Deku’s nervous cough broke the silence. “Uh, Y/N? Your hero name—”
You blinked down at your paper. Quadrant stared back in jagged letters, the ink bleeding where your grip had crushed the marker.
You hadn’t realized you’d written it. Hadn’t realized anything except the heat radiating from Bakugou’s desk, the way his breaths came too measured, like he was counting each one to keep from detonating.
You turned to Deku, his freckles stark against his paling cheeks. “Yeah?” you said, your voice rougher than you intended. His fingers twitched toward your singed sleeve—stopped—hovered like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure you’d allow it.
The hesitation stung worse than the burns. “It’s—it’s good!” he stammered. “Strong! But, um—” His gaze flicked past you, where Bakugou’s pencil lead snapped against his desk with a sound like a bone cracking. “Are you… okay?”.
The question landed like a grenade in the sudden silence of the classroom. You could feel Bakugou’s attention sharpen behind you, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly—like he was waiting for your answer too.
You flexed your fingers, the ghost of his pulse still thrumming against your fingertips from the infirmary.
“Peachy,” you lied, flashing Deku a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. His frown deepened, his mouth opening like he wanted to push further, but Aizawa’s voice cut through like a knife.
“One at a time, you’ll come and show your name,” he said, rubbing his temples like he already regretted this. Shit. You didn’t have time to change Quadrant—the name you’d scribbled in a haze of smoke and guilt, the name that now felt like a brand seared into your skin.
Bakugou’s chair screeched as he stood abruptly, his bandages catching the light as he shoved past Kirishima toward the front. He slapped his paper onto Aizawa’s desk with enough force to make the wood groan.
Your stomach lurched. Of course he’d go first—of course he’d force you to watch.
Bakugou’s handwriting was as brutal as his quirk, the kanji for Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight slashed across the page like shrapnel. Midnight whistled low, tracing the characters with a manicured finger.
“Explosive,” she purred. Bakugou didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared at the name like it was a live grenade he was waiting to detonate.
Everyone else went after him in a blur—Kirishima’s Red Riot, Uraraka’s Uravity, Mina’s Pinky—but you barely registered them. Your fingers twitched against Quadrant, the paper damp with sweat.
It wasn’t fear. Wasn’t regret. It was the way Bakugou’s shoulders tensed every time someone said your name, like he was bracing for impact. Like you were the detonator he couldn’t defuse.
When Aizawa called your name, the classroom air thickened with held breaths. You stood too fast, your chair screeching. Bakugou’s head snapped toward you, his nostrils flaring as you passed—close enough to catch the scent of burnt caramel and antiseptic clinging to his bandages.
You slapped your paper onto Aizawa’s desk harder than intended—the name Quadrant glaring up at you like an accusation.
Midnight’s grin faltered for half a second, her painted lips parting around a question you saw coming: Why not Pyre? The unspoken Why hide your other quirks? hung between you like the smoke still clinging to your sleeves.
Aizawa’s eyes flicked from your hero name to the fresh scorch marks spiderwebbing up your wrists—silent, calculating. The classroom’s fluorescent lights buzzed like distant alarms as he held the paper between his fingertips, his exhale slow and deliberate.
"Quadrant," he repeated, monotone. The word landed like a verdict. Behind you, Bakugou’s pencil snapped clean in half again, the graphite dust scattering across his desk like gunpowder residue.
Midnight’s gloved hand hovered over your shoulder, her perfume cloying. "Sweetheart, you sure you don’t want something… more inclusive to all your quirks?"
Her wink was theatrical, but her gaze wasn’t—it dipped to your trembling fingers, the way your nails had bitten half-moons into your palms.
"No, I want Quadrant," you said, your voice steady despite the wildfire licking at your ribs. You didn’t look at Bakugou, but you felt him—his presence a detonation waiting to happen, his breath hitching like he’d been sucker-punched.
"It represents me best." The lie tasted like gasoline. You didn’t want to hurt anyone else. You’d stick with only air, even if it choked you.
Midnight’s lips pursed—she knew, they all did—but before she could press further, Bakugou’s chair screeched violently. He was standing, his bandages stark against his flushed skin, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendons straining.
"Bullshit," he snarled, and the classroom froze. His crimson eyes burned into you, raw and furious, his fingers twitching like he wanted to tear Quadrant apart himself. "You held back in the fight, and now you’re holding back your goddamn name?"
Aizawa’s capture scarf twitched, but he didn’t intervene—just watched, his dark eyes flicking between you two like he was calculating the blast radius. You swallowed hard, the phantom taste of smoke clinging to your tongue.
Bakugou wasn’t wrong. You had crippled yourself—against him, against everyone—but the truth was worse: you were terrified of what would happen if you stopped.
The silence stretched taut, Deku’s pen clattering to the floor like a pin pulled from a grenade. Bakugou’s nostrils flared, his bandaged fingers curling into fists.
"Say something, damn it," he growled, his voice cracking like dry timber. You met his gaze—really met it—and saw the unspoken accusation there: You think I’m weak too.
Your stomach twisted. That wasn’t it. That was never it.
Your fire prickled under your skin, restless as a caged animal. "I didn’t hold back because you’re weak," you said, your voice low enough that only he could hear. "I held back because I am."
The admission tasted like ashes. Bakugou’s pupils dilated, his breath hitching like you’d punched him. His lips parted—anger, disbelief, something raw—but before he could spit it out, Uraraka’s stool scraped loudly. "Uh, guys?" she squeaked, pointing at your hands.
Flames licked between your fingers, uncontrolled and hungry, charring the edges of your desk. The scent of burning wood filled the air, sharp as panic.
You clenched your fists, but the fire only hissed brighter—answering a call you hadn’t made. Across the room, Deku’s notebook hit the floor with a slap. "Y/N—" he started, green lightning flickering around him instinctively.
Aizawa erased your quirk quickly, his scarf whipping forward as his eyes flashed red. The fire snuffed out instantly, leaving your palms stinging with phantom heat.
"This is why I’m sticking with Quadrant," you muttered, walking past Bakugou without meeting his gaze. You sat down with defeat heavy in your bones, your knees pressing into the blackened wood of your desk.
The classroom buzzed with whispers, but all you heard was the echo of your own pulse—too fast, too loud.
Bakugou didn’t move. He stood frozen in the aisle, his shadow stretching toward you like a reaching hand. His fingers twitched—once, twice—before he shoved them into his pockets, his bandages stark against his flushed skin.
"Tch," he spat, but there was no bite to it, just something ragged and raw that made your ribs ache. He stomped back to his seat, his gait uneven, like every step cost him something he couldn’t name.
"Fucking coward," he muttered, high enough for only you to hear. The words landed like a lit match in dry brush. If keeping your quirks hidden to not kill everyone made you a coward, you’d take it.
You’d wear the label like armor, let it rust into your skin until it became part of you. Better a coward than a killer. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood.
The sting grounded you—better than fire ever could.
Next came the internship. Everyone had an agency to go to because of the Sports Festival, but you had the most invites—thirty-seven offers, stacked neatly in Aizawa’s hands like a deck of cards. You didn’t need to see them to know why.
The footage of you scorching Todoroki’s eyebrows off had gone viral, the hashtag #PyreQueen trending for two days straight.
The irony burned: the one time you unleashed fire, it made you desirable. The thought twisted in your gut like a knife. You wanted to vomit.
Bakugou had twenty. Twenty offers—less than Deku, less than Todoroki, less than you. You saw the way his jaw locked when Aizawa announced the numbers, the way his fingers dug into his thighs until the fabric ripped.
His pride was a feral thing, gnashing its teeth against the cage of his ribs. You knew without looking that his list was crumpled in his pocket, edges singed from where he’d tried to burn it.
Aizawa cleared his throat, his scarf shifting like a living thing. "Pick wisely," he said, his gaze lingering on your clenched fists. "Some doors can’t be unopened."
The warning slithered under your skin, settling heavy in your bones.
You looked through all of them—Gran Torino’s crumpled flyer smelling of old leather, Best Jeanist’s stiff brochure with its gold embossing, even Edgeshot’s minimalist slip of paper that felt like a blade between your fingers. Hawks’ offer fluttered when you touched it, the edges singed where Bakugou had "accidentally" brushed past your desk.
But Endeavor’s envelope burned hottest in your grip, the thick cardstock warped from the heat of his agency’s seal.
You picked Endeavor. Not because you wanted to. Because his flames matched yours—uncontrolled, hungry, always one spark away from reducing everything to cinders.
You glanced sideways—just once—and saw Todoroki pick his father’s name too. His fingers didn’t shake. Didn’t hesitate. The realization hit like a backdraft: he was going back to that house with its too-white walls and scent of burning flesh.
For training. For control. Your fire prickled under your skin in answer, restless as a caged animal. You needed to control yours too—needed to learn how to wield it without flinching, how to burn without losing yourself in the ashes.
Endeavor could teach you that. Or destroy you trying. Either way, you’d walk out of that agency scorched or scorching.
Bakugou’s scoff cut through the murmurs like a detonation. "Figures," he spat, shoving his own crumpled list into his pocket—the edges charred where he’d clearly tried to incinerate it. You didn’t need to see it to know he’d picked Best Jeanist.
The hero obsessed with restraint, with precision, with everything Bakugou wasn’t but needed to become. His crimson eyes burned into you, pupils dilated with something raw and furious.
"You’re really gonna let that bastard teach you how to hold back?" The accusation landed like a Molotov cocktail between you, the words dripping with gasoline.
You met his gaze—really met it—and let the truth spill like kerosene: "I’m not learning how to hold back." The admission seared your throat. "I’m learning how to burn without getting burned."
Bakugou’s breath hitched, his bandaged fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you—to shake you, to shove you, to drag you somewhere the fire couldn’t follow. But he didn’t. Just turned on his heel, his shoulders rigid as he stalked toward the door, his gait uneven like every step cost him something.
You watched him go, the phantom heat of his glare lingering on your skin long after the classroom door slammed shut behind him.
You walked to Todoroki’s desk, the scent of antiseptic and burnt sugar clinging to your sleeves. He looked up, his mismatched eyes flickering between your scorched wrists and the way your fingers trembled around Endeavor’s card.
"You don’t have to do this," he said, voice low as embers cooling to ash. You knew what he meant—didn’t have to choose his father, didn’t have to walk into that house where the walls still smelled like charred flesh.
You flexed your fingers, the ghost of fire licking at your palms. "Yeah," you murmured. "I do." Todoroki exhaled sharply, his breath frosting the air between you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke—just two pyromaniacs staring at the matches in each other’s hands, waiting to see who’d strike first. . . .
The next morning, you stood outside the Todoroki estate with a duffel bag clutched tight to your chest—inside, a change of clothes, your hero costume, and the lingering scent of Bakugou’s blood you couldn’t scrub from under your nails.
Shoto opened the door before you could knock, his scarred eye twitching at the sight of your singed sleeves. "You slept with fire again," he stated, not a question.
His fingers brushed yours as he took the bag, his touch colder than you expected. You shrugged, stepping past him into the foyer where the air smelled like polished wood and something darker, something burnt. "Only way I sleep."
Shoto’s jaw tightened, his gaze darting to the staircase where Endeavor’s shadow loomed like a bonfire waiting to be fed.
Endeavor descended the steps with the deliberate pace of a predator circling prey, his flames licking hungrily at his jawline. "You did come after all," he smirked, his voice rough as gravel under boots.
His massive hand clamped down on your shoulder, the heat searing through your uniform fabric. "With my training, you may surpass my son," he chuckled, the words curling like smoke around Shoto’s rigid frame.
You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away—just met Endeavor’s blazing gaze and let your own fire flicker to life in your palms. It danced erratically, wild and untamed, but for the first time, you didn’t suffocate it.
Endeavor’s nostrils flared, his grip tightening like he wanted to crush the fear out of you.
Shoto stepped between you two abruptly, his left side frosting over as his breath crystallized in the air. "Father," he said, tone flat as a blade pressed to a throat.
Endeavor’s flames dimmed slightly—not in retreat, but reassessment. The silence stretched taut, broken only by the distant sound of a training room alarm blaring from the basement.
Shoto exhaled sharply, his mist dissipating as he turned to you with something almost like apology in his heterochromatic eyes.
"We start now," he muttered, already striding toward the sound, his shoulders stiff with the weight of unsaid words. You followed, your pulse hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The training room was a nightmare of scorch marks and half-melted dummies, the air thick with the scent of charred metal and sweat. Endeavor wasted no time—he grabbed a dummy by the throat and hurled it at you with a snarl.
"Show me your fire, Y/N," he demanded, his own flames roaring to life like a furnace door thrown open. You barely dodged, the dummy’s molten fist grazing your cheekbone.
Shoto moved to intervene, but Endeavor’s glare pinned him in place. "Or do you only burn children in their sleep?" The taunt landed like a lit match in a gas leak.
Your vision blurred red, your fire erupting from your palms in a torrent that cracked the training room floor. Shoto’s eyes widened—not in fear, but recognition.
He’d seen this before. In the mirror. In his dreams. In you.
Out of control, that Endeavor was a little shocked—his flames sputtered as yours surged past him, melting the reinforced steel walls into liquid rivulets.
Your fire wasn’t precision. Wasn’t technique. It was raw, unfiltered destruction, the kind that left craters where cities once stood. Endeavor’s grin faltered for half a second before hardening into something ravenous.
"Again," he growled, shoving Shoto aside to stand directly in your fire’s path. His own flames met yours in a cataclysmic clash, the shockwave hurling Shoto into the far wall.
You barely registered his pained grunt—your entire world narrowed to the inferno raging between your palms, the way Endeavor’s pupils dilated like he’d found something worth burning for.
Shoto staggered up, his left side frosting over even as sweat dripped down his scarred cheek.
"Stop," he rasped, but neither of you listened—your fire had found its match in Endeavor’s, the two of you locked in a duel that turned the air to shimmering waves.
The sprinklers activated, but the water vaporized before it could touch you, hissing into steam that coiled around your throats like nooses. Endeavor’s laughter boomed through the room, unhinged and exhilarated.
"This," he panted, his flames licking up to the ceiling, "this is what I wanted from my son." The words landed like a knife between Shoto’s ribs, his ice fracturing audibly.
You didn’t see Shoto move—one second he was across the room, the next his palm slammed into your sternum, his right side blazing hotter than you’d ever seen.
"Snap out of it," he hissed, his breath scalding your lips. The contact shocked your system—your fire stuttered, flickering like a dying bulb. Endeavor roared in protest, but Shoto didn’t flinch, his mismatched eyes boring into yours with terrifying clarity.
"You’re not him," he said, low and urgent, his fingers digging into your singed uniform. "You don’t have to be."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Your fire guttered out, leaving your palms blackened and trembling.
You looked at Endeavor, his massive frame heaving with exertion, his flames still licking hungrily at the air. "I didn’t come here to surpass your son," you said, voice raw as a fresh burn. "I came here to control my flame."
The admission hung between you three, the truth of it settling like ash on your tongue. Endeavor’s nostrils flared—anger, disappointment, something strangely like grief—before his fire snuffed out abruptly.
He turned on his heel without another word, his footsteps echoing like gunshots down the hall.
Shoto exhaled sharply, his right side dimming to embers. "He’ll be back," he muttered, wiping soot from his brow. "He always comes back." You didn’t ask if he meant Endeavor or the fire—the answer was the same either way.
Your knees buckled suddenly, the adrenaline crash hitting like a sledgehammer. Shoto caught you by the elbow, his grip firm but not bruising. His fingers were oddly cool against your overheated skin, the contrast startling.
"First time’s the worst," he said, guiding you toward the bench. His tone was flat, but his eyes flickered with something like understanding.
The silence stretched thick with unsaid things—your ragged breathing, the drip of molten metal from the ceiling, Shoto’s uneven exhales as he pressed an ice pack to your blistered palms.
You stared at the ruined training room, the walls warped beyond recognition, the floor cratered where your fire had raged unchecked. This was what you’d feared. This was why you’d held back. Shoto followed your gaze, his scarred eyelid twitching.
"Now you know," he said quietly, flexing his own burned fingers. "Now you choose." The words settled heavy in your chest—not a verdict, but a crossroads.
You flexed your aching hands, the ghost of fire still prickling under your skin. Somewhere in the Best Jeanist's agency, Bakugou was probably exploding a training dummy to smithereens. The thought almost made you smile.
"Why do you deal with it?" you asked Shoto, watching as frost spread from his fingertips across your scorched knuckles. He paused, the ice fracturing under his touch.
"I never did," he answered truthfully, his voice rougher than usual. "That’s why I’m here."
His mismatched eyes flicked to the doorway where Endeavor had disappeared—not with fear, but resignation. "I also wanted to apologize for breaking our promise," he added, so quiet you almost missed it. "What Midoriya said changed the way I thought."
"What did he say?" you asked, fingers curling into the singed fabric of your uniform. Shoto exhaled sharply through his nose, the ice on your knuckles fracturing like brittle glass.
"He told me my fire was mine to wield," Shoto murmured, pressing a fresh ice pack against your blistered palm with surprising gentleness.
"Not my father’s. Not my mother’s. Mine." The words landed like embers on dry tinder, sparking something deep in your chest.
Across the room, the melted remains of a training dummy groaned as they cooled—twisted metal limbs frozen mid-strike, its hollow face gaping in silent accusation. You stared at it, the phantom scent of burning flesh stinging your nostrils.
"Sounds like Midoriya," you muttered, flexing your aching fingers. The movement sent fresh pain lancing up your arm, but you welcomed it—better than numbness. Better than forgetting.
Shoto’s fingers twitched against yours, frost spreading across your wrist like delicate lace. "Your fire is yours too," he said, so quiet you felt it more than heard it.
The admission hung between you—not absolution, but acknowledgment. Somewhere in the house, Endeavor’s muffled roar shook the foundation. Neither of you flinched.
"Let me give a tour," Shoto said, standing abruptly. His voice was flat, but his scarred eyelid flickered toward the staircase where shadows pooled like spilled ink.
You followed his gaze to the family portraits lining the walls—each frame slightly crooked, as if someone had tried repeatedly to straighten them but failed. The Todorokis stared back, frozen in varying degrees of discomfort.
Endeavor’s flames dominated every shot, swallowing his wife’s tremulous smile, Shoto’s childhood scowl. Only Touya’s frame was empty, the glass cracked like a warning.
Shoto led you past the kitchen where the scent of burnt sugar clung to the air, past the training room’s warped doorframe still steaming from your duel. He paused at a narrow hallway, his breath frosting the air.
"This was my mother’s wing," he said, fingers brushing a door handle crusted with ice. The wood groaned under his touch, revealing a room preserved in perpetual winter—walls glazed with frost, a single teacup frozen mid-spill on the vanity.
You stepped inside, your breath crystallizing instantly. The cold bit deeper than temperature; it was the kind that settled in bones, the kind that came from loneliness.
Somewhere below, Endeavor’s footsteps thundered like distant detonations. Shoto didn’t react, just traced the ice-veined mirror where his mother’s reflection should’ve been.
"She’d have liked you," he murmured. The words weren’t comforting. They were a eulogy. You stared at your distorted reflection in the frost—how much of you was left unburned? The silence stretched, brittle as thin ice.
"Let me take you to your room," Shoto said abruptly, turning toward the hall. His left sleeve brushed yours, leaving damp streaks where the frost melted.
You followed numbly, your socks soaking through as you stepped over a frozen puddle—years old, maybe. The guest room was austere but clean, the tatami mats smelling faintly of cedar and something acrid underneath.
It didn't look 'fire-proof'. The sliding doors were thin rice paper, the walls uninsulated wood. You ran your fingers along the char marks scoring the ceiling beams—old damage, but the wood was brittle to the touch.
"Do you have anywhere else?" you asked, voice tighter than intended. Shoto looked confused, his scarred eyebrow twitching upward. The silence stretched until you swallowed hard, the admission clawing its way up your throat: "Um. I have another secret. Can you keep it?"
Shoto nodded once, his heterochromatic eyes unreadable in the dim light. You exhaled through your nose, watching your breath curl white between you.
"My quirk controls my body when I go to sleep," you said, flexing your still-blistered fingers. The words tasted like ash. "Last night I burned through three sets of fireproof sheets at my house."
Shoto didn't flinch. Just turned toward the door with that same eerie calm, his footsteps silent on the tatami. "Wait here," he murmured.
When he returned, he carried a thick futon woven with silver fibers that glinted like fish scales. "Hawks' agency developed this after Dabi," he said, laying it out with precise movements. The material hissed faintly where his right palm grazed it.
You touched the edge—cool to the touch, unnaturally so. Shoto's gaze flickered to your hands, then away. "It'll hold," he said. Simple. Certain. As if he knew what it was to wake up drowning in frost.
"Thank you, Shoto," you whispered, fingers curling into the futon's strange fabric. It smelled like ozone and something metallic—like the air right before a storm breaks.
Shoto paused halfway to the door, his silhouette haloed by the hallway light. For a moment, you thought he'd say something.
Then his shoulders stiffened at the sound of Endeavor's voice bellowing from downstairs, and he left without another word, sliding the door shut with a finality that felt like a mercy.
You got settled by placing your only normal shirts and trousers in the wardrobe—folded precisely, sleeves aligned like you were arranging bodies for burial.
The motion was muscle memory: orphanage staff used to inspect your drawers weekly, docking privileges if a single seam was crooked.
Outside, the wind howled through the Todoroki estate's skeletal trees, branches scraping against the window like fingernails on glass. You stared at your reflection in the blackened pane—your pupils dilated unnaturally wide, the whites bloodshot from smoke and exhaustion.
Behind you, the futon gleamed like a silver coffin in the moonlight. You flexed your fingers, watching the blisters pulse angry red in the bright.
A sharp knock startled you—three precise raps that could only belong to the housekeeper. "Dinner is served," her voice clipped through the door, devoid of inflection.
You swallowed hard, your throat still raw from inhaling your own fire. The smell of seared meat crept under the doorframe, thick enough to coat your tongue.
Your stomach turned. You'd skipped meals at the orphanage whenever the nightmares came, curling around the hunger like a wounded animal.
You opened the door to find the housekeeper's silhouette rigid as a sentry, her gaze flickering to your singed sleeves. Her nostrils flared almost imperceptibly—not at the burnt fabric, but at the scent of charred flesh clinging to your wrists.
"Young Master Shoto awaits you in the dining hall," she said, stepping aside with mechanical grace. The hallway stretched before you like a tunnel, lined with family portraits where Endeavor's flames swallowed everything but the whites of his children's terrified eyes.
Your footsteps echoed too loud on the hardwood, each creak sounding like a rib cracking under pressure.
At the end of the hall, the dining room door stood slightly ajar—through the gap, you caught glimpses of Shoto's stiff posture, the way his chopsticks hovered midair as Endeavor's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
You paused, palm flat against the door's lacquered surface. It was warm. Too warm. Like the wood itself was resisting combustion. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned as if in protest.
The housekeeper cleared her throat behind you, her gloved hands folded primly over her apron. The look she gave you wasn't impatience—it was something closer to recognition, the way veterans spot fresh wounds beneath starched uniforms.
You pushed the door open just as Endeavor's fist hit the table hard enough to rattle the china, his flames casting Shoto's scar in flickering relief.
"Sit," Endeavor barked without looking up, chopsticks stabbing into a slab of meat still bleeding onto the porcelain.
Shoto met your gaze over his father's shoulder—his right eyelid twitched once, a silent warning.
You took the seat farthest from Endeavor, your thighs sticking to the lacquered wood where generations of Todorokis had sweat through dinners. The old man's flames licked closer as he leaned forward, his shadow swallowing your plate whole.
"Your fire," he growled around a mouthful of rare steak, "has potential."
The compliment landed like a branding iron—Shoto's fingers spasmed around his teacup, frost spiderwebbing up the porcelain. Endeavor didn't notice, too busy studying you with the same intensity he'd once reserved for Touya's training videos.
Across the table, Shoto nudged a chilled dish of tamagoyaki toward you with his pinky—the only part of him not trembling. The egg rolls were perfectly golden, the exact shade your foster mother used to burn them before she'd given up on you.
You swallowed hard, chopsticks hovering over the plate as Endeavor's stare bored into your temple. "Eat," he commanded, flecks of bloody marinade dotting his beard.
The housekeeper materialized at your elbow, her gloved hands refilling your water glass with surgical precision. Her sleeve brushed your wrist—just enough pressure for you to feel the raised scar tissue beneath the fabric.
The first bite tasted like ash. The second like gunpowder. By the third, you could feel it—the way Endeavor's quirk simmered under his skin, how his pulse jumped when your own fire flickered in response.
His nostrils flared as your chopsticks clattered against the plate, his massive frame shifting like a predator catching scent of wounded prey.
"Tomorrow," he said, dragging a thumb across his lip to smudge away blood, "we see what you're really made of." The threat hung between you three, thick as the smoke still clinging to your uniform.
Endeavor left abruptly, his chair screeching against hardwood—no apology, no excuse, just the heavy tread of boots fading down the hall. Shoto exhaled through his nose, frost creeping across his untouched meal.
"He'll be back at dawn," he muttered, pushing his plate away. The housekeeper materialized to clear it, her gloved hands moving with eerie precision. You watched her fingers—the way they trembled slightly when passing too close to Endeavor's still-warm seat.
Recognition flickered in your chest. You'd scrubbed enough orphanage floors to know the tells of someone who'd learned to make themselves small.
"Is there anything else you need?" Shoto asked suddenly, his mismatched eyes flickering to your wrists where the burns puckered angry red.
His voice was flat, but the offer landed heavy between you—not pity, but solidarity. You flexed your fingers, the blisters pulsing under his scrutiny.
"No," you said too quickly, watching the housekeeper's gloves tighten around Endeavor's abandoned steak knife. The word tasted like charcoal in your mouth—another lie added to the pyre.
Shoto's jaw twitched, but he didn't press. Just stood with that eerie stillness of his, the ice on his left side glinting like shattered glass in the dim light.
"I think it would be best if you went to sleep," Shoto said. He saw the hesitation in your eyes—the way your fingers spasmed against your thighs at the word sleep. "The futon will contain your quirk," he added quietly, his scarred eyelid flickering toward the hallway where Endeavor's voice still rumbled like distant thunder.
The promise landed between you like a lit fuse. You thought of silver fibers woven tight as prison bars, of waking up to find the walls unscorched for once.
Your stomach twisted. The housekeeper's gloved hand brushed your shoulder as she cleared Endeavor's plate—too light to be accidental, too heavy to ignore.
Her sleeve rode up just enough to reveal mottled skin beneath, the scars old but unmistakable. Flame patterns. You met her gaze, and something passed between you—not sympathy, but the quiet understanding of soldiers who'd survived the same war.
Shoto's fingers curled around your elbow, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he guided you toward the door. Behind you, the housekeeper began humming—a lullaby you hadn't heard since your mother's voice still worked.
The notes trembled in the air like heat haze, curling around the scent of charred meat and antiseptic. You didn't look back. Couldn't. Not when every step toward that silver-lined futon felt like surrender.
The hallway stretched longer than before, the floorboards groaning underfoot like dying men. Shoto's grip tightened imperceptibly when you passed Endeavor's study—through the cracked door, you caught flashes of blue flames licking at framed newspaper clippings, the edges blackening where Touya's face used to be.
Your pulse stuttered. Shoto didn't react, just quickened his pace until the study door slammed shut behind you, the sound like a gunshot in the silent house.
He dropped you at your room with uncharacteristic haste, his fingers brushing the futon's edge like he was checking for frostbite. "It'll hold," he repeated, more to himself than you.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the scent of ozone and the too-steady rhythm of your own breathing.
The futon hissed when you sat—a sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. You traced one silver thread with your blistered fingertip, watching it darken where your skin made contact.
You lay back slowly, the futon's strange fabric whispering against your singed clothes. Sleep came like a thief—one moment you were counting the char marks on the ceiling, the next your fire was unspooling from your fingertips in molten ribbons.
The last thing you registered was the scent of burnt sugar clinging to your sheets, and the distant sound of Shoto's ice fracturing down the hall. . . .
You woke to sunlight slicing through the rice-paper door, your mouth tasting of smoke and something metallic. The house wasn't on fire.
That was the first shock—your fingers scrabbled at the futon, expecting smoldering fabric, but the silver threads held. No new scorch marks spiderwebbed the walls. No screams echoed from the courtyard. J
ust the muted sounds of the estate stirring, and your own pulse hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You stared at your palms—clean, for once. No blisters. No blood.
The second shock came when you peeled back the futon—your clothes were intact. Not a single seam singed.
Your throat tightened. You'd slept through the night without burning. Without screaming. Without watching someone you—
A knock cut the thought short. Three precise raps. "Breakfast," the housekeeper called through the door, her voice softer than last night.
You opened it to find her holding a tray—steaming miso soup, rice flecked with black sesame, tamagoyaki folded too neatly to be Endeavor's doing.
Her sleeves were rolled up today, the old burn scars on her wrists exposed like a confession. "Young Master Shoto prepared it," she said, nodding toward the courtyard where ice sculptures glittered in the dawn light.
You took the tray with trembling hands, the porcelain warm against your palms. Through the window, Shoto stood amidst his frozen creations—a menagerie of ice rabbits with too-long limbs, their hollow eyes following Endeavor's retreating back as he stormed toward the training grounds.
One rabbit had melted slightly overnight, its distorted face dripping onto the cobblestones in slow, silent tears. You clutched the tray tighter, the scent of miso twisting into something acrid—like antiseptic and charred skin.
You ate quickly—shoveling rice into your mouth like the orphanage matrons might snatch it away, barely tasting the sweetness of the tamagoyaki.
The food settled like lead in your stomach, each swallow punctuated by the distant sound of Endeavor's fists slamming into training dummies. Shoto didn't flinch at the noise, just kept sculpting, his left hand tracing delicate frost patterns over a half-formed ice fox.
You watched his fingers tremble—ever so slightly—as he smoothed the creature's ears into points sharp enough to draw blood. The housekeeper cleared her throat, her gloved hands hovering near your empty bowl.
"Young Master said to bring you to the east courtyard when you're finished," she said, her eyes darting to your clenched fists where flames licked just beneath the skin.
The east courtyard was smaller than you expected—hemmed in by scorched cherry trees and a koi pond frozen solid at the edges. Shoto stood at its center, his breath fogging in the crisp morning air.
His right sleeve was rolled up today, the skin beneath mottled with fresh burns. You didn't ask. Just stepped onto the gravel, feeling it crunch underfoot like broken bones.
Shoto turned, his scarred eyebrow twitching upward when he saw your hands—clenched too tight, nails biting half-moons into your palms.
"Good morning," Shoto said, voice flat as the frozen pond's surface. He held out a steaming thermos—green tea, from the smell of it. You took it mechanically, your fingers brushing his.
His skin was colder than the metal. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sound of Endeavor's explosions echoing from the training hall.
Shoto didn't react. Just watched you sip the tea, his mismatched eyes tracking the way your throat worked around the scalding liquid.
"You didn't burn," he observed. Not a question. A fact.
The thermos trembled in your grip—not from the heat, but from the realization that he'd been listening. That he'd known. Your fire coiled in your gut like a live wire, sparking against the tea's warmth.
Shoto exhaled through his nose, fog crystallizing between you. "We're sparring today," he said abruptly, nodding toward the training dummies lined up against the far wall. Their straw guts spilled out like unraveled sutures.
You swallowed the last of the tea, the bitterness clinging to your teeth. Somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, Endeavor roared—a sound like splitting timber. Shoto's fingers twitched toward his scar.
You didn't ask if this was his idea or his father's. Just squared your shoulders and flexed your hands, feeling the familiar itch of flames beneath your skin.
The first spark caught on your fingertip—small, controlled. For once, it didn't feel like a betrayal. Shoto nodded once, his breath fogging the space between you.
"Don't hold back," he said, and the ice beneath his boots cracked like a promise.
You knew when he came back, there was going to be hard training.
You were ready. You exhaled slow—the way you'd practiced in front of orphanage mirrors—and let the flames spread. . . .
Under the scorching midday sun, the Todoroki training facility stretches into a vast concrete basin, its edges warped from decades of uncontrolled heat. Endeavor looms before you like a living furnace, his crossed arms radiating enough heat to make the air above him ripple.
"Your fire is sputtering!" His voice cracks like a whip across the arena, louder than the sizzle of your own flames eating oxygen. "Stop treating it like a party trick. A quirk is a limb—you wouldn't swing a fist blindfolded!"
Sweat stings your eyes as you struggle to contain the wildfire in your palms, your control slipping with every ragged breath.
Shoto materializes beside you, his right hand sheathed in frost that melts instantly in the heat. "You're choking it," he murmurs, pressing his icy palm against your wrist. The sudden chill makes you gasp. "Fire needs air as much as you do. Breathe into it, not against it."
You close your eyes, imagining the flames not as something to restrain, but as an extension of your own veins—pulsing, living. When you exhale, the unruly orange blaze in your palm sharpens into a white-hot javelin so precise it leaves afterimages on your retinas.
Across the arena, Shoto pivots into Endeavor's charge, his left side finally alight with flames of his own.
The old man's Hellflame arcs toward him like a striking serpent, but Shoto doesn't flinch—he propels himself backward with a controlled burst from his soles, twisting midair to slam an ice wall between them.
The resulting steam explosion rocks the courtyard, sending debris skittering across concrete. Through the haze, you catch Endeavor's grin—feral, proud—before he rounds on you again.
"Now you," he snarls, flames licking up his neck. "Hit me like you mean it."
Your fingers twitch. The spear of fire wavers. Somewhere beyond the training grounds, a crow caws—the same ragged sound Bakugou made when your earthen spikes first pierced his ribs. The memory lodges in your throat like a hot coal.
Endeavor's eyes narrow. "Pathetic," he spits, and his next fireball comes too fast to dodge.
The inferno engulfs you whole. For one terrible, beautiful moment, you're back in your childhood home—walls buckling, ceiling beams groaning as they collapse into themselves.
Your mother's voice whispers through the flames: You let us burn. But this time, you don't scream. You inhale.
The fire rushes into your lungs like a drowning man gulping air, searing pathways through your chest until every capillary glows like molten glass. When you exhale, the flames unfurl from your lips in a perfect helix, twisting around Endeavor's next strike like a serpent constricting its prey.
The old man's eyes widen—just slightly—before your fire slams into his solar plexus hard enough to crater the concrete behind him.
Shoto's ice wall erupts between you two a second too late, the jagged edges steaming where your flames lick at them. Endeavor coughs—once, twice—before barking out a laugh that sounds more like a bone snapping.
"Again," he rasps, rolling his shoulders until his vertebrae pop like gunshots. His uniform jacket smolders where your fire grazed him, exposing the latticework of old scars beneath—thick and ropy, like someone stitched him back together with barbed wire.
His flames roar back to life, hotter than before, turning the training yard into a kiln. The air shimmers like liquid mercury.
Endeavor's next attack isn't a fireball—it's a blizzard. A wall of blue-white flame so dense it crystallizes the oxygen as it tears toward you, shredding the concrete beneath into glass shards.
Your body moves before your brain catches up; the flames rush into your lungs like a riptide, scalding your ribs from the inside out. For a heartbeat, you're weightless—just a vessel for pure combustion, your veins glowing beneath your skin like fault lines.
Then you exhale, and the fire blizzard erupts from your palms with twice its original velocity, the backlash sending you skidding backward on melted soles. Endeavor doesn't dodge.
He takes it square in the chest, his boots carving trenches in the concrete as the force drives him back into Shoto's hastily erected ice shield.
The impact sounds like a freight train derailing.
Silence. Then—crackling. The ice shield fractures down the middle, revealing Endeavor still standing, his chest heaving. His beard is singed off on one side, exposing a patchwork of old burns. His eyes aren't angry. They're hungry.
"That," he pants, wiping soot from his lips with a trembling hand, "is what I've been waiting for."
Behind him, Shoto's mismatched eyes lock onto yours—his left pupil dilates, the ice around his fingers melting instantly.
You've never seen him look afraid before. Not like this.
The smell hits you then—burnt sugar and charred meat. Your palms blister instantly, the pain a distant afterthought compared to the realization: your sleeves are on fire. Not metaphorically. Actually.
Blue flames race up your arms, consuming the fabric like tissue paper. You don't scream. Don't even twitch. Just watch the fire dance across your skin, marveling at how it doesn't hurt. Not really. Not like before.
Endeavor's grin splits his face like a fresh wound.
"That was a good day." Endeavor brushes ash from his shoulders, his movements oddly gentle for a man who just tanked a firestorm. "Tomorrow we'll focus on equilibrium."
He strides past you without another glance, his boots crunching over shattered ice shards. The house's sliding door shuts behind him with a decisive click, sealing you and Shoto in the sudden quiet of the ravaged courtyard.
Your flames gutter out one by one, leaving your arms bare and smoking.
Shoto exhales sharply through his nose. His right sleeve is frozen solid where he'd instinctively raised it to shield himself from your backlash.
The ice cracks as he flexes his fingers, the sound like a spine realigning. "You were still holding back in our match," he says flatly. Not an accusation. A revelation.
His left eye tracks the way your fingers twitch—not with exhaustion, but with the aftershocks of finally letting go.
The silence between you isn't comfortable, but it's familiar. Like the ache of a old burn. Shoto reaches out slowly, his right hand hovering over your wrist where the skin shines angry red.
Frost blooms beneath his fingertips, sealing the worst of the damage. You don't thank him. He doesn't expect you to.
Somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, Endeavor's voice rumbles like distant thunder—loud enough to rattle the teacups inside, but not loud enough to drown out the unspoken truth hanging between you: tomorrow's training will be worse.
You flex your newly healed fingers, watching the tendons move beneath the scar tissue. Shoto's ice melts in rivulets down your arm, mingling with the soot and sweat. The droplets catch the fading sunlight, refracting into a thousand tiny fireflies before evaporating into nothing.
You don't speak. Neither does he. The understanding settles over you both like ash after a wildfire—quiet, inevitable, and tinged with the acrid scent of something that can never be unburned.
The second day is all about equilibrium—Endeavor's voice booms across the courtyard as he demonstrates, his flames spiraling in perfect concentric rings. "Fire isn't just destruction," he growls, pivoting on his heel to send a controlled helix scorching past your face. "It's propulsion. Precision."
You mimic his stance, channeling your exhaustion into the soles of your feet until the concrete hisses beneath you. With a controlled burst from your palms, you're airborne—skating across the training yard like a spark caught in an updraft, your flames licking at the air in erratic bursts.
Beside you, Shoto staggers, his left side glowing white-hot while frost creeps up his right arm. "Shoto!" you bark, launching a precise fireburst at his knees.
The impact forces him into motion just as his internal temperature spikes dangerously.
Shoto's breath comes in ragged pants as he slams both palms together—ice and fire colliding directly over his sternum in a violent steam explosion.
For a heartbeat, his pupils dilate with something akin to panic before his circulatory system recalibrates, channeling the opposing energies into a perfect, swirling helix of blue-and-white flame. The Vanishing Fist he unleashes isn't his father's technique—not anymore.
The boulder he strikes doesn't just fracture; it disintegrates into fine powder, the shockwave sending your singed bangs fluttering.
Endeavor's approval is a tangible thing—a sharp nod, the barest quirk of his scarred lip. "Control," he mutters, and it might be the closest thing to praise you've ever heard from him.
You don't have time to dwell on it. Shoto's mismatched eyes lock onto yours, his chest still heaving from exertion. "Again," he demands, flexing fingers still steaming from the backlash.
There's no hesitation in his voice now—just the same relentless drive that keeps him training until his bones ache and his quirk malfunctions. You don't refuse. Can't. Not when his flames finally burn as recklessly as yours do.
The next exchange begins before either of you are ready, your fire meeting his in a cataclysmic helix that scorches the very air between you.
Endeavor watches from the sidelines, his crossed arms the only barrier between you and total annihilation.
The next day starts with Endeavor's gauntlet crashing onto the briefing room table—scorched and still smelling of charred flesh. "Rule one," he growls, his glare pinning you and Shoto to your seats like insect specimens. "Fire only. No ice. No wind."
Shoto exhales through his nose, frost creeping up his right sleeve before he forcibly melts it. Endeavor's grin is all teeth. "Let's see what you're really made of."
You realize your mistake the moment you step into the training yard. The hero suit you'd brought—tailored for aerial maneuvers, all lightweight mesh and pressurized vents—was never meant to withstand direct flames.
The fabric wrinkles under Endeavor's scrutiny like a dying moth. "Change," he orders, tossing you a spare uniform from his own locker.
It's too large, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole, but the fireproof lining hums against your skin like a second heartbeat.
You flex your fingers, feeling the way the reinforced seams stretch with each movement—no longer restricting, but amplifying. Like armor. Like permission.
Shoto doesn't comment on your borrowed clothes, but his left eyebrow twitches when Endeavor barks, "No holding back today."
The old man's flames lick hungrily at the air as he circles you both, his footsteps leaving smoldering footprints in the gravel.
Patrol is hell. Literally. The first villain—some two-bit pyrokinetic—laughs when you hesitate, his flames licking at a civilian's ankles like a predator playing with prey.
You see Bakugou's bandaged knuckles in the flickering light, hear his voice snarling why'd you cripple yourself—and then you're moving.
Your fire doesn't sputter this time. It erupts, a controlled detonation that lifts the villain off his feet and slams him into a dumpster hard enough to dent the metal.
Shoto's answering blast is smoother, colder in its precision—his left side blazing so hot the asphalt bubbles beneath his boots.
Endeavor doesn't praise you. Just grunts and moves on to the next crisis, his approval written in the way he doesn't look back to check if you're following.
By the third skirmish, your lungs feel like they've been scoured with sandpaper. Shoto's breath comes in ragged bursts beside you, his right sleeve soaked with melted ice despite the rules.
The villain this time is smarter—uses water pipes against you, the pressurized spray cutting through your flames like a scalpel.
You see the moment Shoto considers breaking the rules, his right foot sliding back into a stance you recognize from sparring sessions. But Endeavor's voice booms across the alley first: "Burn it all."
The command isn't just tactical. It's a test. You lock eyes with Shoto over the roaring geysers, and something unspoken passes between you—then you're moving in tandem, your combined firestorms superheating the water into a scalding maelstrom that pins the villain against the brickwork.
Steam rises in great, hissing plumes, and for a moment, the alley looks like the aftermath of a bomb blast. Shoto's fingers brush yours—just barely—as you both lower your arms, his skin fever-hot even through the gloves.
Endeavor says nothing. Just tosses the cuffed villain over his shoulder like a sack of rice and strides away, leaving you both standing in the wreckage of your own making.
That night, the Todoroki dining table groans under the weight of enough food to feed a small army. Endeavor holds court at the head, recounting his victory over some underground quirk trafficking ring.
You're halfway through zoning out, tracing the whorls of steam rising from your miso soup, when his voice sharpens: "—filthy bone manipulator, thought he could rebuild the Shie Hassaikai's empire."
Your spoon clatters against the bowl. The scars on your palms itch suddenly, phantom pains from a fire you couldn't control at six years old.
Endeavor's eyes gleam in the low light as he describes the villain—the way his ribs protruded like a cage, how his laughter sounded like knuckles cracking.
You don't realize you're speaking until your own voice cuts through the room: "He had a scar under his left cheek. Shaped like a crescent moon."
The silence is absolute. Even Shoto freezes mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering over his plate. Endeavor's grip tightens around his sake cup.
"How," he says, slow and deliberate as a knife being drawn, "could you possibly know that?"
The truth lodges in your throat like a shard of glass—your mother's scream, your father's ribs snapping like kindling. Instead, you shrug and stare at the scarred tabletop. "Saw him on the news once."
Endeavor exhales through his nose, the sound like a forge bellows.
"Good. He's dead."
The relief hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest. UA, the training, the sleepless nights—it was never just about control. It was about closure.
You stare at your reflection in the murky soup and see the ghost of a six-year-old staring back, her tears evaporating before they can fall.
The next day was patrol again but going into the evening, you three decided to go to Hosu City. Endeavor's gruff approval had been a single nod when you suggested it.
Shoto didn't argue, just adjusted his earpiece with fingers still blistered from yesterday's backlash. The train rattles through the neon-lit streets, the city's underbelly flickering past like frames of a horror film.
You press your forehead to the glass and watch your breath fog the surface—brief, fleeting—before the heat from your quirk erases it.
The first sign something's wrong comes when Endeavor stiffens mid-stride, his eyes moved as it focuses on something in the distance. You smell it before you see it—the acrid stench of charred flesh mixed with something chemical, something artificial.
Shoto's right hand twitches toward his ice before he forcibly stops himself, the motion so slight only you catch it.
"Stay close," Endeavor growls, his flames already licking up his forearms in anticipation, casting jagged shadows across the alley walls.
Then the screaming starts. Nomus pour from the alleyways like roaches from a split sewer pipe—some winged, some multi-limbed, all with exposed brains glistening under the streetlights.
One crashes through a storefront window, glass exploding outward in a deadly hail. Endeavor moves before the first shard hits the pavement, his Hellflame carving through the nearest monster like a scalpel through rotten meat.
Shoto pivots, his left side igniting as he throws up an ice barrier to shield civilians scrambling for cover.
You barely have time to summon your own flames before a second Nomu slams into you, its talons raking down your forearm as you roll with the impact.
The fight becomes a blur of fire and teeth—you duck under a swinging limb, your counterattack searing through its ribcage, only for two more to take its place.
Endeavor bellows orders, but the chaos swallows his voice whole. Shoto's ice flash-freezes a winged Nomu mid-lunge, but the creature shatters its own limbs to keep coming. You pivot to help—just as the ground erupts beneath your feet.
The last thing you see is Shoto's outstretched hand before the pavement gives way, sending you tumbling into the sewer system below.
Darkness. The smell of damp concrete and something fouler. Your fire sputters to life in your palm, casting flickering light on the tunnel walls slick with algae.
Somewhere above, the battle still rages—muffled explosions, the distant screech of Nomus, Endeavor's voice roaring like a distant thunderstorm.
Your communicator crackles with static when you tap it. No signal. Just the slow drip of water and the realization settling cold in your gut: you're alone down here.
And something in the darkness is breathing.
You then heard footsteps and there he was; the monster that's supposed to be dead.
His ribs protruded like a cage beneath tattered fabric, the scar under his left cheek catching the dim glow of your flames. His laughter sounded like knuckles cracking.
"Little firefly," he crooned, stepping over a rat carcass with the casual grace of a predator who'd never feared the dark. "You've been lighting up my city."
The scent of burnt sugar and charred meat clung to him—the same stench from your childhood nightmares.
Endeavor's words echoed in your skull: Good. He's dead.
But the villain's fingers twitched at his sides, bones pushing against his skin like blades being unsheathed.
Your fire winked out. Instinct, not fear—the same instinct that had you extinguishing candles before thunderstorms as a child. The darkness swallowed you both whole. His next step crunched on broken glass, closer now.
"I remember your parents," he murmured, his voice slithering through the tunnels like smoke. "How they screamed when their own daughter—"
Your flames erupted before he finished the sentence, a supernova in the enclosed space. The backlash scorched your own eyelids, but you didn't blink. Couldn't.
Not when his silhouette staggered back, not when his laughter turned wet and guttural.
You fought dirty. Fire lanced from your palms in jagged bursts, searing through his tattered shirt to blacken the ribs beneath. He countered with precision—a rib snapped free from his own chest, whistling past your ear to embed in the concrete.
You pivoted, channeling heat into your soles to skate across the flooded floor, but he was faster. His elbow caught your temple, sending stars exploding across your vision. You retaliated blindly, your flames licking up his arm—but his grip found your throat.
"Just like your mother," he wheezed, his breath reeking of gangrene and gasoline. The last thing you saw was his grinning teeth before darkness swallowed you whole.
You woke to the taste of copper and the sting of torn fabric. One sleeve hung in tatters, blood trickling from gashes along your forearm where his bone blades had grazed too deep.
The world tilted when you tried to stand—your stomach churning with nausea—but the distant roar of explosions from above street level sent adrenaline jagging through your veins.
Shoto. Endeavor. Still fighting. Still alive. You staggered forward, your fingers trailing along the slick tunnel wall for balance.
There was no monster. But he was still alive. The realization hit like a backdraft—your flames hadn't killed him. Hadn't even slowed him down.
His laughter echoed from deeper in the tunnels, a wet, rattling sound that raised the hair on your nape. You had to leave. Had to inform Endeavor.
Your palms burned as you summoned your air quirk and hurled yourself upward in a cyclone of displaced rubble and dust.
It was chaos when you breached the surface—Nomus and villains everywhere, their screeches mingling with civilians' screams. You couldn't see Endeavor's signature flames, couldn't spot Shoto's mismatched silhouette in the carnage.
Your ribs ached where the villain had kicked you, your vision swimming with every frantic turn of your head. Weakness wasn't an option.
You slammed your palms together, igniting a ring of fire around your body before launching forward like a comet. A winged Nomu dove for you—you pivoted midair, driving a knee into its exposed brain matter while your fire roasted its spinal cord to ash.
Your boots hit the pavement slick with blood and coolant, skidding as you pivoted to avoid a villain's electrified whip. The smell of burning flesh filled your nostrils—your own, probably, from overusing your quirk.
No time to check. You ducked under a swinging pipe, rolling to avoid a Nomu's grasping talons before pressing your flaming hands to its chest cavity. Its scream cut off abruptly as its organs vaporized.
Somewhere to your left, a building groaned ominously—you barely had time to throw up an earthen barrier before the debris rained down.
You kept running, looking for some kind of bright flame—Endeavor's signature orange, Shoto's piercing blue—while dodging attacks as you ran.
A villain's knife grazed your ribs; you retaliated without breaking stride, sending a concentrated jet of fire straight through his kneecap. The scent of charred cartilage followed you as you vaulted over a flipped car, your pulse hammering against your scorched throat.
You helped some casualties—an elderly woman with a gash across her forehead, a child clutching a singed teddy bear, a teenager hyperventilating against a shattered storefront.
Your fingers trembled as you pressed them to the woman's temple, summoning just enough water to cleanse the wound before binding it with strips torn from your ruined sleeve.
The child flinched when you reached for them, their eyes wide with terror—not of the villains, but of you, of the way smoke curled from your fingertips. Something hollowed out your chest at the realization, but you forced a smile anyway.
"Hey," you murmured, crouching to their level. "Your bear's a hero too, huh? Look at him—not even scared." The lie tasted like ash, but the child's grip loosened just enough for you to guide them.
Once they were safe, you heard Iida's voice and Shoto's flame in an alleyway—the former barking orders in that clipped, authoritative tone, the latter's fire hissing against wet pavement.
You rounded the corner just as Shoto's ice flash-froze a villain mid-lunge, his left side steaming from backlash. Iida's engines sputtered dangerously as he braced against a dumpster, his armor dented from an earlier impact.
Deku was there too, kneeling beside a crumpled hero you didn't recognize—a local, maybe, judging by the outdated costume.
His fingers were pressed to the man's pulse point when his head snapped up, green eyes widening as they locked onto you.
"It's Stain," he gasped, his voice raw with urgency. The name slithered into your ears like venom.
The Hero Killer. The man who carved ideologies into flesh with his katana. Your flames flickered involuntarily at the realization—this wasn't just some alleyway brawl. This was a reckoning.
While Deku hauled the wounded hero toward safety, you pivoted toward Iida and Shoto. Iida's engines whined like live wires under strain, his stance too rigid—too personal.
Shoto's left side blazed brighter than you'd ever seen, his right sleeve frozen stiff with backlash. Stain's blade flashed between them, a silver streak aimed for Iida's unarmored throat.
You didn't think. Your earth quirk erupted through the pavement, jagged spikes intercepting the strike with a screech of metal on stone. Iida's gasp was almost lost beneath Stain's chuckle—a wet, rasping sound that raised the hairs on your nape.
Shoto's fire banked just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, his heterochromatic eyes flickering with something you'd never seen directed at you before: respect.
Not for your strength, but for your timing. Your restraint. For knowing exactly when to break it. The moment stretched thin as a tripwire before Stain's laughter shattered it.
"Another whelp?" His breath smelled of iron and old meat as he leaned into your earthen spikes, letting them graze his jugular. "How quaint."
Iida moved first—engines roaring to life in a burst of blue flame, his fist slamming toward Stain's ribs with speed that blurred the air. Stain twisted midair, his katana flashing up to deflect—but Shoto's ice erupted beneath his feet, encasing his ankles in jagged frost.
Your fire came next, a controlled whip of flame lashing across Stain's blade arm, searing through fabric to blacken the skin beneath. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the alley's stench as Stain snarled, wrenching free from Shoto's ice with a spray of bloodied frost.
He lunged—not at Iida, not at Shoto—but at you, his blade aimed for your throat. You pivoted, summoning a wall of air that sent his strike veering wide, his momentum carrying him past you into Iida's waiting elbow.
The fight became a blur of motion—Iida's speed a blue streak between crumbling brickwork, Shoto's fire carving molten arcs through the dark.
You matched them step for step, your flames precise where theirs were wild, your earthen spikes erupting to intercept Stain's counterattacks before they could land.
When Stain's blade grazed Iida's thigh, your water quirk surged forward, a pressurized jet that knocked the katana from his grip. It clattered against the pavement—Shoto flash-frozed it solid before Stain could retrieve it, the metal cracking under the sudden temperature drop.
Stain didn't hesitate. He lunged bare-handed, his fingers elongating into bone spikes aimed for Shoto's jugular—only for your fire to intercept midair, superheating the protruding bones until they blackened and snapped.
Stain reeled back, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. Blood dripped from his lips, the self-inflicted cuts on his tongue. His eyes—dilated with adrenaline—flicked between you three, reassessing.
"Interesting," he rasped, licking scarlet from his teeth. The word slithered through the alley like a promise. Iida shifted his stance, his engines sputtering.
Shoto's right sleeve crackled with reforming ice. You exhaled slowly, letting your flames lick up your forearms in silent warning.
Then Stain moved. Faster than before—his body twisting unnaturally as he kicked off the alley wall, a dagger of bone erupting from his wrist midair.
Shoto's ice barely intercepted it, the impact sending shards spraying like shrapnel. Iida lunged, engines roaring—but Stain pivoted, using the momentum to slam him into the dumpster with a metallic crunch.
You didn't think. Your fire arced forward in a searing whip, carving through the space where Stain's neck should've been—but he was already gone, reappearing behind Shoto with another blade drawn.
The steel flashed downward—you summoned a gust that sent Shoto sprawling sideways just as the blade bit into his shoulder instead of his spine. Blood bloomed dark against his uniform.
The scent of iron sharpened the air. Iida screamed—a raw, wounded sound—as his engines flared blue-hot. He shot forward like a bullet, his foot connecting with Stain's ribs hard enough to crack pavement on impact. Bones snapped audibly.
Stain's breath left him in a wheeze, but he grinned through the blood as his free hand shot out, fingers elongating into claws aimed for Iida's exposed throat.
Your earth querk surged—spikes erupted from the ground, impaling Stain's forearm mid-lunge. The crunch of bone echoed sickeningly. Stain didn't scream.
He laughed—a wet, gurgling sound—as he wrenched free, leaving strips of flesh on the stone.
Shoto's blood dripped onto Stain's tongue. The Hero Killer's pupils dilated instantly, his muscles locking around you all like invisible wires.
Shoto's ice shattered mid-form. Bloodcurdle. The paralysis hit like a tidal wave—his limbs cementing mid-step, his lungs freezing mid-breath.
Stain rose slowly—too slowly—licking Shoto's blood from his teeth with deliberate relish. "Pathetic," he rasped, dragging a finger along Shoto's bleeding shoulder. "All that power…wasted on children who don't understand sacrifice."
His breath smelled like open graves as he leaned into your frozen space. "Let me show you how real heroes bleed."
Only Shoto remained paralyzed, his left hand still wreathed in dying flames, his right sleeve frozen stiff where his own ice had encased it mid-motion.
The rest of you could move—had to move—as Stain's katana whistled toward Shoto's exposed throat. Iida's engines roared to life, but you were faster—your earthen spikes erupted beneath Stain's feet, sending him staggering just enough for Deku's fist to capture his wrist.
The blade stopped inches from Shoto's carotid, quivering in midair like a rattlesnake poised to strike.
Deku's fingers dug into Stain's wrist, his knuckles whitening with the strain—but the Hero Killer just grinned wider, his free hand already elongating into another dagger aimed for Deku's ribs.
You didn't know if it would work, but logically it made sense. Fusing the extreme heat of fire with the atmospheric charge of air generates high-voltage electricity—you'd seen it in thunderstorms, felt it crackle in your bones when your quirks clashed mid-combat.
You slammed your palms together, igniting a cyclone of superheated wind that arced between you and Stain like Jacob's ladder. The lightning bolt hit him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the brick wall hard enough to crack mortar.
For one suspended second, his body convulsed midair, muscles seizing under ten thousand volts, his pupils blown wide with something almost like awe.
Then gravity took over. Stain hit the pavement in a twitching heap, his limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his katana clattering away into the shadows. The smell of ozone and charred flesh clung to the sudden silence.
Deku's breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at you—not with fear, but with that same unnerving intensity he usually reserved for All Might's speeches.
Iida's engines sputtered out with a whine. Shoto's ice finally melted from his sleeve, the water pooling scarlet at his feet.
You didn't move. Couldn't. Your fingertips still sparked with residual voltage, your pulse hammering against your scorched throat.
Stain's body jerked once—twice—before going still. The alleyway held its breath.
Iida was the first to break the silence. "You—" His voice cracked like dry kindling. He swallowed hard, his helmet reflecting the flickering streetlight. "You electrocuted him."
The words weren't an accusation. They were a revelation.
Shoto's fingers twitched toward his bleeding shoulder, his mismatched eyes locked on Stain's smoking form. "We need restraints," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the paralysis.
Deku nodded, already pulling capture tape from his belt—but his hands shook as he approached Stain, his movements too careful, like the villain might lurch back to life mid-motion.
Stain's breath rattled—wet and uneven—but his fingers spasmed against the pavement, scraping bloody grooves into the asphalt. You reacted before thinking, slamming another bolt of lightning through him.
His back arched off the ground, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath his scorched skin before he collapsed again, limp as a slaughtered animal. The smell of burning hair filled the alley.
Iida's gauntlet closed around your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Enough," he said—not harshly, but with a quiet authority that made your flames gutter out.
His visor hid his eyes, but his mouth was a thin, bloodless line."He's unconscious. We—" His voice broke. "We have protocols."
Shoto exhaled sharply through his nose, his ice creeping forward to encase Stain's wrists and ankles in jagged manacles. Deku's fingers hovered over Stain's pulse point, his brow furrowed.
"Alive," he confirmed, though he sounded almost surprised. The word hung between you all like a guillotine blade.
While Deku secured Stain's limp form with capture tape, Shoto's fingers brushed your singed sleeve—too light to be accidental, too hesitant to be intentional. His mismatched eyes flicked over your injuries—the shallow cut along your ribs, the blistered skin peeking through charred fabric.
"Where did you disappear to?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
"I got lost," you lied, swallowing the metallic tang of guilt. You couldn't tell Shoto about the monster lurking in the subway tunnels—couldn't explain the way its elongated fingers had scraped concrete as it whispered your father's name.
Not when Stain's blood still smeared Shoto's collar, not when his pulse jumped visibly beneath the gash on his throat.
Shoto sighed and walked to Stain, his left sleeve stiff with drying blood as he dragged the unconscious villain toward the alley's mouth. His breath fogged in the cold air between words: "Next time, get lost after the fight."
The joke landed awkwardly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward when your startled laugh echoed off the bricks.
Gran Torino's shadow cut across the alleyway before his voice did—a gruff "Well, shit" as he took in the scene: Deku's trembling hands still wrapped in capture tape, Iida's dented helmet reflecting the flickering streetlight, your scorched fingertips pressed to Shoto's bleeding shoulder.
The old hero whistled low, tapping his cane against Stain's limp leg. "Endeavor's gonna piss himself when he hears you brats took down the Hero Killer."
His beady eyes locked onto you, narrowing at the ozone still crackling in your periphery. "Especially you, sparky."
Deku opened his mouth—probably to launch into some frantic explanation—but Torino cut him off with a dismissive wave.
"Save it for the cops." He jabbed his cane toward the distant wail of sirens, his grin sharp as a switchblade. "Unless you want to explain why Stain smells like a barbecue gone wrong."
The words should've been a warning, but your fire flickered in response anyway—a silent promise that if Stain so much as twitched, you'd reduce him to cinders. Shoto's fingers brushed your wrist, his touch colder than the ice still clinging to his sleeve.
Then, the heroes that Endeavor sent arrived in a flurry of reinforced boots and crackling comms, their expressions twisting from urgency to disbelief as they took in the scene: Stain trussed up like a holiday roast, his charred limbs twitching sporadically under Shoto's ice restraints.
Iida stiffened when their leader—some broad-shouldered sidekick with a shockwave quirk—whistled low.
"You kids did this?" The disbelief in his voice made your teeth ache. Iida's helmet dipped, his voice barely audible through the dented metal: "My actions were unheroic. I let vengeance cloud my judgment."
Deku flinched like the words were physical blows. "I should've noticed sooner," he blurted, fingers twisting in his torn sleeves. "I'm sorry—"
Shoto cut him off with a sharp exhale. "You're the Class President, Iida. Pull yourself together." The reprimand lacked heat—if anything, it sounded almost fond.
Iida's spine straightened instantly, his engines giving a weak sputter of compliance.
The shockwave hero blinked at you all like you'd grown extra heads, his comms buzzing with Endeavor's unmistakable baritone demanding updates.
You barely heard him. Your focus snagged on the way Shoto's blood had seeped through his makeshift bandage, dripping steadily onto the asphalt—a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that synced with the throbbing in your own scorched palms.
The scent of iron sharpened the air, mingling with ozone and burnt flesh until your stomach turned.
A paramedic's gloved hand reached for your bleeding forearm, but you recoiled before thinking, your fire licking up your sleeves in reflexive defense.
Suddenly, the winged Nomu-like creature appears in the sky. Gran Torino's cane cracked against the pavement as he snarled, "Everyone down!"—but the warning came too late.
The Nomu's talons closed around your ribs with sickening precision, lifting you skyward before you could summon a counterattack.
Gran Torino cursed, already kicking off the pavement with a burst of propulsion quirk, while Shoto's left side erupted in blue-white flames hotter than you'd ever seen.
What you felt was neither fear nor pain—just the distant sensation of talons piercing flesh, the wind screaming past your ears as the city blurred beneath you. The Nomu's wings beat against your skull with each ascent, its breath rancid against your neck.
You'd read about shock before—how the body numbs itself to trauma—but the detachment still surprised you.
Your fingers twitched for fire, for earth, for anything—but your quirks felt sluggish, distant, like they belonged to someone else.
Shockingly, Stain lunged upward with a blade you hadn't seen him conceal, slicing through his restraints midair. He moved like liquid shadow—grabbing the female Pro Hero by her hair, dragging his tongue across the blood streaking her temple before she could scream.
The Nomu's wings locked mid-beat, paralyzed by Stain's quirk. You plummeted. The ground rushed up to meet you in a sickening lurch—only for Stain to twist midair, slamming his blade through the Nomu's skull with a wet crunch.
Its corpse hit the pavement first, cushioning your fall just enough that your ribs didn't shatter on impact.
Stain's fingers closed around your throat before the dust settled, his grip just shy of crushing your windpipe.
"You're a weapon," he rasped, blood dripping from his split lips onto your cheek. His pupils were blown wide, fever-bright with conviction. "One For All's greatest mistake—a monster they let play hero."
The knife pressed against your jugular didn't tremble. "I should slit your throat here. Spare the world your fire."
You exhaled through your nose, tasting copper and ozone. "Do it," you whispered, your voice scraped raw from smoke inhalation.
The knife bit deeper—a hot sting followed by the slow trickle of blood down your collar. Stain's breath hitched. His fingers twitched.
You failed. You were face to face with the monster who killed your parents and you couldn't kill him. You should die.
The realization settled in your bones like lead. Stain's blade trembled—not from hesitation, but from the voltage still crackling under your skin. His lips peeled back in a snarl.
"Pathetic," he spat. "All that power, and you're still just a scared kid hiding behind heroes." The knife pressed deeper. You closed your eyes.
Then the world exploded in crimson. Stain's aura erupted—a malefic tide of blood and iron that slammed into everyone within twenty meters.
Deku hit the ground retching, his pupils blown wide with primal terror. Shoto's flames guttered out as his knees buckled, his hands clawing at his throat like the air had turned to acid.
Even Gran Torino staggered, his aged face draining of color as Stain's quirk wrapped around his spine like barbed wire. The fear was tangible—a living thing that slithered down your throat and coiled around your lungs until breathing felt like swallowing knives.
The grievous injuries of his perforated lungs due to his broken ribs finally caught up. Stain coughed—a wet, splintering sound—before his body jerked violently.
Blood frothed at his lips as his punctured diaphragm failed, his ribcage collapsing inward like a rotten fruit. His fingers spasmed around your throat before going slack. The knife clattered to the pavement. Silence.
Then—thud. Stain's forehead hit your collarbone with the weight of a felled oak, his body still kneeling over you in a grotesque parody of intimacy.
"Fuck," Gran Torino wheezed, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. The alley erupted into motion—paramedics surging forward, heroes barking orders into crackling comms.
You didn't move. Couldn't. Stain's blood pooled warm beneath your cheek, his final breath still trapped in the fabric of your uniform. Someone screamed your name—Deku? Shoto?—but the words dissolved into static.
Your vision tunneled, the edges blooming black as your body finally registered the blood loss, the fractured ribs, the fear chewing through your adrenal glands like a rabid animal.
The last thing you heard before collapsing was Iida's voice cracking over the din: "Don't you dare die on us."
His gauntlets pressed against your jugular, the metal slick with your blood. Funny. You'd always thought engines would feel hotter. . . .
Shoto had never ached this badly before—not even when Endeavor pushed him past his limits.
The antiseptic sting of Hosu General Hospital clung to his bandages, the painkillers doing little to dull the throbbing where Stain's blade had kissed bone.
Across the room, Izuku's fingers trembled around his juice box. "Stain let us live," he murmured, voice raw. "He could've killed us anytime."
Shoto exhaled through his nose, watching his breath fog the IV drip. "He was toying with us." The admission tasted like ash. "Tenya, your bravery saved the day,"
Tenya's head dipped, his glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights in fractured squares. "Bravery?" His voice cracked like dry timber. "I charged in like a fool. My brother would've—"
Shoto's ice-crusted hand clamped onto Tenya's wrist before he could finish. "You saved my life."
he words landed with uncharacteristic weight. Tenya's throat worked silently, his engines giving a weak sputter—neither agreement nor denial, just the quiet hum of shame settling into his bones.
Shoto hadn't seen you since they wheeled you into surgery, your uniform soaked crimson from collar to hem. The cardiac monitor's flatline still echoed in his skull—that terrible, endless tone as the crash cart rattled toward your gurney.
His left side flared instinctively at the memory, frost creeping across his IV line. The nurses had stopped scolding him for it after the third time.
The door creaked open to reveal Manual's exhausted face, Gran Torino perched on his shoulder like a gnarled gargoyle. "You've got a visitor," Manual said, his voice stripped raw from debriefings.
The Chief of Police ducked through the doorway—all towering stature and dog features, his tailored uniform straining across broad shoulders.
Shoto's fingers twitched toward his IV pole before he caught himself. Kenji Tsuragamae smelled like gun oil and stale coffee, his golden eyes scanning their bandages with clinical detachment.
"Young Todoroki," Kenji began, his voice gravelly but measured. "Had this been an official operation—"
Shoto's IV bag exploded in a shower of ice shards before the Chief could finish. "Native would be dead," Shoto snarled, his right side igniting despite the heart monitor's frantic beeping. "Tenya too."
Gran Torino's cane cracked against Shoto's knee with precision that spoke of decades subduing hotheaded students. "Cool your jets, kid."
Tenya's hand clamped onto Shoto's wrist, his grip trembling but firm. "He's right," Tenya murmured, though his glasses couldn't hide how bloodshot his eyes were. "We broke protocol."
Kenji exhaled through his nose, the sound almost canine. "That was my opinion as a policeman," he admitted, adjusting his peaked cap. "Not enough witnesses means no paperwork."
His golden eyes flicked to the security cameras in the ceiling corners—deliberately, Shoto realized. "Officially, this never happened."
The unspoken for your sakes hung heavier than any reprimand. Izuku's juice box crumpled in his grip, his tears dripping onto the linoleum. "Thank you," he whispered, voice cracking.
Kenji's tail gave a single stiff wag before stilling. "You three have bright futures," he said, so quietly Shoto almost missed it.
Then the Chief bowed—deep, formal, his snout nearly brushing his knees—before turning on polished heels. "Thank you for keeping the peace," he added over his shoulder.
Shoto watched Kenji's retreating back for exactly three seconds before his patience snapped. "What about Y/N?" he demanded, his voice sharp enough to make Gran Torino's whiskers twitch.
The adults exchanged glances—too quick, too practiced—before Kenji turned back, his expression shifting into something guarded.
"Her situation is… complicated," he said carefully. "Stain's speech implicated them as a potential accomplice to the League of Villains."
Shoto's IV stand screeched as he lunged forward, frost spider-webbing across the floor. "That's unreasonable," he spat, his left eye flashing dangerously blue.
Kenji didn't flinch. "Be that as it may," he said evenly, "she'll be retained until conscious and able to answer our questions." Manual flinched at the word retained, his fingers tightening around his clipboard.
Gran Torino's cane tapped against Shoto's IV pole with deliberate finality. "Kid's lucky to be alive," he grunted, jerking his chin toward the ICU doors. "Stain carved 'em up like a Christmas ham."
The old hero's beady eyes locked onto Shoto's trembling fists. "You really think the HPSC's gonna let a walking warhead waltz outta here without debriefing?" The question landed like a gut punch.
Shoto's flames guttered out, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of the unspoken truth: you were dangerous.
The cardiac monitor's steady beep underscored the silence as Shoto stared at his bandaged hands—the same hands that had failed to pull you from that alley before the Nomu took you.
The same hands that had been too slow, too weak. His reflection in the IV bag's remaining fluid showed a boy with hollow eyes and singed bangs. Not a hero. Not yet.
Across the room, Izuku's muffled sobs hitched. "She'll be okay," he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "She has to be." Tenya's gauntlet creaked as his fingers clenched.
in the same space (smut)
off-menu (smut)
practice makes perfect ! (smut)
“bring it on hero” (smut)
charged to the touch (smut) pt.2 (smut)
an eater (smut)
8pm and you (smut)
princess (smut)
fight me, love me (angst, smut)
“let me hear you” (smut)
“speakin’ my language..?” (smut) pt.2 (smut)
“you’re not supposed to get up, kats!” (smut)
good boy!~ (smut)
“don’t hang up.” (smut)
monsterfuckin’ kats (smut)
breading with bakugo, no pun intended (smut)
out on a limb!~ (smut)
office katsuki (smut)
“i bite things i like.” (suggestive)
the concept(suggestive)
corgasm !? (smut)
virgin kats (smut) pt.2 (suggestive, smut)
showerheaddd (smut)
everybody here wants you…(smut)
arts n crafts (smut)
drunk in luv!~ (smut)
seven minutes in heaven! (smut)
sleepyheads (smut)
rut (smut)
caught red handeddd (smut)
grinderrr (smut)
dragon drabble (smut)
glasses (smut) pt.2 (smut)
lightweight (smut)
your highness (smut)
whipped cream (smut)
meow (smut) pt.2 (suggestive) pt.3 (suggestive)
honeymoon (smut)
accidental submission (smut)
safeword (smut, comfort)
happy trail (suggestive)
pick up the phone (smau) (suggestive)
hopelessly yours (fluff, smut)
valentines day (smut) pt.2 (smut)
beefy!bakugo (suggestive, smut)
food review (suggestive)
distraction (smut)
Katsuki who reads a lot in his freetime, though he’d never let any of his friends find out. It’s something he enjoys doing privately, he’s not exactly into the whole idea of them knowing what types of books he enjoys, what genres, or the types of literature. He’s definitely read a couple graphic titles in his spare time.
Katsuki who spots you sat in the common room with the others, but unlike them your nose is buried in the latest book you’ve been able to get your hands on. He’s curious about it, about the types of books you read, and so one day, while doing homework in your dorm, along with many of your friends he decides to swipe a book from your shelf, silently hoping you won’t notice. And you do notice it’s gone, though you’re not sure who’d taken it, you’re not entirely upset, mostly because your friends could really benefit from reading a book or two…
Katsuki who gets really into it. Like glued to it. And it’s probably the fastest he’d ever finished one before. So the next time there's a study session in your room, he returns the book, along with a note “8.7/10 that guy pissed me off fr” But he doesn’t just return the book, no. He leaves one of his own in place of the new book he’d decided to steal. A book he thought you might be into.
Katsuki who spots you reading the book he’d left behind the literal next day. And then, about two days later he sees you reading a new book. So, the following night, at your weekly study session he decides to swap the books out again, leaving behind yet another note. “7/10 why the hell would she get back with her cheating ex?” When he gets back to his dorm that night he sees a note you’d left behind in his book. “9.2/10 loved the slowburn”
Katsuki who forgets to lock his dorm one night, he’s not doing anything scandalous, he’s simply reading whatever book he’d swiped from your shelf this week. But boy is he surprised when you barge in. “Bakugou! Can I borrow your study sheet! I promise I’ll give it back before–” It’s then you notice the book in his hands. The one missing from your shelf, the one he’d swapped for one of his own. “So it’s been you?” . . . “What about it?” “Nothing, I just didn’t take you for the type of guy to read smut.” “I don’t fucking read it for that.” “Right, right, added bonus.”
Katsuki who’s a bit surprised when you knock on his door the following night. Letting yourself in the second he opens the door, planting yourself right on his bed, book in hand. Though he allows it, not wanting his secret to get out; not that you had any plans to leak that information. He finds it oddly comforting, the two of you sitting in silence, while reading. And he feels an odd sensation in his chest, watching you read the book he’d suggested to you.
Katsuki who enjoys the routine the two of you have built, swapping books back and fourth; while no longer having to hide it. He enjoys when the two of you sit down and talk about them, how you two have similar thoughts and feelings about them. But the second, you even suggest bringing someone else into the equation he’s fully against it. Why? Well why would he want anyone impeding on the time you’d been spending together? Why would he want someone else getting close to you the same way he had?
At Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, nobody can solve the case that’s slowly killing you—not even the legendary diagnostician Gregory House. As your condition worsens by the hour, House becomes dangerously obsessed with finding the answer before it’s too late, pushing away his team, breaking protocol, and unraveling under the weight of possibly losing the person he loves most.
What begins as a medical mystery turns into something far more personal: sleepless nights beside your hospital bed, blood-stained tissues, whispered confessions in dim hospital corridors, and a man who built his life around emotional distance finally realizing he would destroy himself to keep you alive.
Warnings: hurt/comfort story filled with tension, fear, sharp banter, aching vulnerability, and the soft aftermath of surviving something that almost tore you apart forever.
A/N: Okay, so this is something else than Jensen and his characters 🤭
I just love House M.D. and I thought why couldn’t I write something about that and you know what? Why the hell no?
Let me know what you think 🫶
Requests are open 💞
Rain hammered against the windows of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital hard enough to make the entire diagnostics wing feel underwater.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.
And for the first time in years, House was scared.
Not irritated.
Not cynical.
Not angry at the universe.
Scared.
He stood outside your hospital room with his cane clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale, staring through the glass as you slept beneath thin white sheets.
Oxygen cannula.
Heart monitor.
IV fluids.
Too many machines.
You looked wrong in a hospital bed.
“You’re gonna burn a hole through the window if you keep glaring at it,” James Wilson said quietly beside him.
House didn’t look away.
“She seized again twenty minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“They still don’t know what’s causing it.”
Wilson hesitated. “House—”
“Don’t.”
That single word came out razor-sharp.
Wilson exhaled slowly. “You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours.”
“And yet somehow I remain breathtakingly handsome.”
Normally that would’ve earned at least a small smile from Wilson.
Tonight, neither of them had the energy.
Inside the room, you stirred weakly, face tightening in discomfort before another wave of pain hit.
House moved instantly.
The cane hit the floor with a sharp clatter as he crossed the room.
“Hey,” he said, voice suddenly softer. “Easy.”
Your eyes fluttered open slowly.
The moment you saw him, relief cracked through your exhaustion.
“…House…”
“Unfortunately.”
You tried to smile.
It turned into a grimace instead.
Pain curled through your abdomen hard enough to steal your breath, and House’s expression changed immediately.
Not panic.
Something worse.
Helplessness.
He grabbed your wrist carefully, checking your pulse himself even though the monitor beside him was already doing it.
Cold fingers. Rapid heartbeat.
Still wrong.
“You’re staring again,” you whispered weakly.
“Because you’re making medical history in all the worst ways.”
Your laugh barely made it out before another coughing fit bent you forward.
Blood splattered across the tissue in your hand.
Wilson froze.
House didn’t.
“Get Cameron,” he barked without looking away from you. “Now.”
Wilson disappeared instantly.
You saw it then.
The fear.
Tiny. Hidden. Buried deep beneath sarcasm and irritation and Gregory House’s entire personality.
But it was there.
And somehow that terrified you more than the blood did.
“Hey,” you whispered shakily.
House looked at you.
“If I die—”
“You’re not dying.”
“House.”
“No.”
The word cracked this time.
Raw.
You swallowed hard.
His hand tightened around yours unconsciously.
And suddenly the great Gregory House looked less like a genius doctor and more like a man standing on the edge of losing everything.
The diagnostics conference room turned into a war zone within the hour.
MRI scans covered the screens.
Bloodwork scattered across the table.
Foreman argued autoimmune disease.
Cameron suggested neurological involvement.
Chase thought toxin exposure.
House hated all of it.
“Her kidneys are crashing,” Foreman snapped. “Something systemic is happening.”
“No kidding, Doctor Obvious.”
“We’re running out of time,” Cameron said quietly.
Silence.
That sentence landed like a gunshot.
House stared at your latest scans.
Then suddenly—
He froze.
Everyone noticed.
House limped toward the image slowly.
Zoomed in.
Enhancing contrast.
His eyes narrowed.
“…No,” he muttered.
“What?” Chase asked.
House’s breathing changed.
Tiny.
Uneven.
Then he grabbed the phone off the table violently enough to nearly rip the cord free.
“Prep OR two,” he ordered immediately. “Now.”
Foreman blinked. “For what?”
House turned toward them, eyes sharp again for the first time in days.
“It’s not autoimmune.”
“What is it?”
House looked back at your scan.
“There’s a clot wrapped around the mesenteric artery.”
Silence.
Cameron’s face dropped. “That would explain the organ failure…”
“And the seizures,” Foreman added.
Chase looked stunned. “How did we miss it?”
House’s jaw tightened.
“Because I was too busy being terrified she was dying.”
Nobody said anything after that.
Because House had just admitted the one thing he never admitted.
Fear.
The surgery lasted four hours.
Four of the longest hours of House’s life.
He sat outside the OR refusing to move, Vicodin bottle untouched in his pocket for once.
Wilson sat beside him eventually.
“You love her.”
House stared ahead.
“That your groundbreaking oncology opinion?”
Wilson smiled faintly. “You should tell her.”
House scoffed automatically.
Then quieter—
“…What if I’m too late?”
Wilson looked toward the operating room doors.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
The doors finally opened just after 2 a.m.
The surgeon pulled off his mask.
House stood immediately.
“Well?”
“The clot’s gone.”
Nobody breathed.
“She’s going to recover.”
Everything in House’s face shattered at once.
Relief. Exhaustion. Disbelief.
He sat back down hard in the chair like his legs had finally given out beneath him.
Wilson stared at him carefully.
House laughed once.
Small. Broken.
Then covered his eyes with his hand.
Hours later, you woke to dim lighting and the quiet hum of machines.
Your throat hurt.
Your body ached.
But you were alive.
House sat beside your bed asleep in the chair, head tilted awkwardly, cane leaning against the wall nearby.
You smiled weakly.
“…Greg.”
His eyes opened instantly.
Like he hadn’t really been sleeping at all.
For one long moment, he just stared at you.
Making sure.
Then he stood carefully and moved closer to the bed.
“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.
The honesty in his voice almost hurt more than the illness had.
Your fingers slipped into his slowly.
“You stayed.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You laughed softly.
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
“You’re an idiot,” he murmured.
“For almost dying?”
“For making me care.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then whispered—
“…I love you too.”
House went completely still.
Like the words physically stunned him.
Then finally, quietly—
“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I know.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Gregory House let himself stay there.
Hiiii so ik this is random and very self indulgent but I’m like currently bawling my eyes out because I had one of those really real dreams where I had twin babies (a boy and a girl) and they were so perfect. I could hear them calling me ‘Mama’ and it broke my heart when I woke up. I don’t know why but I feel super empty after those dreams and like my babies are missing. Have you ever had those dreams? I feel like it happens to a lot of girls but I could be delulu and it’s just me😭 but anyways how would Bucky react to reader waking up gasping and shaking and crying because she dreamt about her babies and now they’re gone? I need comfort asap I can’t even fall back asleep bc my heart is beating so fast🥀
THIS HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE FREAKING TIME AND I WAKE UP ABSOLUTELY HEARTBROKEN OH MY GODDDDD
--------
Bucky wakes to you gasping.
Sharp. Panicked. Like you’ve surfaced from underwater too fast.
He’s awake instantly.
Years of nightmares trained him for that—trained his body to react before his mind fully catches up. His metal arm curls around instinctively, searching for danger in the dark bedroom, but instead of an intruder or alarm, he finds you trembling beside him.
“Hey, hey—” His voice comes out rough with sleep as he pushes himself up on one elbow. “Sweetheart?”
You can’t answer.
Your chest is heaving so hard it hurts, tears already spilling down your cheeks before you even understand why you’re crying. The room is dark except for the dim orange glow from the streetlamp outside your apartment window, and for one horrible second you’re still halfway in the dream.
You can still hear them.
Mama.
Tiny voices. Sweet little giggles. Chubby hands reaching for you. A little girl with Bucky’s eyes. A little boy with your smile. Warm weight in your arms. Tiny pajamas. Sleepy cuddles. Love so overwhelming it made your chest ache inside the dream.
And then you woke up.
And they were gone.
The sob that leaves you is broken and ugly.
Bucky’s entire expression changes instantly.
“Oh, baby.” He gathers you into him before you can curl in on yourself, pulling you against his chest so carefully like you might shatter apart in his arms. “What happened? Talk to me.”
You shake your head hard, fingers twisting in his sleep shirt. “I—I can’t—”
“You can.” His palm rubs slowly up your back. “You’re okay. Just breathe for me first.”
But you can’t breathe.
Because it feels real.
That’s the worst part.
Not dream-real. Real-real.
Like somewhere deep in your body your heart had already decided those babies belonged to you.
“I had them,” you whisper suddenly, voice cracking apart. “Buck, I had them.”
His brows pinch together softly.
“The babies,” you cry. “We had twins and they were so real and they called me Mama and—” Your breath hitches violently. “I woke up and they’re gone.”
The words dissolve into another sob.
For a second, Bucky just holds you tighter.
Not dismissing it.
Not laughing.
Not telling you it was only a dream.
Because he knows better than anyone how powerful dreams can feel. How grief can exist for things that technically never happened. The human heart doesn’t care about technicalities at three in the morning.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs again, pressing his lips into your hair.
You’re shaking so hard now he can feel it through both of your blankets.
“I know this is stupid—”
“It’s not stupid.”
“But they felt real,” you whisper desperately. “I could hear them. I can still hear them.”
Bucky leans back just enough to cup your face in both hands. His blue eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there’s nothing in them except tenderness.
“Then of course this hurts.”
That only makes you cry harder.
Because that’s exactly it.
It hurts.
Your chest physically aches with it.
“I miss them,” you admit in a tiny voice, ashamed of how insane it sounds. “God, that sounds crazy.”
“No.” His thumbs wipe beneath your eyes gently. “No, it doesn’t.”
You stare at him, lip wobbling.
And Bucky—sweet, devastating Bucky—looks at you like your grief makes perfect sense to him.
“I’ve had dreams like that before,” he says quietly.
Your breathing stutters.
“Back when I was recovering,” he continues softly, “sometimes I’d dream about whole lives. Things that never happened. People I never got to have. I’d wake up grieving them anyway.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Your brain doesn’t know the difference sometimes. Your heart definitely doesn’t.”
The tears keep falling slower now, quieter.
“I just…” You press your fist against your chest helplessly. “I loved them.”
Bucky’s face nearly breaks at that.
Because he can picture it perfectly.
You as a mother.
Soft and sleepy with babies tucked against your chest. Tiny socks in the laundry. Little footsteps across hardwood floors. Your laugh filling a home.
And maybe it’s unfair that his own chest tightens at the image too.
“You wanna know something?” he whispers.
You nod weakly.
“I think they’d look like you.”
A watery sound escapes you somewhere between a laugh and another sob.
“The girl would definitely have your attitude,” he says, brushing tangled hair back from your face. “Poor me.”
You sniff hard. “And the boy?”
Bucky smiles faintly.
“He’d be attached to your hip twenty-four seven.” His expression softens into something unbearably warm. “Wouldn’t let you put him down.”
Your eyes flood all over again.
Not because it hurts this time.
Because he’s letting you grieve them for a second instead of trying to make the feeling disappear.
Bucky shifts until he’s sitting against the headboard, then gently pulls you fully into his lap like he thinks distance itself might upset you further. One large hand settles against the back of your head while the other rubs slow circles over your spine.
“You know what I think?” he murmurs into your hair.
“What?”
“I think somewhere deep down, your heart just wants to love somebody that much someday.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“And I think that’s a beautiful thing.”
Silence settles after that.
Not empty silence.
Safe silence.
The kind that lets your nervous system slowly stop screaming.
Bucky keeps holding you through every shaky breath. Every leftover tear. Every quiet sniffle pressed into his neck.
Eventually you whisper, almost embarrassed, “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
He pulls back immediately, brows furrowing like the idea genuinely offends him.
“No.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I think you had a really emotional dream and woke up with your heart cracked open.” Another kiss. Softer this time. “That happens sometimes.”
Your breathing finally starts evening out beneath his hands.
He pulls the blankets tighter around both of you until you’re wrapped together completely, cocooned in warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
And when another tear slips free, quieter this time, Bucky just kisses the top of your head and whispers:
summary: (12.7k - yes, i know - it really got away from me lol) roommate!bucky x confident plus-size reader - standalone follow-up fic to this drabble - after a mail mishap and some light eavesdropping, you finally cross the line you’ve both been secretly staring at for months
tw: fluff, confession of feelings, mention of Bucky's past, sweet and soft Bucky, dual POV (internal thoughts), brief mention of masturbation and sex toys, brief alluding to reader's failed relationships, a bit of awkwardness and humor during intimacy, Bucky's all about consent, a brief shower, oral (f! receiving), fingering, very brief description of pubic hair, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv (reader is on birth control), aftercare
a/n: this started with the intention of a quick smutty oneshot and somehow turned into a sorta slow(ish)burn of character development and a bit of backstory and worldbuilding - with some spice/smut sprinkled in - I hope you love it as much as I do! more to come for these two 🩶
You didn't mean to open Bucky's mail. As soon as you realized your mistake, you tried to fix it. Carefully put the sex toy back in its box, taped it up, strategically placed it on the kitchen table with some of his other things.
You really did have every intention of leaving your roommate clueless. Even acted completely normal when he came home. Watched him hastily grab his mail, cheeks turning pink, and flee to his room like it was any other day. Like you hadn't spent the last 24 hours imagining him using the damn thing.
But when his door stays shut, when he doesn't immerge after several long minutes, your curiosity gets the better of you and you start finding one ridiculous excuse after another to inch closer and closer to his room.
The plants in the living room window could use some watering.
Books on the coffee table needed straightening.
A slightly (by millimeters) crooked picture near his door calling for adjustment.
At least it finally puts you close enough to hear something other than your own breathing. And the moment you do, your fingers freeze on the frame - an abstract painting of the Brooklyn Bridge you found at a flea market that Bucky went back to buy for you.
The memory of him handing it to you - blushing and rubbing the back of his neck - now superimposed with the slick noises coming from his room. Filthy, muffled groans sending waves of arousal flooding your core, thighs tensing, throat going dry.
Because you're standing there like a fucking idiot, mouth agape, wondering what exactly he's doing in there. Other than obviously fucking a pocket pussy.
And while you try to decipher any of the words filtering through the thin wood, your brain helps by supplying one image after another:
Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed, pumping his cock with the toy, probably pretending some woman is riding him. Bouncing on his lap while he talks dirty to her.
Him standing, one hand flexing against the wall, vibranium holding the toy steady while he fucks it. Panting about how good it feels.
Muscled back rippling as he kneels on the bed, hips thrusting-
The present suddenly rushes in when you hear your name. Broken and desperate. Heated words about your pussy growing louder. Soaking the fabric between your thighs and urging you closer until you're standing right against his door, hand hovering over the knob. Heart pounding in your chest.
You're tempted to just walk in, but you do actually have some decency - despite the current situation you've found yourself in. So you knock. Loud enough that it silences everything. His rough groans, the simulated sounds of sex, your own breathing. Even the relentless hum from the fridge seems muted.
As if the whole world is waiting.
"Bucky?" Soft. Throat working around subtle nerves. And, anticipation. Excitement.
Because you've been waiting for this. For some sort of sign to stop pretending you don't want him. That you haven't spent the last several months fantasizing about him every chance you could.
Not just because he's pretty and could throw you around like a ragdoll. Because you know him. Actually trust him. Somehow immediately felt safe living with him even with your experience of moving through this world as a woman.
Which is why it doesn't surprise you when there's no answer. Even when you wrap your fingers around the doorknob and throw out a warning that you're coming in, he stays quiet. Either completely frozen in fear. Terrified that you've caught him in the act.
Or.
He knows that you opened his mail. Knows you're still home. Knows that you could probably - definitely - overhear him. And now, he's letting you decide what you want to do. If you want to cross that line. Risk ruining the friendship, only half-way into the lease.
Considering you've accidentally interrupted him before - and had to listen to him panic and pretend he was just working out - it's safe to assume Bucky wants you to open the door. Maybe he even-
Finding it unlocked triggers an exhilarated rush that has you giggling and finally turning the knob. The slight creak of the hinges the only sound as you open it to reveal him kneeling at the foot of the bed. His side profile dimly lit by the bedside lamp - and the light now streaming in through his doorway.
His hair in disarray. Shirt wrinkled, jeans open and pushed down. Wide shoulders hiding the toy from view. Body slightly angled like he's worried about exposing himself.
You pause in the doorway, metal knob warming under your touch, your other fingers wrapped around the wood of the doorframe. Watching the tension build in his shoulders. Jaw clenching. Chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.
"Hi," you whisper, silencing the doubt you know is forming, nipples tightening at the way his muscles instantly relax.
"Hey." Voice wrecked, sending another wave of heat straight to your core. Leaving you mess before anything's even happened.
"Didn't even think you knew about sex toys."
"Jesus." He drops to his forearms, chest covering the evidence on the bed. The blush along the back of his neck darkening.
"Sorry," you breathe, trying to reign in the familiar urge to tease him, unable to entirely wipe the grin from your face. "If it helps, it sounded really hot."
Muffled laughter fills the quiet space, his face pressed against the mattress, balled fists slowly relaxing.
"Yeah. Definitely helps."
"Was actually kinda hopin' for the visual experience, if we're bein' honest."
An actual shudder seems to run through him, the groan of your name urging you forward. Away from the doorway and closer to where he's leaning over the bed. As if seeking salvation.
Or maybe just the confidence to admit what he wants.
"You were thinkin' about me."
"Yeah." A barely audible grunt that makes your smile soften, and your stomach flutter.
"About fucking me."
His sharp inhale has you pausing near his trembling body. Vibranium slightly whirring when his fingers unfurl, both palms flattening against the covers. Creating divots where he slowly pushes himself up to reveal the toy, silicone glistening and -
Is that my shirt?
Bucky's interrupting your train of thought with a quick glance up at you. His nostrils flaring, mouth and chin wet. Answering for him before he has to utter a word.
"Wasn't-," he pauses, swallowing roughly and snatching the fake pussy off the bed. Shame creeping up uninvited.
"But you do," you offer gently, trying to catch his gaze. "Wanna fuck me."
"Wanna date you," he corrects, resting back on his heels, underwear adjusted, shirt pulled taut to cover himself. Toy shoved underneath his bed out of sight. "Wanna hold your hand. Kiss you. And yeah..." He finally tilts his head to meet your gaze. "Wanna fuck you."
A quick breath to try to steady yourself, his half-lidded stare and peek of wet tongue making it nearly impossible. Your thighs pressed together in search of friction as your walls pulse around nothing, forcing you to bite back a moan.
His infuriating grin tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you. As does the obvious flare of his nostrils. Lashes fluttering as he breathes you in, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. A satisfied groan that almost has you breaking the distance. Ready to kiss him. Pounce on him.
Except he suddenly grunts something unintelligible. Eyes snapping open as he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. His chin. Fingers becoming slick with what you now realize is lube as it leaves a shiny smear across his stubble.
"Shit," he hisses, reaching for the comforter to wipe himself clean. Movements jerky, embarrassed.
"Bucky."
The gentle way you assure him with just his name eases some of the worry and shame trying to encourage him to hide. His forehead finding purchase against the edge of the bed, fingers painfully twisting in the blanket to ground himself.
"I'm a mess," he mutters, desperate and hopeful that you'll keep showing him the way through. Like you always seem to.
"Me too," you promise, a little more breathless than you intend. "We can be a mess together."
A beat as you watch him come back to himself. Shoulders dropping. Soft laughter as he looks back at you, his grin matching yours.
"Could start with a shower," you suggest, playfully raising your eyebrows. Offering him a chance to clean up without making it into a big deal. Determined to show him he has nothing to be ashamed of. That you want this just as much as does.
"Yeah," he nods, taking advantage of the moment to blatantly check you out. Eyes slowly roaming down your collarbone, over your erect nipples visible through your thin shirt, the small sliver of soft skin peeking out above your leggings, all the way down to your aching thighs now nearly crossed.
Not moving an inch until he meets your gaze again, smirking when you roll your eyes and shake your head. Your hands resting on your hips turning him on even more. Intense stare darkening as he finally stands, pants resecured as if he's not about to strip naked.
A subtle show of dominance that catches you off guard and sends a thrill of excitement straight to your clit. Legs threatening to give out simply so you can kneel in front of him. Watch his expression change when you -
"After you," he grins, flesh hand gesturing towards his open door, the short walk through the apartment suddenly feeling like miles. Each step carrying you closer to the point of no return, passing all the spots you've only ever shared as roommates. As friends.
Debates on the couch over classic movies and reruns of your favorite shows.
Dinner in the kitchen while you pitted 1930's music against more modern songs.
Laughter filling the hallway when Bucky couldn't get the smoke detector to stop chirping.
And those initial moments of surprise when you realized he was keeping the bathroom stocked. Replacing items he didn't even use simply because he noticed you were running low.
Always finding ways to take care of you without expecting anything in return.
When your bare feet reach tile, you turn towards him, heart pounding, throat gone dry. A million thoughts rushing to one single focus. How wrung out he still looks. Wild and passionate. Like a loaded spring ready to break loose.
"You're gonna make me wait until -."
Bucky carefully pivots around you, interrupting you to do exactly what you're about to tease him over. Quick hands reaching for his toothbrush, digging through the cabinet for his toothpaste. A man on a mission if you've ever seen one, his efficient teeth-brushing encouraging you to start the shower, the spray covering your uncontrolled giggle.
You're so focused on getting everything ready - and thinking about what's about to happen - you miss the entire skincare routine he's performing at the sink. Scrubbing away all the evidence that he was getting off to the fantasy of eating you out.
Leaving him ready to make all of it a reality - starting with finding out what you really taste like.
The first brush of his hand across your back has you melting, fresh towels haphazardly hung so you can turn quicker, finding him smiling down at you. Looking at you like you've imagined a thousand different ways. Pulse stuttering when he cups your jaw, thumb memorizing the corner of your parted lips.
"Never thought I'd actually get a chance at this," he confesses, gaze flickering between your wide eyes and tempting mouth.
"Yeah?" Voice thick with desire. And a hint of teasing. "Well lucky for you, I'm willing to offer you multiple." Mouth upturned when you add, "ya know, in case you're rusty."
"Mmm," he growls with a grin of his own, leaning down until his minty breath ghosts across your lips, "'preciate that, doll. Don't think that's gonna be a problem, though."
His eyes flick back up to meet yours, radiating a bit of that Brooklyn confidence that never quite left him, even after all these years. Living with you drawing it out of him more than anything else ever could - reminding him of who he used to be. Who he could still be.
"Gonna kiss you now," he whispers, searching one last time for any trace of reluctance. Hesitation. Possible regret.
All Bucky finds is his same longing mirrored back, your chin lifting, body closing the last few inches of distance. Inviting him in to prove how much he wants you, sealing it with a confident, "You better."
A sinful lick of his lips and he meets you halfway, mouths fusing in a heated slow dance. Gentle, chaste kisses naturally melting into more the moment electricity arcs between you. Tongues exploring, teeth momentarily clashing as you find the right angle, hands roaming with more urgency.
His large palm cups your cheek, vibranium arm wrapped around you, clinging to you like you might disappear. Your own fingers grasping at his shirt, one hand combing through his damp strands, tugging a fistful and moaning into his mouth when he presses you up against the wall.
The door swings closed with a nudge of his foot, the hot spray of the shower creating a humid cocoon that leaves you dizzy. Aching. Desperate for more than just this incredibly perfect makeout session in your shared, cramped bathroom. Even if it is better than anything you could have ever imagined.
Your gasp of his name only spurs him on, flesh and metal cradling your face, tongue licking into your mouth. The bulk of him holding you hostage, tasting you with renewed purpose. Overwriting the last hour so all he can remember is you.
Soft curves molding against solid muscle, sweet little moans that he swallows down, your hypnotic smell unlocking something inside of him. Giving him permission to be something other than a man trying to atone for his past.
A man who gets to just be here with you. Focus on nothing but how warm you are. Plush hips calling for his hands. The arch of your back drawing his lips down. Peppering kisses along your jaw, teeth sucking a welcome bruise on your throat, your tight grip in his hair sending a shock of pleasure straight to his dick.
"Want you," he groans, nose nudging your ear. "'ve wanted you for so damn long."
"Me too," you confess, breath clawing its way out. A visible shudder rolling over him when your nails scrape bare skin, your free hand sneaking under the back of his shirt, pulling him against you, bodies rocking in time with heavy pants for more oxygen.
"Really wanted to do this right," he admits, kissing his way back to your mouth. Three innocent pecks before reluctantly pulling away so he can see you again. Intently watch you as he tells you, "You deserve romance, sweetheart. Deserve to be swept off your feet. Don't want you think this is just some..."
Brow furrows as he searches for the right word, his thumb caressing the apple of our cheek, gaze flitting to your kissable lips before he catches himself. Grinning like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Tryin' to tell you I like you." A heartbeat to gather the courage. "More'n like you, but don't wanna risk scarin' you off."
"Think we're way past that now," you laugh, running your fingertips along his stubble. Gaze following the trail towards his mouth, lips shiny with your saliva. Calling you forward into another kiss. Twin moans barely audible over the shower wasting away, reminding you of all the possibilities.
You could keep making out right here, maybe end up on the floor with you straddling him. Watch his eyes rolls back as you sink down all the way.
Or you could shut off the shower and return to his room. Or yours. Take advantage of the bed. Or desk. Or any number of available surfaces.
But something about the water calls to you. Offers a neutral place - a sanctuary where only the two of you exist, learning how to take this leap together. Because as much as you want to just skip to the part where you're swallowing him down, he deserves romance just as much as you do.
"I like you too, ya know," you whisper in between kisses, fingers slowly guiding his shirt up. "More than like you."
Bucky swears his heart stops beating, trembling hands holding you like porcelain. Suddenly terrified of screwing this all up. Disappointing you somehow.
"Been a while," you confess with a soft laugh, cutting through the noise. "Not as long as you of course," you grin, lifting his shirt, encouraging him to raise his arms. Leaving him more exposed than he's ever felt. "But, long enough that I've had to replace a toy or two."
His huff of laughter fans across your face, strong hands pulling you flush against him, his strained erection digging into your belly. Forehead dropping to yours when your fingers map along his jaw. Down his bobbing throat. Fingertips ghosting over the chain of his dogtags, following the trail of his collarbones, dangerously close to wear flesh meets metal.
"Sweetheart."
An overwhelming ache for more leaves him breathless. Eyelids fluttering closed, tension building along nerves - vibranium plates subtly shifting, as if preparing for battle.
"It's okay," you breathe, left hand sliding along warm skin, up along his right shoulder, following the defined muscles down his arm. His lashes open to reveal twinkling blues when he flexes his bicep under your palm, showing off just to watch you giggle.
Because it helps him feel normal. Makes him feel safe enough to let you mirror your actions on his left side. Tears burning his eyes when you handle him with such care. Gentle touches over scar tissue, soft gaze watching for any sign that you might need to slow down. Like he's owed compassion.
"Didn't-," he pauses to swallow, eyes nearly rolling back, your thumb caressing a sensitive spot near his collarbone. "Feels good." More than he thought it ever could. More than he thought he deserved.
"Good," you exhale, carefully tracing the edges of his rough scars. Wishing you could change the horrors that created them, in complete awe of the strength it took for him to survive. "That's all I want - to make you feel good."
Bucky's grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging into supple flesh, an unexpected whimper tearing out of him before he can swallow it down. The rough groan of your name interrupting you before you can offer reassurance, his head dropping in shame, muscles rippling under your delicate touch.
But then he's surprising you all over again, laughter filling the scant space between you as he leans in, stubble grazing your cheek. "Didn't realize words could make me almost..."
Another breathless chuckle and he's kissing you again. Groaning against your mouth when your confident hands keep exploring him, leaving no part of him untouched. Warm fingertips skating down his chest. A sure palm learning the smooth metal of his arm. Treating every inch of him like he's sacred.
As much as he wants to just kneel at your alter and worship you in return, he can't seem to break away. Foreign selfishness wraps around him, amplifying his need to be seen, muting the guilt that usually eats away at him. Giving way for him to lean into you. Bask in your touch. Practically beg for time to stand still so he can't risk losing this.
As if reading his mind - or just reminding him how much he's let you in over the past six months - your hands slow. Taking even more time to map his skin. Find all the sensitive spots that have him shivering against you. Moaning. The heat building towards an inescapable inferno.
The catalyst comes in the form of your fingers dipping below his belly button, abs constricting at your feather-light touch. Throwing him off balance and helping him find his footing all in the same breath. One last filthy kiss and he's refocusing, hands reaching for the edge of your shirt.
"You are way too overdressed, sweetheart."
A small, appreciative laugh and you're raising your brow in a playful challenge, "Then you should probably do something about that."
His lingering grin adds fuel to the fire raging inside of you and he's lifting the soft cotton, obscuring your vision for one fleeting second before the fabric falls in a fell swoop. Joining Bucky's shirt on the bathroom rug while he never takes his eyes off you. Nipples immediately pebbling under his stare.
"God, you're gorgeous."
His quiet, reverent groan is enough to make you lose your mind. A sharp exhale and your eyes drift closed, head tilting back to thud against the cool wall. Hands dropping in surrender, back arching at his simple praise flooding your senses.
"Knew you were, but jesus, doll. Didn't-" his words halt, hands hovering over tempting flesh, fingers itching to peel the rest of your clothes off. But he makes you wait, warm breath fanning across your parted lips as he whispers, "Open your eyes for me, pretty girl."
That stubborn streak in you is nowhere to be found. His request eagerly met with obedience, goosebumps blooming across your skin as you meet his gaze. Your nerves humming, ready for him to lead. Craving this side of him.
"Need to see you," he explains, lips curving, reading you so easily that it stills leaves you breathless sometimes. And scares you a little - but he's cupping your jaw again, anchoring you right here with him. Refusing to let you hide behind quick wit and endless teasing.
"Can you do that for me? Keep lookin' at me while I touch you?" Bucky asks, voice barely audible over the shower still calling your name. Trapping you between speeding this up and letting him take all the fucking time he wants.
Your response gets lost in the haze of sensations. The cool metal cradling your chin deliciously contrasting with his warm fingers stroking an enticing trail between your bare breasts. His intense stare triggering the sudden realization that despite all your late-night fantasies, you are utterly unprepared for how thoroughly he's about to take you apart.
"Thought about this - about you - every single night," he admits, inhaling sharply when you tremble for him. Palm sliding up your waist, brushing the underside of your breast. "How you'd feel. What you'd sound like." Another shudder and he's cupping the heavy weight of you, thumb circling your nipple, watching the unexpected pleasure play out across your features. "None of it even compares to the real thing. My god."
That's it - he's hardly touched you and it's too much. Knees threatening to buckle. Hands reaching out to grab hold of him in hopes of steadying yourself. And yet your rushed exhale of words beg for more. The whine of his name, a whimpering please that he better not tease you over later.
Bucky wouldn't dare. Not when you're looking at him like that. All desperate and needy, like he's the only one that can soothe that ache building inside of you. A heavy breath, a quick glance at the shower, and he's dropping to a crouch, fingers hooking in the waistband of your leggings to help rid you of one last barrier.
All it takes is a subtle nod and he's helping you wiggle free, the material snagging around your ankle before he tugs it loose. Leaving you completely bare. Naked and vulnerable. Lungs barely moving oxygen, heart caught in your throat, tracking the way he's studying you.
Gentle fingertips following the curve of your calf, dancing along the back of your knee until your breath stutters and your fingers dig into his shoulder. Thighs instinctively parting when he glances up at you, his touch growing dangerously close to where you're dripping for him.
He almost gives in. Mouth watering as he skirts the edge of asking if he can taste you. Prop your leg over his shoulder and dive in. Drown in you like he's been dying to for months.
But, he's a man of his word, so he resists.
Barely.
Secure hands land on your hips, a lingering kiss placed on your soft belly, and he's standing to full height. Heart skipping a beat when you offer to help him with his pants, your fingers tangling with his in a messy dance that has you both laughing.
Lips meeting in a series of uncoordinated attempts to makeout while Bucky works to kick off his underwear and jeans. Nearly tripping over them in the process, pushing you up against the wall again, his freed erection leaving a wet trail across your skin.
He'd apologize if he weren't so focused on getting you in the shower before the hot water runs out, his vibranium arm - now warm against your back - pivots you towards the tub, his free hand pulling the curtain back. Providing just enough space for you to step in, his hands never leaving you. Ensuring you don't slip while he joins you.
The hot spray hitting your back elicits a satisfied sigh that has him twitching against your stomach, his arms banding around you to hold you closer. Noses bumping when he leans in for a kiss. Mouth hovering over yours for just a second when the temperature of the water registers, fingers flexing against your warm, wet skin.
"Jesus, doll," laughter exhaling against your lips, "That ain't too hot for you?"
A breathless giggle and you're kissing him properly, mumbling, "actually like it hotter than this." One hand tangled in his hair, the other toying with this dogtags, the clink of metal barely heard over the spray - and his groans. Teasing mutterings about enduring scalding showers for you.
"Showering alone will still be an option, ya know."
"No, no," he concedes, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Burning slowly is a price I'm willing to pay," a soft press of his lips to your jaw. "Especially if it means I get to see you like this." A kiss right below your ear. "Gettin' all wet for me."
"You shouldn't be so good at this," you whisper, trying - and failing - to bite back a whimper.
"Had a lot of practice," he reminds you, carefully turning you until your back hits the wall, the cool tile making you gasp. "Lotta nights imagining what I'd say to you." Metal fingers wrap around your hip, holding you still as he resists the urge to grind against you. "How you might let me touch you."
"What about how I might touch you?" you ask, palm flush against his chest, right over his heart, fingers covering his dogtags.
"Yeah," he smiles, lips curving along your throat, "thought about that too." A beat of vulnerability when he pulls back to see you, wet fingers leaving a trail of droplets along your jaw, bypassing your throat to rest between your breasts. Counting your heartbeats.
"Took me a while though," he confesses, eyes drifting down, watching the slow rise and fall of his hand with your deeper breath. "To let myself want... anything, really." Hesitant gaze meets yours before he melts against you, your fingers massaging the nape of his neck. "But that doesn't mean- you don't owe me anything, sweetheart."
His hands cradle your face, in awe at the glaring trust radiating back. Desire rolling off you in waves. "Not ever." His forehead drops to yours, gentle as snowfall. "Could spend the rest of my life just makin' you feel good - however you want - and I'd die a happy man."
Your inhales grow sharper, lashes blinking back the tears threatening to form. All because he's treating you like you deserve. Easily clearing the bar you were convinced you set way too high. Having long assumed all the good guys were either taken, or simply too good to be true.
It'd be easy to believe the latter about Bucky - at first glance he seemed like the conventional player. A heartbreaker. Someone who'd ghost you after you showed just a little too much interest.
You'd never been happier to be proven wrong. Even if you had no idea it'd end up here.
"I think about making you feel good all the time," you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb stroking his stubble. Helping ease the tension starting to gather there. "Think about... touching you." Your free hand starts a slow trek down his chest, fingers teasing over his nipple.
A gasp tears out of him, long fingers encircling your wrist. Not stopping you. Or guiding. Just holding. Grounding himself against the sudden rush of need. Of longing. And the ever present anxiety starting to creep back up.
"Think about wrapping my hand around you," you whisper, your touch dipping lower, taking your time, patiently letting him adjust. Deciding to keep the surprises strictly verbal right now. "Stroking you. Taking you in my mouth."
"Oh god," he shudders, grip tightening around delicate bones, vibranium digging into your hip before he catches himself. "Need-," he shakes his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in. Cursing when he smells the earlier lube still matting his pubic hair. "Lemme... I gotta-."
"It's okay," you assure him, your hand never making contact. There's no disappointment though. You just smile, watch him step backwards into the spray, putting needed distance between you.
For a split second anyway - then he's lunging forward to kiss you. Smooch you loudly. Making you laugh and leaving you breathless all at once. Skin prickling with renewed want. But also an exhilarated sense of safety. Because even though this is the beginning of something incredibly scary and life-changing and exciting, you still get to have fun and play around in the inevitable awkwardness.
It's a breath of fresh air after - well, after experiences you'd much rather erase from your mind. Especially since you're getting to watch Bucky shower. Hands scrubbing soap-slick skin. Back rippling like he's giving you a visual performance to match the audio-only memory from his bedroom door.
"Did you plan to let me hear you?"
Your sudden question has his actions pausing, hands stilling in their efforts to rinse away any remaining soap.
"No," the sharp sound almost drowned out by the shower beating against skin. "Didn't- didn't have a plan, really." Routine movements resume, head turning slightly when he continues, "Was just gonna put it away, use it later... and then I realized that you had..."
"Potentially committed a felony?" you cheekily suggest.
Bucky laughs and turns around, now squeaky clean as he reaches for you to close the minimal distance once again. Bodies fitting together perfectly.
"It's only a felony if you meant to open my mail," he tells you, wet hands slipping around your waist like they've always belonged there. His lips hovering just out of reach while he asks, "You tryin' to tell me somethin', pretty girl?"
"No," you breathe, the nickname causing butterflies to take up permanent residence in your belly. "Definitely wouldn't have been mad if you had planned it, though."
He shakes his head, ocean blue eyes searching your fluttering gaze, "wouldn't'a done that. Not on purpose, anyway." A rueful chuckle and he's adding, "But, haven't exactly thought clearly since I met you, so maybe - yeah - it's possible - some part of me..." Your wide, hopeful eyes encourage him to finish the confession - the truth shall set you free, as they say. "Was hopin' you'd... want to hear me."
Your smile grows until you're laughing against his lips, your own secrets ready to spill out. The words get lost, his tongue coaxing yours into his mouth. The kiss turning hungry, more desperate. His already heavy cock growing harder against your stomach as you clutch at his shoulders.
"Can I- can I touch you?" He's panting against your lips, kisses turning sloppy. Water droplets dripping down to mix with his pre-cum smeared across your skin.
"Yeah." A heavy breath and quick nod that leaves you dizzy. "Yeah, please."
Bucky tamps down your greedy gasps, kissing you slow and sweet, fingers tracing your jaw. Eyes locking when he starts a slow path down your throat, the back of his fingers making you shiver.
"Wanna take my time," he whispers, licking his lips as you lean into him, drawing his touch lower. "Love watchin' you like this."
The first deliberate pass over your nipple has your back arching, his lips parting in awe at how responsive you are. Your reaction stealing his breath, carving out the last doubt that his hands couldn't cause someone else pleasure. Couldn't be used for good. Or selfish reasons.
Because fuck, you feel incredible. The weight of your breasts fitting perfectly in his palms, his cock twitching with each shuddering inhale you manage. Your eyes trying to close as he plays with your nipples, fingers gently pinching the buds to stiffer peaks that call for his mouth.
He's too busy watching you right now. Mesmerized by how hard you're fighting the pleasure pulling you under. Giving him the eye contact he was terrified of asking for. Because he needs the reminder that this is real. That he's not lost in some fantasy in the dark, taking something he doesn't deserve.
You're actually here. Begging for his touch. Begging for his hand to slip between your thighs, find you dripping for him, soft skin slick with need.
You moan his name, arms banding around his neck, clinging to him. Legs parting to give him better access. The cramped space making it nearly impossible. You start to lift your foot, aiming for the edge of the wet tub when Bucky steadies you. Vibranium arm slipping behind your back, his right hand leaving your inner thighs to secure your leg.
"Careful," he murmurs, refusing to risk letting you fall. Even if he's aching to feel you wrapped around him. Tight wet heat welcoming his fingers. His tongue. Eventually his cock, if he doesn't combust before then.
But none of that is possible like this. One wrong move and you could slip. Hurt yourself because of his impatience. He'd never forgive himself if that happened.
"Can I take you to bed?" he asks, kissing your forehead, stubble grazing your nose. "Lay you out. Get you comfortable." His thigh slips between yours, just shy of giving you the pressure you're craving. "Watch you come all over my fingers?"
A euphoric rush washes over you, core clenching, nipples aching. Fingers accidentally grabbing the chain around his neck before you're giggling. Apologizing. Nodding your head and kissing him. Once. Twice. Tongue teasing over the seam of his lips while you push him backwards.
Putting distance between you so you don't sink to your knees and show your appreciation. For caring about you. For proving you wrong once again - the myth of a good man turning out to be real.
Not that you had any doubts. But it's nice to have the proof.
To have a someone resist the urge to take advantage of the obvious green light simply to keep you safe. To take the time to help you out of the tub, methodically dry you off, map your skin with innocent kisses. Murmur adoring praise while he guides you out of the steamy bathroom and into the cool air of the apartment.
His growly whispers of, "God, you're so soft, sweetheart," and "everything about you is perfect," and, fuck, "you smell so good," spreading goosebumps across your heated flesh, eliciting noises you've only ever made on your own. Knees buckling, almost giving out over the short distance to your bedroom.
Not that he'd ever let that happen. Confident hands helping you towards your bed, the towel slung around his hips pressing against your ass. He doesn't dare push you down - he simply holds you, smiles against your shoulder when his stubble makes you shiver.
"This still okay?" he asks, kissing the back of your neck, lips lingering for a heartbeat.
"Mmhmm," you assure him, leaning back in the safety of his arms. Your towel coming loose, neither of you moving to stop it. "More than okay."
"You'll tell me if it's not?" Despite knowing you - knowing how hard you've worked to never put up with shit from anyone - he still has to ask. Has to know you won't feel obligated to keep going - or god forbid, scared to stop - just to spare his feelings.
You turn in his arms, damp towel falling to the floor, your hands reaching up to cradle his face. Providing absolution he didn't know he was seeking.
"I'll definitely tell you," you promise, holding his gaze. Chest rapidly rising and falling against his, bodies flush, his towel the only barrier separating you. "Even if my mouth's full, I'll figure out a way to let you know."
He loves the way catch him off guard. Help him navigate the modern world with humor. Illuminating the path that once felt too daunting. Just like you have since the beginning. Pushing him to go out. Experience things. Always offering to go with him, found ways to ground him when the chaos got too loud.
Of course it translates to this too. Your playful tug of his dogtags and he's following you down onto the bed, pressing you deeper into the soft covers, his towel getting trapped. Shared laughter following when it snags around his thigh, refusing to come loose until he pulls away from you.
Putting precious distance that feels like a chasm. Skin prickling to feel you under him again. Watch your eyes rolls back when the pleasure crests.
The thought of rushing this screams sacrilege to Bucky though. He spent so long believing he'd never have a chance at this - at happiness. At meeting a beautiful, intelligent woman who makes life worth living again. Makes it possible to wake up smiling. He'll be damned if he doesn't take his time.
Propped on an elbow to take in his favorite view, he relearns you all over again, free hand exploring every inch of you he can reach. Retracing spots that have you writhing and gasping. Whining his name like it belongs on your lips. Begging him to take pity on you.
Breathlessly reminding him of his promise to make you come. Enticing him with your thighs splayed wide, hips rolling, heels digging into the mattress. Shedding every last inhibition. Greedy little gasps spilling out unchecked, head lolling to find him watching you.
His hungry gaze tracking your tells, paying attention to what it takes to have you clutching at him. Nails digging into his skin when he alternates soft, teasing strokes along your inner thighs, dancing closer and closer to where you're dripping. Already leaving a mess on the towel he thought to place under you.
He whispers your name like a secret, asking how you like to be touched, refusing to assume. "Should I keep going slow?" he murmurs, dragging his fingers along the abundant wetness coating your thighs. "Tease you a little?" A quiet groan he makes no effort to hide. "Or are you tired of waiting, pretty girl? Need me to stretch you open with my fingers until you come?"
At some point you're going to ask him how he learned how to do this. How to know what to say without sounding like he took lessons from porn. All you care about right now though is telling him what you need. An unfamiliar tremble lacing your words as you teach him how to touch you.
His palm cupping your slick pussy, fingertips teasing your entrance, the heel of his hand grinding against your swollen clit. Slick noises quickly filling the air as Bucky eagerly follows your lead, using your cries and shuddering sighs to find the perfect pace.
Find that consistent rhythm to build you higher and higher - sharp, electric pulses that make your toes curl and your thighs shake. Supple flesh quivering when he leans closer, demanding nothing from you other than taking whatever you need from him.
"You're so wet, sweetheart," he groans, untouched cock leaking a steady flow of pre-cum. "Feel s'good like this. Soakin' me, pussy tryin' to swallow my fingers."
You cry out, grabbing hold of his waist, nails leaving crescent shapes, the pleasure spiking to new heights. Pushing you towards the edge - leaving you suspended, teetering for several long seconds until the crescendo suddenly peaks.
Triggered by his rough growl, "that's it. Let me see what you look like, comin' so pretty all over my hand."
Bucky's never seen anything so breathtaking. Nothing in his long life has ever, or will ever compare to the beautiful agony stealing your composure. Your head thrown back, mouth agape in a scream that fades to a squeak, strong thighs trying to clamp around his hand.
He nearly comes at the sight, cock throbbing, tears pricking his eyes, pleasure shooting up his spine. Leaving him trembling and having to fight through the overwhelming sensations so he can tend to you. Pull you back down to earth. Aftershocks rocking your body as he scoops you up.
Taking the cue when your limbs wrap around him, bodies becoming entangled as he peppers your dewy skin with lazy kisses. Lips lingering so you can catch your breath. Halfheartedly bat at his face. Pretend to complain about his hidden talents.
"Got plenty more where that came from," he teases, another kiss against your sweaty throat. Your chin. Landing at the perfect curve of your nose. "I took my research seriously."
"What if I just want you?" you whisper, hips tilting, his thick shaft trapped against your slick, swollen folds.
"God," he shudders, ignoring the sudden urge to sink into you. Fill you up in just a handful of strokes. Ending this before he even gets a chance to taste you. "Want that," he pants against your mouth. "Wanna feel you." A slow grind to watch your eyes roll back. "Promise I'll fuck you, sweetheart - however you want. Wherever. Whenever."
Bucky's forehead lands on yours, his hips having a mind of their own, setting a quicker pace that has his dogtags clinking against your chest, the head of his cock nudging your sensitive clit. "Can I taste you, first? Don't even gotta make you come again, just wanna-."
"Yeah," you laugh, grabbing his face, kissing him hard, sucking his tongue into your mouth. "Yeah - yes, definitely, absolutely." Your hands in his hair guide him down, letting him take the scenic route, teeth grazing your nipples, lips closing around each bud. Lavishing attention before finally diverting his path down.
Open wet kisses over your soft rolls, tickling the dip of your belly button, strong hands spreading your thighs wide in preparation. Blue eyes peek up to briefly check-in, one last glance so he can dive in without restraint. Inhaling lungfuls of your heady scent, leaving no room for anything but you. All his countless fantasies shredded to pieces to make way for something infinitely better.
Nose brushing the short, damp curls covering your mound, each glorious breath going straight to his dick, his shins hitting the floor so he can pull you to the edge of the bed. Push your knees back. Nearly lose his mind at your gorgeous, glistening pussy calling him forward to devour you. Lap at your folds, his eyes rolling back when the first taste of you explodes on his tongue.
Sweet and musky and something uniquely you that he's already addicted to. Igniting filthy groans against swollen flesh, tongue spearing deeper, drinking you down like a man stumbling upon an oasis. Your tightening grip of his hair showing him exactly how to lick you. His slick fingers spreading you wide, exposing your clit to his hungry mouth.
"Taste so fucking good, holy shit."
Slow, wet swirls of his tongue. Delicious, vibrating moans. Unrelenting firm circles that have you seeing stars. Walls pulsing, drenching his beard, your cries for more met with questioning suction around your clit. Finding the devastating pressure within seconds, another orgasm barreling down on you with lightning speed.
It's never been this easy for you. Sure, your own hands are more than capable of getting you off until you lose count - but you can't remember the last time you were able to just lay back and let it happen. Your incoherent pleas growing louder, fingers combing through his tangled strands, pussy growing wetter by the second.
"Please," you gasp, back arching. "I- oh my god, feels - I don't-." Harder suction and you're crying out, your quick, encouraging nods morphing into a lazy shake of your head. Body craving more, walls pulsing around nothing, aching to be filled. "Fuck... fuck- oh god, fuck me, please, need-"
Bucky almost loses control, hips twitching, balls drawing up tight. Nearly coming at how pretty you're begging for him. His muffled moans only making it worse - your sudden, fervent chant of his name forcing him to grab hold of his throbbing dick. Metal wrapping around the base, staving off his orgasm as he sinks a single finger inside of you.
Silky walls welcoming him home, digit curling like all the advice columns suggested. Brow furrowing as he searches for that spot that's guaranteed to make you soar. Tongue flicking across your clit, his greedy mouth following the quicker pace of your hips.
It takes everything in him not to start fucking his own fist, muscles locked, years of forced discipline his only saving grace right now. Because soon you're demanding more. Another finger stretching you open, slick sounds punctuating your breathless cries. An exquisite symphony of pleasure only he could orchestrate.
You open your mouth to warn him that you're close - to beg him not to stop, hope he doesn't suddenly switch up - but there's no point. He already knows. Anticipates every roll of your hips, uses his arsenal of skills to give you what you need. Fingers fucking you deep and hard, stroking your g-spot in tandem with his relentless mouth.
When your hips start to buck, his only option is to hold you down. Vibranium forearm pressing into your belly, metal palm cupping your mound, warm fingers spreading your folds so you don't lose the suction about to make you come.
The fleeting worry of hurting you with his left arm drowned out by a sudden gush of wetness. Your hand leaving his head to blindly grab at the blanket, knuckles trembling as you find the leverage you need to grind against him. Chase the heat sparking between your thighs.
It hits you harder than you expect. Sudden and hot. Intense pleasure radiating outwards, curling your toes, muscles constricting, his name getting lost along with all your senses. Eternity passing before the tension finally snaps. Your limbs giving out with a sobbing breath of relief.
"Oh fuck, sweetheart," Bucky curses, swiftly moving to his feet to check on you, gentle hands easing your thighs into a more comfortable position. "Are you okay?"
"No," you pant, arm thrown over your eyes, nearly giving him a heart attack before your laugh brings him back to life. "You definitely-"
"Jesus, don't do that," he growls, mouth curving despite himself.
"What?" you tease, your seemingly too-heavy limbs attempting to wiggle yourself further back onto your bed. "No crying during sex?"
His strong hands effortlessly take over, resettling you onto the pillows while you try to remember how to breathe.
"No," he chuckles, taking up root next to you, elbow propped to support his head, lips brushing yours in a sweet kiss. "Cryin' I can handle - maybe let's refrain from jokes about not being okay. 'Specially after-."
"Making me see god?" you finish for him, turning to rest a hand over his heart. "Ruining all other men for me?"
"Was gonna say after making you scream my name, but yeah - that works."
"Definitely did that too," you agree with a wag of your eyebrows, tangling your legs with his, lungs still searching for more oxygen. "More than once, if I remember correctly."
"Several times," he confirms, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip. "Committed 'em all to memory." His firm grip pulls you closer, evidence of his arousal trapped between you, neglected and angry. "Along with everything else about you."
There's no teasing quip this time. No joke about him learning you in order to seduce you. It dies before it can even form with the way he's staring at you. All tender-gazed and adoring. Taking you apart all over again. Body reacting as if he's still between your thighs.
"I like the way you talk." The vulnerable confession whispered against his stubble, fingers curling around his dogtags. Grounding yourself in the cool metal.
"Yeah?" Warm breath ghosts over your lips, his fingertips stroking along your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I like the way you talk... I like everything about you." He doesn't close the distance yet, mouth teasing over yours, breathing in your exhales. "Even the parts you think bother me."
Your lashes flutter, words failing you, craving his praise more than you care to admit.
"Like when you talk my ear off at midnight," he tells you, noses bumping. Twin smiles nearly colliding. "And when you ask for space." He doesn't provide any this time, planning to close the distance after the necessary addition of, "And I really like when you get all grumpy."
Bucky quiets your expected retort with a press of his lips, several playful pecks that have you laughing. His cock jumping in response, making him forget himself. Groaning as he deepens the kiss. His shoulder nudging you back, helping you reclaim your spot against the pillows.
Somehow he resists the urge to settle between your parting thighs. Even when you arch up into him. Moan around his tongue. Drag your nails down his back until he's gasping for you. He uses it to force himself to relax. To remember what this is really about.
"I like that you feel safe enough to be yourself," he explains, adorning your throat with well placed kisses. "Loud and messy... Quiet and moody... Everything in between." A trail of kisses that has you sighing against his lips, hands flush against his lower back, a tempting thigh hooked over his hip. "Like that you ain't scared of me, pretty girl."
Emotion tightens your throat and tears prick your eyes when you look up at him. Shaking your head to loosen the words. "I could never be scared of you."
No buildup. No placating. Just a factual statement that begs to be sealed with a kiss. And another. Your hand working it's way to slip between your writhing bodies. Mouths parting long enough for you to ask, "this okay? Can I touch you?"
"Yeah." Rough. Desperate. "Yeah, s'okay." His hand grasps at the pillow near your head, vibranium elbow digging into the mattress, holding himself back so he doesn't rut against you. Cock growing painfully hard the closer you get.
In all the countless hours Bucky spent fantasizing about you, he unfortunately forgot to account for one minor issue.
He's a hundred-year-old touched-starved super-soldier.
Enhanced senses zone in on the back of your fingers teasing over his constricting abs, inches away from his steel-hard cock. Throbbing and begging for release. Just a little closer and you'll take him in your hand. Wrap your fingers around him. Stroke him-
"Wait." A pathetic groan and he's collapsing against you, heated face buried in the crook of your neck. An undignified shiver giving away how thoroughly wrecked he is. "Sorry, didn't-."
"It's okay," you instantly soothe. Understanding passing between you. Your shared history helping you see what this is doing to him - letting someone this close, after so long. "Got plenty of time to figure it out." Your teasing lilt unlocking his muscles. "Unless you decide this is one and done kinda deal."
"Oh." His incensed growl curls your toes, hips tilting in search of friction you're hopefully on the path of enticing. "You're really-." A heavy sigh and a slow shake of his head, strands of hair curtaining his intense stare. "I should make you wait. Wine and dine you first. Romance the hell outta ya-."
"What do you think you've been doing this whole time?" Cocked eyebrow driving home your point.
"The bare minimum."
Your sharp exhale is the only sound in the sudden quiet of the room. His response landing as a joke before you realize he's serious. Your furrowed brow being kissed away as you reach up to cradle his face. Gently demand the same eye contact he needed earlier.
"I'm not just talking about today."
You're talking about all the ways he's taken care of you since he moved in.
Pitching in on extra chores. Switching over your laundry when you forgot. Washing and refilling your water bottle every damn night.
Confusion wrinkles his forehead, "I wasn't - none o'that was about romance."
"No, I know-."
"Do it 'cause I want to. 'Cause it's the right thing to do. 'Cause-."
"I know," you smile, thumb tracing his lips. "You've been teachin' me what to expect for when you do 'romance the hell outta me.'" A kiss that he meets with a huff of laughter. "Even if you didn't know it."
"Oh, I've been holding back, sweetheart," he warns, kissing right below your jaw to dampen your amusement. "I'm serious." Lips and teeth suck a fresh mark, a possessive thrill shooting through him when you tug at his hair. "Gonna treat you like the queen you are."
Ignoring the roaring primal need to be inside you, his mouth follows a lazy trail back to your ear. "Maybe start with eating you out again." Cock twitching at the thought of having you ride his face. "Make you come on my tongue."
As much as you love seeing this wild and free side of Bucky, it only adds to the unbearable ache burning you from the inside. Needy, subtle rolls of your hips sending mixed signals when you shake your head. Whimpers turning frustrated, "No. Fuck, you're killin' me. I can't - how are you not dying to fuck me right now?"
He actually laughs. Locks eyes with you and scoffs. Completely offended and entirely confused. The evidence of how fucking badly he wants you twitching against your belly.
"I don't want this to be over."
It's your turn to be confused. "Why would it be over?"
He studies you for a long moment. Hopeful eyes searching yours. The world standing still long enough to give him time to shed this last bit of armor.
"'Cause I'm gonna come way too fast."
"Oh." You breathe through the sudden wave of arousal. Your nipples tightening. Walls pulsing. His deliberate inhale making things worse. "Stop smelling me like that."
"No."
You narrow your eyes at him, mouth twitching when he grins at you. Another deep lungful that ends with him letting you roll him over. Head hitting the pillows to take in his new favorite view of you kneeling next to him, curves on full display. Radiating an intoxicating blend of confidence and vulnerability.
"We don't have to stop just because you come."
Bucky blinks up at you, his large hand squeezing your thigh before reality crashes in. Thumb caressing your soft skin as his male-conditioning catches up to modern times. To you. This devastating woman who has far more patience than he'll ever deserve.
"I'm an idiot."
"Just means I get to help you learn," you grin, palms flush against his chest so you can lean down to kiss him. Break his brain all over again. His touch turning possessive, fingers gripping your ass.
"What'cha wanna tutor me in right now, pretty girl?"
"How wet I get when you call me that."
Vibranium curves around the nape of your neck, holding you steady while he deepens the kiss, devouring you, warm fingers slipping between your thighs to find you slick and hot. Dripping all over his hand, inviting him to fill you with two thick digits.
You cry out at the delicious stretch, nails biting into his chest, body wracked by a violent shudder.
"God," he groans, "you're perfect, ya know that?"
Maybe you respond. It's hard to tell - he feels too good. Fingers curling just right to make you sob. Head hung, hips shamelessly humping his hand.
"Yeah, that's it - show me what you like... show me how you like to be fucked, pretty girl."
Bucky feels it. Greedy walls milking his fingers, juices dripping down his wrist. His heart nearly seizing from the effect he has on you. It's dangerous and magnetic and he swears he'll never take advantage of it. Never use it for anything other than good. To bring you pleasure.
Watch your eyes roll back. Feel your thighs start to shake. Listen to you pant his name like he's the answer to all your prayers.
"You wanna come for me?" Always giving you the choice even when every gorgeous inch of you is screaming yes.
You do. You can feel the pressure building all over again. Promising relief that'll have you collapsing. Exhausted and barely coherent - not exactly the state you want to be in your first time with him.
"I want - oh god, I want your cock."
He almost comes untouched. Compartmentalization taking over to ignore the way he throbs, harder than he's ever been.
"Yeah?" Warm metal cupping your jaw, his fingers between your thighs slowing to a toe-curling grind. "You wanna ride me, doll?" Satisfaction blooming when you whine his name. "That's it, tell me what you need."
"Oh god," you laugh, overwhelmed and losing focus again. "You feel so good... fuck."
"I know," he pants, muscles tensing under your palms, "can feel you gettin' close." His free hand drifts down, vibranium skating over heated flesh to cup one of your swaying tits. Fingers seeking out your nipple. Sending sparks of pleasure straight to your clit. "Ya gotta tell me what you want... Please..."
The desperate way your name falls from his lips is what pulls you back. Helps you land on solid ground long enough to show him what you need. His fingers leaving you empty to help you straddle him, your whine from the loss rolling into a shuddering moan when your pussy traps his thick cock against his stomach.
"Holy shit," Bucky gasps, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. His hips nearly bucking you off of him. "Shit - sorry - I didn't-."
"It's okay," you smile, stilling above him, letting him adjust. Nearly apologizing yourself when your body pulses, more wetness leaking out to coat his shaft and make him groan. All because of the way he's looking up at you. Like he can't believe you're here. Like you're some miracle - some dream come to life.
"Feel so good like this," he whispers, half-lidded gaze taking you in. Lingering where your soft thighs pillow his sides. Drawn to the way your breasts rise and fall quicker with each breath. Finally landing at his favorite destination to find you staring at him, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. "God... can't believe this is - you're so beautiful, sweetheart."
Your skin instantly prickles, nipples pebbling under his praise, your core clenching as your back arches and you try so damn hard not to move. Because the last thing you want to do is rush him. Make him feel like he's doing anything wrong.
The only thing Bucky feels right now is gratitude. And an incessant pull to be connected with you in every way possible. His thumbs dipping into the crease where your belly meets your thighs, intent on worshiping every part of you he can touch.
"Should we - Do you -," he swallows, fingers flexing against supple flesh, tempting him to rock against you. "Do you have a condom?"
"Yeah - I can - do you want me to-," you gesture towards your nightstand, mentioning your birth control. "Not that I've been with anyone recently," you needlessly remind him. "But, we can still-."
"I'm not worried about any o'that," he murmurs, encouraging you to lift up for him. Give him just enough space so he reach between you and guide his cock to where you both need him. "Want you however you'll let me, okay?"
"Want you like this." Your breath hitching when his engorged head nudges your entrance, walls fluttering in anticipation.
"Want you like this too."
He still makes you wait. Gathers your wetness with the head of his cock, spreads it along your swollen folds until you relax, until your muscles ease and he can push in. Thick ridge catching before your body yields to allow silk heat to engulf him. Tighter and hotter and more overwhelming than he remembers. Than he thought was possible.
"Holy sh- f-feels-."
His guttural groan cuts out when you whine about how big he is, his hips already preparing to pull back - except then you're begging him not to stop. Moaning about how good he feels. Your hips tilting to take him deeper. Swallowing him a torturous inch at a time, crying out as he slowly stretches you open on his cock.
By the time you're seated, he's nearly lost the battle. Your pussy strangling him, all the blood rushing to where you're connected. Leaving him unable to focus on anything except how good you feel. How perfect you take him. The way your hands grasp at him, clinging to him so he can start to fuck you harder. Faster. Slick sounds filling the room along with incoherent exchanges passing between you.
He tries to praise you. Tell you all the things he loves about you. How good you feel. How he can't wait to prove to you just how much you mean to him.
But it becomes impossible. All he can do is grip your hips and hold you down, provide the pressure against your clit he quickly learned you need. His heels digging into the mattress so he can thrust up harder, listen to you sob his name and watch your body start to quake. Little tremors that leave you shaking. Gasping. Chasing the friction.
"Oh - oh, sweetheart, you're gonna-." His thighs tense, hips bucking up, balls drawing up tight. Signaling his doom before he can voice it allowed. "Oh, please - please, come for me, pretty girl, let me feel you - need - oh god-."
Intense heat builds at the base of his spine, his hands moving you faster, desperate to find the angle to get you there first. Watch the furrow of your brow deepen, your skin glistening with sweat, your lips parted in a permanent O, eyelids growing heavier with every second.
But it's too much. He can't hold back anymore. The endless hours spent imagining how this would go meaningless because nothing could have prepared him for this. For you. Writhing on top of him. The weight of you bouncing him, pressing him harder into the bed, hurling him past the edge of sanity.
If it wasn't for your sinful pleas telling him to let go, he might actually have a chance. But the moment you lean forward to kiss him and tell him it's okay - that you want him to come - feel him fill you up - the dam bursts.
Blinding. Deafening. Every nerve-ending alight with pleasure so profound that he sobs your name. Arms banded around you, holding onto you while his thrusts turn sloppy, his cum leaking out around his still hard cock. Catching you both off guard when he keeps fucking you.
"Oh god - don't wanna - you feel so good - can I-" He grunts harshly, teeth clashing when he starts to pick up speed again, metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull. Asking for permission to keep going. To hug you, hold you against him so he can fuck you harder. Deeper. Hitting all those spots inside of you that promise to shatter you.
Leaving you crying out again, chanting yes. His name. Whatever coherent word you can manage to beg him to keep going. Your sweaty face pressed into a pillow, fingers curling around the fabric, knuckles trembling from exertion.
You swear you can feel every vein, every ridge, every inch of his perfect cock splitting you apart. His cum letting him bottom out over and over, mixing with your own arousal, creating a lewd slap of skin that curls the spring tighter in your belly.
And then he starts fucking talking to you again.
"Oh there we go... gettin' so wet for me... takin' me so good... perfect pussy tryin' to me make me come again, huh?... squeezin' me like you - oh my god - don't wanna let go... feel like heaven, pretty girl, like you were made for me."
A couple more well-aimed thrusts and you fall apart. Walls tightening, nearly pushing him out as he fucks you through it. Prolonging the thundering waves until you collapse against him. Crying and laughing. Blissed out and utterly ruined by him.
By the only man you've ever truly felt safe with. A sense of peace washing over you as he helps you come back. Soothing praise, tender caresses, linger kisses everywhere he can reach.
Your ear. Your temple. Your cheek when you turn towards him, nose scrunching at the feeling returning to your limbs. Your sore muscles. Joints protesting the position. That he quickly rolls you out of, his softening cock slipping out in the process, his forehead bumping yours in hopes of mimicking the interrupted closeness.
"You okay?" Eyes searching yours, metal fingers soothing the furrow in your brow as you stretch out. His dogtags dragging across your sweaty chest when he reaches to massage your limbs, despite your assurance that you're fine.
"Better than," you promise, tongue slipping out to wet your dry lips. Most words still alluding you at the moment. But more than present enough to ask, "Are you?"
"Yeah," he breathes, lips brushing yours in a sweet kiss. "Better than." Smiling when you stroke his beard, lashes fluttering from the deepened intimacy. Cracking his chest wide open to make room for all the ways he's prepared to let you love him.
Because he's already learned how to love you. And now he gets to spend the rest of his life figuring out new ways. His heart skipping a beat at the thought. Lips curving against yours when he closes the distance. Kissing you slow and syrupy, committing every detail to memory in order to recall them later when he inevitably has to be away from you.
It's not something he has to worry about right now. Not with the way you wrap him in your arms and lay his head on your chest. Your fingers combing through his tangled strands, nails occasionally scratching his scalp, tethering him to the present.
"Feel like I should thank you," he murmurs, words slurred where he's pressed against your warm skin. His hand resting on the soft curve of your belly.
"Pretty sure that's my line," you half-tease. And deadly serious. Your body still buzzing.
Bucky laughs gently, chest rocking your side as he picks his head up. Eyelids fluttering when he presses back into your touch anchored in his hair. The image of him openly seeking out more affection turning your eyes glassy.
The tears on the verge of spilling when he tells you, "'m serious, sweetheart." His thumb reverently tracing the ridge of your brow. "Didn't think I'd ever get a chance at this again." A twinkling smile that reawakens those damn butterflies. "'Specially not with you."
"I know," you whisper, his solid weight pressing you deeper into the mountain of pillows he insisted on fluffing. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
His intensity makes you laugh - a soft exhale really, but it still makes him smile. Gives you the courage to tell him, "I didn't think I would either... have this." Your eyes flicker to the furrow in his brow that you're tempted to kiss away like he did for you earlier.
You sigh instead, happy to continue playing with his hair, and offer the simple explanation of, "Haven't exactly had the best o' luck in that department." It's as much vulnerability you're willing to offer right now. On this subject anyway - not while you're still blissfully basking in the aftermath of having your brain rewired.
Bucky doesn't pry. Just like he never did when you'd make a passing comment or two during those nights when the conversations would border on too personal. Reading your body likes it's a second language.
"Well, then I should really be thanking you," he nods, each dip of his head bringing him closer. "For takin' a chance on a guy like me."
"Old?"
"Ohhh," he laughs, loud and addictive, mouth teasingly hovering to distract you. His fingers honing in on one of your most ticklish spots. Leaving you gasping and squirming.
The torture last a second or two - a warning, mostly - then he's kissing you. Mumbling something about your mouth being trouble. And giving you absolutely no chance at all to make the obvious joke. His strong arms roll you both over, pulling you halfway across his torso, your thigh instinctively curling over his. Careful to avoid anything sensitive.
Not that it matters, Bucky's body still responds. How could it not? You're so warm and soft, curling up against him. Toying with his dogtags, igniting a familiar fantasy of you wearing 'em while he fucks you nice and slow.
He lets it fade - focusing instead on learning the curve of your spine, fingers stroking a lazy pattern. A sense of peace threatening to pull him under - if he weren't so keen on making sure you never want for anything.
"How do you like to be taken care of, sweetheart?" His fingers dip lower, skirting the tempting globes of your ass. "You need space? Trip to the bathroom by yourself?" His touch travels back up to massage your shoulder, his lips brushing the top of your head as he asks, "Or you gonna let me help?"
The way Bucky asks makes it clear what he's hoping for. You're already imagining him cleaning you up after he fucks your brains out, giving you more time to lay there, maybe keep cuddling without his cum leaking out of you. Unfortunately, that ship has already sailed, your thighs slick and growing wetter by the second.
You opt for a shower - promising to take full advantage of his services next time. Your cheeky comment earning you a tickling pinch to your waist. And another kiss that melts you. Your shaky limbs grateful when he scoops you up, effortlessly carries you the few feet to the bathroom.
Refusing to set you down until he's sure you can stand on your own. Leaving you so he can start the shower, and give you a bit of privacy to help you avoid any UTIs - the spray drowning out any sounds you're not quite ready for him to overhear. As if his enhanced senses haven't given away most of your secrets anyway.
"Hey," you casually call out from your perch on the toilet, "you ever hear me masturbate before?"
"No," he calls back, "definitely want to, though."
You laugh and finish up your business, eager to join him. His hand engulfing yours as soon as you start to step in, holding you steady until he can pull you close. Kiss you hello. Turn you into the hot spray that makes your skin tingle.
Or maybe it's the way he's looking at you right now. Awe-struck and a bit possessive - with an overabundance of that Bucky protectiveness.
"Stop that," you tease with a pointed raise of your brow. "I told you, if you had done anything wrong-."
He melts a bit at the reminder, lips curving against your forehead, "I know. But... you weren't exactly capable of tellin' me much of anything at some points there."
Bright laughter bubbles out of you, pulling him in like a magnet, lips meeting in a playful kiss, "That's 'cause you weren't doing anything wrong."
"Fair enough," he grins, encouraging you to turn around, determined to get you cleaned up before the hot water runs out. "Maybe we can come up with a signal anyway."
"Like if my mouth is full?"
Bucky huffs against your shoulder, reaching for your body wash that he definitely hasn't smelled during lonely showers.
"Yeah, pretty girl, like if your mouth is full." His hand playfully squeezes your waist, holding back the tickling so you don't fall. And so you can hear his growl of, "Or like when I'm makin' you feel so good you can barely breathe. Let alone talk."
Your sharp inhale gives you away, despite your casual, "Mmm. Yeah. Good point."
Joint laughter fills the space seconds later, your hands working the soapy washcloth along your skin, ignoring the fresh wave of arousal settling low in your belly.
"I think a few taps would work, yeah?" he asks, fingers gently drumming against your back.
"What if I can't reach you?"
"Don't know of any position where you couldn't reach me, sweetheart."
"I mean," you chuckle softly, "my hands could be tied-."
The moment the words leave your mouth, the atmosphere in the shower shifts. Steam swirls around you, the spray rinsing away the last bit of the soap on your thighs. Right along with your easy confidence.
"Bucky - fuck, I'm sorry," you're turning before you even finish the sentence, the playful spark in your eyes replaced by a frantic sort of guilt. "I didn't-."
"It's okay," his firm hold on you tightens, ensuring you don't slip. "I-."
"It just came out, I wasn't-."
"It's okay," he urgently promises you, showing you the same grace you would him, his trembling hand smearing stray water droplets across your cheek. "I'm not upset, I get it." His lungs fully expand, helping to ease some of the tension radiating off you. "I might be old, doll, but I'm well-versed in fantasies."
A wet laugh escapes you and you bury your face against his chest, clinging to him in silent apology.
"Might not be something I can give you," he murmurs, long strokes down your spine to soothe away your guilt. "But I sure as hell don't want you to hide anything from me."
"I just don't want you to feel pressured," you whisper, words slightly muffled so you can keep breathing him in.
"I won't." Quick conviction that has you smiling. "Might use 'em to talk dirty to you though. That be okay?"
"Definitely." It comes out broken, emotional. Tears prick your eyes, but you still push through. Tilt your head to look up at him, find him giving you that irresistible grin you've always loved.
"Good." His lips land on yours for a lingering kiss. "Now let's get outta here before I break my own rule about no shower sex."
You don't fight him on it - other than a wag of your eyebrows that he lets slide this time. Fingers bypassing any ticklish spots to help you out, his heart near bursting at being the reason you're all relaxed and giggly again.
History happily repeats itself - Bucky kneeling to towel off any drops of water he finds on your skin. Taking extra time to worship you just because you're letting him. Repeatedly going out of his way to prove he's not like most guys.
"Such an overachiever." Your sincere compliment wrapped in a playful smile.
"For drying you off?" he laughs, unconvinced.
"And the three orgasms," you grin, watching him stand to full height. "Not to mention the fact that you kept going after you-."
"You told me it didn't have to be over."
"I meant you could use your fingers!" More giddy laughter follows when he wraps you in his embrace, spinning you in the small bathroom. "Maybe one of my toys."
"Definitely gonna remember that for next time," he states matter-of-factly, leading you out of the cramped space with a sure hand - and feet that almost falter.
Because Bucky realizes something. That these sudden bursts of confidence about his future with you no longer feel foreign. Or fleeting. Or like he's playing pretend.
He might never truly believe he deserves this, but at least he knows he can measure up and give you what you deserve. And that gives him all the peace he'll ever need.
summary: a sparring session with kirishima gets a little out of hand, and being the only medic able to deal with katsuki bakugou, you’re left with the aftermath.
content: fluff + SMUT - mdni ! boxer!bkg + medic!reader. kiri feature! blood & injury. feelings!!! tension. lots of banter. clear consent. semi-public. making out. thigh riding. slight marking / hickeys. fondling. titty sucking. fingerfucking. cum eating. bkg does not get off but he is fine w that. there is a quite a bit of build up before the smut lol. wc: 5.2k.
note: #needthat
masterlist. | header art credit: @ ami_ranthao on tiktok !
In the ring, he came alive. An absolute powerhouse, brute force and flawless technique bleeding together to create Katsuki Bakugou, one of the best up and coming boxers of your time. Everyone was a little enamored— a perfect face paired with such a vulgar tongue, an ego backed with the skill to match.
His win-or-nothing attitude led him to the top, but also caused complications with his medical staff. A few too many outbursts had scared them into backing down, allowing him to keep pushing despite his injuries.
Until you were hired a few months ago.
The first day you were assigned to him, the other medics had either snickered or grimaced, having each had their own share of bad luck with him. It seemed to be some rite of passage among them. When you met him, you understood exactly what the others had meant. There was enough fire behind that stare to send anyone skittering away.
But, to their surprise, you had returned back in one piece, with a perfectly bandaged Katsuki trailing behind you; glowering with something like an irritating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but tended to.
You were the only medic that could handle him.
Which is why you were spending your Saturday evening with your knees drawn to your chest on a bench at the edge of the boxing gym as he sparred with his close friend, and fellow boxer, Eijirou Kirishima.
The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.
Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.
You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.
But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.
It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.
"Fuck!"
The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.
Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.
"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"
Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.
"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"
He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."
His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."
"You deaf or something? Beat it."
More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.
Your job was to keep that from happening.
With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.
"You are gushing blood. Come on—"
"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"
"Again, don't be dumb—"
Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.
"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."
Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.
You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.
It was just you two now.
Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.
You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.
"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"
He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.
You sighed.
"Right before I get off too..."
"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."
"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."
Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."
You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.
A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.
You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.
“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”
“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”
You rolled your eyes, but he continued.
"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”
“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”
“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."
The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.
His eyes never left you.
Sometimes, you wondered why.
Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.
"Bleeding stopped."
He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.
When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.
"I was going for his blind spot."
Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.
But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.
His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.
“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.
"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."
He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.
"Knew you were starin'."
Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.
"Well, that is my job."
"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."
You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.
"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."
"You think you're so funny."
"I think your ego's inflated."
"Wanna say that again?"
You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.
"Save it, Katsuki."
You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.
Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.
It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his oppenents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.
You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."
He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.
"You don't want that."
The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.
What did you want? The question made you uneasy.
(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)
You pushed back slightly, deflecting.
“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”
“No it's not.”
It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.
"Don't play dumb right now."
“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.
"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”
"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."
You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.
You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.
The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.
“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”
The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.
Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.
He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.
But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.
(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)
You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.
"Some…someone could—"
"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.
"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"
"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "
You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.
"Katsuki. I was joking."
He hummed.
(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)
"Sure you were."
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The defelctions that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.
You sighed, next words defeated.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”
“Katsuki…”
It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.
For what— to let you go?
(To keep going?)
He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”
And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened.
For you, he was being intentionally careful.
Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.
"There are rules about this sort of thing—"
"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"
"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"
You swallowed back the rest of it.
He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.
Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.
"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."
You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."
He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.
(You're the one I see. You.)
His earlier words rang in your ears.
Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it
You couldn't, because you had.
Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.
He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.
(Him. You imagined him.)
Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.
But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.
Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.
Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.
“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."
Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)
"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"
Slowly, you nodded.
"Yes."
His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.
The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.
Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.
He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.
You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?
When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.
He groaned, "Fuck it."
You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.
You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.
Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.
Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.
Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.
"Feel good?"
Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.
You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.
His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.
Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.
Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.
He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.
You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.
Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.
You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.
Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.
This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.
He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.
But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.
The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."
He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.
You nodded, a little frantic.
"Off. Please."
He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.
His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.
You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.
You glanced down at your shirt.
"This too."
He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."
His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.
For a beat too long, he just stared.
On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.
"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.
You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.
You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.
Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.
Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.
Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.
He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.
"All this from just my thigh?"
There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.
Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."
He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satsfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.
"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."
You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."
He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"
Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, coating them before circling your entrance.
"I can show you mean."
His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."
He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.
He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.
"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"
You nodded frantically, beyond words.
The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.
"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"
You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.
Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.
You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.
You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"
You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.
“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”
You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.
"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"
He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.
You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.
He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.
"Look at me."
It didn't sound like a request.
"Hm?"
You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.
He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.
Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.
When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.
"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.
You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.
"You're shameless."
"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."
Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.
He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarassed. Shit was hot."
"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."
Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.
"Much better than good."
He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.
That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?
He didn't cum.
"Hey, wait you didn't—"
He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.
"Does it look like I care."
His dismissal of his own need threw you off.
"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"
"Sure you can. You just did."
You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.
You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.
You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"
He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.
"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."
You blinked. Fuck.
"…I can be quick?"
That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.
He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.
"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."
The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.
You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.
"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."
may blabs: if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️
big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️🩹
again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!
taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :
masterlist ★ taglist form ★ want to send in a request?
summary: you are hired as the avengers’ new public relations specialist, a sunshine‑bright force dropped into a tower full of exhausted superheroes and one very grumpy former assassin. bucky barnes wants nothing to do with you, and you seem determined to befriend him anyway. what starts as mutual annoyance slowly shifts into something softer as the two of you stumble through awkward teamwork, unexpected moments, and one disastrously chaotic baking challenge that proves the avengers might actually be a family after all.
warnings: pure fluff, more friendship that romance, baking chaos, mentions of public image, bonding, no use of y/n
word count: 2.9k
song inspo: i like me better by lauv
a/n: lowkey love blind, deaf, mute challenges so I had to add it to this universe somehow (also I didn’t proof read so fingers crossed)
─˖· masterlist
it started out rough. no, rough was an understatement. it was a car crash in slow motion. you, the avengers’ newly hired public relations specialist, all sharp wit and sharper tongue, a whirlwind of deadlines, crisis management, and social media strategy. and him, james buchanan barnes, a ghost with a metal arm, a man so buried under layers of trauma and stoicism it was a miracle he could speak at all. he found your energy grating, your constant stream of chatter and chaotic movements an assault on his carefully constructed quiet. you found his perpetual silence and brooding presence a personal challenge, a brick wall you were determined to chip away at, if only out of spite.
tony had been annoyingly smug about hiring you. “we need someone who can handle our image,” he’d said, waving a tablet full of disastrous headlines. “someone who can keep us from looking like a walking PR nightmare.”
steve had frowned. “we’re not a brand, tony. we’re a team.”
bucky had muttered, “feels like a reality show,” under his breath.
tony ignored them both. “too bad. she starts monday.”
they hated the idea. steve because he didn’t like the thought of the team being “managed,” and bucky because he didn’t like the thought of being perceived at all. but tony was right. public support mattered. government support mattered. and someone had to keep the avengers from accidentally setting the internet on fire every other week.
tony, to his credit, had been weirdly kind about the whole thing. he’d insisted you move into the tower almost immediately, claiming it was “more efficient for workflow” but really because he knew you would start pulling eighteen‑hour days trying to keep the team’s image from spontaneously combusting. you’d protested at first, but he’d waved you off, muttering something about hazard pay and unlimited coffee. so you moved in, bright-eyed, caffeinated, and ready to fix everything. you had set up your little corner of the tower with your laptop and color‑coded digital planners, and tried not to feel too out of place among superheroes.
for the first several weeks bucky avoided you like you were a landmine.
he was grumpy about it too, in that very specific bucky barnes way where he never actually said anything but somehow managed to radiate irritation like a space heater. every time you walked into a room with your bright “good morning!” and your stack of color‑coded schedules, he would tense like you’d just thrown a grenade at him. you tried to be friendly, tried to make the whole “living with superheroes” thing less awkward, but he met every attempt with a grunt, a scowl, or a pointed exit. you were sunshine and caffeine and relentless optimism, and he was a thundercloud in combat boots who clearly wished you came with an off switch.
months in, nothing had changed.
"ugh! he's like a sentient, angry statue, and im nothing but nice to him," you'd complained to natasha one night, sprawled across her bed while she cleaned her knives with unnerving focus. “also, he makes my job ten times harder! i hate him.”
"he's been through a lot," she'd said, not looking up.
"so have i," you'd shot back. "i had to sit through tony’s three-hour lecture on brand consistency. i have trauma too." you joked.
natasha had just hummed, a small smile playing on her lips.
steve would try to mediate, his earnest attempts at getting you two to ‘find common ground’ usually ending with you making a sarcastic comment and bucky retreating further into himself. sam just found the whole thing hilarious. "look at them," he'd whisper to clint, not so quietly, as you and bucky sat on opposite ends of the common room couch. "the grumpy cat and the little bird. it's a nature documentary."
but weeks turned into a month, and then two. the ice thawed, not with a grand gesture, but with a series of small, almost insignificant moments. it was you leaving a cup of coffee next to the book he was reading, not saying a word. it was him wordlessly moving a large stack of your paperwork from a chair so you could sit down. it was the day you'd been up for 36 hours straight preparing a press release and scheduling interviews, and you'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table. you woke up a few hours later with a blanket draped over your shoulders and a glass of water and two aspirin next to your head. you never saw him, but you knew.
"team bonding," you'd called it the first time you'd dragged him out of the tower. it was just a walk through central park, you chattering about everything and nothing, him listening with his hands shoved in his pockets, a noncommittal "hm" his only contribution. but he came. the next time, it was to a ridiculously obscure foreign film you wanted to see during your free time. he fell asleep ten minutes in, but he'd bought the popcorn. slowly, the grumpy statue started to look a little less like granite and a little more like a man who just needed a friend.
and then came the day you needed content.
not damage control. not rumor control. not a PR emergency.
just… content.
“we need something fun,” you’d told tony, scrolling through analytics. “something human. something that shows the team isn’t just doom and gloom.”
tony raised an eyebrow. “define fun.”
“a youtube video,” you said, already grinning. “the blind, deaf, and mute baking challenge. everyone seems to love it, so it might just help our case.”
tony stared at you. “you’re insane.”
“and you hired me,” you shot back smiling.
and that was how you found yourself setting up a tripod in the middle of the avenger tower’s ridiculously large kitchen, while sam wilson was trying to stick a piece of duct tape over his own mouth.
"i don't think this is going to stick," sam mumbled, his voice muffled by the tape.
"that's the point, sam," you said, adjusting the camera angle. "it's supposed to be a challenge. now, no more talking from you." you teased.
bucky was already sitting at the massive island, looking deeply unimpressed. he was fiddling with a pair of your oversized, hot pink, noise canceling headphones. "this is your idea of damage control?"
"this is my idea of good publicity," you corrected, grabbing a soft silk scarf from your pocket.
you filmed a quick little intro to explain the challenge. your bubbly personality being perfect for the camera as you introduced sam and bucky.
"now, you're deaf. put those on. i've got my playlist queued up. it's... eclectic." you said smiling up at him.
he sighed, the sound long-suffering, but he put the headphones on. you hit play on your phone, connected via bluetooth, and the sound of sabrina carpenter blasting directly into his ears. you saw his eye twitch. perfect.
"and you," you said to yourself, tying the silk scarf securely around your eyes, plunging yourself into darkness. "are blind. okay, the camera's rolling. we're making chocolate chip cookies. the recipe is on the counter. let the chaos begin.” you spoke to yourself, knowing you would just edit this out later.
the kitchen was already a war zone, but somehow things got worse once you started mixing.
you reached for the bowl, hands sweeping blindly across the counter. bucky saw this and immediately panicked.
“wait— WAIT— you’re gonna knock it over!” he shouted, even though he couldn’t hear himself.
you froze. “bucky, i can’t see you. use your words.”
“i am using my words!” he yelled, arms full as he held ingredients in his hands. he frantically nodded towards the bowl as if that would help “the bowl! the bowl is— it’s— it’s somewhere near your elbow!”
“that’s not helpful!” you yelled back.
sam, who had given up on the tape entirely, made a strangled noise and grabbed your wrist, guiding it to the bowl before bucky had a meltdown.
“oh,” you said. “there it is.”
bucky put his hands on his hips. “i told you. i definitely told you.”
“you didn’t tell me anything,” you said. “you were just yelling the word ‘wait’ like i was about to detonate.”
“you were about to detonate,” he insisted, being able to read your lips. “that bowl is our last hope.”
you snorted. “dramatic.”
“you know I can read your lips right?” bucky pointed at his own chest. “super soldier. everything is dramatic.”
you rolled your eyes behind the blindfold and reached for the whisk. bucky watched you grab a spatula instead.
“no, no, no— wrong thing!” he shouted, leaning over the counter. “the whippy thing! the— the— the—”
sam slapped a whisk into his hand.
bucky blinked at it. “yes. this. the whippy thing.” he shoved it toward you. “use this.”
you felt something poke your arm. “is that… is that the whisk?”
“yes!” bucky said proudly.
you grabbed it. “okay. mixing.”
bucky nodded, satisfied—until he saw what was happening inside the bowl.
“no— no— you’re not mixing, you’re… stabbing it,” he said, annoyed. “why are you stabbing it.”
“i can’t see,” you reminded him.
“well i can’t hear,” he shot back, reading your lips, “but you don’t see me stabbing things.”
you paused. “bucky, you stab things all the time.”
he opened his mouth, closed it, not hearing what you said and not being able to respond.
sam made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
you kept whisking—sort of—and bucky leaned closer, trying to supervise. “okay, okay, slower. slower. you’re gonna fling it everywhere.”
“if im not doing it correctly then you do it!” you snapped back, moving your hands away from the bowl and crossing your arms.
at this point sam was near the cabinet, quietly rummaging for more ingredients.
“i can’t hear a word you’re saying,” bucky yelled, after he watched you speak.
you moved your head up, towards where you assumed he was standing. “bucky. look at my mouth.” you said pointing at your lips.
he leaned down, squinting like that would help.
“mix. the. ingredients,” you mouthed slowly.
bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “kiss the expedients?! WHY WOULD I KISS ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?!”
sam doubled over, wheezing.
you slapped your hand over your face. “mix! MIX!”
“oh!” bucky said, nodding. “mix. right. that makes more sense,” he grumbled.
he moved towards the bowl in one fluid motion, accidentally nudging you on the shoulder because you didn’t move, still not seeing a thing. you quickly stepped back, knocking a spoon onto the floor. he froze, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.
“i didn’t do that,” he said immediately.
“you absolutely did. you nudged me!” you yelled, loud enough so he could hear you over the pop girl music in his ears.
“nope,” bucky insisted. “that was you… and gravity i guess. but mostly you.”
sam tapped your shoulder again, trying to warn you about something.
“what sam? i can’t see a thing!” you retorted. you turned your head back, hearing the shuffling of what seemed to be a plastic bag. maybe the chocolate chips?
“i’ll add these,” bucky said confidently.
“bucky, wait—” sam tried to say, but it came out as a garbled mess.
bucky ripped the bag open like it was an enemy combatant. chocolate chips exploded everywhere—across the counter, the floor, your shirt, sam’s hair.
you gasped. “what was that?!”
sam pointed at bucky.
bucky pointed at the bag. “it attacked me!” he retorted.
“it did not attack you,” you said.
“it did,” he insisted, still managing to read your lips somehow. “it was aggressive. i defended myself.”
you reached out blindly and your hand landed on his arm. “bucky. you massacred the chocolate chips.”
he looked down at the mess in silence.
sam made a noise like he was choking on his own laughter.
you sighed dramatically. “okay. okay. we can still salvage this. maybe.”
bucky crouched down to pick up the chips, muttering, “five second rule,” even though he couldn’t hear himself say it.
“don’t put those back in the bowl!” you warned, loud enough for him to hear.
“i wasn’t going to,” he lied immediately.
sam snatched the handful from him.
bucky looked offended. “i was helping.”
“you’re doing great!” you yelled, patting the air until your hand landed on his shoulder. “chaotic, but great.”
he straightened a little at that, like he’d just been promoted.
“okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. “what’s next. what do we ruin now.”
you laughed. “hopefully nothing.”
“unlikely,” sam muttered.
bucky faking a nod of agreement because he heard absolutely nothing.
you all ended up successfully placing the cookies in the oven without burning the tower down. sam wiped the counters while you salvaged what you could of the used ingredients, and bucky, with his surprising steadiness, managed to actually help produce a decent batch of chocolate chip cookies, mostly by following the recipe like a normal person. by the time you were done, the kitchen smelled like chocolate and sugar, and the three of you were sitting on stools, munching on slightly lumpy but delicious cookies, a comfortable silence settling between you.
later that night, after a long, hot shower that washed away the flour and the stress of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop glowing softly in the dark room. it was well past midnight, the rest of the tower quiet. you were editing the video, your fingers flying across the keyboard, cutting out the boring parts and adding silly music and captions. you zoomed in on bucky's confused face as he tried to measure sugar with a liquid cup, added a "womp womp" sound effect when you dropped the flour, and put a giant question mark over sam's head when he was trying to mime instructions. it was perfect. it was ridiculous. but it was perfect, especially for the public.
a soft knock on your door made you jump. you glanced at the clock, 1:17 am.
"come in," you called softly, your voice hushed in the quiet.
the door creaked open and bucky peeked in, his hair messy, wearing just a simple grey t-shirt and sweats. he looked softer like this, less like the winter soldier and more like just... a guy. "couldn't sleep," he murmured, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
"me neither," you said, patting the space on the bed next to you. "editing our masterpiece," you giggled quietly.
he sat down, his weight dipping the mattress, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. he leaned over to watch the screen, his shoulder brushing against yours. you tried to focus on the timeline, on the little clips of you all flailing around the kitchen, but all you could think about was the solid presence of him next to you, the clean, faint scent of his soap.
on the screen, sam was having his silent meltdown, and bucky let out another soft chuckle. "he looked like a distressed penguin."
you giggled, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. "he really did." the contact was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you. you straightened up quickly, your cheeks feeling warm. you finished adding the last few touches to the video, a simple thumbnail: "avengers: baking challenge (fail)." your finger hovered over the 'post' button.
"you sure about this?" he asked, his voice quiet in the darkness.
"positive," you said, and clicked it. the video uploaded, a tiny spinning wheel appearing on the screen. "there. it's done. lets hope it does well"
you closed the laptop, plunging the room into near darkness, besides for the soft glow of the city lights through your window. you both sat there for a moment, the silence comfortable, easy. you could feel his gaze on you, but when you turned to look, his eyes were fixed on the window.
"thanks for today," he said, still looking away. "it was... fun."
"yeah," you agreed, your heart beating a little faster. "it was."
he finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. he reached up, his metal hand cool against your skin, and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered for a second, tracing the line of your jaw. then he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. it wasn't romantic, not really. it was just... sweet. a quiet acknowledgment of everything you'd become to each other.
you didn't say anything. you just closed your eyes, leaning into the touch. when you opened them, he was leaning back, a faint blush on his own cheeks. you both were oblivious, dancing around a feeling neither of you could name, content to just exist in this quiet moment.
"get some sleep," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
"you too," you replied.
he didn't get up. he just shifted, settling back against your pillows, his eyes already drifting closed. you watched him for a moment, his breathing evening out, his face relaxed in sleep. you felt your own eyelids getting heavy, the warmth of his body next to yours a comforting weight. you curled up on your side, your laptop forgotten at the foot of the bed, and let yourself drift off, the faint smell of chocolate chip cookies and the lingering warmth of his kiss on your temple the last things you registered before sleep took you.
─˖· masterlist
*as always, thanks @uzmacchiato for the gorgeous lace banners <3
warning: 18+ nsfw, mdni! suggestive, submissive bucky, puppy bucky, guyliner, fluff, lap sitting, dry humping, kissing, you ignore him saying no to the eyeliner, dominant reader, fade to black.
word count: 1. 1k
a/n: made this up based on seeing an edit by @lana_vids_ on tik tok of sebastian as ben from the apparition<3 lots of love pls enjoy!
you didn't ask if you could.
you'd just come home, dropped your bag by the door, and found him sitting on the edge of the shared couch in that boneless slump he gets when he's off duty, no missions pulling at him, just existing in the quiet of your apartment. the late afternoon light slants through the blinds, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls messy over his forehead, and something about it hits you hard. Without a word, you fish the black gel eyeliner from your bag, the sleek fine brush applicator, and stride over to him.
bucky looks up, eyes widening as he registers the eyeliner in your hand. 'what the hell is that?' he mutters, but there's no real bite, just that familiar mix of wariness and curiosity. you don't answer. instead, you push him back against the couch cushions with both hands on his shoulders, pinning him down firmly. he's solid under you, all muscle and heat, but he doesn't resist—not really. his breath catches, hands lifting halfway like he might grab your wrists, but they hover, uncertain.
'absolutely not,' he says, voice low and rough, but his eyes flick to your mouth, then back up, that embarrassed flush already starting to pink his cheeks. you're not listening. you swing a leg over his lap, straddling him fully, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. the weight of you settles right against the hard planes of his thighs, bucky's breath hitches, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides like he doesn't know if he should push you off or pull you closer. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the solid muscle of his legs tensing beneath you.
he shifts under you, hands finally landing awkwardly on the couch beside him, fingers curling into the cushions like he doesn't know where else to put them. "where do you want these?" he mutters, voice rough around the edges, gesturing vaguely with his fingers. his cheeks are flushing, that embarrassed pink creeping up his neck, but his eyes don't leave yours. he's not moving away.
your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, steadying him as you lean in closer, the eyeliner pencil hovering near his waterline. bucky's eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and stormy blue, framed by those long lashes that make the whole thing seem almost criminal. he's got that look again—the one that's equal parts protest and plea, like a puppy who's been caught chewing on the furniture but knows it'll get a pat on the head anyway.
your tongue sticks out just a bit, the tip pressing against your lower lip as you concentrate, gliding the pen across his waterline. Bucky's eyes lock on yours, stormy and wide, framed by those unfairly long lashes. "anywhere you want," you say softly, distracted by trying not to stab him in the eye on accident.
bucky swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and finally, his hands land—tentative at first—on your hips. but that's not enough for him, not really. you feel his fingers flex, sliding down to grip your ass firmly, kneading the flesh through your jeans as if to anchor himself. it's desperate, needy, like he's been holding back for too long and now he can't stop.
'hold still,' you murmur, voice soft but commanding, your free hand gripping his jaw tighter to keep his head angled just right. the brush glides along his lower waterline, smooth and precise, coating the delicate skin in thick, inky black. bucky swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing again under your fingers, and a low sound escapes his throat, half protest, half something needier.
his hands can't stay put anymore. they slide up tentatively, palms settling on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to feel the muscle beneath your pants. 'fuck,' he breathes, voice strained, as you switch to his other eye, tongue still out in focus. the gel is cool at first, then warms against his skin, and he blinks slowly, lashes fluttering against the fresh line. his grip tightens, thumbs pressing into the curve where your thighs meet your cheeks, pulling you a fraction closer so your core brushes against the growing bulge in his pants. "bucky," you warn, but there's no heat in it, just a spark that makes your pulse quicken.
"sorry," he breathes, but he doesn't let go. if anything, his hands slide higher, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other squeezes your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you shift in his lap. he's all puppy eyes now, looking up at you with that submissive tilt to his head, embarrassed but aching to please. "just... trying to hold still. like you said.” bucky's grip tightens, sliding to your ass, squeezing the firm cheeks to pull you down harder onto him. he's all flushed embarrassment, cheeks red, eyes darting away then back, but he doesn't stop—can't stop. 'didn't say you could do this,' he mutters, but it's weak, and he stays still because thats what you instructed.
"good boy," you murmur, switching to his other eye. his hands roam now, bolder, one slipping under your shirt to trace the waistband of your pants, fingertips brushing bare skin. He's trembling slightly, that embarrassed flush deepening as he fights the urge to buck up into you. but he doesn't. he just holds on, gripping your ass like it's the only thing keeping him grounded, his breath coming in shallow pants against your wrist.
you pull back slightly to inspect your work, the black gel stark against the pale skin of his waterline, smudged just enough at the inner corners for that lived-in edge. it makes him look wrecked already, like he's been begging with those lined eyes for hours. bucky blinks up at you, lashes fluttering, and licks his lips nervously. "how's it look?" he asks, voice small, hands still clamped on your waist as if afraid you'll move away.
"perfect," you say, and before he can respond, you lean down and capture his mouth in a kiss—slow at first, then demanding. He melts into it, submissive and eager, his tongue tentative until you coax it out. His grip turns possessive, pulling you flush against him so you can feel every inch of his cock grinding up. you break the kiss, nipping his lower lip when a whine slips through them. "now, show me how grateful you are."
bucky's eyes darken, that puppyish desperation flaring into something hotter. he nods, hands already working at your button, ready to submit completely.
synopsis - despite knowing you've successfully bagged katsuki bakugou, aka pro hero dynamight, his fans are still shipping him with his ex. so what's a better way to claim him than leaving little trails of your love on him? specifically, his body.
status - ongoing
taglist - open
intro (chapter 1)
HOW TO GET BACK AT HER - to do list
make sure katsuki leaves the house in a questionable state
2. hire someone to 'leak' crude pictures of the two of you on holiday
3. go on an interview show together
4. flaunt your proposal in her face.
5. recreate a moment from their relationship, and i mean the same place, similar outfit and same pose.
6. heated and messy livestream on Instagram
7. do tiktok trend ft obsessed by olivia as the sound
8. even messier podcast
9. soft launch the wedding, in a colour that she claims is hers.
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
janainaart
vaporwave
kaledo-art
origamiaround
