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[robinsbuckleys]

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[romanczukowsky]

Caught in the Storm

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Characters: George Weasley, Oliver Wood

Summary: New to the school paper, assigned to Quidditch coverage, you didn’t expect the real game to be off the pitch. George Weasley flirts, teases, and pushes boundaries, while Oliver Wood stakes his claim with every serious, commanding word. You’re the prize, and the tension is almost too hot to handle.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Smut / Soft Intimacy / Subtle love triangle tension / Soft Angst / Friendly rivalry

The weather had been warning you since the moment you left the castle.

Wind pulled at your coat, sharp and impatient, and the rain had only just begun—light, almost polite, the kind that promised it wouldn’t stay that way for long. You crossed the grounds anyway, boots sinking slightly into damp grass, heart beating faster with every step toward the Quidditch pitch.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing there.

You were new. Everyone knew that. New to the paper, new to the column—sports, of all things. You still weren’t sure how that had happened. You didn’t play. You didn’t fly. But someone had decided you had to start somewhere, and Gryffindor Quidditch seemed as good a place as any.

What if they don’t let me in? What if training sessions are off-limits? What if I walk all this way just to be told to leave?

You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on your notebook.

Stop it, you told yourself. You won’t know unless you try.

You were so focused on rehearsing your introduction that you didn’t see him.

You walked straight into a body—solid, warm, unmovable—and would have lost your balance if hands hadn’t caught you instantly, firm at your arms, steadying you before you could even stumble.

“Easy,” a voice said, close.

You looked up.

His hair was a blaze of red even under the gray drizzle, rain darkening the collar of his jacket. His hands lingered on your arms, slow to release, as if letting go hadn’t even occurred to him yet.

“Are you alright?” His eyes searched your face, calm, insistent, like your answer actually mattered.

You nodded, suddenly aware of every fraction of a second, every inch between you. “Yes… yeah. I’m fine. Sorry—I wasn’t looking.”

Behind him, a lighter voice teased.

“Lost already?”

A second redhead appeared over his shoulder, identical grin, identical curiosity—but his gaze flicked between the two of you like he was watching something interesting unfold.

The wind, the rain, even the distant shouts from the pitch faded into a muted haze. For a moment, there was only this—standing here, in the open, the quiet electricity between you, hands still brushing yours as they loosened ever so slightly.

“I’m George,” he said, voice soft, offering his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “George Weasley.”

Your name came out almost on instinct as you introduced yourself, fumbling slightly over the details—new to the paper, sports section, first article, hoping watching the training wouldn’t be a problem.

George’s smile deepened, playful yet knowing, a flicker of something unspoken lighting his eyes.

A sharp crack of a broom landing split the moment.

Footsteps approached—fast, purposeful.

“Why aren’t you in the air?” a voice demanded. “How long am I supposed to wait?”

Oliver Wood appeared, rain dripping from his hair, half-irritation on his face… until his eyes found you.

For a heartbeat, he forgot the words he was about to say.

You stepped forward, just enough to break the silence.

“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I just started working for the school paper, sports section,” you said, voice steady, heart racing, “I was hoping to write about Gryffindor. About the team.”

Wood glanced up at the sky, then back at you. “You know it’s going to rain.”

You nodded. “Quidditch doesn’t stop for bad conditions, right?”

His gaze softened, approving, almost impressed.

“Alright,” he said. “You can stay. Just don’t get in the way.”

He turned, calling orders, sending players to their positions, but George lingered.

George finally moved toward his broom, he leaned close, voice low over the wind. “Try not to blink,” he said, almost a whisper, teasing, intimate, like a secret only you were allowed to hear. “You might miss something.”

Then he was gone, lifting off into the grey sky as the rain finally began to fall in earnest.

Training ended the way it had started—loud, sharp, and soaked through.

Rain clung to everything now. Robes, hair, brooms abandoned near the edge of the pitch. Players laughed, complained, shoved at one another as they landed, adrenaline still humming under their skin.

You stayed where you were, notebook pressed to your chest, watching them come down one by one.

You almost told yourself you’d leave it at that.

Almost.

“Hey,” you said, stepping forward before you could change your mind. “I still have a few questions. If anyone—”

“I’m free.”

George’s voice cut in first, immediate. His hands brushed the wet hair from his forehead, rain clinging to his lashes. He turned to you with a certainty that made your pulse jump. “Happy to answer all of them,” he added, as if there had never been a question.

Then Oliver’s voice reached you, smooth, firm, commanding without edge. “Actually,” he said, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight, “I should probably be the one doing this.”

George’s gaze flicked toward him, still smiling, but there was a sharpened edge now—something deliberate, unspoken.

“Pretty sure you don’t speak for the entire team,” George said, eyes back on you, playful, defiant, yet teasing. “Not off the pitch.”

Wood stepped closer, a subtle heat radiating off him even through the rain, close enough that your notebook seemed to shrink between all of you.

“As captain,” he said, eyes locking on yours, steady and certain, “it makes sense that I handle interviews. Especially official ones.”

You opened your mouth to smooth it over.

Instead, you found yourself standing between them.

George raised an eyebrow, smirk teasing, unapologetic. “Unless you want to hear the same rehearsed answer three times.”

Wood didn’t break his gaze. “Unless you want the truth instead of a performance.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Then I suppose I’ll talk to both of you.”

Neither of them argued.

They just watched each other for a beat too long before turning back to you.

You flipped open your notebook.

“Alright,” you said. “First question.”

You asked about the season. About expectations. About pressure.

George answered first, casual—each word teasing and light, yet precise.

“With style,” he said. “With instinct.” “With the ability to adapt when things don’t go according to plan.”

Wood’s corrections came, calm, measured, the weight of responsibility in every word.

“With discipline.” “With preparation.” “With knowing your role and sticking to it.”

They disagreed politely. Constantly.

Every answer became two versions of the same truth—George’s loose, confident, edged with humor; Oliver’s precise, measured, rooted in responsibility. When one finished, the other filled the space immediately, as if silence meant losing ground.

You wrote quickly, barely able to keep up.

At one point, George leaned closer, brushing your notebook with a finger, a ghost of warmth, eyes glinting. “Make sure you write that part down,” he said, voice low.

Wood folded his arms. “Or you could write what actually wins matches.”

You looked up from the page.

They were both watching you now.

Not waiting for your next question—waiting for your reaction.

You didn’t give them one.

You just smiled faintly and kept writing.

By the time you closed your notebook, the rain had soaked through the last dry edge of the pitch, and something unspoken had settled between the three of you. Not hostile. Not friendly.

Charged.

“Well,” Wood said at last, straightening. “If you need anything clarified, let me know.”

George tilted his head, eyes still on you. “Same goes for me.”

Different words. Same meaning.

You thanked them, already aware that this wasn’t just an interview anymore—and that whatever you were writing, both of them intended to be part of it.

As you turned to leave the pitch, you felt it clearly for the first time.

You had stepped into something that wasn’t neutral.

“Hey—wait.”

Oliver’s voice reached you before you made it halfway to the path leading back to the castle.

You turned.

He was jogging toward you, rain still clinging to him, hair damp, expression more careful now than it had been during training.

“You said you’re writing this tonight,” he said. “After standing out here, you’re going to freeze.”

You shrugged lightly. “Occupational hazard.”

He shook his head once, decisive. “Come have some tea. Somewhere warm. We can go over the article—if you want to make sure it’s accurate.”

There it was.

The official reason.

You hesitated only a second before nodding. “Alright.”

The Gryffindor common room smelled like firewood and damp wool.

The rain outside beat steadily against the windows now, heavier than before, but inside it was warm—almost too warm—golden light flickering from the fireplace as students talked, laughed, drifted in and out.

You sat on one end of a sofa near the hearth, parchment spread across your knees, a steaming mug cradled between your hands.

Oliver sat close. Closer than necessary.

He leaned in as you reread a paragraph, shoulder brushing yours, attention fully on the text.

“This part,” he said, pointing. His finger grazed your hand as he did. “You might want to clarify what we changed tactically after mid-season.”

You nodded, scribbling a note.

A moment later, it happened again.

Another accidental touch. Brief. Deliberate enough to be noticed, subtle enough to be dismissed.

Oliver spoke quietly, his voice low in the space between you. “You write well,” he said. “You see things people usually miss.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

Before you could respond, the portrait hole burst open.

Noise flooded the room.

Laughter. Voices. Wet boots hitting stone.

George’s voice carried first—easy, unmistakable—followed by Fred’s commentary, Harry complaining about the rain, Angelina’s sharp laugh, Katie shaking water from her sleeves.

The team.

They filtered in together, energy still buzzing from training.

George saw you almost immediately.

Then he saw where you were sitting. Who you were sitting with.

The way his gaze lingered on Oliver’s arm resting along the back of the sofa behind you.

He approached slowly, hands in his pockets, rain still clinging to his hair.

“Well,” George said, stopping in front of the sofa, gaze flicking pointedly to Oliver. “Looks like you didn’t waste any time.”

Oliver glanced up, unfazed. “We’re going over the article.”

“Ah,” George drawled. “Of course you are.”

You felt the tension before either of them said anything else.

Without thinking too hard about it, you shifted slightly—just enough to make space beside you.

“Do you want to see?” you asked George, lifting the parchment. “You are part of it.”

That did it.

Oliver straightened, subtle but immediate.

George’s eyebrows lifted, amused. He dropped onto the sofa beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knees brushed.

“Careful,” he murmured, glancing at the text. “If I start editing too, he might think I’m stealing his job.”

Oliver scoffed. “You wouldn’t know where to begin.”

George smiled—slow, deliberate—and leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours.

“Funny,” he said, eyes on you now, not Oliver. “You seem to understand me just fine.”

Your pen paused mid-word.

You felt it then—how naturally your body angled toward George, how your attention followed him without effort. How Oliver, suddenly, felt like the third presence instead of the center.

George glanced back at the parchment, pretending to read.

“You should keep that line,” he added casually. “The one about instinct. It suits me.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “If you’re done—” he said, controlled.

“Relax, Captain,” he said lightly.

Then George leaned back, standing.

“I’ll let you finish,” he said, eyes lingering on you. “For now.”

As he walked away, you realized two things at once:

Oliver had lost his advantage.

And George knew it.

The days that followed slipped into a strange rhythm.

You kept writing. You kept observing.

And George Weasley kept finding you.

Not loudly. Not obviously.

Just… inevitably.

In corridors between classes, when you were juggling parchment and ink and suddenly there he was, walking backward in front of you, asking if you’d written something devastating about him yet.

On the stairs, where he’d slow his pace to match yours, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.

In the Great Hall, where you’d feel his eyes before you ever saw him—look up from your notes and find him already watching, mouth curved like he knew something you didn’t.

Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didn’t.

Sometimes it was just a glance held a second too long, a brush of fingers when he passed you your quill back, a murmured “Don’t work too hard” like it meant something else.

You noticed how easily you laughed with him. How you forgot to watch the time.

And you noticed something else, too.

Oliver Wood hadn’t stopped trying.

He checked in about the article. Asked how it was coming along. Offered tea again—always tea, always warm, always reasonable. His presence was steady, grounding, impossible to dismiss.

You told yourself it was harmless.

You didn’t tell yourself who you looked for first when you entered a room.

The next day wind was sharp again when you reached the pitch.

Too sharp.

Too quiet.

The stands were empty.

You stopped short, confusion settling in as you scanned the field. No players. No brooms. No shouting.

“Looking for someone?”

You turned.

George stood a few steps away, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable—but softer than you expected.

“You’re late,” he said gently.

Your stomach dropped. “Late?”

“Snape moved Slytherin’s training up,” George explained. “Apparently ambition doesn’t like waiting.”

You let out a breath, frustration flashing across your face. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured,” he said. Then, after a pause: “You look… disappointed.”

“I needed the notes,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

He studied you a moment longer, then nodded toward the path away from the pitch.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that isn’t freezing,” he said. “I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue.

You walked side by side, the grounds stretching quiet around you. Dusk bled into the sky, and the wind tugged at your hair—but with him there, it felt lighter somehow, as if the chill was just a brush against skin.

He fell into step beside you, shoulders almost touching yours. You didn’t move away.

“Careful,” he said suddenly, low, playful. “Don’t let the cold steal all your attention.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… wasn’t thinking about the cold.”

He smirked, leaning just slightly closer, enough that you could smell rain and smoke lingering on him. “Good.”

Your arm brushed his as you adjusted your notebook. A spark ran through your chest, subtle, electric, but unmistakable.

He glanced at you, and in that glance, there was something unspoken—a promise, a challenge, a dare.

By the time you reached the castle, the corridors were quiet, torchlight flickering against the stone walls.

“Huh,” you murmured. “We missed dinner.”

He smiled softly, almost slyly. “Worth it.”

Inside the common room, the warmth hit you all at once. You dropped onto a sofa near the hearth, parchment on your knees, quill in hand.

George paused mid-step, watching you with a tilt of his head. “Not going to bed?”

You sighed, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “I should. But I I need to write something.””

“Well,” he said slowly, “I do happen to be an excellent source.”

You smiled. “Unbiased?”

“Never,” he replied. “But entertaining.”

He straightened suddenly, posture stiff, expression twisted into a bad imitation.

“As a Slytherin Beater,” he drawled, “I believe Gryffindor’s success is entirely accidental and deeply offensive—””

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“That’s terrible.”

“Thank you,” he said proudly. “I worked very hard on it.”

You shook your head, smiling as you scribbled something out. “Alright. We’re not writing about them.”

“Good,” he said. “They don’t deserve the ink.”

The fire crackled softly. The room felt warmer. Smaller.

An idea settled in your chest.

“What if,” you said carefully, “I wrote a profile instead?”

George tilted his head. “Of who?”

You met his eyes. “You.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“The best Beater on the team,” you said, voice steady. “Personal angle. No tactics. Just… you.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Only if the questions are fair,” he said.

You smiled. “No promises.”

You wrote his name at the top of the parchment.

“First question,” you said. “Do you actually enjoy it? The pressure?”

George shrugged. “Some days. Other days I pretend I do.”

Somewhere between jokes and notes, the space between you shrank.

Your knees touched fully. His arm brushed yours. A hand lingered near the edge of your parchment, close enough to distract you, close enough to thrill you.

“Do you have someone?” you asked, just barely above a whisper, as if testing.

George tilted his head. “Is that for the readers?”

You looked up, heart stuttering.

“Or for you?” he murmured, leaning slightly, letting the words hover just for you.

The warmth from him pressed against you, subtle, teasing, impossible to ignore.

He shifted, just a hair closer, close enough that the moment stretched, fragile and electric. Every inch closing, inch by inch, until it felt like there was nothing left between you.

You forgot the parchment. The firelight. The world outside the room.

You were so close.

Too close to stop now.

“Oi.”

Fred’s voice crashed into the room like a Bludger.

You jumped apart instantly.

George groaned softly, forehead dropping forward for a split second.

“Wood’s looking for you,” Fred added cheerfully. “He’s losing his mind about tomorrow.”

George stood, jaw tight. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

He looked back at you.

His expression had changed—still heated, still charged—but softer now. Certain.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and followed Fred out.

You stayed where you were.

Heart racing. Fingers still curled around the quill.

On the parchment, the title stared back at you.

George Weasley: More Than a Beater

You didn’t write another word.

Match day. The castle woke up louder than usual.

Doors slammed. Footsteps echoed. Someone was already shouting “Gryffindor!” down the corridor like it was a battle cry instead of a greeting.

You barely made it three steps out of your dorm before you felt it—the electricity in the air, the certainty everyone carried like armor.

They were going to win. Of course they were.

Scarlet and gold everywhere. Scarves thrown over shoulders, laughter spilling between groups of students as if the match was already over. You caught fragments of conversations as you moved through the hall.

“Hufflepuff doesn’t stand a chance.” “Wood’s been insufferable all week.” “We’re taking the Cup this year.”

You smiled despite yourself, fingers tightening around your notebook.

You scanned the crowd instinctively.

And found him.

George stood near the stairs, already half in his gear, sleeves rolled up, hair a little wild like he hadn’t bothered to tame it this morning. Fred was saying something animated beside him, but George wasn’t listening.

He was looking at you.

Your steps slowed without you realizing it.

You meant to go to him. Meant to wish him luck. Meant to say something—anything that wasn’t unsaid.

You took one step forward.

“Hey—”

“Can I steal you for a moment?”

Oliver’s voice came from your right.

You turned, startled.

He stood close, already dressed for the match, expression focused but softer when he looked at you. Intentional. Grounded. Like he’d planned this.

“It’ll only take a second,” he added.

You hesitated.

George was still watching.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a word. Just timing.

“Okay,” you said.

Oliver guided you a few steps away, just far enough that the noise of the common room blurred into background sound. He stopped near the window, rain streaking the glass behind him.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I just—” He exhaled. “This match matters.”

“I know,” you replied quietly.

He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around something small.

“When we lost the Snitch because of the dementors,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on yours, “I promised myself I’d never leave anything to chance again.”

He opened his hand.

A thin leather bracelet rested in his palm, worn soft with age. The Gryffindor lion was stamped into the metal clasp, dulled from years of being touched, trusted.

“I’ve worn this every match since,” Oliver continued. “Call it superstition if you want. But it’s never failed me.”

Your breath slowed.

“I want you to have it,” he said.

You looked at the bracelet. Then back at him.

“Oliver—”

“Just for today,” he interrupted gently. “If you keep it on… it means something. To me.”

You swallowed.

You didn’t think about how it might look. You didn’t think about who might see.

You thought about belief. About pressure. About what it meant to carry someone’s hope.

You reached out.

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll hold onto it.”

Oliver smiled—relieved, sincere—and fastened it around your wrist himself, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

Behind you, the noise shifted.

You felt it before you turned.

George stood a few feet away now.

He wasn’t smiling.

His gaze was fixed on your wrist.

On Oliver’s hand.

On the space between you that suddenly felt very visible.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Fred clapped George on the shoulder, saying something about warm-ups, about not being late, about Wood losing his mind if they didn’t move.

George didn’t take his eyes off you.

Something in his expression closed.

He nodded once—to Oliver, not to you—and turned away without a word.

Your stomach twisted.

You looked down at the bracelet, suddenly heavier than it had been seconds ago.

The match hadn’t even started.

And already, something had shifted.

You found him near the locker rooms.

The noise of the castle faded there, replaced by the low hum of voices behind closed doors, the clatter of brooms being moved, boots hitting stone.

George stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

You hesitated for half a second.

Then you stepped closer.

“George.”

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And for the first time since you’d met him, there was no warmth in his eyes.

“What,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

You swallowed. “I wanted to wish you luck.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right.”

Silence stretched.

His gaze dropped—to your wrist.

The bracelet.

He laughed once, humorless. “Didn’t realize we were doing that now.”

“Doing what?”

“Collecting souvenirs,” he said coolly. “From captains.”

You frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Because it looks a lot like that.”

You lifted your chin. “He asked me to hold onto it. For the team.”

George’s jaw tightened.

“Funny,” he said. “You didn’t ask me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his composure.

“I thought you were different,” he said. “I thought when you looked at me—when we talked—it meant something.”

“It does,” you said immediately.

“Then why does it feel like I’m watching you choose him?”

That hit.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I didn’t choose anyone.”

George shook his head slowly. “You don’t get it. You don’t have to say it for it to happen.”

He glanced toward the door, where voices were rising—teammates calling his name.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, already pulling away. “I’ve got a match to play.”

He paused.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, not turning back, “I don’t give interviews today.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut behind him.

You stood there alone, the echo of his words settling heavy in your chest.

You looked down at your wrist.

The bracelet felt tighter now.

And suddenly, holding onto it didn’t feel like support.

It felt like a mistake.

The rain started before the first whistle.

You took your place in the stands, notebook forgotten in your lap.

The roar of Gryffindor thundered around you.

Scarlet and gold banners waved. Someone behind you was already shouting Wood’s name like a prayer.

Your eyes found the pitch.

George mounted his broom, jaw set, shoulders tense. He didn’t look at you.

Oliver barked orders, sharp and precise, voice cutting clean through the rain. He looked confident—focused in the way that made people trust him.

The whistle blew.

The match exploded into motion.

At first, it was chaos—blurs of colour, brooms slicing through wet air, the thud of Bludgers echoing across the pitch. Rain slicked everything, turning sharp maneuvers into risks.

George played hard.

Too hard.

You saw it immediately—the way he hit faster, more aggressively than usual, timing just a fraction off. One Bludger flew wide. Another clipped a Hufflepuff Chaser.

Oliver shouted corrections.

George didn’t answer.

They weren’t in sync.

A signal missed. A call ignored. A maneuver mistimed.

You gripped the edge of the bench as a Hufflepuff player slipped past their formation, scoring easily.

The crowd groaned.

Wood’s voice rose, sharp with frustration.

George’s broom jerked in response—too late.

Rain streamed down his face now, plastering hair to his forehead, jaw clenched so tight you could see it from the stands.

You looked down at your wrist.

The bracelet.

It felt wrong. Heavy. Like it didn’t belong there.

The match dragged on, tension winding tighter with every near-miss. Gryffindor clawed their way back, point by point, sheer determination keeping them afloat.

Then—

A Bludger rocketed toward Oliver’s blind side.

George saw it.

For half a second, everything slowed.

You stood without realizing it.

George swerved hard, slamming the Bludger away just in time. The impact jolted him sideways, rain-slick broom skidding dangerously before he recovered.

The crowd erupted.

Oliver glanced back—really looked at him this time.

Something shifted.

They moved better after that. Still tense. Still rough around the edges. But aligned.

As if the game forced them to remember why they trusted each other in the first place.

The Snitch appeared near the stands, gold flashing through the rain.

Harry dove.

Seconds stretched unbearably thin.

Then the whistle shrieked.

“GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

The stadium exploded.

Cheers tore through the rain, louder than thunder. You barely registered the noise as players landed hard on the pitch, mud splashing, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter breaking free.

You were already moving.

Down the steps. Onto the wet grass.

Your boots slipped slightly as you reached the edge of the pitch, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the score.

Oliver reached you first.

Water streamed down his face, eyes bright with relief and triumph.

“We did it,” he said, breathless. “We actually did it.”

He laughed, hands coming to your arms, grounding himself.

“I told you,” he added, glancing at your wrist. “It worked.”

You opened your mouth.

Didn’t get the chance to answer.

A shadow fell across the grass.

George landed a few feet away.

Rain-soaked. Breathing hard. Exhilaration and exhaustion etched into his face.

Fred clapped him on the back, Angelina shouting something about his save, but George barely heard them.

His eyes found you.

And on the bracelet.

The noise around you dulled.

You couldn’t hear what Oliver was saying anymore.

You stepped back gently, slipping your wrist from Oliver’s grasp.

Without looking at him, you reached up and unclasped the bracelet.

Rain slicked it as it dropped into your palm.

You crossed the space between you and Oliver and pressed it back into his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For trusting me.”

Then you turned.

George was there.

Close. Too close.

Heat radiated from him through the wet fabric, through the rain.

His gaze swept to Oliver, then snapped back to you.

Something shifted in him—something raw, sudden, urgent.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

And he closed the space.

He kiss you.

Not tentative. Not gentle.

The world narrowed to the two of you. Rain streaked over skin and fabric, dripping into hair, turning everything around into a blur of light and sound.

His hands found your waist, firm, claiming. Your fingers twined into the collar of his jacket, gripping, steadying, wanting.

Every glance, every hesitation, every unsaid thing between you collided in that instant.

Somewhere a cheer cut through the rain—but it was distant, irrelevant.

You didn’t hear it. You didn’t care.

There was just the press of him, the warmth, the spark of his lips against yours, the unspoken promise hanging in the storm.

A heartbeat stretched, stretched again, as if the rain itself waited with you.

Everything else—Oliver, Fred, Angelina, the pitch, the storm—slid to the edges of existence.

Whatever this had been, whatever lines you’d nearly crossed before, evaporated.

You had chosen.

And so had he.

The castle was quieter later.

Not silent—just softened. Like it was recovering from everything the day had thrown at it.

You sat at one of the tables in the common room, parchment spread before you, quill moving slower now, more deliberate. Ink stained your fingers. Your hair was still damp at the ends.

George sat close.

So close you could feel the warmth of him even when he wasn’t touching you—his knee brushing yours, his arm resting along the back of your chair like it had decided this was its place now.

You wrote about the match.

About rain and rhythm. About tension and trust. About a team that nearly fractured—and didn’t.

You were finishing the last paragraph when you felt him lean in.

Not to read.

To you.

His breath brushed your ear, warm and unhurried.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?” you asked quietly, eyes still on the page.

“Get that look,” he said. “Like the rest of the world stops existing when you write.”

Your pen paused.

His lips brushed just below your ear—not a kiss, not quite. A promise of one.

“You’re good,” he added softly. “You know that, right?”

You swallowed, heart picking up pace. “I’m almost done.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, amusement threading through his voice. “Shame.”

Your fingers tightened around the quill. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, closer now, his mouth at your neck, his words a whisper against your skin, “once you’re finished… I was hoping you might pay attention to something else.”

You laughed under your breath, heat rushing to your face. “George.”

He smiled against you. You could feel it.

“Just saying,” he murmured. “The article can wait five more minutes.”

You leaned back—into him this time—letting your head rest briefly against his shoulder.

“Five,” you said. “That’s all you get.”

He grinned, unmistakably pleased.

You added the final line.

In the end, Gryffindor didn’t win because the rain stopped— they won because they trusted each other enough to keep flying through it.

You set the quill down.

George’s hand slid to your waist, firm and certain.

“Done?” he asked.

You turned your head toward him.

“Done.”

He kissed you then—slow, unhurried, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

And for the first time since this had all begun, you knew with absolute certainty—

He wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither were you.

[romanczukowsky]

The Letter in the Quidditch Book

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: You never meant for him to find out this way. A hidden letter, a string of misunderstandings, Fred’s relentless teasing, and George’s own doubts all tangle into knots you don’t know how to undo. But when one cold night by the fire finally brings the truth into the open, you learn that sometimes the scariest confessions can lead to the warmest endings.

Warnings: Slow Burn ➝ Mutual Pining / Fluff & Angst & Fluff Again / Mild emotional hurt/comfort / Sibling teasing / First kiss

The Gryffindor common room smelled faintly of smoke from the fireplace and something sweet—someone must have smuggled biscuits from the kitchens again.

You sat curled up in an armchair, sipping tea that had long gone cold. Your quill scratched softly against the parchment as you tried to find the right words, though you knew none of them would ever feel good enough.

"Dear George..."

Just writing those words made your cheeks burn. It felt like you were doing something forbidden, something dangerous. But you couldn’t take it back.

You had carried this for too long—every laugh at his jokes that came a little too quickly, every skipped heartbeat when his hand brushed yours, every smile that made the world a little brighter.

A letter filled with months of feelings: the glances, the warmth, the way his presence alone could lift you out of the darkest day. You folded it neatly and slipped it between the pages of a book about the Irish Quidditch team. A perfect birthday gift—innocent enough that no one would ever guess the secret it carried.

What you hadn’t expected was that the hardest part wouldn’t be writing the letter… but waiting for George to finally open the book.

Days slipped by. Each time you caught a glimpse of George in the common room, laughing with Fred or plotting their next prank, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had even cracked the book open. Probably not.

Patience, you told yourself. Patience.

And so, one quiet evening, you sat near the fire with your homework spread across the table. Your tea had gone lukewarm again, untouched as you tried to wrestle with a particularly tricky Transfiguration essay.

The portrait hole swung open, and in came George, Fred, and Lee, laughing together about some prank you couldn’t quite hear. Their voices carried through the room, light and mischievous, but when George’s eyes found you, his grin softened immediately.

“Hey, how’s the essay going?” he asked warmly, settling onto the couch beside you. His shoulder brushed yours, just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Need a hand with anything?”

You blinked, cheeks warming instantly. “No, I’ve got it. Almost done,” you murmured, trying to sound calm even though your pulse had jumped.

Lee flopped down on the other side of you, grinning at George. “George found something good today.”

George raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

Lee leaned closer, teasing. “Yeah, go on, read it. ”

George laughed softly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. Your stomach dropped into your boots.

“I don’t know who it’s from,” he said, frowning slightly, “it’s not signed… but it’s addressed to me.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as he unfolded it. He began to read aloud, his voice casual at first:

“Dear George…”

Your stomach lurched. You tried to look away, but your eyes were glued to him.

“You are the most handsome, the funniest boy I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing…”

Your breath caught. That wasn’t yours.

“…I feel butterflies every time you greet me in the corridor…”

Your hands tightened around your quill. Wait, that’s not mine.

George continued, oblivious to the turmoil you felt, and your face flushed crimson as each word hit. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like everyone in the room could hear it.

Fred, lounging nearby, leaned toward you just as George reached for a treacle tart from the plate on the table. He kicked your shin lightly, silently asking, Was it you?

You shook your head so fast it was almost comical, mouthing No!

George, still smiling as if nothing had happened, shrugged and licked a trace of sugar from his thumb. “When you were younger,” he said, eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief, “did you ever send notes like that to older boys? Is that how people do it now? Can’t just come and talk to me? How am I supposed to know who wrote it?” He leaned back with a small scoff. “Not wasting time on someone so shy.”

The words stung like a slap. You barely managed a muttered “Goodnight” before gathering your books and slipping upstairs, praying the shadows would hide how shaken you were.

But sleep never came.

The next morning, you hadn’t gone down for breakfast. Not yet. Not while the Great Hall buzzed with the clatter of plates, the chatter of students, and the tempting smell of bacon and toast drifting up the staircases. You stayed behind, curled up in the quiet of the Gryffindor common room, waiting. Waiting until the morning rush had passed, until the room was empty, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire.

When the last footsteps faded and silence settled over the empty common room, you took a deep, steadying breath. Heart hammering in your chest, you crept toward the boys’ dormitory, every step measured, every floorboard avoided as if it might betray you.

At the door, you paused, hand on the doorknob, fingers trembling slightly. Then, with one careful push, the door creaked open, and you slipped inside.

George’s bed was unmade, his trunk half-open, papers and books scattered in the charming chaos that was so uniquely his. You crouched down, careful to avoid making any noise, and began rifling through his belongings. Quills, scraps of parchment, textbooks… your hands shook slightly as you searched for the Irish Quidditch book—the one that contained your letter.

But it wasn’t there.

A sharp throat-clearing behind you froze you in place. Slowly, you turned.

Fred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. In one hand, between his fingers, he held your letter.

“Looking for this?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement.

“Give. It. Back!” you snapped, reaching for it, but he held it high, as if daring you to try.

He straightened dramatically and began to read aloud, his voice mock-serious, every word exaggerated as if he were performing for an audience:

“Dear George…”

Your hand shot out again. “Fred! Stop it!”

But he ignored you, his grin growing as he continued to read. You gave him a sharp kick in the shin, making him yelp and bend forward just long enough for you to snatch the parchment from his hand.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You clutched the letter to your chest like a lifeline.

“Ow! Easy there,” Fred said, rubbing the sore spot, still smirking. “Relax, it was just a joke. I saw you tuck something into his gift, but there was nothing in mine —figured it had to be something juicy.”

You turned away, too furious and humiliated to answer, storming past him toward the door. But as you shoved it open, you nearly collided headfirst with George.

He froze, eyes flicking between your flushed face and the crumpled parchment in your hands. Concern replaced his usual easy grin. “Y/N? What’s going on? Are you… okay?”

Fred stepped out from behind you, suddenly less smug under George’s questioning gaze. “Nothing,” he said quickly, voice casual. Then, with a sly glance at you, he added lightly, “Just a little secret between me and Y/N. Isn’t that right?”

George frowned, clearly trying to read the situation. “What did you do?” he asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

Fred clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder with exaggerated cheer. “Don’t be so nosy, Georgie. You’ll only make her blush more.”

You muttered something under your breath, still fuming, and slipped past them, determined to escape before your embarrassment got any worse. Fred’s eyes followed you with an amused sparkle, while George’s gaze lingered, trying to make sense of your flustered expression.

All day, you avoided them like the plague. You ducked into side corridors, skipped lunch in the Great Hall, and pretended to be deeply fascinated by the library’s dustiest shelves. But Fred was persistent, showing up wherever you went.

“You like him,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning against a bookshelf while you tried to focus on your notes. “So why don’t you just tell him? You heard him—he hates guessing games. Go up to him and say it. Simple.”

Simple. As if it were that easy.

You buried your face in your arms with a groan. Fred chuckled, unbothered.

George had started noticing. Noticing that Fred hovered around you more than usual. Noticing the way you turned pink whenever his brother teased.

And yet, Fred refused to let it go.

“Come on,” he insisted for what felt like the hundredth time as he flopped into the armchair opposite yours. “You can’t just bottle it up forever. One sentence, Y/N. That’s all it takes.”

You shook your head firmly, hugging your knees to your chest. “No. Fred, please—just stop. I’ll never say it to his face. I don’t have the courage.”

Fred leaned forward, frowning. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Your stomach twisted as you whispered, “What if he laughs? What if he says nothing at all? What if he just… stares at me like I’m insane? I couldn’t survive that.”

For a moment, Fred was quiet. Then, with a wicked grin, he stood up and crossed to you. “Alright, let’s do a little rehearsal. Pretend I’m George. You walk up to me, look me in the eye and say, ‘Hi, I like you. Fancy a snog? I know a great spot.’”

“Fred!” you hissed, glaring at him.

He grinned wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What? Too forward? Fine. Maybe add a flower crown and serenade him with a mandolin while you’re at it—”

“Stop.” You said, but he only laughed.

Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair, and for once his teasing smile softened. He reached out suddenly, taking your hand in his. The playfulness melted into something quieter, more sincere. His thumb brushed your knuckles as he met your eyes.

“Listen,” he said gently, “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while—you’re someone special. Really special. And if you ever wanted to… maybe we could get a butterbeer together? My treat.”

Your eyes went wide. It made you laugh, shaking your head.

“It was much better…” you said softly, unable to keep from smiling despite yourself.

And that was when the portrait hole creaked open.

George stepped in with Lee Jordan, both mid-conversation, but George’s words died the moment his eyes fell on the two of you—Fred still holding your hand, your cheeks flushed, laughter caught on your lips.

Lee’s eyebrows lifted, smiled. “We won’t disturb you. Carry on.”

George’s jaw tightened in a way you’d never seen before; the easy amusement slipped from his face and something sharper took its place. He didn’t speak, but the change made the air between you feel suddenly thin.

Fred, waved a hand. “Sit down. I’ll beat you both at Exploding Snap.” He flopped into an armchair with theatrical flair. “Seriously, sit. I’ll smash you.” His grin was outrageous, meant to defuse and distract, and for a second it worked: Lee chuckled and settled, and you let out a small, shaky laugh too.

George sat on the couch beside you, though there was a polite, cautious space between you that twitched at your nerves. Fred and Lee arranged themselves opposite, cards already in hand. The common room hummed low with the dying fire and the soft shuffle of cards. It should have been ordinary. It should have felt safe.

You slid a little closer, almost by reflex—you wanted the warmth, the closeness —but as your knee neared his, George’s whole posture shifted. He drew back just enough that the gap widened instead of closing. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but it slammed into you like a cold wind.

For a moment you registered the absurdity: how a simple inch could feel like betrayal. Your pulse jumped into your throat; your hands went clammy on the cards.

You tried to smile, to meet his eyes, to catch whatever had slid away, but George’s gaze flicked down to the table then away again, his mouth a tight line. He was present—physically—but distant, like someone who’d walked into the wrong scene and wasn’t sure how to leave.

The game ended in a blur of laughter and shouted curses as Fred theatrically declared himself the undisputed champion of Exploding Snap. You laughed along, but your eyes kept flicking to George, whose expression remained distant, his usual warmth muted.

Fred noticed immediately. “Hmm, clearly my victory wasn’t impressive enough,” he said with a sly grin. “Alright, next round.”

You glanced at George, hoping he might crack a smile, but he just gave a faint shrug, still staring at the table as if it wasn’t even there.

“Or,” Fred continued, undeterred, “we could practice some dueling spells. I can teach you a new hex that’s guaranteed to make someone hop on one leg for a minute—entirely harmless, but oh-so-entertaining.”

Lee chuckled, clearly enjoying Fred’s relentless energy, while you felt a little embarrassed, realizing just how obvious Fred’s attempts were to distract George—and perhaps you too.

George’s eyes barely lifted. He murmured something about needing a “quiet moment,”. With a faint, apologetic glance toward the three of you, without another word, he headed for the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, leaving the game and laughter behind him.

And for the first time that evening, the playful, teasing atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken words, with something waiting—just beyond reach.

The following days were quiet, almost painfully so. George no longer carried that radiant, easy grin when he walked past you in the corridors. He didn’t bump shoulders playfully or tease you lightly as he once did.

Instead, he met your gaze with careful politeness, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. Every encounter left you with a hollow ache in your chest—your courage failing to bridge the gap between misunderstanding and confession.

You hated it. You hated how wrong everything felt, how impossible it seemed to tell him the truth without feeling as if the world itself would collapse. And yet, the thought of letting him think something else—that he had misread your feelings—was unbearable.

It was in the library, bent over another essay, that Fred found you. He came skidding around the corner, eyes wide, clearly flustered.

“We’ve got trouble,” he said, voice low but urgent.

You looked up, puzzled. “What kind of trouble?”

“All your fault,” he accused with a wagging finger. “If you’d just told him—told George—you liked him—none of this would have happened.”

“What happened?” you asked, alarm creeping into your voice.

Fred’s lips twisted in a grimace. “He agreed to go on a date with that girl—the one from the letter. Can you believe it?” He shook his head, exasperated. “Her name’s Clarisse… she’s… not bad-looking, I guess…”

He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

Your heart lurched. “And? And what?” you pressed, trying to keep your voice steady.

Fred blinked, “And he said yes!”

You felt like you’d been punched in the stomach. “He… agreed?!”

“Yep.” Fred grabbed your sleeve and started tugging you toward the exit. “Come on! What are you waiting for? Go stop him! Tell him! Now’s your last chance—I’m done helping after this.”

You stumbled along, barely keeping pace. “What am I supposed to do?” you murmured, flustered.

“Kick that date right out of his head! Say it! Tell him! Now, Y/N!”

By the time you reached the common room, Fred had already asked around. George had left—long gone, headed off with some girl.

Now all you could do was wait. Hours trickled by. The sky outside darkened, the fire dwindled to a faint orange glow, and the castle sank into near silence.

It was very late by the time the portrait hole creaked open again. You’d half-dozed off in the armchair, your knees tucked under you, your head resting on your hand, when the door swung inward and George stepped inside. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, his hair a little damp from the frost in the air.

He stopped when he saw you and blinked, surprised. “Y/N? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you asleep?”

Because I’ve been sitting here like a fool, waiting for you, the thought flickered through your mind. But instead you straightened a little and managed a sleepy smile. “Got caught up in reading. Lost track of time, I guess. You must be freezing. Sit down, warm up.”

He hesitated only a second before moving to the couch, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his hands together, staring into the flames.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You could hear the faint crackle of the fire, the distant whistle of the wind against the windows. Then, quietly, you asked, “Where were you?”

George let out a heavy breath, his voice low, almost like he was confessing something to himself. “On a date.”

Something inside you tightened. You kept your tone soft, even, though your pulse had sped up. “How was it?” you asked, hoping—against hope—he’d say it had been awful.

He shrugged, still staring at the fire. “I suppose it was fine. She’s very nice. But…” He paused, frowning a little. “I didn’t feel comfortable. It was… weird.”

Before you’d even realized you were moving, you’d left the armchair and crossed to the couch, sitting beside him. Without thinking, you reached for his hands. “Here,” you murmured, “this will warm them faster.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and for a heartbeat the room shifted. His gaze softened, darkened, flickers of something unspoken sparking behind his eyes. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Then, suddenly, he pulled his hands back and turned to the fire. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “Can’t what?”

His jaw tightened. “I can’t… you’re with my brother.”

You blinked, stunned. “What? Who told you that?”

“No one,” he said, finally looking at you again, confusion written all over his face. “I saw you. The two of you. I thought—aren’t you…?”

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” you said, almost laughing from the shock. “Fred isn’t—he’s just been helping me with something. That’s all.”

George’s brows furrowed as the realization sank in. “Helping you?”

You took a shaky breath, your heart hammering. “George… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a long time.”

His eyes searched yours, wide and uncertain.

You swallowed hard. “I—” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “I like you, George. I really like you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened. The corner of his mouth quirked up, relief flickering in his expression. He reached out, taking your hand again, slower this time, deliberate.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“I like you,” you said, steadier now.

Something in him broke open at those words. George let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, before leaning closer—so close the firelight painted his freckles in gold. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, then higher, tracing the inside of your wrist where your pulse raced wildly.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice rough, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

Before you could reply, his hand slid up to cup your cheek, warm and careful, like he was afraid you might disappear. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to shrink—just you, him, and the fire crackling softly beside you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t shy—it was desperate in its gentleness, like he’d been holding back for too long and finally, finally let go. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of honey and firewhisky, and the way he angled closer made your whole body spark.

Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him nearer, until there was no space left between you. His laugh rumbled against your mouth, half joy, half disbelief, before it melted back into another kiss—slower this time, deeper, every second heavy with all the things neither of you had been able to say.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His smile was boyish, radiant, but his eyes burned with something that made your chest ache.

“Please tell me, why didn’t you tell me sooner? And... are you angry about the date? Merlin, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve agreed to it—I just thought…” His jaw worked nervously. “I thought you and Fred—”

“I wrote you a letter.” you cut in, squeezing his hand.

His eyes widened. “You did? For me?”

You nodded, cheeks warming. “On your birthday. I slipped it into that Quidditch book.”

He frowned. “But—I never saw any letter.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, shaky but real. “That’s… kind of a complicated story.”

So you really did write me a letter,” he murmured. “Will you let me read it?”

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. “No,” you whispered, “because you said that you wouldn’t waste time on someone too shy to—”

He silenced you with another kiss, firmer this time, leaving you breathless when he finally pulled back. His forehead rested against yours, his voice low, steady. “If that letter had been yours, I never—never—would’ve said that.”

Your laugh caught in your throat, half relief, half disbelief, but he was smiling now, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. He tugged you closer, teasing, “Come on, Y/N. Show me. What did you write?”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back, flustered but grinning.

George chuckled, that warm, unguarded laugh of his that made your chest ache. “You’re going to make me chase after my own love letter? That’s cruel.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to live with the mystery,” you teased.

And somehow, in the soft glow of the dying fire, with his arm wrapped around you and laughter tumbling from both your lips, it didn’t matter that the letter was still hidden away. Because now he knew. And that was enough.

[romanczukowsky]

Some Things George Weasley Doesn’t Joke About

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.

Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing

It started the way most bad decisions usually do.

With laughter.

With noise.

With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.

You weren’t the quiet type.

Never had been.

If anything, you were worse.

Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.

Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”

George called it “friendship.”

And you just called it home.

You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.

Which, most of the time, you did.

Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.

Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.

“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.

Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.

George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”

You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”

Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”

You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.

Sharp.

Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.

You didn’t even have to turn around to know.

Professor McGonagall.

“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

You stood up slowly. “Professor.”

Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”

Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”

You shot him a warning look.

McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”

Silence.

Even Fred stopped smirking.

You swallowed.

“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.

“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”

That hit a little harder than you expected.

Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”

Fred blinked.

George’s eyebrows lifted.

You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.

Cedric Diggory.

Perfect grades.

Perfect posture.

Perfect smile.

Perfect everything you were not.

You exhaled.

“…Right.”

McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

Leaving silence behind her.

Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”

“Shut up,” you groaned.

George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.

Just watching.

Then he smiled.

“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.

Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”

You threw a pebble at him.

It missed.

Unfortunately.

Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Even if none of you said it out loud yet.

The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.

Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.

You stopped at the end of the table and stared.

“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.

Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”

“I said hello when you walked in.”

“That barely counted.”

Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”

“I do color-code my notes.”

“Of course you do.”

Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.

You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.

The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.

That would’ve been easier.

No, Cedric was patient.

Calm.

Infuriatingly calm.

Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.

By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.

“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.

“Barely.”

“You answered everything correctly by the end.”

You froze slightly. “…I did?”

Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”

The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.

Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.

You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”

“I’m trying a new strategy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”

A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”

“Disgusting.”

Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.

And for some reason—

you smiled back.

The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.

Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.

Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”

George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.

You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.

“He organizes his notes by color.”

Fred made a horrified face.

George snorted softly.

“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”

“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”

You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.

The fact that you were still talking about him.

“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.

You blinked. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied calmly.

Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”

“I am not.”

“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.

You threw a cushion at him.

He caught it easily.

“Shut up.”

George was still watching you though.

Quieter than Fred now.

More observant.

“What’s he actually like?” George asked.

You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.

Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.

The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.

Your stomach did something strange.

“…Annoying,” you answered finally.

Fred grinned. “There she is.”

But George noticed the hesitation.

And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.

Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.

At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.

George just watched.

And noticed things.

Small things.

The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.

It was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.

You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.

Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”

“It wasn’t that funny.”

“But you laughed.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”

Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”

“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.

George stayed quiet.

Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.

The next study session was somehow worse.

“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.

“I’m literally reading.”

“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”

Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“You act louder around the twins.”

“That’s because they’re loud.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.

You looked down quickly.

“I still think you’re annoying.”

“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”

You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.

Cedric noticed the silence instantly.

And smiled.

George was already in the common room when you came in.

Alone.

That was the first thing that felt wrong.

Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.

He looked up the moment you stepped in.

“You’re late,” he said.

It sounded like a joke.

It wasn’t.

“I had study sessions.”

“I noticed.”

That made you pause.

“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.

You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.

“I’ve got something for you.”

You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”

“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”

You stared at it.

“What is this?”

“Notes.”

That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”

George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”

You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.

It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:

‘this part is evil, good luck’

and

‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’

You looked up slowly.

“…You did this?”

George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”

“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.

The room shifted.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… quieter.

You looked at him properly now.

“George…”

He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”

You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”

“You’re always with him lately.”

Cedric.

The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”

“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.

There were faint ink stains on his fingers.

Like he’d been writing for hours.

Like he’d actually sat there and worked.

For you.

Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then softer, almost careless again:

“But I did it anyway.”

You looked down at the notes again.

Then at him.

Really looked.

The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.

“You highlighted half of it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“With different colours.”

“Helps with memory.”

“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled.

And that was the problem.

Because George noticed that too.

His eyes softened just slightly.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”

“I always listen to you.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

Something shifted again.

He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t pretend it was accidental.

Just stayed there.

Close.

“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”

You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.

Not properly.

Because George was too close.

His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.

“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”

“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.

A small smile.

“You do when you panic.”

“I don’t panic.”

“You absolutely panic.”

You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.

Not joking now.

Not teasing.

Just watching.

The air between you changed again.

Slower.

He stopped talking.

You stopped pretending you were reading.

“George…” you said, quieter this time.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.

Then back up.

And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.

“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.

“You know I’ve been studying.”

“With him.”

The words weren’t sharp.

But they landed like something heavier than anger.

You opened your mouth—

Nothing came out.

George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.

Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted.

That made you freeze.

Because George didn’t say things like that.

Not seriously.

Not like this.

“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.

George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”

Your throat went tight.

Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.

“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”

And this time there was no joke at all.

“For you.”

Your breath caught slightly.

That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.

He was close now.

Close enough that if you moved even slightly—

Your knees brushed his.

He leaned in just a fraction more.

His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.

Intentional.

And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.

His hand slid to your cheek.

Warm.

Real.

And then he kissed you.

It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.

The kiss deepened.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.

Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.

George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.

Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.

The world narrowed.

Fire crackling somewhere behind you.

Paper forgotten.

Everything else gone.

Just him.

Just warmth.

Just—

The door slammed open.

“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”

You both moved apart too fast.

Too obvious.

Fred froze in the doorway.

Looked at both of you.

Slow smile forming.

“…Oh,” he said.

Long pause.

Then brighter:

“Oh, this is bad.”

George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”

You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”

Fred raised an eyebrow.

Then grinned wider.

“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”

George sighed.

You stared at the ceiling.

Fred walked further in, shaking his head.

“This is going to be so entertaining.”

And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:

“…We’re dead.”

[majesty31]

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Ko-fi

𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒕;)

The first time I learned that humiliation can stick to you like treacle, I was eleven and wearing brand-new black shoes that still pinched at the heel.

It had been my first week at Hogwarts—my first week of pretending I belonged in corridors that moved and staircases that changed their minds halfway up, my first week of learning to sleep with other girls breathing around me and to fold my homesickness into neat little squares and tuck it under the mattress where no one could see.

I had been so careful, then. I’d brushed my hair until it shone, checked my robes twice, practised my name in my head as if saying it correctly might keep the castle from swallowing me whole.

And then I walked into the Gryffindor common room with my chin up and my stomach full of nerves—and Fred and George Weasley turned me into the punchline of a joke I didn’t even understand until everyone was already laughing.

It was a simple thing, in the way that all the worst things are simple. A charm, whispered and flicked like it was nothing. Warmth at my collar. A strange tug behind my ears. A sudden lightness at my scalp, as if my hair had decided it could no longer tolerate gravity.

There was a beat of silence—one sharp, sparkling second where the room registered I was wrong somehow—then the laughter broke out in a wave that felt physical, like being shoved.

I remember reaching up, fingers catching in something that wasn’t hair anymore, something feather-soft and ridiculous. I remember the heat crawling up my neck, my face turning traitor-red before I’d even spoken. I remember trying to laugh too, because at eleven you think laughing along might save you, might make you look clever and unbothered, might keep the world from deciding you’re weak.

But my voice came out thin and odd, and I heard it wobble, and I knew I sounded like a child trying to pretend she wasn’t one.

Fred Weasley had looked delighted, eyes bright, a grin so wide it seemed to split his face. George stood beside him. He laughed too—but when my gaze snapped to his, something in his expression tightened, quick as a blink, as if he’d only just realised I wasn’t in on it. As if he’d only just noticed the way my hands had gone clumsy at my hair, the way my shoulders had pulled in.

That was the thing about the Weasley twins. They didn’t just cause trouble. They made it look like sunlight.

It was hard to hate someone who could make a room feel warmer just by walking into it. Hard, but not impossible. I learned.

I didn’t cry until later, when the common room had thinned out and the fire had burned lower and my dormitory was full of whispering girls who had already found their places in the world. I lay in bed with my face turned into the pillow, gripping the sheets so tightly my fingers ached, and made myself a promise with the kind of grim certainty children are capable of: I would not let them do that to me again. I would not be someone’s joke.

Of course, that promise became a sort of curse.

Because somehow—somehow—their jokes kept finding me.

A levitation charm meant for someone else that sent my stack of books drifting into the air like startled birds. A handful of enchanted dungbombs that rolled under my chair in History of Magic just as Professor Binns glided past, and suddenly it was my desk that smelled like a sewer while Fred and George sat two rows back with faces of perfect innocence. A set of bewitched quills that scribbled I’m a flobberworm in looping, enthusiastic handwriting across a parchment that was most certainly mine.

And always, always, it was me standing in front of a professor with my hands empty and my cheeks burning and the Weasley twins behind me wearing expressions that said wasn’t that brilliant? wasn’t that funny?

I learned the shape of their laughter the way you learn the feel of a bruise you keep bumping. I learned their loudness—how it filled space, how it demanded attention like a firework. I learned how George’s eyes flicked to me when no one else was looking, as if he were measuring the damage.

Detention came to me the way rain comes to a stormcloud: not as a surprise, but as an inevitability.

By third year, Filch knew my name. By fourth, I knew every corridor from the trophy room to the dungeon classrooms by the scent of the stone and the way the torches hissed. By fifth, I could scrape dried potion residue from a cauldron with one hand and write Charms homework in my head with the other.

And somewhere in all that time—somewhere between the late evenings and the dust, between the way we’d sit on opposite ends of a corridor waiting for a professor to stop lecturing us about our moral failings—something inside me shifted.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just… quietly, like a page turning in a book when no one’s watching.

Because Fred was always Fred—bright, careless, brilliant, the sort of boy who could smile after being told off and make you feel as though you’d been the one scolded for not laughing harder.

But George—George had edges that didn’t catch the light unless you looked for them. He’d pass me a rag without a word when my hands were full. He’d make a joke and then, if I didn’t laugh, his eyes would dart to my face, quick and wary, as if checking whether he’d gone too far.

Sometimes, when Fred’s energy ricocheted off walls, George seemed to step aside from it for half a second, and in that half second you could see something like thoughtfulness, like softness, like a person underneath the performance.

It infuriated me, because it made no sense.

It was much easier when they were both simply unbearable. It was much easier when George was just Fred’s twin—an extension of the same trouble, the same grin, the same hands flicking wands in corridors when they were supposed to be hurrying to class.

It was much easier before my eyes started snagging on him like thread catching on a nail.

I told myself it was because of proximity. Because you can’t spend years being dragged into the same detentions as someone without recognising the slope of their handwriting, the way they bite the inside of their cheek when they’re concentrating, the slight tilt of their head when they’re listening. I told myself it was normal, the way you start to notice the creak of a stair you step on every day.

But there are certain thoughts that don’t feel like stair creaks. They feel like lightning—silent until it isn’t.

And the worst part was: the more I tried to stop noticing him, the more my body betrayed me anyway. My mouth would sharpen its words without my permission. My shoulders would square as if bracing for impact when he came too close. My laugh—my real one, the one I didn’t share with just anyone—would get stuck behind my teeth when he said something that, under different circumstances, might have made it out.

It was easier to be difficult. Easier to be prickly. Easier to keep him at a distance where he couldn’t see the thing I didn’t want him to see—couldn’t see that a part of me leaned toward him like a plant turning to the sun, even while the rest of me insisted the light was unbearable.

George, for his part, did something I only realised in hindsight.

He stopped.

Not completely—not in a way Fred would ever have noticed, but in the small, particular ways that mattered. When pranks sparked in the air like static, George began to redirect them around me. When Fred’s eyes lit with a new idea, George would catch his sleeve and murmur something under his breath, and the idea would shift course. When I walked into a room, George’s gaze would flick to me and then away again quickly, as though looking too long might burn.

It should have made things easier.

Instead, it made them worse, because it meant he was paying attention. And if he was paying attention, then he might have seen too much.

The day we ended up in the dungeon again—again—it started in the most ordinary way possible, which is how trouble likes to begin at Hogwarts. Ordinary, and then suddenly you’re in too deep.

I was on my way back from the library, arms wrapped around a stack of books that smelled like dust and old glue, thinking about a Transfiguration essay that refused to arrange itself into proper paragraphs. The corridors were dimmer down there, the stone colder, the air damp and faintly metallic, like the castle was bleeding.

I turned a corner—

—and stepped straight into the middle of something that should not have existed in a school.

A snort of laughter—too quick to be real, too sharply swallowed—leaked from behind a suit of armour, and then the corridor itself seemed to misbehave.

Something bright and peppermint-sweet hit the air first, that unmistakable whiff of Weasley mischief, like a joke you can smell before you hear it. A second later, the flagstones just ahead of me turned slick and glassy, a thin sheet of shimmering green creeping outward as if the castle had decided to grow a pond in the middle of its own hallway. It wasn’t water, not quite—more like enchanted soap, too glossy and alive, catching torchlight in little cruel sparks.

Right in the centre of it, a Prefect’s badge—Percy’s, I’d recognise that pompous shine anywhere—hung in midair, bobbing gently as though it were bait on a fishing line. Each time it dipped, it let out a prim, amplified little cough.

“Ahem.”

The sound echoed off stone, officious and insufferable, and it was so perfectly Percy that for half a heartbeat I forgot to breathe. Then the badge cleared its throat again, louder, the way he did when he wanted an entire room to remember he existed.

“AHEM.”

The badge flashed, and a neat little ribbon of parchment unfurled beneath it like a proclamation, ink appearing on its own in tight, fussy handwriting:

PREFECT PATROL. PRESENT YOURSELF FOR INSPECTION.

My foot slid the instant I tried to stop. My books lurched against my chest, corners biting my arms, and the world tilted in that quick, stupid way it always does right before you lose dignity in public. I windmilled—there’s no elegant way to windmill—caught myself by grabbing the armour’s elbow, and felt cold metal under my palm where I’d expected stone.

The suit of armour shifted, offended, and something inside it clanked.

I hadn’t even finished pulling my hand back when the “puddle” decided it wasn’t finished being clever. The glossy green spread another inch, as if reaching for me, and a line of bubbles rose from it—fat, wobbling things—each one popping with a tiny, rude little sound that almost sounded like laughter.

My books shifted again, and my stomach dropped with the sudden, familiar certainty of what this was.

From behind the suit of armour, Fred and George Weasley appeared—Fred first, of course, as if he’d been fired from a cannon, laughing already; George right after him, a fraction slower, eyes widening the moment he saw me, like the scene had rearranged itself into something he hadn’t planned for.

Fred’s wand was still half-raised, as if he’d been mid-flourish. George’s hand hovered near his brother’s sleeve, that small, instinctive gesture of stop, stop, stop that no one ever seemed to notice unless you were watching for it.

And then—like the punchline delivered by the universe itself—Professor Snape emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor, robes billowing like a stormcloud given human form.

“What is this idiocy,” Snape snarled, his voice slicing through the corridor as his black eyes locked onto the three of us.

Everything in the dungeon seemed to tighten around him. The torchlight looked dimmer in his wake. The air went colder, as if it had been waiting for him to arrive.

Snape’s gaze moved over the scene—the hovering Prefect badge barking out its self-important ahems, the ridiculous inspection notice, the spreading slick of enchanted green—and then landed on me, pinned there with all the warmth of a blade.

“I leave the castle unattended for five minutes,” Snape snapped, “and I return to this.”

The hovering Prefect badge gave one last officious ahem and then went suspiciously quiet, as though even it had learned fear.

“Explain!”

I drew a breath and felt it scrape on the way in. Snape had that effect—made the air feel smaller, like the dungeon itself leaned in to listen. Words crowded the back of my throat, tripping over each other, all of them suddenly aware of how useless they were going to be.

“I was in the library,” I said, because it was true and because truth was all I had. “I just turned the corner and it all just appeared. I swear Professor, I didn’t do any of this.”

My voice didn’t shake, but my fingers tightened around my books until the edges pressed into my arms. I refused to look at the Weasleys. Refused to give Snape the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Fred let out a sound—something between a cough and a snort—far too close to laughter to be wise.

George didn’t make a sound at all.

Snape’s eyes flicked to Fred, slow and deliberate, the way one might examine an insect before deciding how best to squash it. His lip curled, just slightly, as if the expression had been practised.

“How diligently rehearsed,” he murmured. “One might almost believe you had prepared that defence in advance.”

“I didn’t—” I started, and immediately hated myself for how small it sounded.

“Silence.”

The word cracked through the corridor, sharp enough to make the torches gutter. Snape took a step closer, robes whispering over stone.

“I have grown exceptionally weary of this… little constellation of chaos,” he said, gaze sweeping over the three of us as if we were stains on the floor. “Every corridor I patrol, every corner I turn, I find Gryffindor fingerprints smudged across my evening.”

His eyes settled on me again, and I felt that familiar, infuriating sense of being weighed and found wanting.

“And you,” he continued, tone thick with false curiosity, “always seem to be standing conveniently nearby when such… innovations occur.”

“That’s because they drag me into it,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Fred’s eyebrows shot up, impressed. George’s head snapped toward me, a warning flicker in his eyes that said don’t, said please don’t.

Snape’s mouth thinned.

“How refreshing,” he drawled. “An accusation. How very Gryffindor of you. Bold. Loud. Utterly unconvincing.”

“I wasn’t part of it,” I insisted, heat crawling up my neck despite myself. “You can check—my wand—”

“Do not presume to instruct me on my own methods,” Snape cut in smoothly, and there it was—the satisfaction, dark and unmistakable. “Your talent for finding trouble is quite adequate without assistance.”

“Sir, I really wasn’t—” I stopped short at piercing look Snape gave me before he turned his attention to the twins at last, and the temperature in the corridor seemed to drop another degree.

“Weasley,” he said, singular, as if they were one creature with two heads. “Your tireless dedication to idiocy continues to astound me.”

Fred opened his mouth—clearly possessed by a death wish.

George’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve, fingers tightening just enough to warn him. Fred shut his mouth with an audible click, though the grin lingered, defiant and bright.

“One week of detention,” Snape said silkily. “Every evening. You will scrub my classroom from floor to ceiling until every surface reflects your regret back at you.”

His eyes slid to me again, pinning me in place.

“You will join them,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “Consider it a lesson in choosing your associates more wisely.”

“That’s not a lesson,” I said, and this time I couldn’t stop the edge from creeping into my voice. “That’s just convenient.”

For a heartbeat, the corridor went utterly still.

Then Snape smiled.

It was thin. Cold. Triumphant.

“Detention,” he repeated. “Unless you would prefer I deduct points as well. I am certain Gryffindor can spare them.”

I bit down on whatever I’d been about to say so hard I tasted metal.

Snape turned on his heel, robes snapping like a struck nerve, and swept away down the corridor, leaving behind the slowly dissolving puddle, the deflated Prefect badge, and the three of us standing in the aftermath like survivors of a small, personal disaster.

The silence he left behind rang louder than shouting.

I looked at them—at Fred’s grin, already fighting its way back onto his face, at George’s expression tight and pale around the eyes—and something in me snapped cleanly, like a thread pulled too hard.

“You two are unbelievable,” I said, and my voice sounded strangely steady, as if all the shaking had gone inside instead. “Do you guys wake up and decide, today I’ll make someone else’s life difficult, or does it happen naturally?”

Fred’s grin widened, because of course it did. “We don’t have to decide,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a gift.”

I shifted my books higher in my arms to keep my hands from doing something stupid like throwing them at his head. “Well,” I said, “congratulations. Your gift has earned me a week of scrubbing Snape’s cauldrons.”

“It wasn’t meant for you,” George said quickly.

The sound of his voice—lower, more careful—hit me in a place behind my ribs I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I scoffed, because scoffing was safer than listening. “Funny how that keeps happening.”

George’s mouth opened as if he might argue, then closed again. He looked at the floor for half a second, like he could find a solution in the cracks between stones.

“It was for Percy,” Fred said brightly, entirely unhelpful. “Or maybe for someone even more deserving. Percy’s got that face that begs for it, though.”

My lips pressed together so tightly they almost hurt. The name Percy felt like salt in the wound—Percy, it was always his pranks I seemed to take but I’d barely seen him on the receiving end of this stupidity.

I turned before my temper could make me say something that would echo in the walls later. “I’ll see you in detention,” I said, and walked away with my shoulders stiff and my footsteps too fast.

Behind me, Fred’s laughter followed like a thrown pebble.

George’s silence followed like a hand held out and then withdrawn.

~~~

The next evening, the dungeon classroom waited for us with all the warmth of a tomb.

The door creaked when we went in, and the smell hit at once—sharp, sour, medicinal. Potions ingredients clung to everything: to the air, to the stone, to the wooden shelves lined with jars of things that should not be jarred. The torches burned low, their flames struggling against the damp, and shadows gathered in corners like they were listening.

Snape didn’t bother with a speech. He didn’t need one. He simply stood at the front of the room, dark eyes sweeping over us, and dropped a pile of rags and scrub brushes onto the nearest table as if tossing scraps to animals.

“You will begin,” he said, and the words were slick with satisfaction. “And you will not stop until I say so.”

Then he swept into his office and shut the door, leaving us with the silence and the smell and the faint drip of something from somewhere.

Fred, naturally, broke the quiet first.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together as if this were a party. “Quality time.”

I chose the far end of the classroom with the deliberation of someone choosing a battlefield. As much distance as the room allowed. I set my books down carefully—too carefully—and picked up a rag, because if I didn’t start cleaning immediately, I might start doing something else.

The stone under my fingers was cold and slightly tacky with residue. My rag came away stained a sickly green after the first swipe.

Behind me, they talked. They always did. Their voice bounced off the walls and made the dungeon feel smaller.

“Do you think Snape polishes his hair with bat’s blood?” George mused, scrubbing at a table. “Because honestly, it’s got that sheen.”

“Maybe it’s just slime,” I said, without turning around. The words slipped out before I’d decided to give him anything at all.

Fred made an appreciative noise, as if I’d just tossed them a sweet. “See, George?” he said. “Y/N does have humour. Deep down. Buried under a mountain of bitterness.”

Something inside my chest tightened at hearing my own name in their mouths like that. My scrubbing grew faster. The rag squeaked against the tabletop.

“I’ve got plenty of humour,” I said, and my voice sounded too light for the way my throat felt. “Just not for you.”

Fred laughed outright.

George didn’t laugh.

I could hear him moving around the room—quiet footsteps, the scrape of a brush against wood, the soft clink of a jar being lifted and moved. He wasn’t on my side of the room, but sometimes the air shifted as if he’d glanced up, and my skin prickled along my arms in response, unreasonable and sharp.

“You really think we’d set you up?” George asked after a moment, and his tone was careful, almost… gentle, which made it worse, because it made the anger in me feel suddenly too big for the room.

I didn’t look at him. Looking at him was dangerous. Looking at him meant noticing the way his sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with grime, the way his hair fell over his eyes when he bent to scrub. Looking at him meant remembering a hundred detentions, a hundred late evenings, the way he’d once passed me a chocolate frog in the corridor without meeting my gaze.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that you always have a reason. And somehow I always end up standing in the middle of it.”

Fred’s brush paused. “It’s not personal,” he said, sounding faintly offended, as if I’d accused them of something crude. “We don’t even think about you that much.”

The words should have been relief.

Instead they landed like a slap.

I let out a short laugh that didn’t belong to me. “How comforting.”

George’s brush stopped. I felt it more than heard it, the sudden stillness.

“That’s not—” he began, and then he inhaled, as if rearranging his thoughts. “We didn’t mean— I didn’t mean—”

I scrubbed harder, as if friction could erase the past. The rag dragged over a spot of something that looked like old potion spill, and the smell rose sharp and unpleasant. My eyes stung—not from tears, I told myself immediately, furiously, but from fumes. From the damp. From everything.

I kept my gaze on the tabletop.

“You don’t have to explain,” I said. “Honestly. I’ve had five years of explanations. They all sound the same.”

There was a beat of silence. Fred, apparently, couldn’t stand it.

“Well,” he said briskly, “if we’re taking a stroll down memory lane, I’d like to remind everyone that you did hex my eyebrows off in second year.”

“That was self-defence,” I said.

Fred laughed again, delighted. “See? Fire. Passion. You’d be terrifying if you weren’t so—”

“Fred,” George said quietly.

It wasn’t a reprimand exactly, but it was enough. Fred’s grin faltered just a fraction, which on Fred Weasley was practically a moment of solemnity.

I kept scrubbing. The rhythm of it became a sort of anchor. Back and forth. Back and forth. The sound of cloth against wood, the faint rasp of brush, the drip-drip-drip somewhere in the shadows.

After a while, George moved. His footsteps came closer—not all the way, not brazen like Fred would have been, but enough that I felt him without turning. The air seemed to shift around him, warmer where he stood, as if he carried some of the common room fire down here with him.

“I can do that bit,” he said, voice low.

I didn’t look up. “I can do it.”

“I know.” He hesitated, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair, the way he did when he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I just— you’ve been scrubbing the same spot for ages.”

I realised then that my hand had cramped. That my knuckles were pale. That the tabletop under my rag was already clean enough to reflect torchlight.

I forced my fingers to relax, one by one, like prising them off a wand after too long.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“It does,” George replied, and there was something in his voice that made my stomach do a strange, stupid dip, as if I’d missed a step on a staircase.

I hated my own body in moments like that. Hated that a soft tone could undo me, hated that I could stand in a dungeon classroom telling myself I had every right to keep him at arm’s length, and still the sound of him trying—trying—could make something ache in me that I couldn’t name without wanting to throw myself into the Black Lake.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye.

He was holding a rag in his hand like he didn’t quite know what to do with it, shoulders angled toward me, expression carefully blank in the way boys get when they’re pretending nothing matters. But his eyes weren’t blank. His eyes were too bright in the dim torchlight, fixed on me as if waiting for something—approval, permission, forgiveness, any scrap of peace.

For a second, I saw it: the softness. The gentleness he tried to hide beneath jokes and trouble. The way he could look like someone who didn’t want to hurt anyone, even if he kept doing it by accident.

Then I remembered the common room, eleven years old, laughter crashing over me.

And I swallowed the softness back down like a bitter potion.

“Please,” I said, and made my voice as even as I could manage. “Just—leave it. I don’t need you hovering.”

Something shifted in his face so quickly I almost missed it—like a shutter closing.

He nodded once. “Right,” he said lightly, and the lightness was too practised. “Hovering. Terrible habit.”

Fred, on the other side of the room, snorted. “I knew you were a hovering sort, Georgie.”

George’s mouth twisted into a grin that looked like it belonged on someone else. “Shut up.”

I turned back to my work because it was easier to scrub a table than to sit with the weight of what I’d just seen in his eyes.

The rest of detention blurred into a steady, stubborn motion—wipe, scrub, rinse, repeat—broken only by Fred’s running commentary and Snape’s occasional appearance from his office, gliding around the room like a bat checking its prey.

When Snape finally dismissed us, it was with the kind of reluctant displeasure that suggested he’d been hoping we’d never leave.

I gathered my books, fingers still smelling faintly of potion ingredients no matter how much I’d wiped them. My arms felt heavy, as if the dungeon had poured lead into my bones. I didn’t look at the twins as I walked out, because looking meant noticing, and noticing meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling.

But I could feel George’s gaze anyway, a quiet pressure between my shoulder blades, as familiar now as the castle’s draft.

The corridors outside were warmer, the air less sharp, but the dungeon cold clung to me like a memory.

By the time I climbed back into the Gryffindor common room, the fire’s crackle sounded too cheerful, the laughter too easy. Everyone was doing homework or playing Exploding Snap or arguing over Quidditch.

I dropped into an armchair near the edge of the room and opened my book, staring at the words without reading them.

Because somewhere behind my eyes, George’s expression kept replaying—the way his mouth had tried to make a joke out of something that wasn’t funny, the way his eyes had looked as if he’d been bracing for a blow.

And my own thoughts, traitorous and soft in the wrong places, whispered the same unbearable question they always did when it came to him:

What if I’ve been wrong?

I tightened my grip on my quill until my fingers ached, as if pain could pin my mind back down.

Across the room, someone laughed—bright, loud, unmistakably Weasley.

And my heart did that stupid thing it always did, like it didn’t know the difference between trouble and warmth.

~~~

It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it only felt like a Tuesday because everything about it had that grey, inevitable flavour: stone cold under your shoes, torches sputtering like they couldn’t be bothered, the air tasting faintly of damp and old secrets. I was coming from the library again—because of course I was—and I caught a glimpse of them through a crack in a tapestry I shouldn’t have been looking behind.

Fred Weasley’s red hair flashed like a warning flare in the dim corridor. Lee Jordan’s shoulders were hunched the way they got when he was trying not to laugh too loud. And George—George was there too, turned slightly away, as if he were listening harder than the others, as if the sound of their own joke had to pass some private test before he could let it live.

I didn’t mean to stop. My feet just… did. That treacherous pause, the way your body betrays you into curiosity even when your mind is shouting do not, do not, do not. I told myself it was tactical. If you know where the trap is, you can avoid stepping in it. If you know what they’re planning, you can keep your name out of it.

You’d think I’d have learned by now that their plans didn’t require my participation to include me.

“—that’s the best part,” Fred was saying, voice low with glee, the words fizzing like fireworks right before they go off. “He’ll have to. He can’t not. He’s Percy.”

Lee snorted, muffling it with his sleeve. “What if he doesn’t drink it?”

George’s shoulders rose and fell—one slow breath, the kind you take when you’re trying not to laugh at your own idea too early. “He will,” he said. “You leave something labelled Prefect’s Private Reserve on his desk and he’ll drink it out of spite.”

Fred leaned in, conspiratorial. “And he’ll march into breakfast and start telling McGonagall what he really thinks about her tartan.”

They were bent over something small, glassy. A bottle, I realised, the sort Madam Rosmerta served butterbeer in, but this one was cloudy and pale, like watered milk, with a sheen on the surface that made my teeth itch just looking at it. Potion, then. Not the usual bubblegum-smelling nonsense they used for their joke sweets—this looked older, sharper. Real.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I listened long enough to catch the word Lee said next, quieter, like it mattered.

“Where’d you even get this?”

Fred’s grin widened in the dark. “Borrowed it.”

“Stole it,” Lee corrected helpfully.

George’s mouth twisted. “Liberated.”

“From who?” Lee pressed.

“From a very badly supervised cupboard,” Fred said. “And before you ask, yes, George tested it.”

Lee’s gaze snapped to George. “You what?”

George lifted his hands, palms out, as if surrendering to a crime he didn’t particularly regret. “Not on me,” he said. “On a gnome.”

Lee stared. “You brought a gnome into the castle.”

Fred shrugged, utterly shameless. “It didn’t complain.”

“That’s because it can’t speak,” Lee said but leaned closer, suddenly wary. “How long does it last?”

George looked down again. “Depends how much,” he said. “And how concentrated it is. This one’s strong.”

Fred made a pleased sound. “As it should be.”

I should have left then. I told myself I would. I even shifted my weight, the tapestry’s edge rough against my shoulder as I began to step back.

And then Fred held the bottle up to the torchlight like a jewel.

Footstep sounded down the corridor. Not one of theirs. They all froze.

The tapestry shifted as Fred shoved it—too quickly, too carelessly—trying to make it lie flat again. My shoulder caught on it; the fabric tugged; I swore under my breath, already too late.

The bottle, in Fred’s hand, jerked.

It slipped.

My head snapped to the side as I heard someone laughing down the corridor—high, cracked, echoing off the stone like it had teeth. Peeves. I closed my eyes for half a second, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, as if that might keep him from noticing me. It never worked. It never had. The castle liked its little cruelties too much to spare anyone.

I straightened anyway, smoothed my robes with hands that didn’t need smoothing, and muttered something under my breath that sounded like encouragement if you didn’t listen too closely. Just keep walking. Don’t react. Pretend you don’t exist.

Naturally, that was when he swooped into view.

He burst out from behind a suit of armour with all the subtlety of a firework, cap bells jingling, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only comes from ruining someone else’s day. He hovered upside down in front of me, his face inches from mine, breath cold and sour like old dust.

“Well, well, well,” Peeves crooned, spinning lazily in the air. “If it isn’t the detention darling herself. Skulking and skulking and skulking—what’s the matter, hm? Lost your little Weasley shadows?”

I kept my face carefully blank, eyes fixed on the stone just past his shoulder. Engaging Peeves was like feeding a stray dragon: once you started, it never stopped.

“Tut, tut,” he went on, clicking his tongue. “No hello? No smile? That won’t do at all. Peeves doesn’t like being ignored.” He swooped closer, bells chiming right by my ear. “Maybe I should sing! Or shout! Or tell Professor Snivelly that someone’s loitering where they shouldn’t—”

“I’m going to lunch,” I said, evenly, though my fingers had curled into my sleeves, nails digging into fabric. “Same as everyone else.”

Peeves cackled. “Lunch! Boring, boring, boring! You humans are always scurrying somewhere important.” He leaned back in the air, peering at me with exaggerated scrutiny. “You look wound tight as a clockwork toy. Someone steal your laugh?”

I didn’t answer. I took one careful step forward, as if he might be solid enough to bump into, as if I could push through him by sheer will.

For a moment, it looked like he might block me just out of spite.

Then, mercurial as ever, his attention flicked elsewhere—down the corridor, toward the faint murmur of voices and a flash of blonde hair half-hidden by a tapestry. His grin widened, delighted.

“Oho,” Peeves sing-songed. “Secrets and scheming and sneaky little plots. Smells like trouble. Smells like fun.” He winked at me, exaggerated and gleeful. “Don’t worry, darling. I won’t tell. Not yet.”

Before I could stop him—or thank whatever small mercy had intervened—he shot off down the corridor in a whirl of laughter and bells, his voice fading as he turned a corner and vanished into the castle’s endless mischief.

The silence he left behind felt almost startling.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding and leaned back against the cold stone for just a second, letting the chill steady me. Then I pushed off the wall and moved again, softer now, footsteps careful, attention pulled back to the reason I’d stopped in the first place.

Fred’s face was blank.

Lee’s eyes round.

George was froze with his fingers against his lips, and for a second he looked exactly like he did in those rare, unguarded moments—like the joke had stopped being funny and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do without it.

Confused I tried to see what the hell the boys had in their hands but stopped short as the approaching footsteps grew louder.

Fred hissed, suddenly alive again. “George—don’t—”

George swallowed.

His throat bobbed once.

Then he slowly lowered his hand and stared at the bottle like it had bitten him.

“Right,” he said, voice too calm. “That’s… that’s not ideal.”

Lee’s mouth opened and closed. “How much did you—?”

George’s eyes darted, quick, panicked, as if searching the corridor for an answer that wasn’t there. “Not much,” he said immediately. The words came out before his mind could stop them. “Enough.”

Fred grabbed the bottle, jammed the cork back in with more force than necessary. “We can fix it,” he said rapidly, the way he talked when something had gone wrong and he wanted to outrun it. “We can— we can water it down— get you something—”

Lee leaned in, voice dropping. “Is there an antidote?”

George blinked. “No,” he said at once, and the bleak certainty in the word made Fred’s hand tighten around the bottle. George looked like he hadn’t meant to say it so quickly, like his own mouth had betrayed him. He swallowed again. “Not… not a proper one.”

The footsteps turned the corner.

Percy appeared, of course he did—Prefect badge gleaming, hair perfectly combed, a stack of papers under his arm like they were an extension of his personality.

He saw them.

He saw the bottle.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

Fred opened his mouth, ready to lie with the ease of breathing.

George beat him to it.

“We were going to spike your tea,” George said, clear as daylight.

The corridor went silent so abruptly it felt like someone had jammed cotton in my ears.

Percy stared. Lee made a choking sound. Fred’s head snapped toward George so fast it was almost violent, as if he were trying to physically drag the words back into his brother’s mouth.

George’s eyes widened in horror at what he’d just said, like he was watching himself from outside his body. He clapped a hand over his mouth, too late.

Percy’s face drained of colour.

“You were going to—” Percy sputtered, voice rising. “You were going to poison me?”

“It’s not poison,” George said immediately, hand still half-covering his mouth, the words slipping out around his fingers like water through a crack. “It’s a potion. And you’re insufferable.”

Fred made a strangled noise that might have been laughter if it weren’t so close to panic. “George,” he warned, sharp.

Lee leaned close to George’s ear. “Stop talking,” he whispered desperately. “Stop—”

George stared straight ahead, as if focusing hard might keep his mouth shut. It didn’t help.

“And you’re always telling Mum on us,” George added, helplessly honest. “And you’d deserve it.”

Percy’s face went purple. “I will be reporting this to Professor McGonagall!”

“You do that,” George said, and then, with a sudden flinch, as if realising what he was about to do, he clamped his lips together so hard his jaw trembled.

Fred grabbed George by the elbow and steered him away, fast, hauling Lee with them.

I stepped back from the tapestry, heart hammering, the corridor suddenly too full of air. What the hell was that all about? Must’ve been some stupid prank I didn’t get, but still I watched as they vanished around the corner in a rush of robes and panic, Percy’s outraged voice echoing after them like a siren.

I stood there for a beat longer than I should have, staring at the place George had been, the way his eyes had looked. Surely a prank. I shook myself, forced my feet to move, and told myself—very firmly—that whatever trouble the Weasley twins had brewed this time, it was not my business.

It didn’t matter what I told myself.

It never did.

By the next day, George was still acting strangely. It started small, the way all catastrophes do. Little slips that made people blink.

George answering Professor Flitwick’s question without the usual joking deflection, bluntly, correctly, then looking faintly horrified at how pleased Flitwick looked. George telling Seamus Finnigan that his hair looked like a startled puffskein and then clapping a hand over his own mouth like he’d been slapped.

At lunch, Angelina Johnson leaned over from the opposite side of the table—Quidditch captain’s posture, eyes sharp and amused. “George,” she said, as if tasting the strangeness, “are you feeling all right?”

George stared at his plate like it might answer for him. He opened his mouth.

Fred kicked him under the table.

George flinched. “Ow,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, voice tight, “I’m fine. I’m just… cursed.”

Angelina’s eyebrows lifted. “Cursed?”

Fred laughed too loud, too fast. “He means tired, Angie,” he said breezily. “Exhausted. Poor lad. Quidditch training’s ruined him.”

George’s gaze flicked up—quick, sharp—and his eyes met mine across the table for half a second.

It was like being noticed by sunlight you didn’t ask for.

I looked away immediately, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

Because for three days—three long, strange days—George Weasley stopped being background noise.

He stopped being that constant, maddening presence in the corridors who always had a quip on his tongue and a prank in his pocket. He became instead a boy moving very carefully through the castle, shoulders drawn in, eyes scanning like he was looking for landmines.

And whenever I appeared—whenever I turned a corner or walked into the Great Hall or stepped into the dungeon for detention—he went very still, as if my existence tightened something around his ribs.

Fred and Lee stayed close to him like bodyguards.

Fred Weasley, who normally couldn’t go ten seconds without making some dramatic commentary about the universe, developed a kind of forced sobriety that made him look like a poorly disguised imposter. He kept his mouth shut so hard you could see the strain in his cheeks, and every so often he’d glance at George with a look that was half amusement, half this is going to ruin us.

Lee Jordan—who usually fed their chaos like oxygen—hovered with the air of someone trying to hold a lid on a boiling cauldron.

And me?

I did what I always did when something didn’t make sense: I pretended it wasn’t happening.

I told myself I enjoyed the quiet. I told myself it was a relief not to have my name dragged into their jokes, not to have Fred’s laugh bouncing off stone like a thrown spell, not to have George’s eyes flicking to me like he couldn’t help it.

But the castle doesn’t like quiet. It fills it with echo. It makes your own thoughts louder.

So every evening, when I walked down to Snape’s classroom for detention, my steps seemed to sound sharper than they should have. The torches hissed. The stone sweated cold. And on the far side of the room, George Weasley scrubbed in silence with his jaw clenched, and I found myself watching him anyway—watching the way he held himself like someone bracing against a storm that lived inside his own mouth.

On the second last day, it finally snapped.

Snape set us to work with his usual black-eyed glare, then disappeared into his office as though he couldn’t bear to share air with us longer than necessary. The classroom settled into that strained hush—brushes scraping, rags squeaking, cauldrons clinking faintly when moved.

Fred, after ten minutes of wrestling with a mop that looked like it had been cursed in the Middle Ages, muttered something under his breath and left to fetch another.

The door shut behind him.

And suddenly it was just me and George, with the dungeon’s damp pressing in and the silence so thick it felt like my lungs had to push through it.

George stayed at the far table, scrubbing methodically, eyes fixed on the wood as if looking up might be fatal.

I scrubbed too, but my mind kept snagging—on the strangeness, on the unnatural quiet, on the way he was behaving like a boy trying not to make a sound in a room full of sleeping dragons.

Without Fred’s noise, it was unbearable.

I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to give him anything.

But the words rose anyway, dry as dust.

“So,” I said, not looking up, keeping my tone casual in the way you keep a wound covered with a neat bandage. “Did you lose the ability to talk, or are you saving it for someone important?”

George’s brush paused. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t answer. For a beat, only the drip-drip somewhere in the dungeon spoke.

I scrubbed harder, because my hands needed something to do.

“Right,” I muttered, more to myself than him. “Fine. Ignore me.”

George’s shoulders shifted. A breath. His fingers tightened on the brush handle, whitening at the knuckles.

Then the door opened again and Fred strode in, triumphantly holding a mop like a trophy.

Lee Jordan followed him, slipping through the doorway with the careful look of someone arriving at a crime scene.

George’s head snapped up at once.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, and his voice sounded almost too loud in the silence, like it had been stored up. “Lee—Snape’ll—”

Lee held up his hands. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’m just… checking.”

“Checking what?” George shot back.

“Whether you’ve exploded yet,” Lee murmured.

Fred’s grin twitched. “He hasn’t,” he said. “Not properly.” I turned slowly, rag hanging from my fingers, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” I said softly. “So you can talk.”

George’s gaze flicked to me, panicked, and then away again as if my face was a lit match. He opened his mouth—and whatever was inside him slipped out before he could catch it.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” George said quickly. “I was trying not to say anything stupid to you.”

The words hit the dungeon air like a dropped glass. For a heartbeat, my mind simply… stopped.

Fred made a strangled noise. Lee muttered something that sounded very much like, “Oh, for—”

My chest tightened, sharp, and my first instinct—always, always—was to defend myself. Was he really mocking me after days of pretending I don’t exist? The nerve.

“Stupid?” I repeated, voice very steady. Too steady. “Is that what you call it? Because it sounds like you’re trying to be clever.”

George’s head jerked toward me, eyes widening again, the panic returning full force. “No—” he said, and then his mouth betrayed him again. “I mean—sometimes you look at me like you want to hex me, and I can’t decide if that’s fair or—”

Lee stepped forward fast, like he was throwing himself between a curse and its target. “Right!” he said loudly, clapping his hands once. “Mop delivery. Brilliant. Fred, mate, you’ve saved the day. Come on, Weasley, we’ve got to— er— check the corridor, make sure Snape isn’t—”

“I am capable of checking a corridor,” George snapped, and then immediately went rigid because he’d said it like he meant it.

Fred’s eyes danced with the urge to laugh and the knowledge that he shouldn’t. He swallowed it with visible effort, cheeks twitching.

My fingers tightened on the rag. The sting in my chest sharpened into something that wanted somewhere to go.

“What was that supposed to mean?” I demanded. “What the bloody hell has gotten into you recently? First you ignore me than you mock me?”

George stared at the floor like it might open and take him.

Lee, apparently deciding survival required distraction, turned to me with a grin too wide to be innocent. “Fancy a bet?” he asked rapidly. “On whether Snape’s shampoo is actually bat blood?”

I blinked at him.

“What?”

Lee beamed. “Bat blood. Or maybe… eel slime. Fred thinks eel slime.”

Fred’s mouth twitched. “It’s a strong contender.”

“Why are you talking about Snape’s hair?” I said, because it was absurd and because my mind was still snagged on George’s words like a sleeve caught on a nail.

Lee leaned closer, voice dropping dramatically. “Because,” he whispered, “if you don’t stop looking like you’re about to bite George’s head off, he’s going to say something catastrophic, and then we’ll all be scrubbing these shelves until we die.”

That earned a laugh from somewhere in the room—small, involuntary, sharp enough to surprise me. It startled out of me before I could stop it, like a sneeze.

George flinched as if he’d heard it.

I hated that.

I focused on the practical instead: Lee’s presence.

“Get out,” I hissed, turning my attention on him because it was safer than turning it on George. “Lee, you’re going to get us into even more trouble. Snape will have you mounted on the wall like a trophy.”

Lee lifted his hands again, mock-innocent. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” He backed toward the door, still grinning. “Try not to be too terrifying while I’m gone, yeah?”

I glared at him until he slipped out and shut the door. The room settled again into that thick, dungeon quiet.

Fred went back to scrubbing, eyes bright with suppressed laughter, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek to keep it contained.

George moved to the far corner of the classroom as if distance could save him. He scrubbed with vicious concentration, shoulders tight, gaze fixed anywhere but me.

I scrubbed too, but the tabletop under my rag blurred. George’s words kept replaying, not in the way a joke replays, but in the way an insult does—sharp, lodged.

Why had he avoided me for days? Why had he looked like he was bracing for impact every time I entered the room? Why was Fred Weasley—who never shut up for anyone—suddenly behaving like he’d taken a vow of silence?

The thought tugged at me, infuriatingly persistent, the way a loose thread keeps catching on your fingers.

Detention ended. Snape dismissed us with the same sour satisfaction. I left the dungeon with my books pressed to my chest like a shield.

At dinner, I sat with Angelina, Katie, and Alice. Angelina’s laughter cut bright through the Great Hall noise. Katie was talking with her hands, animated, cheeks flushed from the warmth and the chatter. Alice—steady, observant—kept glancing at me like she could tell I was somewhere else.

Fred and George and Lee sat nearby, close enough that I could hear Fred’s laugh when he let it loose, close enough that I could see George’s profile if I lifted my eyes.

I didn’t lift my eyes.

I told myself that was pride.

Across the table, Angelina leaned slightly toward Lee, calling, “Oi, Jordan—tell Fred he still owes me for that Bludger incident last term.”

Lee’s grin flashed. “He says it built character.”

“It built bruises,” Angelina shot back, laughing.

“I don’t know,” I said, voice carrying just enough. “Fred’s idea of character-building usually involves property damage.”

Fred’s laugh burst out, bright and immediate—relief in it, like he’d been starving for permission to be himself again.

And George—

George, who had been keeping his eyes firmly on his plate as if it were the only safe thing in the world—reacted without thinking.

“You always do that when you’re nervous,” George said too quickly. “Get sharp. It’s… predictable.”

The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second too long.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Angelina blinked, eyebrows lifting, amusement sharpening. Katie’s eyes flicked between me and George with quick curiosity.

Fred made a noise that sounded like he’d swallowed a laugh and a groan at the same time.

Lee coughed loudly—far too loudly—and said, “George isn’t feeling well,” with the exaggerated sincerity of someone delivering a lie to a teacher. “Probably ate something dodgy.”

George’s chair scraped back sharply. He stood so fast it looked like the bench tried to keep him.

“I’m going,” he said, voice tight. “Before I ruin everything.”

Fred sprang up after him, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “That’s my brother,” he called, as if it were meant to sound normal. “Dramatic as ever!”

Lee hurried after them, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed.

The girls at my table stared after the three of them.

Angelina’s mouth curved, interested. “Well,” she said lightly. “That was… new.”

Katie leaned forward, eyes bright. “What was that about?”

Alice looked at me, quiet and unblinking, as if she could see the exact place in my chest where the words had landed.

I set my fork down carefully, because my fingers had gone strange—too tight, too cold.

Get sharp. It’s… predictable.

It sounded like a joke someone else might make. Except George hadn’t laughed. And he’d run like he’d been burned.

I pushed back from the table and stood, so abruptly my bench squealed.

Angelina’s eyes followed me. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, because I didn’t want to give the truth a name. I didn’t want to say after him. I didn’t want to say why does he keep doing this.

I gathered my things and walked out of the Great Hall with my spine straight and my steps controlled.

Because whatever game George Weasley had decided to play—whatever strange, quiet, cutting thing he’d turned into this week—I wasn’t going to sit there and let him throw words at me like stones and then run before I could throw them back.

And if he thought I wouldn’t follow the thread until I found what it was attached to—

He didn’t know me at all.

~~~

The common room was the same as it always was—firelight licking at the edges of everything, red-and-gold warmth pooling on threadbare armchairs, voices rising and falling like waves—yet something in it felt… misaligned. Like a portrait hung slightly crooked.

I was tucked into the corner with my back against the arm of a chair that had seen better decades, my book opened on my lap purely for the comfort of having something to stare at. The words didn’t go in. They sat on the page in tidy little lines, politely waiting while my mind kept wandering to places it had no business going.

Across the room, Fred and George and Lee drifted in like they owned the air. Fred’s laugh usually arrived before he did; Lee’s voice followed, loud and warm and relentless; and George—George was the quieter current underneath it.

Tonight, the current didn’t touch me.

They passed near my chair as if I were a piece of furniture. Fred’s eyes skimmed right over my head. Lee didn’t even flicker in my direction. George kept his gaze fixed somewhere above the mantle, like he’d decided that if he didn’t look at me, I didn’t exist.

It is so unnatural I felt it in my teeth.

They didn’t so much as breathe in my direction. They didn’t toss a single irritating comment over their shoulders. No little quip meant to hook into my sleeve and drag me into their orbit. Nothing.

Just… absence, placed carefully around me.

A laugh bubbled up behind my ribs, sharp and incredulous. It didn’t make it out. My throat was suddenly too tight for any sound that wasn’t meant for war.

George’s words from dinner keep replaying, vivid as if he was still standing there with candlelight on his face and disaster in his mouth.

You always do that when you’re nervous. Get sharp. It’s… predictable.

As if I were a trick he learned. As if he had been watching me long enough to map out my reactions and file them away like notes for later.

And then he’d sat there with that expression—tight, wrong—like he’d bitten down on something hot. Like he’d hated himself for saying it. And then he ran.

Now he wouldn’t even look at me.

The audacity of it settled in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Round. Unignorable.

They moved toward the stairs to the boys’ dormitories, still talking among themselves in low voices that didn’t carry the way they usually did. Fred’s shoulders were tense in a way I’d never seen on him—he kept glancing sideways at George as if waiting for a fuse to spark. Lee walked close, murmuring something, the way you might murmur to a skittish horse.

George kept his head down.

Like if he didn’t just get upstairs fast enough, he could outrun whatever it was that kept making him act like this.

My book slipped a fraction on my lap. I didn’t notice until it thudded softly against my knee.

They were already up the stairs when something in me finally moved —like a latch giving way.

I closed my book with a slow, deliberate snap.

My feet carried me up before I’d fully decided to move.

I walked through the common room with the kind of calm that only arrived when you were past the point of reason. The fire crackled. Someone laughed. A first-year darted past me. I hardly registered any of it. My hand slid to my wand.

The staircase to the boys’ dorms was technically off-limits. There was no spell to stop me—nothing like the one that turned the girls’ stairs into a slide—but rules had never been my strongest restraint when my blood started to sing.

I took the steps two at a time.

The boys’ corridor smelt like soap and old wood and Quidditch gear left to dry badly. The door to their dorm room was ajar, light spilling out in a warm stripe onto the floorboards.

I didn’t knock. I pushed it open so hard it banged against the wall.

Three heads whipped toward me.

Fred looked like he’d been caught mid-conspiracy, hair sticking up. Lee’s eyes widened, then narrowed, as his brain caught up to the problem in front of him. George was sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched, hands clenched so tightly together his knuckles look pale.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. It was, bizarrely, the quietest I’d ever heard three Gryffindor boys.

Then Fred recovered.

“Blimey,” he said, voice bright with forced normality. “If it isn’t—”

“Don’t,” I’d cut in, and the word landed like a door slamming. My wand was already in my hand, not raised—yet—but present enough to make the air feel pointed.

Lee straightened, taking a step forward, his palms were out in the universal sign for let’s not make this worse. “All right, all right,” he said, attempting charm. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake. That’s how I knew i was in too deep. “I just did.”

Fred’s grin faltered into something more careful. “This is the boys’ dorm,” he pointed out, as if the concept of boys’ dorm was a warding charm.

“Yes,” I said, gaze flicking to George for a split second—and catching nothing because his eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. Didn’t even a glance. Didn’t even a flinch. “I noticed.”

George’s jaw flexed.

Lee cleared his throat. “Look,” he began, lowering his voice, “whatever’s going on, you don’t want to be up here when someone sees you—”

“Oh, spare me,” I said, and the sarcasm came out sharp. “I’ve been blamed for half the crimes committed in this castle and I’m still walking around. I think I’ll survive being seen standing in a room.”

Fred’s eyes flickered to George again, quick and warning.

George stayed silent, staring at his hands like he could physically hold his mouth shut.

My gaze returned to Fred and Lee, and something cold and clear settled into place.

“I saw you,” I said, softly enough that they had to listen. “Earlier this week. With a bottle. A potion.”

The air changed. It was immediate—like someone pulled a thread and the whole room tightened.

Fred’s expression got just a shade too blank. Lee’s mouth opened, then closed, like he was recalculating the situation.

George’s head snapped up for the first time, eyes wide—right at Fred, right at Lee—with a kind of naked fear that made my stomach dip unpleasantly.

And then he looked at me.

Just once.

It wasn’t a warm look. It wasn’t even an angry one. It was a look like a person watching a trapp door open beneath them.

“What was it?” I asked.

No one answered .

“Was it something you brewed?” I pressed, stepping farther into the room. The wooden floor creaked under my shoes. “Something you stole? Something you were stupid enough to put in Percy’s drink and then—what—missed?”

Still nothing.

George’s lips pressed together so tightly they got white.

My grip tightened on my wand. I was aware, distantly, of how ridiculous it was—me standing in a boys’ dormitory at night with my wand out like i was about to duel someone. But my pride had teeth, and right now it was the only thing keeping my chest from splitting open with the sheer wrongness of being ignored by someone who never shut up.

“Right,” I said, and my voice got flatter, dangerous in its calm. “You’re all going to sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Fred tried for light again, because it was his instinct. “Well, when you say it like that, it makes us sound terribly suspicious—”

“Get out,” I said.

Fred blinked. Lee stopped breathing.

“What?” Lee said.

“You,” I repeated, pointing my wand at the door, then at them—enough to make it very clear I was not playing. “Out. Both of you.”

Fred’s brows lifted. “Now hold on—”

I took one step closer. The tip of my wand steady without effort.

“I’ve spent five years taking the fall for your rubbish,” I said, and I didn’t raise my voice, which somehow made it worse. “If you think I won’t hex you out of this room, you’ve severely misjudged how attached I am to your continued wellbeing.”

Lee’s eyes flicked to Fred. Fred’s eyes flicked to George.

George’s face had gone tight, his hands gripped the edge of his mattress like he was anchoring himself to the earth.

“Don’t,” George said, and the word scraped out of him like it hurt. He looked at them—pleading, raw. “Don’t leave.”

Fred’s expression shifted—something real underneath the mischief. “Mate…”

George shook his head once, sharp, like he was trying to dislodge the whole moment. “Please,” he said, and his voice cracked on it, almost imperceptibly.

Lee swore under his breath, a quick, helpless sound. “This is bad,” he muttered.

Fred looked at me, then at George, and there was a beat where he’d weighed it—the way Fred weighed things: not with caution, exactly, but with a sense of timing, of damage control, of what made the best story and what might make the worst one.

Then he sighed, long and dramatic, like a man being marched to execution.

“All right,” Fred said lightly, because he couldn’t not. “If you die, I’ll tell Mum you died handsome.”

“Out,” I said again, unwavering.

Lee stepped toward the door first, shoulders tight. Fred followed, pausing just long enough to clap George once on the shoulder—harder than necessary, the way boys do when they don’t know how to be gentle without making it obvious.

“Better now than later,” Fred murmured, voice low. “Yeah?”

George’s eyes flashed. He shook his head again, fierce. “No.”

Fred didn’t argue. He just let out a small breath through his nose, as if laughter was trapped there and he was forcing it back, and then he was gone.

Lee slipped out behind him. At the threshold, he glanced back at me with a look that said good luck and you’ve doomed us all in the same expression. Then the door clicked shut.

The room felt too quiet without them. Like you could hear the castle breathing.

I turned back to George.

He was still on his bed, shoulders rigid, hands folded together so tightly it looked painful. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were down again.

As if looking at me was the most dangerous thing in the world.

I folded my arms across my chest, wand still in my hand, and leant back against the door.

“Well?” I said.

George didn’t move.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t the comfortable kind. It was the kind that filled your ears until you couldn’t tell if you were hearing your own heartbeat or the room’s.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked, and the words came out sharper now, because the quiet was scraping the inside of me raw. “You spend all week acting like you’ve been possessed. You say—” my throat tightened around the memory and I pushed through it anyway, “you say things at dinner like you’ve been watching me through a telescope, and then you can’t even be bothered to look at me afterwards.”

George’s fingers twitched. His eyes flicked up for a split second—toward my wand, not my face—and then away again.

That did something to me that I hated. I pushed off the door and took a step closer.

“Talk,” I said. “Or I swear—”

George’s head snapped up at last. His eyes locked onto mine, wide and bright and wrong, like there was too much inside him and nowhere for it to go.

“Put your wand down,” he said quickly.

“Give me a reason.”

His mouth opened.

And then whatever it was that seemed to be torturing him this whole week jerked him by the throat and dragged itself out.

“I always thought it was—” he started, and then his eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to stop the sentence with sheer will. He failed. “I always thought it was—” he swallowed hard, “hot when you get like this.”

I didn’t move.

I didn’t breathe.

It hit me the way a Bludger hit—sudden, solid, stupidly physical. My body reacted before my brain could arrange meaning. I flinched back half a step as if the air between us has snapped.

“What?” I said, and it came out small, because I didn’t have anything else ready.

George made a sound that was half groan, half curse. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild. My heart was doing something frantic and humiliating in my chest, like it was trying to climb out.

“What did you just say?” I demanded, and the words shook at the edges no matter how hard I tried to iron them flat. “Are you—are you mocking me?”

George shook his head violently, hand still over his mouth. It was almost comical, how desperate he looked, like a boy trying to wrestle his own face into silence.

I stared at him, heat rising in my cheeks for reasons I refused to examine.

“This is—” I said, and my voice wanted to splinter. I forced it steadier. “This is a new one, I’ll give you that. Insult me and then pretend you can’t speak. Very creative.”

George dragged his hand down his face, as if wiping away the disaster. His eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like panic.

“I’m not—” he started.

He clamped his mouth shut again, but it was useless. The words kept pressing at his teeth like they were alive.

I lifted my wand a fraction. Not to hex him—no matter what my pride was pretending, I wasn’t actually going to hex him—but to kept myself feeling like I had control of the room.

George’s gaze dropped to the wand and he lifted both hands, palms out, surrendering.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay—don’t—just—put it down, yeah? Please.”

There it was again.

Please.

It landed strangely. Not like Fred’s theatrical pleas, all grin and performance. George’s plea had weight to it, like it cost him something to say.

I lowered my wand—only a little—because I wasn’t a fool.

George exhaled, and then the truth, relentless as gravity, finally won.

“I can’t—” he said, and the admission came out in a rush, raw with humiliation. “I can’t stop it. I’ve been trying all week and I can’t. I didn’t want—” his voice caught, and he swallowed it down harshly, “I didn’t want you to hear me say stupid things.”

My throat went tight again. “Stupid things,” I echoed confused.

George’s laugh came out sharp and miserable. “Yes,” he said. “Because every time I open my mouth around you it’s like—” he jerked his head, frustrated, “it’s like the truth has been sitting there waiting and now it thinks it’s got permission.”

I stared at him.

He looked back at me for the first time without dodging—really looked—eyes bright with something like dread.

I couldn’t tell if he looked terrified of me or of himself.

“You’re on something,” I said, and it wasn’t a question anymore. Pieces clicked in my head, one by one: the strange bluntness in the corridor, the slips at dinner, the way Fred had been strangling his own laughter, the way George had been moving through the castle like he was afraid of speaking within earshot of anyone.

George’s shoulders sagged as if the fight had finally left him. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“What?”

He flinched, as though the word itself hurt. Then, because he had to: “Truth potion.”

I blinked. The room swam faintly at the edges, not because of magic but because my brain was trying to hold too many things at once.

“You—” I started, and stopped. I tried again. “You drank a truth potion.”

George closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you’ve been avoiding me because—”

His eyes opened.

And then it all split out in one catastrophic, unstoppable flood, like he tried to dam a river with his hands and now the water had found every crack.

“Because I like you,” George said, words tumbling too fast, too honest, too vivid. “Because I’ve liked you for ages, and it’s pathetic, and I don’t know how to stop it, and I keep telling myself you hate me and you probably do because I’ve given you every reason to, and every time you glare at me it feels like—like you’re about to hex me and I deserve it, but—” he dragged in a breath, eyes fixed on my face like he couldn’t help it now, “but it’s also—Merlin, it’s also the only time you look at me properly.”

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

My hands had gone cold around my wand. George’s voice kept coming, helpless against the potion’s pull.

“I notice everything,” he said, and the words should sounded arrogant, but they didn’t—they sounded like confession, like a boy caught with something stolen in his pocket. “The way you set your jaw when you’re pretending you’re fine. The way you get sharper when you’re… when you’re not sure what to do. The way you act like you don’t care and then you care so much it leaks out anyway, and you hate that about yourself—” he broke off with a strangled laugh, like he knew he was stepping into dangerous territory, “and I shouldn’t know any of it, because you don’t give it to anyone on purpose, but I’ve been… watching. I can’t not. It’s like my eyes do it without asking me.”

My pulse was loud in my ears. My face felt too hot. My feet were rooted in place as if the floorboards had taken sides.

He swallowed, voice going lower, rougher.

“And you’re—” he shook his head, like the word was too big, “you’re… beautiful when you’re furious.”

I inhaled sharply, and it was the first real breath I’d managed since he started.

“No,” I said, because my brain was scrabbling for a rung to hold onto and that was the only one it found. “No. This—this is—”

He flinched immediately, like the refusal was a physical strike.

“I’m not joking,” George said, voice suddenly fierce, and it was so unlike the George I knew—so stripped bare—that it jolted something in me. “I would never— I would never joke about you. Not like that. Not—” his voice cracked, and the crack was worse than any loudness, “not about this.”

I stared at him, searching his face for the familiar shape of a prank—waiting for the grin, the wink, the bright cruelty of got you.

There was none.

Just George, sitting on the edge of his bed like he was waiting to be punished, hands clenched, eyes too bright.

And the worst part was: the more he spoke, the more my stomach twisted—not with humiliation, not with rage, but with something treacherously soft that made my chest hurt.

My wand dipped, forgotten.

“You’re expecting me to believe,” I said, and my voice was thin now despite myself, “that this is real.”

George let out a breath that sounded like laughter turned into pain. “I don’t have a choice,” he said. “I can’t lie.”

I shook my head. “Prove it.”

His eyes flickered up, startled. “What?”

“If you can’t lie,” I said, and the words scraped out of me like a dare I didn’t mean to make, “prove it. George’s mouth opened, and then he shut it, as if he could feel himself being dragged forward again.

“I—” he started, then winced. “I don’t know how to—”

I stepped closer, and the space between us felt suddenly too small, too charged. His gaze flickered to my face, then to my wand, then back again, like he couldn’t decide what scared him more.

“You’ve avoided me,” I said, quieter now, and the quiet was more dangerous. “All week. You looked right through me in the common room. You wouldn’t even look at me.”

George’s throat bobbed. “Because if I looked at you,” he said, and the truth came out as if it had been trapped behind his teeth for years, “I’d say things I can’t afford to say.”

My breath caught. I hated that it did. I hated the way my body betrayed me with small, involuntary tells.

George’s eyes flickered as if he noticed.

I lifted my chin—stubborn, defensive, Gryffindor to the bone.

“Fine,” I said, voice tight. “Prove. It,”

George stared at me for a long, unbearable moment. The room was so still I could hear the distant crackle of the common room fire below, muffled through floors and years.

Then he spoke again, because he couldn’t help it.

He said my name—just my name—like it tasted different in his mouth than it did in anyone else’s.

And that, somehow, was the most terrifying thing yet.

He pushed himself up from the bed slowly, like his body was arguing with his mind and winning. The mattress creaked behind him, a soft sound, and suddenly he was standing—really standing—close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

My gaze caught on his chest first, the way his jumper hung slightly loose on him, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms dusted faintly with freckles and scars that looked earned. I registered the height of him without meaning to—the way he blocked the lamplight, the way his shadow folded over me like it belonged there. I was aware, absurdly, of how warm he smelt—soap and smoke and something sharp underneath, like adrenaline.

George noticed.

Of course he did.

His breath stuttered—just enough to tell me he lost whatever fragile control he thought he had left.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

I looked up. His eyes were dark, fixed on my face like he was memorising it against his will.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he added, and the words came out strained, like they’d been dragged through his teeth. “If you don’t stop, I’ll—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

I lifted my chin a fraction. It wasn’t defiance exactly. It was instinct. It was the same thing that always made me step closer instead of back.

“You’ll what George?”

The silence that followed wasnt empty. It was crowded—packed tight with things neither of us had said out loud before now.

George’s laugh was breathless and disbelieving, like the sound had surprised him on the way out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

“Show me how,”

That’s all it took.

He leaned down and kissed me like he’d been waiting years and suddenly there was no one left to stop him.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t polite.

It was the kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and left you dizzy in its place—his mouth warm and sure against mine, like he already knew exactly how this was meant to feel. My hands moved without consulting me, fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders, pulling him closer because distance had become unbearable.

His hands found my waist as if they’d always known where it was, steady and grounding and impossibly gentle for how much force there was behind the way he pressed me back against the door. I made a sound—small, involuntary—and he stilled for half a heartbeat, like he was listening for it again.

Then he kissed me deeper, slower now, as if he learned something and intended to keep it.

My head tilted without thinking, chasing the angle, and the world narrowed to heat and pressure and the way his thumb pressed into my side like he was anchoring himself. I was lightheaded—too aware of my own pulse, of the way my body seemed to lean into him like it’d been waiting for permission.

He made a sound—low, startled, almost a laugh—and then his hands shifted with sudden certainty. One moment I was standing there with the door cold at my back, and the next the floor dropped away.

I gasped as he lifted me, the movement smooth and instinctive, as if he’d done this in some other life and his body remembered even if his head didn’t. My fingers clutched at his shoulders, fabric wrinkling under my grip, and he carried me the short distance to his bed like he was afraid of setting me down too gently.

The mattress dipped beneath me. The lamplight swung. He followed, bracing himself over me, close enough that the air felt crowded, his weight a steady presence I didn’t want to escape.

My hips shifted up without thinking—seeking, answering—and the sound he made in response was rough and unguarded, torn from him like a confession. His hand tightened at my waist, fingers biting in just enough that it made my breath stutter, the other slid up to cradle my neck with a care that didnt match the hunger in his mouth.

“Merlin,” he muttered, and it wasn’t a joke.

His lips left mine and trailed along my jaw, unhurried now, as if he was mapping something he intended to keep. The sensation pulled a sound from me before I could stop it—soft, traitorous—and he caught it instantly, kissing me again to quiet it, a smile pressed into the corner of my mouth like he was pleased he found it.

He swore under his breath, the word lost to fabric and skin, and dipped to my neck. The warmth there was unbearable, dizzying; I tipped my head back without meaning to, fingers tightening in his hair as the world blurred at the edges. For a heartbeat, everything else—rules, pride, years of irritation held like armour—fell away, leaving only this: the way he held me like I were something precious and dangerous at the same time.

The door banged open.

“Right,” Fred’s voice announced, breathless and dramatic. “I had a bad feeling and—”

George froze.

I froze.

Fred took in the scene in one sweeping glance—and then he bursted out laughing, loud and delighted, like he’d just won a bet no one else knew he placed.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” he wheezed. “Absolutely brilliant. I go to rescue my brother and instead I—”

“Wow, mate,” George said dryly, not lifting his head, voice rough with laughter he was trying not to let loose. “Impeccable timing.”

Fred wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “Never would’ve guessed,” he added, ignoring what George just said as he glanced between us. “Honestly thought she’d hex you before she ever kissed you.”

George finally looked up, one hand still steady at my waist, eyes bright and unapologetic. “Out,” he says.

Fred snorted. “Touchy.”

“Fred.”

“All right, all right.” He backed toward the door, laughter trailing behind him like sparks. “Carry on, then. I’ll just—” he paused, smirked, “—pretend I saw none of that.”

The door shut.

The quiet that followed was different—softer, warmer, humming with something that hadn’t settled yet.

George looked back at me, thumb brushing my jaw like he was checking if I were real.

Still close. Still here.

And for once, neither of us was in a hurry to move.

[blowingbarnes]

Substance F52.8

A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word count: 8.5k Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink? Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?

Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.

At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd

[superbassbuck]

two tickets to iron maiden

pairing: dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"

word count: 11.7k

a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.

☆ main masterlist || bucky's playlist || dirtbag marvel series || 𝐩𝐭 𝟐 || steve's story ☆

synopsis: You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist, “you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.

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[mcrdvcks]

two sugars

chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea. word count: 4.0k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :) i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine

The quinjet’s rear ramp hissed open onto the compound’s flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routines—Thor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about “arrow residue” in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.

“You can limp faster than that, Barnes.”

You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. “Took a scratch, that’s all.”

“Scratch?” You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. “That’s shrapnel and at least two stitches.”

“Good thing I only need one.”

“Math is not your strong suit tonight. Med bay—now.”

He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.

---

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”

“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”

“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”

He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.

“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”

“Lucky me.”

You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”

“Thought you were off tomorrow.”

“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”

He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.

---

Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.

A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.

There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”

He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.

He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.

---

The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.

Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”

You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”

“Growing on me.”

A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”

“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”

You made a face. “Orders?”

“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”

You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”

He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”

Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.

When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.

He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.

Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.

Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.

And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.

He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.

---

When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”

You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”

“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”

Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”

You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.

He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”

“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”

Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”

“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.

The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”

“I’m not pale,” he muttered.

You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”

Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.

Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”

You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”

“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.

Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.

Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.

You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.

Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.

Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”

Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”

“Anything good?”

He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”

Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”

Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”

The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.

---

Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.

“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”

Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”

You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.

---

You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”

He stilled. “You remembered that?”

“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.

He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”

You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.

He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.

---

Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”

He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”

“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”

A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.

You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”

You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.

He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.

He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.

He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.

But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

---

The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.

You weren’t saying anything.

That was the part that made him nervous.

You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.

“I’ve had worse,” he offered.

Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.

He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”

“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.

---

Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered.

You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.

“No peppers?” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “I learn.”

He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.

Just you, making an entire meal—for him.

“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”

That was all.

No smile, no brag. Just facts.

He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.

And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked.  You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.

---

“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.

Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.

“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.

You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”

“Not really.”

You held out your hand. “Knife.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”

With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.

“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”

“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”

“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”

You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.

Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.

---

He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.

A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.

“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”

Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.

You were everywhere, quietly.

In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”

You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.

And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.

You weren’t just being kind.

You were being kind to him.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.

And suddenly, all he could think was: When did I start needing her?

Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.

But you.

All of it.

He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.

Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?

He didn’t mind at all.

---

You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.

The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.

“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”

You were already standing. “What happened?”

There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”

Not great.

Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”

“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”

You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.

A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.

He’s still with us.

But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.

You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.

You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.

---

The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.

And there he was.

Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.

You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”

Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.

“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”

“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”

The room cleared fast.

You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.

---

He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.

You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.

“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.

You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.

You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”

You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”

His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were crying.”

“No, I—”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.

You tried to resist, just a little.

“C’mere.”

You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.

He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.

“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”

“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”

His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”

You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.

---

The med bay was quieter than usual.

Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.

He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”

“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”

“Worth it.”

You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.

Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.

You shrugged. “Easier target.”

That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.

You blinked. “I did.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N.”

You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”

“You stayed with me. Again.”

“I always stay with patients.”

“No, you don’t.”

Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.

“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”

You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.

“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”

Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”

Your breath caught.

And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.

When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”

You arched a brow. “Liar.”

He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Stay a little longer?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

[myladybelle]

the siren call

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: bucky swore he’d never lose himself again. so why does he keep looking for you in every room, hearing you in every silence, wanting you in every moment? he thinks your powers are making him fall in love, but when the truth comes out, so does everything he’s been holding back. tags: avenger!reader, superpowered!reader, bombshell!reader, mutual pining, bucky’s doing his best but still represses his romantic feelings for you warning(s): miscommunication trope, reader wears a dress, reader drinks alcohol, the avengers are alive and live at the compound with the thunderbolts because i said so, suggestive content (no smut) word count: 12.1k note: i got my start on tumblr writing bucky fics like eight years ago, so i love that i’m returning to my roots lol. i hope everyone enjoys this one!! there will be more bucky fics from me in the future 🫡

masterlist

Bucky knew you were a problem the moment you started distracting him during missions. Not that he would ever say that out loud. He didn’t say much at all, really, especially not to you.

And even if he wanted to, what the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, sorry, I can’t stop staring at you when I should be watching the guy with the grenade launcher. No. He kept his mouth shut because that was safer. Safer for him, safer for everyone.

But it didn’t matter what he told himself. You were still there, in his head.

It was the way you moved through a room effortlessly. Everyone else leaned closer when you spoke, even people like Tony who rarely listened to anyone.

You didn’t demand attention; you collected it the way fire collects moths. A hand on a shoulder, a laugh tossed lightly into the air, a question asked like you genuinely wanted the answer—and suddenly, you had them. All of them, including Bucky.

That was the part he couldn’t stand. Watching you draw people in and knowing he wasn’t immune. Watching the rest of the team light up around you, and catching himself memorising the way your smile tilted, the cadence of your voice, the way your presence shaped the whole atmosphere.

It made him restless and angry with himself, because Bucky Barnes didn’t get restless over anyone, not anymore. He’d had that burned out of him long ago.

So why the hell couldn’t he stop tracking the sound of your laugh over the comms? Why couldn’t he keep his eyes on the perimeter instead of catching glimpses of you through the chaos?

Bucky told himself it was tactical. In fact, he told himself countless things he knew were complete lies. But every time he caught you looking back at him, even just for a second, he felt the ground shift under his boots.

That was when he decided you weren’t just a distraction, you were dangerous. 

You’d caught the weight of his stare once or twice in the mayhem of a mission; the kind of look that wasn’t meant to be spotted. Quick, averted, almost guilty. But you were stubborn enough to notice him anyway, and stubborn enough to remember.

You didn’t blame Bucky for keeping his distance. Siren wasn’t the kind of codename that inspired trust. It sounded like trouble, like temptation, like something a man with Bucky’s past ought to run from. And your ability didn’t help either. Your voice could slip past a person’s defences like a knife between ribs, coaxing truth before they could resist. 

Useful, yes, but unsettling to anyone who didn’t know the limits of it.

As a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, you were capable of holding your own without using your abilities on most missions. But it was the only way to get information out of a mercenary with ties to Hydra. 

You had the merc cornered against a crumbling wall. Your power thrummed in your throat, low and resonant. “Who hired you?” 

The merc’s mouth moved before he could even think to resist, eyes wide as he gave up everything he knew. You dropped the thread of power the moment you had what you needed, your voice gentling back into warmth as you relayed the intel over comms.

Somewhere nearby, Steve was giving orders into comms, boots thundering on cracked concrete. Beneath all of it, you felt the burn of someone’s gaze.

When you turned, Bucky was watching you. Not casual, not even curious about your abilities. He didn’t seem to have noticed you used them in the first place.

Bucky was watching like a man who knew better, but couldn’t stop anyway. His jaw was locked tight, expression carved from stone, but his blue eyes betrayed him; sharp and fixed like he couldn’t help himself.

You offered him a quick smile—polite, maybe a touch coquettish—before moving on.

Back at the compound, everyone parted ways, grumbling about showers and sleep. After a long, hot shower, you padded into the kitchen with sock-clad feet, expecting it to be empty, but found Bucky there instead.

He stood stiffly at the counter like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or fleeing. His shoulders were hunched as if bracing for impact, but he looked softer around the edges. His hair was almost black when wet, and his clothes were looser too: grey sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt that clung to his shoulders but slouched everywhere else. 

Most people read that aura as Caution! Do not approach, but you weren’t most people.

“Tea?” you asked, flicking the kettle on and rummaging through the cupboard for your favourite bedtime blend.

Bucky blinked, startled you’d spoken at all. His pause was longer than it needed to be, and against what looked like his own better judgment, he nodded. 

You pulled two mugs from the cabinet, the faint clink of porcelain filling the hush between you. The silence wasn’t empty so much as alive, humming with the soft whistle of the kettle and the faint scrape of your movements. 

Bucky’s gaze tracked every small motion: your hand brushing hair from your face, the curve of your mouth when you concentrated, the way your body seemed to move with easy unconscious grace. He told himself to look away, but he couldn’t. All he could do was admire the way your sleeve slipped back from your wrist and the curve of your shoulders when you leaned forward. 

He was watching too closely, and you felt it, the weight of his attention warm on the back of your neck.

When you turned to face him, steam curled between you in fragrant ribbons of chamomile and lavender, heat fogging the air just enough to make the kitchen feel smaller. You offered him a mug, and for a heartbeat, his calloused, warm flesh hand brushed yours. Though his skin was rough, the press of his fingers against the back of your hand was feather-light. 

The touch was deliberately fleeting, but not so fleeting that you missed the sharp intake of his breath. Bucky pulled back like he’d been burned, lips pressed together.

“Thanks,” he muttered. His voice was rougher than you’d expected, gravel clinging to the edges of his tone even in the safety of the compound. It made the single syllable sound reluctant.

You sipped your tea, letting the heat sink into your palms, waiting for him to say or do something. Bucky didn’t immediately bolt, as he often did when the team tried to rope him into things, so you tried again. 

“Recon missions with new people are always a little hectic. Could’ve gone worse, though,” you said casually.

A pause. Bucky’s jaw worked, and then a low sound rumbled from him, almost like agreement.

You pressed, light but curious. “We don’t get to work together much, do we?”

Another pause. Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, swift and hot, before sliding away. “No,” he agreed.

You smiled into your mug. “Guess I’ll have to start putting in requests.”

This time, Bucky’s lips curved too. The smallest grin, quick and self-conscious, but real. And when it faded, his eyes lingered on you like he’d already let more slip than he should.

You always found your way to the Avengers Tower’s rooftop by accident. The first few times, you’d gone to the roof when the insomnia wouldn’t let up, and the walls of the tower felt like they were pressing inwards. Even though you had just as many fond memories at the tower as you did at the compound, some moments felt too polished and artificial, and you needed a breather.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The night air hit sharp against your cheeks, that particular New York chill that carried the smell of exhaust and something frying three streets down. You closed your eyes and breathed it in. The city was loud even at this hour, horns blaring, subway grates sighing.

Still, when you leaned against the railing and looked out, your chest tightened. DC wasn’t so far in miles, but it may as well have been on another planet. The memory of rooftops there—quiet, stolen places where you’d sat trying to decide whether you were really helping anyone, or just another cog in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s well-oiled machine—pushed its way in, unwanted. 

The sound of the door sliding open behind you made you stiffen. You expected Tony to lecture you about safety protocols and F.R.I.D.AY. waking him to alert him that someone was on the roof, or maybe Steve to remind you that you actually needed to be in bed to get a good night’s sleep. 

Instead, it was Bucky. He paused in the doorway, shoulders squared as if it’d taken a lot of courage for him to see you through the glass door and decide to join you. He stepped forward, silent despite the heavy weight of his boots. 

You wondered—not for the first time—if the super soldier serum had made him unnervingly stealthy on purpose, or if he just enjoyed startling you.

You glanced at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes. Bucky leaned against the railing beside you, a careful two feet away. He always liked his distance. He wore that heavy jacket of his, zipped high, though you knew it wasn’t the cold that bothered him. His vibranium arm was covered, and his breath came in steady clouds.

“You don’t sleep much either, huh?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant.

Bucky’s mouth lifted faintly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten how to smile or if he didn’t trust it. “Not really.” His voice caught at the edges, the kind of sound that hummed against your skin long after it faded.

You tilted your head, trying for lightness. “Is it the mattress? Too many Egyptian cotton threads?”

That got you a small huff of air, an almost-laugh. The sound curled through you far too easily, catching low in your chest. Unfair, really, that one almost-laugh could feel like a personal victory.

Bucky looked out at the skyline. “Noise,” he said finally. “City’s loud.” A pause. “I used to sit on rooftops in Brooklyn when I was a kid. If it got too noisy inside, I’d go higher. It always felt quieter up there.”

“I had roof access in DC,” you offered, surprising yourself at how much you wanted to meet Bucky where he was. “Slept better up there than in my own bed. Guess it was easier to breathe when there wasn’t a ceiling above me. Or a mission the next morning.”

His gaze cut to you then, sharp and searching. “You didn’t like the missions?”

You swallowed, the cool air stinging your throat. “Didn’t always know who I was helping.” You trailed off, alluding to the way you, Steve, and Natasha had exposed Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. “Funny how you can spend years fighting the good fight and not even know whose definition of ‘good’ you’re following.”

That earned you a heavy silence. 

You let yourself shamelessly watch Bucky, then. Not ogling or studying him, just observing him in the way you always seemed to watch people. As a trained spy, you spent a lot of your time trying to understand people through their behaviours so that you could give them exactly what they wanted from you. 

With Bucky, you just hoped your training would let you get to know him better. You liked the way the streetlight caught in the faint silvering at his temples, and his jaw flexed when he thought too hard. He smelled faintly of leather and soap despite the grit of the day still clinging to him. 

You caught yourself wondering what it would be like to close that careful gap he always held between you.

“The world’s loud in different ways now,” Bucky said at last. His voice was quieter, as if meant only for you. “Hard to tell what’s real.”

You tilted your head, watching the faint curl of your breath fade into the night. “The city, or people?”

Bucky huffed, closer to laughter than you’d ever heard from him. “Both.” His eyes lingered on the skyline. “Brooklyn used to feel smaller. Easier. You knew who was on your block, who’d slip you an extra cannoli at the bakery if you carried their groceries home. Now,” his hand made a vague gesture over the surrounding skyscrapers, “it’s like living in someone else’s memory. Looks familiar but doesn’t sound right.”

Hearing him admit something so personal without you prying surprised you. You softened. “I get that. DC felt that way after S.H.I.E.L.D. Same streets, same cafés, but I couldn’t walk them without wondering who’d known what. Who I’d smiled at in passing while they were pulling strings above my head.”

Bucky frowned, a shadow of empathy flickering across his face. “Guess we’ve both had the rug pulled out from under us.”

“More like the whole floor,” you quipped, before you could stop yourself. But Bucky’s lips curved, brief and genuine, and you decided you’d die happy having put a smile on his face.

He looked at you, steady in a way that made you shiver more than the cold. “So what keeps you here? With them?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just searching.

You blinked. “What keeps me with the Avengers?”

Bucky nodded.

You shifted, leaning against the railing, your fingers brushing cold metal. “Because even if the ground isn’t steady, the people are. Steve, Nat, Sam—they make the world make sense. And,” You hesitated, aware of the weight of his attention. “Because I want to believe in good. Even if I’ve been wrong before.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, as if he were chewing on that. Then he asked, almost softly, “And do you?”

Your throat tightened. “Most days. Some days more than others, especially when I’m not up all night contemplating it.” You chuckled quietly. “More than anything, I see good more than I believe in it.”

Bucky leaned his forearms on the railing, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he moved closer. If you moved even an inch, your sleeve would catch on his. The thought was absurdly magnetic, pulling at you.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get back there. To believing.” Bucky glanced sideways, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. “But sometimes I think it could be possible. Around the right people.”

You felt the admission settle between you, fragile and earnest. Your chest ached with the desire to ease the rawness in Bucky’s voice. 

You tipped your head, your lips curving into a smile. “Well,” you murmured, “I guess that makes for a decent audition tape for Team ‘Believing in Good Again.’ Obviously headed by Steve, America’s Golden Retriever Boyfriend. Not sure what the benefits package is, though. Fingers crossed for dental.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Therapy would be nice,” he deadpanned. “Think they’d cover ninety years of back pay?”

That startled a laugh out of you, loud and unguarded enough that you clapped a hand over your mouth. “God, that’s dark.” The fact that he’d reciprocated your banter instead of shutting it down made you grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Honest,” Bucky corrected, his tone bone-dry.

You laughed harder, helpless against it, and Bucky joined in too. A low sound, quiet but genuine, breaking out of him like it hadn’t seen daylight in a long time. You turned to look at him, wanting to catch it before it vanished.

It didn’t vanish. The sound was rough, unpractised, but real. You wanted to wrap it in both hands and keep it safe.

Bucky was still chuckling softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d gotten him there. The sound warmed the cold air more than any jacket could.

“Okay,” you said, breathless with amusement, “I think you make an excellent addition to the team. We don’t have nearly enough comic relief.” Your sardonic tone made Bucky smile again. If anything, the Avengers had too many sarcastic assholes who lived to make everyone laugh.

He arched a brow, the tiniest hint of mischief in his eyes. “That’s why they let you in, isn’t it?”

You mock-gasped. “Excuse you, I’m multi-talented.”

That earned you another little huff of laughter, and this one came easier, freer. Bucky didn’t look away this time either. His gaze stayed with you, steady and open in a way that made your heart thrum. It felt dangerously like trust, like a door creaking open just wide enough to glimpse the man he still was beneath all that armour.

Bucky lingered in the hall longer than he should have. The tower was alive tonight, laughter spilling from the common room in bright bursts. He caught the cadence of Sam’s bark of amusement, Natasha’s low drawl, and Peter’s earnest whining that always gave way to more heckling. Cards slapped against wood, a chorus of voices rose and broke again.

He’d only meant to come down for water. Nothing more; in and out, like one of their recon missions. But when he turned into the hallway and saw you in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but want to linger.

You leaned against the counter, bathed in the pale glow of the fridge. Hair swept up, but just messy enough that it looked deliberate. Your mouth already tipped into a smile when you noticed Bucky in the doorway.

“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Midnight Snack,” you teased, lifting your glass with a lazy flourish. “At least tell me you’re here for Cheetos or something. Don’t ruin this for me with celery sticks.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the doorframe before he moved. Keep it steady, he reminded himself. Controlled. He brushed past you toward the cupboard, careful not to graze you. “Water,” he muttered.

“Water,” you echoed, amused. You tipped your head, eyes gleaming. “Living on the edge, I see.”

Bucky almost smiled. God, it was too easy with you. He reached for a glass. His hand stilled halfway when you slid one off the counter instead.

“Here,” you offered, filling it at the sink. The sound of water pouring was louder than the laughter down the hall. You held the glass out to him, steady, waiting.

Bucky hesitated. A thousand instincts screamed at him to retreat, to keep the space between you. He couldn’t afford softness, couldn’t afford the memory of your warmth stitched into his palm.

But he reached anyway. 

The brush of your fingers hit him like a spark—searing through his veins, too quick to disguise. His chest locked up, then hollowed, a dangerous looseness spreading where control should have been.

You didn’t even blink, just looked at Bucky with a smile so easy it made him dizzy. “You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence but not moving your hand, “if you want, I can teach you how to play. UNO’s not as terrifying as it sounds.”

Bucky huffed, a sound caught between dismissal and laughter. His voice came out rougher than he meant. “I think I’ll sit this one out. Not sure how much of Stark I can take once he’s started with the scotch.”

The common room roared again: cheers, shouts, Peter’s name yelled with mock outrage. But in the kitchen, between the hum of the fridge and the heat of your fingers still brushing his, it was quiet.

You grinned, mischief sparking, your voice velvety soft. “You’re already here, Bucky. Might as well take a seat before Clint cheats again.”

“I don’t cheat,” Clint’s voice called from the other room, immediately followed by Sam barking, “He cheats all the time!”

Your smirk deepened. “See? Justice needs you.” With that, you grabbed your own glass and headed back to the common room.

Bucky shook his head, but his unfaithful boots carried him those few steps toward the noise. He told himself he’d sit for one round, maybe two, and then slip away again.

The table was chaos—cards flying, Steve laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, Wanda calmly dismantling Clint’s entire hand with two cards.

Peter made space instantly, practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh! Mr Barnes, sit here! You can totally take my spot.”

“He’s good,” you cut in smoothly, hand brushing the back of the empty chair next to you. “This one’s his.”

For a moment, Bucky paused. The expectation was always that he’d hover at the edges, watching but never joining in. But no one protested. They just kept shuffling, dealing, arguing over the rules—Yelena and Peter louder than anyone else.

“Barnes,” Clint said, already smirking. “You’ve never played UNO, have you?”

Bucky gave the faintest shrug.

“He doesn’t need experience,” you cut in, dealing the re-shuffled deck now that Bucky had joined. “He’s got the look of a man who can sniff out lies. Which means your cheating reign of terror is finished, Barton.”

Laughter rippled across the table. You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “Rule number one: don’t listen to Tony. He thinks a Draw Four is a valid form of diplomacy.”

Tony lifted his drink in salute. “It’ll work one day.”

For the next few rounds, it was pure anarchy.

Sam narrated every card he played as if he were a sportscaster; Natasha destroyed Clint with surgical precision; Wanda and Yelena teamed up in a way that made Peter groan dramatically. Bucky seemed to angle himself toward you, so subtly you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined it.

You kept the banter flowing, firing off one-liners like sparks, revelling in the warmth of being part of this ridiculous found family that somehow hadn’t banished you yet.

You didn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes flicked to Sam, both of them catching the soft set of Bucky’s mouth when you laughed. You didn’t see Wanda hiding her smile behind her glass, or Natasha and Yelena exchanging the kind of look that could topple governments.

The pile of cards in front of Clint was obscene, and you had never been more delighted in your life. “Twenty-three,” you counted loudly, pointing to his spread across the table. “That’s not a hand, Barton. That’s a fire hazard.”

Clint, naturally, refused to concede. “Strategic arsenal.”

“Strategic losing streak,” Sam corrected, sliding a card down with far too much flourish. “Which, ladies and gentlemen, leaves me in the lead once again.”

“You’ve been in the lead since 2015,” Natasha deadpanned.

“That’s called consistency,” Sam said, grinning, and you nearly doubled over laughing.

Beside you, Bucky shifted, the kind of minimal movement that would’ve gone unnoticed if you hadn’t already been watching him. The corner of his mouth curved into a real smile, and seeing it felt like a victory greater than winning a game of UNO.

Still, you put down three Draw Four cards and gave the Avengers’ team leader a sugared smile.

Steve groaned loudly. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, staring at his new stack of twelve cards. “You played me,” he accused you.

You fluttered your lashes at him, unrepentant. “Played with you. For a while.”

Steve’s ears went red. “I wasn’t—” He stumbled, tripping over his own words, and Sam let out a delighted cackle.

“Look at him!” Sam hollered, pointing an accusatory finger. “Cap’s blushing like it’s prom night. That wasn’t strategy, that was seduction. You never stood a chance.”

“Seduction?” Steve repeated, scandalised.

“Oh, 100 percent.” Tony leaned across the table, eyes bright. “Textbook Siren manoeuvre. Get him cosy, lull him into trust, then—bam! Draw twelve. You should’ve known better, Capsicle.”

Clint wheezed a little. “She did smile at him all sweet, right before she gutted him.”

“Classic her,” Wanda cut in, smirking. “She pulls the same thing in training.”

Nat agreed, “You fall for it every time, Steve.”

Steve’s laugh grew more helpless, his blush creeping down his throat. “Okay, but she was being nice—”

“Nice?” Sam cackled. “She had you wrapped around her finger, man. Don’t even try to deny it.” He pointed at Bucky in a dramatic warning. “Careful, Buck, don’t sit too close to her. She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune.”

“Siren,” Yelena said in a husky whisper, teasing you for the codename you’ve had since your S.H.I.E.L.D. days and grinning as Natasha snorted beside her.

Steve complained again, dragging his hands down his face. “This is so unfair!” His protest broke into laughter, the tips of his ears already pink.

You’d been friends with Steve since the Avengers first formed, and you knew exactly how to appeal to your kind-hearted, big softy of a team leader. A tilt of your head, a lowered voice, a smile that suggested conspiracies shared just between the two of you. Steve was putty every time.

“Oh, come on, Rogers,” you teased, letting your fingers tap against the table. “You like trusting people. You trusted me, and it felt good, didn’t it?”

Steve sputtered, “I—that’s not—” He broke off into helpless giggles.

Sam leaned back, delighted. “Would you listen to him?”

Yelena let out a bark of laughter. “Is this normal? Does she do this every game night?”

“Every single time,” Wanda confirmed.

“I was the victim last time,” Peter recalled, matching Steve’s blush.

Laughter rolled across the table, easy and familiar as family. By now, they were used to the way you could shapeshift and charm to fit anyone’s needs—and to the way you shamelessly wielded it on game night. They couldn’t hold it against you. They knew you too well, and still fell for it every time.

But Bucky’s gaze was fixed on Steve’s hand on your shoulder. His chest rose too fast, like his ribs were suddenly too tight, and for one disorienting moment, the world blurred at the edges. The laughter muffled into a distant echo, and Bucky felt oddly like everything was moving in slow motion.

Siren. 

The word echoed, venomous and familiar in all the wrong ways. 

She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune. Was that why you were consuming Bucky’s every thought? You were using your powers on him?

His pulse thundered like an alarm in his ears. The warmth of the room—the light, easy banter he’d been enjoying all night—faded, leaving only the memories and sting of Hydra training and commands behind. 

You didn’t notice at first, caught up in Sam’s running commentary, in the ease of being teased by people who knew you too well to ever mistake your tricks for malice. You were oblivious to the way Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

When you turned, Bucky’s eyes were locked on you—blue, wide, and startled—like you’d just morphed into something sharp and dangerous.

The sight knocked the air out of you. You’d been making jokes, leaning into the jesting the way you always did, certain this was safe ground. Everyone else had laughed, But Bucky’s face made doubt curl in your stomach.

Had you crossed a line? Had your harmless flirting with Steve made Bucky uncomfortable?

“Bucky?” you murmured. Not playful this time. Just quiet and uncertain, caught between an apology and concern.

He couldn’t hear the softness in it over the ringing in his ears.

It started the morning after game night.

You weren’t expecting Bucky to send you flowers and a mixtape or anything. But you were expecting at least the usual nod in the hall. That minuscule flicker of acknowledgement he always gave, like he knew you existed in the same dimension and maybe didn’t mind it. Sometimes, if you caught him in a good mood, there’d even be the ghost of a smile.

But the next day? Nothing. Bucky passed you in the kitchen, eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself the world’s grumpiest teammate.

And maybe that was just him. You knew he wasn’t Mr. Sunshine at the best of times, but then it happened again. And again. No nod, no hello, not even a grunt when you made some joke loud enough for him to overhear. 

It was like someone had flipped a switch from tolerating you to couldn’t care less if you lived or died.

At first, you brushed it off. People have bad weeks. The Avengers have bad weeks where “bad” involves alien warlords or the occasional robot uprising, so you figured he was busy.

But then you noticed the small things. Bucky had started sitting near you at the briefing table recently—not close, but within quipping distance. Now he deliberately picked the seat furthest away, next to Sam, since you always sat with Nat and Steve. And when you tried to talk to him, Bucky gave you these tight, clipped answers.

Polite, sure, but with all the warmth of an ice skating rink.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t seen the other side of Bucky. The side that came out on the balcony, when his shoulder almost brushed yours and he’d admitted, low and raw, that maybe he could believe in good again. The side that had joked with you and then, God help you, laughed like a careless little kid. Not a grunt, not a huff, but a real laugh, cracked and rusty and beautiful because it was his.

You’d thought—naively, apparently—that you’d reached some fragile truce where Bucky trusted you enough to be honest. But now he was shutting doors you hadn’t even realised he’d opened, and it left you fumbling in the dark.

It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if you hadn’t realised how much you’d come to enjoy those little moments. The way Bucky used to glance over when you were bantering with Yelena and Bob, that half-exasperated twitch of his mouth like he wanted to roll his eyes but was secretly amused. The way he’d linger for a second after you said goodnight, like there was something he might add before deciding against it.

They weren’t big things. They were barely-there things. Things you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined. But their absence was loud, and you kept wondering why it hurt so much.

The worst part was that you had no idea what you did wrong.

The warehouse smelled like damp concrete and trouble. You hated that smell.

“North corridor looks clear,” Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms, calm as always. “Yelena and I will sweep the other side. You two, check the labs.”

You cast Bucky a quick glance, but he didn’t return it. He was busy checking his gun, jaw set, posture locked in that soldier-straight way that always made you want to nudge him to see if he’d flinch.

He didn’t. Not even a twitch.

“Copy,” you said, because someone had to.

The labs were exactly what you’d expect in a bioweapons facility. Sterile walls, glass vials, enough ominous-looking refrigeration units to make you wonder how long it would take one bad leak to end civilisation. You tried to focus on cataloguing and checking for Hydra insignias, but it was impossible not to notice every tiny brush of proximity.

When you both reached for the same file on the counter, your fingers grazed Bucky’s vibranium hand, just a whisper of contact. But you felt the sudden hardness of his grip as he pulled away, and you saw the way his eyes flicked to yours for a microsecond. 

You swallowed, surprised at how much your chest skipped. 

Then, when you crouched to check under a lab bench and came up too fast, you collided shoulder-to-shoulder with him. The contact was short, but Bucky stiffened against you, eyes narrowed in a way that made your stomach drop.

You winced, ready to laugh it off, but the look he gave you had you biting your lip instead.

Your gaze caught a glint of red along the edge of his temple: a shallow cut from a piece of flying debris when the door gave way. “Bucky, let me see,” you murmured, reaching up toward the wound.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand and jerking his head back just enough to evade your touch.

“Just let me look,” you pressed, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead.

Bucky tensed, jaw tight, and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise him. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, voice low and brittle. “The serum takes care of it. Don’t fuss.”

You hesitated, caught between wanting to push and knowing when to step back. You frowned, growing defensive. “I’m not fussing, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Bucky stared at you, his eyes harsh and unreadable, and then he sighed to let you know he was done with the conversation. You wanted to ask him if he’d always made everyone else feel this way or if it was just you. But the moment passed before it could take shape. 

By the time the mission wrapped and you were making the trek back to the Quinjet, your nerves were shot. Your shoulders brushed, once, then again, and neither of you pulled away.

You could feel Bucky holding himself back, the tension radiating off him like something resembling anger. You stole glances at him, studied the furrow of his brow and the tight line of his mouth. It was like watching a storm brew in human form.

The Quinjet landed back at the Avengers Tower smoother than your nerves. Bucky had been staring at you the whole way home, or at least you thought he had. Every time you glanced up from adjusting your seatbelt strap there he was, heavy gaze fixed on you like you were a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong box. 

Not glaring, just watching. And not in a fun, this could lead to kissing kind of way. More like this could lead to homicide.

So, naturally, when the ramp lowered and the others filed out, you decided to test the waters. Light and breezy. Nothing that could be mistaken for poking the grizzly bear.

“Hey, Sarge.” You jogged a couple of steps to fall into stride with him. “Quick question: are we good? Because if this is about me finishing the last donut, I promise I’ll buy another box. Maybe two. Chocolate with sprinkles, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you, just kept walking—shoulders tight, jaw flexing. Your stomach dipped. Okay, not the donut thing. Probably something worse. 

“Bucky?” you tried again, quieter this time. “You’ve been—” You flailed for a word less desperate than glaring at me like I killed your family. “A little weird. Is everything okay?”

That’s when he paused; stopped dead in the middle of the hangar, boots planted, head bowed like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread. 

When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was low and taut. “No. It’s not okay.”

Oh, good. Not terrifying at all.

You forced a laugh, aiming for light but landing somewhere nervous. “Well, bonus points for honesty. Do you maybe want to elaborate, or should I just start apologising for every stupid thing I’ve ever said since we met?”

Bucky’s head lifted, and the intensity in his eyes rooted you to the spot. “You’re driving me insane,” he said.

The air left your lungs. Not playful, not an exaggeration. Something raw and jagged bled through every syllable.

“Um,” you blinked. “Okay. Can I ask why, specifically?”

“I can’t sleep without thinking about you,” Bucky pressed on, like your joke hadn’t reached his ears. He took a step toward you, each word sharp, cracking. “I can’t think without hearing your voice. Everything I do, every thought—it comes back to you. It’s like you’ve taken over every part of my brain, and I can’t shut it off.”

Your breath caught. Your pulse was a thunderclap in your ears. Part of you wanted to laugh it off, but the panic in his eyes shoved the humour back down. “Bucky,” you said carefully, trying to steady your voice, “I don’t—”

“You need to stop.” Another step, his shadow spilling over you now. It was the first time you’d ever felt small next to him, not because he was towering, but because his walls were closing in, bricked high.

Your back hit cool concrete of the wall before you’d even realised you’d been walking backwards. Your heart tripped over itself. “Stop what?”

“Using your powers on me!”

You blinked, disoriented. The words made sense in order, but together? They might as well have been a foreign language. “My what?!”

Bucky was breathing hard now, as if saying it out loud tore something open in him. His flesh hand raked through his hair, his metal one clenched like it might shatter. Then he shook his head, hard, like he could fling the thoughts out by force.

“This, whatever this is, it isn’t real!” Bucky’s voice was rising, frayed, trembling with panic. “You’re making me feel things I don’t want to feel, thoughts I don’t want. And I know why, I know what you do to people.”

Your gut swooped uncomfortably. “What I do to—Bucky, are you serious right now?”

“You think I don’t get it?” His voice cracked like a whip, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “They call you Siren. You sing your way into people’s heads. Twist them around until they can’t think straight. Well, congratulations, you got me.”

The accusation slammed into you harder than a punch. You swallowed, the air thick and sticky in your throat. Of all the things you thought he might accuse you of—being annoying, overeager, maybe even too much of a flirt—this cut bone-deep.

“That’s—” Your voice cracked before you fought it steady. “That’s not what I do. The name, Siren? It’s a joke. A stupid one, from when I was a new recruit at S.H.I.E.L.D. But I don’t manipulate people’s feelings! I can’t make you feel—”

But Bucky was already shaking his head. “Stop.” His tone was softer this time, closer to a plea than a command. “I just—” His hands flexed, metal glinting under harsh lights. “I don’t want you to talk to me anymore. I don’t want you around.”

And then Bucky tore himself away, storming out of the hangar as if he stayed a second longer, he’d break in half.

You stood frozen in the echo of his absence, heart pounding hard enough to bruise, skin prickling with the sting of it. You’d wanted clarity, reassurance that the tension between you wasn’t all in your head.

Instead, you got a mess of raw nerves and jagged mistrust—and the unmistakable sense that Bucky Barnes had just put you behind enemy lines.

Bucky had apparently mastered the art of disappearing in plain sight. 

It didn’t matter if you were in the gym, the kitchen, the common room, or wedged shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the team in debriefs—he was suddenly the kind of man who always had someone standing between you and him. Yelena. John. Sometimes even Steve, which felt like adding insult to injury. And then, before you could so much as blink in his direction, Bucky’d be gone. 

A ghost in tactical boots.

You tried. God, you tried. A couple of subtle attempts in hallways, a few “funny running into you here” gambits that weren’t funny to anyone, least of all you. Once, you even faked needing an extra hand moving groceries into the kitchen. Bucky had slipped through a doorway like mist before you’d finished the word “carry.”

At night, when you stared at the ceiling of your tower room and felt the press of unsaid words burning behind your ribs, you replayed it all: his voice, his accusations, the wrecked look in his eyes when he told you he couldn’t sleep without thinking about you. 

That last one was the killer. Because even knowing he’d meant it as a confession of torment, you couldn’t stop the treacherous part of you that wanted to savour it. It was, in many ways, a confession of everything you’d wanted to hear from Bucky. But it was cloaked in a fear you couldn’t let yourself romanticise.

You might have happily earned your honorary degree in self-pity if your door hadn’t swung open without warning.

“Get up.”

You blinked at the sudden intrusion. Yelena, the picture of menace in cargo pants and a strapless crop top, leaned against your doorway like she owned the place. Behind her, Kate was juggling a bag of chips, a bow case, and the kind of apologetic smile you knew all too well.

“I’m sorry,” Kate stage-whispered, tilting her head toward Yelena, “she doesn’t really, uh, knock.”

“I do knock,” Yelena said flatly, stepping into your room. “But sometimes people pretend not to hear. This is more efficient.”

“Right,” you said, pushing up on your elbows. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this home invasion?”

Yelena crossed her arms. “We are going out.”

You blinked again. “Out where?”

“Bar,” Yelena explained. “Drinks. Dancing. Maybe karaoke if Kate Bishop here does not embarrass us.”

Kate made a wounded sound. “My karaoke skills are amazing, thank you very much.” Then, turning back to you with that earnest, slightly awkward energy that was somehow impossible to resist, she added, “You’ve been kind of out of it for the past couple of days. And since this is our last night in the city before heading back to the compound, we wanted to have some fun. No missions, no strategy briefs, and no sulking.”

“I don’t sulk,” you muttered automatically.

Yelena arched an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass. “You are sulking right now.”

Kate nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, you kind of are sulking.”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Look, I appreciate it, but I’m not really in the mood to—”

“Wrong.” Yelena clapped her hands once, decisive. “You are in mood. Bad mood. We are fixing it.”

Kate dropped the chips onto your bed and perched on the edge with a grin. “C’mon. One night. Just us. You can wear those sexy combat boots with your black dress. I know you always pack it just in case.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Well, it would be irresponsible to consider heels with her around,” you said, motioning to the blonde menace in the room.

Yelena grinned approvingly. “Smart girl,” she said proudly.

And that’s how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself shimmying into a short black satin slip dress, the hem swishing around your thighs, your favourite black combat boots laced tight. The outfit, while not exactly groundbreaking or original, said you were fun but willing to fight if things got dicey. 

Exactly the vibe for a night out with Yelena Belova.

The bar was already humming when the three of you pushed through the door, Yelena leading the way. Warm golden light spilt from old-fashioned sconces onto scuffed hardwood floors, softened by the lazy swirl of neon lights spilling from behind the liquor shelves.

It wasn’t just the strong drinks or the comfort of knowing the staff would keep any gawkers in line—this bar was used to Avengers appearing like a travelling circus in leather jackets—but the fact that nobody cared who you were, so long as you tipped well.

“See? Already better than sulking in your room,” Yelena declared, tossing you a look over her shoulder. “Less pathetic. More you.”

Kate trailed behind, giving you a conspiratorial smile. “I told her you’d say no if we gave you the option. So she took away the option.”

“Very Russian,” you deadpanned, but your lips curved when Yelena smirked. She knew your comment was all in good fun.

Inside, familiar faces were already waving you over. Natasha with her usual low-key poise, Ava looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and Wanda, already halfway through a cocktail that shimmered in deep scarlet like her powers.

Natasha slid a glass across the polished bar toward you. “First round’s on me,” she said. “House rules: no talking shop, no moping, no sneaking out early.”

“Wow. Subtle, Nat,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the look she sent you specifically.

“Subtle is for people who don’t know you,” Natasha shot back.

You laughed, and when Yelena shoved a shot glass into your hand with a curt, “Drink. Or I tell embarrassing story,” you found yourself clinking it against Kate’s clumsily raised glass.

The first swallow burned in that good way, warm spreading through your chest. Around you, the energy of the bar shifted up a notch. 

“Look at that,” Ava murmured, eyeing you with a pleased look. “She remembers how to smile.”

“Barely,” Yelena cut in. “We haven’t seen Siren in forever. She’s hiding.”

At that, Kate raised her glass in mock solemnity. “May she rise from the ashes tonight, preferably on the dance floor.”

“To Siren,” Wanda added. “The one who makes half the room fall in love and the other half wonder what hit them.”

You rolled your eyes, but their laughter was infectious. “You’re all ridiculous,” you said. It was hard to fight the warmth of Wanda’s grin, Yelena’s sharp shove at your shoulder, and Kate’s eager nodding.

“Ridiculous, but not wrong,” Yelena said smoothly. When the music shifted into something louder and sultrier, she tugged you to the dance floor with zero hesitation. 

By the time the others arrived—Steve’s broad frame cutting a path through the crowd, John already chuckling at something Sam muttered, Bob trudging behind with an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—you were gone.

Not literally, but lost in the pulse of it: twirling Wanda, laughing into Yelena’s shoulder, hips moving in tandem with the rhythm.

Bucky stopped dead just inside the doorway.

It hit him like a punch, the sight of you under the neon haze, hair catching the light like spun fire, laughter so unguarded it seemed to crack the shell he knew you kept tight around yourself. Everyone else in the room was drawn toward you without even realising it. 

You were gravity, you were the centre of orbit, you were Siren in full force, and he hadn’t realised until this moment how much he’d missed it.

Bucky’s chest ached with something he couldn’t name. Not quite jealousy, though the sight of you pulling Bob in and letting him spin you in a circle did spark something sharp.

More than anything, it was awe. You didn’t just light up the room, you made it warmer.

Sam elbowed him as they skirted toward the bar. “Man, you’re staring like you’ve never seen her before.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not with the sound of your laugh carrying over the music and the way the hem of your already short dress teased the tops of your thighs.

His eyes tracked you without his permission, cataloguing details like he was back on a mission. The sway of your hips was controlled, but loose enough to let the beat pull you. The stretch of your arms above your head, bracelets sliding down your forearms as if the music shook them there. A bead of sweat curved down the side of your neck, catching in the hollow of your collarbone.

Bucky swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, and he took a sip of his beer that did nothing to fix it.

His gaze fell to your legs again. The shift of muscle as you bent your knees, the arch of your back when you moved, and the combat boots that always drove him crazy when you wore them. Bucky knew those legs could knock a man flat in the field, but here, they were all allure and temptation. 

Every step you took felt like it was being stomped on his chest.

You leaned into Bob’s side at one point, laughing, your hair sticking slightly to the sweat at your temples. It should have looked messy. Instead, it was devastating.

Bucky gripped the glass tighter. Cold condensation seeped into his gloved palm. He wished it had done more to ground him, because his body sure as hell wasn’t helping. Heat had pooled low in his stomach, spreading fast, leaving his shoulders tense and his pulse too quick.

He told himself it was just instinct, just observation, just knowing a teammate well. But then your head tilted back in laughter, exposing the clean line of your throat, and he knew he was lying to himself.

Steve said something beside him. Bucky didn’t catch it. His eyes didn’t leave you, the way you lost yourself in the song like no one was watching. Except he was watching; every second, every movement.

You were the first to notice the drinks were running low. Sweat sticking to your skin, music thrumming in your veins, and your glass bone-dry. Bob, bless him, had nursed the same Coke for nearly half an hour, so he needed a refill too.

“I’ll grab us some drinks,” you announced, shouting over the music.

Bob pushed his sleeves up as if he were gearing for battle. “I’ll come with you.”

You gave him a look, half-amused, half-incredulous. “It’s a bar, Bob. I can take care of myself.”

Still, he looked was protective in that gentle way of his. Before you could explain your plan, Yelena leaned in, smirking. “She does not want you cramping her style. Nobody will buy her drinks if you are standing there like bodyguard.”

That earned you a confused blink from Bob, then a sheepish laugh as realisation hit. You couldn’t help the smug little smirk that tugged at your mouth. Yelena wasn’t wrong.

You slipped your way to the less busy side of the bar—far from where the guys had staked out their corner—and sure enough, the second you claimed a sliver of space at the counter, the swarm arrived.

A few leaned too close, voices already slurred; one was way too interested in your neckline. But one—tall, dark hair, dimples—looked more like the golden retriever type. Friendly smile, easy energy. You gave him your brightest grin back.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said, raising his voice over the bass.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” you drawled. “One Coke, one gin and tonic, and…” You rattled off the rest of the order, watching his brows climb as the list grew.

But he only laughed, waving the bartender down. “Guess I’ll be the hero of the night.” You tilted your head, enjoying the view.

The bartender set about juggling glasses, and while you waited, Dimple Guy leaned an elbow on the counter, turning toward you like you were the only person in the room. You nodded, smiled, threw in a quip or two, perfectly aware that your friends were somewhere behind you taking bets on how long it would take you to walk back with a tray full of free drinks.

The bartender slid the Coke drink across the bar, glass clinking against the counter, and you smiled at Dimple Guy like he’d just solved all your problems and passed it to Bob. Then you leaned in a little closer to Dimple Guy—because it was loud, because it was fun, because you could—and laughed at something he said. 

The sound of your giggle carried easily over the music, bright and unrestrained, drawing a few more glances your way.

You didn’t notice the way Bucky’s jaw tightened from across the room, the muscles in his forearm flexing where he gripped his own glass too hard. Didn’t see the way his eyes tracked your hand as you gestured, or how he watched your head tilt back when you smiled.

From his vantage point, it didn’t look like you were talking. It looked like you were working.

Siren.

His stomach twisted at the thought—like maybe the sparkle in your eyes and that easy sway of your hips weren’t just you enjoying yourself, but something deliberate, something calculated, meant to reel this guy in.

You had no idea. You were riding the high of the night, warm with sweat and music, free and a little reckless. But across the room, Bucky sat stiff and silent, every instinct in him coiled tight. 

Bob drifted over to their cluster by the bar, a fresh Coke in hand and his cheeks still a little pink from the dancing you’d roped him into. John caught sight of him and smirked, jerking his chin toward the dance floor.

“Guess she got you, huh? Should’ve warned you, she only drags in reinforcements when she’s planning to unleash the full Siren routine,” John said affectionately. He’d been the happy recipient of free drinks on a night out with you before.

Bob chuckled, still catching his breath. “I didn’t even get two steps in the door before she had me. She’s killing it out there, though. Haven’t seen her light up like that in a while.”

A couple of the others laughed, Ava shaking her head with an indulgent little smile. But Bucky’s expression didn’t budge. He set his drink down a little too hard. “You all just let her do that?”

The laughter tapered. Sam tilted his head, wary. “Do what?”

“Use her powers on some guy like that,” Bucky said flatly, his jaw tight. “Make him feel something that isn’t real just because she wants free drinks. That’s not right.”

A beat of silence followed. Kate blinked. Sam looked at Steve, confused. Natasha raised one brow like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

“Buck,” Steve said carefully, “what are you talking about?”

“You know damn well,” Bucky snapped, low but heated. “She’s Siren. That’s her thing. She manipulates people, makes them fall over themselves and puts all kinds of thoughts in their heads. And now you’re all just standing here letting her do it.”

Steve stared at him for a moment, then laughed—short, incredulous. “Now, wait just one minute. You think that’s her power?”

Bucky’s frown didn’t ease. “Isn’t it?”

Natasha snorted softly and folded her arms. “No, Barnes. That’s just her.”

Bucky’s head jerked toward her, but she continued, her voice edged with fond amusement.

“When she joined S.H.I.E.L.D., half the recruits couldn’t keep their eyes in their heads. And instead of fighting it, she leaned into it, let them underestimate her. Let them drool and stumble over themselves while she smiled pretty.” Natasha’s smile grew proud. “And then she flattened them in hand-to-hand. Outshot them, outran them, outplayed them at every turn.”

Steve’s tone softened, adding, “She can’t mess with people’s heads, she can make people tell the truth. Useful for interrogations, but nothing she uses outside of work. The code name stuck because she was the perfect spy: charismatic, adaptable, instinctive. She could mirror anyone, win their trust, then turn the whole game on its head. That’s Siren.”

Sam let out a low whistle, grinning. “Yeah, man. If she’s getting free drinks, that’s just her charm. Not powers. Don’t cheapen it.”

Bucky stood stiff, processing. His gaze pulled helplessly back to you across the bar, where you were holding a tray of drinks, nodding at something Dimple Guy said. For the first time tonight, the knot of anger in his chest unravelled into something else.

Something that scared him more than rage ever could.

Bucky’s chest felt too tight. The floor seemed to tilt under his boots as Nat’s words replayed in his head, each one hammering another nail into the coffin of his assumptions.

No powers. No manipulation. Just you.

And suddenly every sharp glance, every clipped word he’d thrown your way over the past weeks felt like shrapnel lodged under his skin. He’d treated you warily, even cruelly sometimes; pushing you back, refusing to trust you, accusing you of pulling strings you’d never even touched. 

He’d dismissed your kindness, doubted your laughter, second-guessed every spark of warmth between you, and you hadn’t deserved any of it.

A wave of shame clawed up Bucky’s throat, raw and hot. He should have seen you clearly. He should have known. Instead, he’d twisted every smile into proof of something sinister because it was easier than admitting the truth: you got under his skin, you always had.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the noise of the club fading to a dull roar in his ears. And then, like a gut punch, another realisation hit him.

That night after the mission.

Bucky’s stomach dropped, cold dread sinking deep. He’d cornered you outside the Quinjet, tense and accusing you of messing with his head. About how you were in every thought, how he couldn’t shake you, how you consumed him without even trying.

At the time, he’d believed it was your doing. Your powers; some invisible hook you’d buried in him. But if what Natasha and Steve were saying was true, if none of that had ever been manipulation, then he hadn’t accused you.

He’d confessed to you.

Bucky’s breath caught, rough and uneven. You knew. You’d known all along. Every word he thought was an accusation had been nothing but a bare-knuckled admission: that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that you lived in his head, that he was falling—hell, had already fallen—for you.

You knew he loved you.

His metal fingers curled into a fist against his thigh. Bucky could almost feel the moment again, the way his voice had cracked, the raw edge of desperation when he’d said you were everywhere. He’d meant it as a warning, a complaint. 

But looking back on it, it sounded like devotion.

And you hadn’t called him on it. You hadn’t laughed, or brushed him off, or told the others. You’d just looked at him. That soft, confused look he hadn’t been able to stand at the time.

Now Bucky understood why.

A low curse slipped between his teeth. He felt exposed, skinned alive. The part of him that still thought like a soldier, like an asset, wanted to retreat—bury this mess, shove it down, pretend it never happened. But the rest of him, the part that had been pulled closer to you despite every protest, was thrumming with the humiliating awareness that you knew him better than he wanted to admit. 

Bucky dropped his gaze to the sticky floor, fighting the useless urge to rewind time and unsay all of it. To crawl back into the comfort of thinking you’d tricked him somehow, because that lie had been easier than the truth pressing down on him now.

The truth that you hadn’t taken anything from him. He’d handed it over, piece by piece, all on his own.

The tower was still humming from the afterglow of laughter and music, the others scattering off to their rooms with flushed cheeks and unsteady footsteps. Natasha’s heels clicked faintly down the hall, Sam’s voice trailed off in a joke half-finished, and then—silence.

You lingered at the counter, fingers curled tight around a half-empty glass of water, as if you held it hard enough it might anchor you. You hadn’t planned on staying, hadn’t planned on being here when the room thinned out, but there was Bucky, leaning in the doorway like some inevitability.

The last person you wanted to see. The only person you wanted.

You didn’t look at him. Your arms folded tight across your chest once you put your glass down, a makeshift shield against the weight of his gaze. 

Bucky’s voice was low, rough. “I need to talk to you.”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharper than you meant to. “Just, let me say one thing.” Bucky paused, then nodded. “You of all people know what it feels like to lose your ability to choose. Did you really think I’d do that to you?”

That landed. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of pain that crossed his face like you’d struck him clean through. Bucky moved a step closer, then another, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I know.” His voice cracked, raw enough to scrape at your chest. “I know, and I was wrong. I panicked. You—” Bucky broke off, dragged a hand through his hair, metal fingers catching the light. “You make me feel things I thought were gone for good. Want, longing, desire. All of it. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I twisted it into something darker because that’s what Hydra trained into me.” Your breath caught, and you fought to steady the shaky exhale that followed. “I thought that if I let myself want anything, it’d be used against me. So I put it on you, and that wasn’t fair.”

You could feel your own heartbeat everywhere: in your throat, your wrists, low in your belly. Bucky’s confession made you grip the counter behind you to stay steady. Because God, if he only knew how many nights you’d been lying awake, caught in that same impossible ache.

And now here it was, on his tongue.

Bucky was a breath away now, and your pulse hammered like a drum in your ears. The space between you was agony and heaven all at once. His eyes darted to your lips, then flicked away, as if he were trying to measure the consequences of the smallest movement.

“I—” Bucky hesitated. He reached out, metal fingers brushing against the air beside your hand before pulling back sharply. “I had to make myself think badly of you. I had to because you’re so good. Funny, warm, and honest. And I didn’t trust myself to feel anything like that and not ruin it. Not break it. So I let my mind turn it into something to be scared of.”

Your chest tightened, a wild thrum of hurt and want colliding. “Bucky,” you whispered, trembling hands moving from the counter to clench at your sides. “I need honesty, not guilt. Talk to me, tell me why you thought I could put thoughts and feelings in your head.”

“I heard everyone call you Siren, on game night, and saying that you’d have me wrapped around your finger,” he said. “I guess it was convenient for me to believe you were putting thoughts in my head, making me feel things I didn’t want to. I—” Bucky broke off, exhaling. “I wanted my feelings for you to be someone else’s responsibility. That way, I could just say they weren’t mine in the first place.”

“I was born with these abilities,” you explained slowly. “When I was little, I realised I could make people tell the truth when I suspected they were lying. That was it. That’s all I can do with my powers, make them verbalise the absolute truth. I mostly ignored it because I knew it was manipulation.” Bucky nodded like he already knew. “I got through S.H.I.E.L.D. on my own merits, earned the codename Siren, and—yes, I can force the truth when I have to. But everything else is just me. Your feelings for me, though? The want, the desire? That’s you.”

Bucky flinched a little at the words, metal arm twitching involuntarily. “That’s me,” he echoed, voice shaking with disbelief.

“Yes.” You took another step closer, your hands brushing the air just above his chest; not touching, just daring him to meet you halfway. “I can’t make you feel this. I may be good at flirting and figuring out what people want from me, but I never turned on the Siren charm for you. So all of this,” you paused, letting your gaze lock onto his, unwavering, “Is you, Bucky. Own it.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, and his eyes shimmered with something raw, almost dangerous in its intensity. You could hear the faint scrape of his boots against the tile, the subtle shift of his weight as he closed the space, inch by inch.

The warmth of him, barely separated from your body, made your chest tighten. You could feel the faint heat radiating off Bucky’s neck, smell the sharp tang of metal and soap mingled with the faint smoke of the city outside. His breath, slow and deliberate, ghosted over your cheeks.

Bucky didn’t speak. Everything was sound and heat and the faint tang of his cologne, vibrating with the tension of the nearness. Every subtle movement he made, each tilt forward, each flex of muscle, made the desire between you so thick it almost had a taste.

Then his hands moved, a careful, almost excruciating centimetre away from sliding fully against yours, letting you feel the heat, the weight, the need.

Bucky exhaled, an almost inaudible sound that brushed against your ear. He was so close. Every inch of him spoke of everything you’d been holding back, every suppressed need, and now the energy between you crackled, waiting for the moment someone gave in.

His hands found yours before you could think to move, fingers threading through yours, warm and solid, and the shock of contact made you shiver violently. 

Bucky held your hands, careful but insistent, letting you feel his weight, his presence, his unabashed want. You could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the subtle tension of muscle beneath your palms. Your own hands tingled, every nerve ending singing.

The low rasp of his voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the silence. “I don’t know how to want something without being afraid of it anymore,” Bucky said, and the honesty in it dug into you.

You felt the tension in his shoulders, the taut line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest as if he were holding back the rest of the words.

“I don’t know if I believe in good,” Bucky continued, his voice breaking slightly, “but I believe in you. And how could you not be good?” His thumb brushed along the back of your hand, tentative but deliberate.

The weight of his admission was almost too much to bear. You lifted your chin, breath mingling in the small space between you.

“Then let me show you it’s okay to want me,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the heat pooling through your chest. “Let me show you that I want you too.” Your fingers tightened around his, a silent promise and invitation.

Bucky’s lips parted slightly, a sharp intake of breath that mirrored your own. His gaze never left yours as he leaned forward, careful, deliberate, giving himself permission, giving you permission. 

His hands slid up your arms, tracing the line of your shoulders, grounding him even as the rest of him seemed ready to unravel. 

“I—” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, swallowed by the tension, but the word cracked through the air like a lightning strike. “I love you.”

You blinked, breath catching on the confession. It was so quiet, almost lost in the shuffle of your racing pulse, and it landed inside you like a shockwave. You didn’t have time to respond before he closed the space between you.

His lips pressed onto yours, desperate, hungry, as if he’d been holding back decades of want and need and fear all at once. The force of it drove you back into the counter, and you clutched at him—fingers tangling in his hair, gripping the leather at his shoulders, pulling him closer with a ferocity that matched his own. 

For so long you’d both been denying this; now there was no holding back.

Teeth grazed in the frenzy, breath tangling, the kiss deepening until it felt like he was trying to drink you in whole. His chest pressed against yours, hard and unyielding, the heat of him searing through your body as his arms wrapped tight around you, like if he loosened his grip for even a second, you might vanish.

Every nerve in you screamed, every breath was stolen. You could taste months of restraint unraveling on his tongue, feel the quake in his body as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. The ache you’d carried, the hollow nights of longing, all of it poured out of you.

And still, Bucky couldn’t get enough. 

His hands roamed as though he needed to map every inch of you at once—one sliding down your spine, pulling you flush against him, the other cradling your jaw, tilting your face so he could claim your mouth deeper, longer, harder. He kissed you like a starving man finally given food, like he didn’t know how to slow down even if he tried.

But then it slowed, achingly so, like Bucky remembered that he could take it slower. His grip softened, his lips brushing yours in featherlight passes, reverent and trembling. One hand stayed at your waist, grounding, the other cupped the back of your neck with searing gentleness.

Bucky loved you.

You let your fierceness meet his, but there was tenderness too, a painstaking devotion in the way your lips traced his. Your fingers combed through his hair, your body leaning into his with unguarded trust. You kissed away the ghosts clinging to him, kissed away every Hydra shadow, every jagged scar of memory.

Bucky groaned low in your mouth, raw surrender, and you swallowed it eagerly. Your bodies pressed closer until there was no space left. Just heat, hammering hearts, and the dizzying rush of being completely his. 

Everything around you dissolved. Every brush of lips, every sigh, every whispered gasp became the center of your existence. The kiss broke only to return again and again, each one as hungry as the last, as though neither of you could stop feeding on the moment.

Bucky whispered your name against your lips—over and over, soft and worshipful—and you clung to as you clung to him.

When you pulled back just enough to look at each other, chests heaving in tandem, the room felt impossibly alive. Bucky’s hands lingered on you, thumbs brushing lightly over the exposed skin of your back.

His lips moved against yours in soft, breathless murmurs, just barely grazing your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your cheek. “I love you,” he whispered again, voice low and rough, almost in disbelief.

You smiled against him, a gentle warmth spreading in your chest at the sound of it. “I think you’re going to have to say that more than once,” you murmured, teasing just enough to lift the tension without breaking the intimacy.

Bucky chuckled, an unguarded sound that made your stomach twist in the best possible way. Then, almost reflexively, he said again: “I love you.” And again, and again, and again. Each time, quieter, breathier, and somehow even more insistent, as though saying it aloud made it more real to him.

Your smile deepened, and you pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess I didn’t need to use my powers after all,” you murmured, letting the warmth of your laughter bubble through, teasing but tender.

Bucky let out a full, real laugh this time, unrestrained, and pulled you back against him, lips claiming yours in another deep, desperate kiss. His hands held you tighter, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.

You both eased back just enough to breathe. Bucky’s arms stayed wrapped securely around you, holding you as if letting go might undo everything. Your hands rested played lightly with his hair, sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine.

He nuzzled your temple. “You’re amazing,” you murmured, half-teasing, half-awed, as the adrenaline and heat of the kiss slowly ebbed.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, low and rumbling, shaking his head against you. “I don’t even know how to do this without screwing it up,” he admitted, voice thick with vulnerability.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. “You’re here. That’s enough. That’s all I need.”

For a long moment, silence settled over you, comforting and warm. Bucky pressed careful kisses to your head and hair, quietly murmuring to himself.

Then, with a soft giggle escaping you, you tilted your head back slightly. “You’re still saying it,” you teased, voice light, fingers brushing over his jaw.

“I can’t stop,” Bucky murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and intimate. “I love you… I love you… I love you—”

“I love you,” you cut in, grinning as he pulled you closer again.

There was no rush, no urgency beyond the shared need to be near. For the first time since he’d been Winter Soldier, Bucky let himself fully surrender—fully want, fully trust, fully be with you.

[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

check out the series masterlist♡

[miasvelvetvoid]

manchild,

pairings: steve rogers x f!stark reader mans best friend masterlist synopsis: “How am I supposed to not settle steve? When-when…” You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. “I’m never going to be able to find someone if you don’t just fucking leave me alone.” warnings: mdni! best friends to lovers, miscommunication, angst, sexual tension, smut (unprotected piv, oral f-receiving, fingering, tummy bulge, dirty talk, possessiveness, dom!steve bc trust the build up, praise, slight dumbification, hair pulling f-m receiving, multiple orgasms, steve begs for a second, size kink, squirting), reader has personal beef with the super soldier serum, mention of reader having dark hair, steve snaps bc reader is playing with his feelings, heavy yearning, an annoying amount of will they won’t they, size difference, age gap (reader is twenty-nine, mentioned once if you do the math), no use of y/n, jealousy, pining, protective!steve, jealous!steve, pettiness, kind toxic toward the end, bucky being a little shit and instigating but also prob the only reason they get together, probably missing some lol. total word count: 10k (not proofread) mia’s love note: gif made by me, please do not reuse! divider credits at the end. this series will follow multiple different readers continuing in each part. example next is tears, steve rogers x f!stark reader, it will be a pt two of this one. same goes for any of the other parts.

You stared blankly at the man in front of you, a fake smile carefully practiced and perfectly placed as you nodded along to words you were absolutely not absorbing. The restaurant was dim and overly intimate, candles flickering between tables like it was trying too hard to manufacture romance. You were sitting across from your fourth Hinge date of the month, posture flawless, dark hair pinned back just enough to look effortless while still screaming intention. Your lips were pursed in that subtle pout that said interested to him and deeply uninterested to anyone who actually knew you.

You lifted your glass of red wine to your glossy lips, letting it linger there as you stared at him through your lashes, mentally anywhere but here.

“Are you listening?” the guy said, his hand tapping the table in front of you.

The sound snapped you back just enough to feel irritation crawl up your spine. The tapping felt condescending, impatient, like you were a dog who had failed to sit on command. Your jaw tightened for half a second before you smoothed it out.

“Sorry,” you said lightly, setting your glass down with care. “What did you say?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. Playing dumb was a skill you had mastered long ago.

“I was saying how my car self drives,” he said proudly, puffing his chest just a little. “Have you ever been in a self driving car?” He leaned forward, eyes flicking briefly to your cleavage. “Because I can take you for the ride of your life.”

And there it was.

Your pout flattened instantly, expression hardening as the irritation bloomed into something sharper. You didn’t even bother hiding it.

“No thanks,” you said, already reaching for your purse.

You stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor as you slipped your fur coat over your shoulders, the satin of your deep red dress catching the low light. You scoffed under your breath, turning away from the table without another glance.

The guy spun in his chair, calling after you, his voice rising with embarrassment and wounded pride. You didn’t slow. You simply lifted your hand over your shoulder and flashed him your middle finger without breaking stride.

Avengers Tower wasn’t far from the restaurant, which was one of the reasons you had picked it. The walk did you good. Cool night air kissed your exposed skin, grounding you as the click of your heels echoed against the pavement. By the time you reached the tower and waited for the elevator at the ground floor, your irritation had dulled into dry amusement.

You pulled out your phone and unmatched with the man whose name you had to squint to remember.

Larry.

Horrible name. Horrible date.

Add it to the list.

You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. There was no other reaction left at this point. Your dating life had been a wreck from the very beginning, a series of unfortunate events disguised as romantic opportunities.

There was your college boyfriend who had practically creamed his pants when your dad announced he was Iron Man. You remembered the way his eyes had lit up, the awe turning into something greedy and unsettling. That had given you the ick instantly. So long, Dylan.

Then there was the SHIELD agent who turned out to be a HYDRA mole. A top secret spy who somehow managed to be terrible in bed. Truly impressive in the worst way. Fuck off, John.

The elevator dinged, pulling you from your thoughts as the doors slid open. You stepped inside, sighing as you tucked your phone back into your purse. Your eyes flicked to the keypad automatically.

“Welcome home, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY’s voice chimed overhead.

“Hey, Fri,” you sighed. “Is Steve awake?”

“Mr. Rogers is awake,” the system replied smoothly.

“Bring me to his floor, please,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the wall.

Steve was your best friend. Your constant. He was always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on, or one of his terrible jokes that you were pretty sure originated sometime in the nineteen forties. He gave the best pep talks, earnest and grounding in a way that made the world feel manageable again.

It also didn’t help that he was unbelievably good looking.

His good boy charm landed in that special spot just behind your ribs every time he opened his mouth. The place that stole your breath without warning, that made your heart stutter when he smiled at you like you were the only person in the room.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped into Steve’s quarters like you owned the place.

If you asked Steve, he would say you just about did.

He loved having you here. It was his favorite thing about your friendship, how comfortable you were with him, how easily you filled the space like you belonged.

He just wasn’t sure that was all it was.

Because he was sure, painfully sure, that he was in love with you.

Steve stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a plate. Shirtless.

You stopped short.

His back was broad, impossibly broad, muscles shifting under skin that caught the warm kitchen light. His shoulders were wide enough that you felt smaller just standing there. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, water dripping down his forearms as he worked.

He turned at the sound of your heels.

His eyes widened.

Then, just as quickly, he looked away.

“How was your date?” he asked, voice neutral but a little too tight.

You set your purse on the island and climbed onto one of the stools, your chin resting in your palm. You stared openly at him, at the way his chest rose with each breath, at the faint cut healing just below his collarbone.

“Horrid,” you sighed. “Men suck.”

He let out a small laugh and turned back to the cabinet, reaching up to put the plate away. The movement stretched his torso, muscles flexing without effort.

“That’s a broad categorization,” he said.

You hummed. “It’s true.”

He turned to face you, arms crossing over his chest, which only made everything worse. He towered over you, even with you perched on the stool. Super soldier unfairness.

“You look nice,” he said before he could stop himself.

You smiled. “Jealous?”

“No,” he said immediately.

You leaned forward slightly. “You sure?”

“I just think,” he said carefully, “you deserve better.”

Your heart jumped.

You laughed it off. “Careful, Stevie. You sound like you want to volunteer.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening before he could stop it.

“You offering?” he said back, his tone light but strained, the words leaving his mouth sharper than he meant them to. For one fleeting second, he hoped to stun you. Hoped to see surprise, or hesitation, or something that told him he wasn’t alone in this. Something that proved he wasn’t imagining the weight between you.

Your throat constricted slightly, breath catching before you could smooth it out. You looked down suddenly, eyes dropping to the counter as if it might offer you safety. Your fingers began tracing meaningless shapes against the cool surface, circles and lines that went nowhere, your body betraying the calm you tried to project.

“Do you want me to be?” you said.

Your voice was softer now, quieter than you intended. Heat crept up your neck, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. You hated how easily he could pull that reaction from you. You hated how quickly your defenses fell around him.

Steve saw it all.

He saw the way your shoulders curled inward just a fraction. The way your fingers stilled after you spoke, as if you were bracing for impact. He saw the vulnerability you never let anyone else see, the one you pretended didn’t exist.

And guilt hit him hard.

He knew it wasn’t t fair. Not when he already knew how this ended. He knew you didn’t feel the same way about him, not in the way he felt about you. He knew it was cruel to let things hover in this space when you had spent the last four months desperately trying to find someone. Putting yourself through bad dates and worse men. It wasn’t fair to dangle himself in front of you like the easy option. Like the safe place you could fall into when everything else failed.

And truthfully, he didn’t want that.

He didn’t want you to settle for him because you were tired or lonely or because he happened to be there. He wanted you to choose him freely. Fully. Or not at all.

“I was just teasing you,” he smiled lightly, forcing the expression into place even though it felt wrong on his face.

He turned away quickly, moving to the sink and starting the dishwasher just to give his hands something to do. The sound of the machine filling with water was louder than necessary. He let out a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.

He didn’t see the way your hopeful expression dropped from your face.

“Oh, nice one,” you cleared your throat.

The words came out almost flat. You were almost annoyed at his teasing, almost embarrassed that you had let yourself lean into it. But you knew you didn’t have the right to be upset. You were the one who teased him constantly. You were the one who enjoyed poking at the super soldier in front of you more than he ever did you.

Still, it hurt.

You stood suddenly, the movement abrupt enough that Steve’s head turned before he could stop himself. His eyes tracked you as you walked closer, every step shrinking the distance between you. You stopped directly in front of him, your back resting against the kitchen island, his back resting against the kitchen sink.

You were close now. Close enough that the air felt heavier. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Even standing this near, the height difference was impossible to ignore. He towered over you effortlessly, his presence solid and grounding and overwhelming all at once.

You could feel the heat coming off his body, steady and constant.

“You ever think,” you said lightly, as if it were just another joke, “that you’re the reason all my dates suck?”

He swallowed, letting out a short laugh that did nothing to hide the tension in his throat. “I doubt that.”

What he didn’t say was that he hoped he was. He hoped you thought about him while you sat across from those men. Hoped you compared them to him. Hoped none of them ever came close.

“High standards,” you teased. “You ruined me.”

He shifted his weight, convincing himself his mind was playing tricks on him. Convincing himself that the way you looked at him didn’t mean anything. “That’s not funny.”

You smiled up at him, open and sincere. “It’s true. I mean we’re not dating, but you’re hands down the best guy I’ve ever met.”

You were laying the bait without realizing it. Offering him the simplest opening. Giving him the chance to admit even the slightest hint of what he felt.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

“Yeah?” he asked, his stare so intense it made heat bloom across your chest.

“Yeah,” you said, uncrossing your arms and leaning back on them.

Steve watched the way your fur coat fell from your shoulders slightly, exposing more skin. The sight made something twist painfully in his chest. He groaned internally, forcing himself to stay still.

“You text me every day without fail,” you continued, words spilling out faster now. “You genuinely care how I’m doing. You know how to dress, which is very hard to come by these days.”

His jaw tightened.

“You’ve bought me flowers every birthday since I met you at twenty three,” you listed off, a small, self conscious laugh slipping in. “You remembered that I love those bouquets from Lily’s on Fifth Avenue but that I’m actually allergic to the baby’s breath so you always get one without.”

You sounded dumb to yourself. No, worse. You knew you were dumb. It had been right in front of you this whole time. You had just been too scared to ruin the one thing that had always felt safe.

“And you always come to the rescue when I call,” you finished. “Or when I don’t. You just know.”

Your voice softened. “It’s like how am I ever supposed to find someone who sees me like that.”

Steve was at a loss for words.

“I care about you,” he said.

He hated himself for it. That was all he could give you. He couldn’t say it was because he loved you so deeply that he memorized every detail. He couldn’t say he had been in love with you for six years. He couldn’t say that every bad date felt like a punch to the gut.

He couldn’t say any of it.

But you didn’t hear what he meant.

You heard what he didn’t say.

But you don’t love me.

You nodded your head slowly. “You do,” you said almost sadly.

You stepped forward, closing the distance again. Even in your heels, you needed to lean forward to make yourself taller. Your heart broke quietly with the realization that he only cared for you as a friend.

Steve leaned down just enough in response to your movement, instinctive and automatic. Your hand came up to rest on one of his biceps, fingers pressing lightly as if to memorize the feeling. You placed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, gentle and brief but devastating.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you said softly. “This really helped.”

You stepped back before he could speak. Before he could stop you. You turned, grabbed your purse, and walked into the elevator.

“Goodnight,” you said.

The doors slid shut, cutting him off from you, but you still heard Steve’s quiet goodnight as the elevator began its descent.

He stayed where he was long after you were gone, staring at the place you had stood, wondering how two people could feel so much and still miss each other entirely.

Weeks had passed slowly, each day bleeding into the next, yet somehow nothing had changed between you and Steve. Not really. The kiss lingered in your memory like something unfinished, something you replayed in quiet moments when the world was too still. It hadn’t t been dramatic or explosive. It hadn’t rewritten your reality. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Maybe just a tad bit more to the left. Maybe just a little softer than usual. But other than that, it was nothing short of normal.

At least that was what you told yourself.

The two of you had stayed in the same routine you always lived in. He texted you in the morning, short check ins that made your chest ache more than they should. You called him after he was done training, listening to his steady voice ground you when the day felt too heavy. You never spoke about the kiss. Not directly. Not indirectly. It existed in the space between you, unacknowledged but ever present.

Today though, today sucked.

No text from Steve. And no phone call from you.

He was on a mission. Because yes, he was still Captain America. And yes, he still had that self righteous duty to the people. You told yourself that was all it was. Duty. Responsibility. The world before you. You tried not to let the absence gnaw at you, but it did anyway.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, fingers fumbling slightly as you placed the backing of your earring on. Your reflection looked composed, put together, calm. It was a lie. Your shoulders were tight. Your jaw was clenched.

“Hey babe?” Larry’s voice called from the kitchen. “Can I open this wine?” he asked her.

You sighed, because that was all you seemed to do when Larry was around. A quiet, constant exhale of patience you did not actually possess. You walked into the kitchen, eyes immediately landing on the bottle of wine in his hand. The label was familiar. Too familiar. Steve had bought you that bottle when you graduated your doctorate program. He had remembered the year. The vineyard. The way you smiled when you talked about it.

“Not that bottle,” you said, rushing over to him and taking the bottle from his hand.

“Relax babe, it’s just wine,” he said, trying to take it back from you.

“There’s a bottle on the counter,” you said, moving out of his grasp.

He sighed, clearly annoyed, and walked over to the bottle on the counter, pouring himself a glass. “Aren’t you like a billionaire or something? Just buy a new bottle.”

The words landed wrong. They always did.

Why were you putting up with Larry from Hinge?You asked yourself that question more often than you liked to admit. The answer was simple and uncomfortable. Because you decided it was time to settle. And he had never really done anything to you. He wasn’t cruel. Not unkind. Just stupid. Utterly useless in the bedroom. Easy.

Larry sighed from above you, a groan leaving his mouth as he let his head fall to your shoulder. His weight pressed against you briefly before he flopped onto his side next to you. He let out a chuckle, satisfied and careless.

“I’m finished, you cum?”

Didn’t even know we started. You thought to yourself.

“Yea,” you said, rolling over onto your side.

An ounce of spite blew through you then. Not at Larry. Never at Larry. At Steve. Because you were certain, absolutely certain, you would bet all of your very very hefty trust fund that he would last way longer in bed than Larry ever could.

The thought burned hot and sharp, and it pissed you off enough that you decided in that moment that you would drink the wine.

“You know what?” you said, turning to look at him. “I could buy a million of these bottles and not dent my account.”

You grabbed a wine opener and popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room. You poured yourself a large glass and downed it in one go, barely tasting it.

“It’s so hot when you talk about money like that,” Larry said, setting his glass down.

You giggled lightly, the wine hitting you all at once, warmth spreading through your chest and limbs. You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss.

It was heated. Mostly on your part.

He struggled to keep up, his hands unsure, his reactions delayed. He talked a big game but never pulled his weight. You groaned into his mouth as you walked him back toward the couch, frustration bleeding into desperation. Straddling him, you lifted his shirt over his head, because if you didn’t do it, it just wouldn’t get done.

His hands wandered your body greedily, clumsy and insistent. You closed your eyes.

And you pretended.

You envisioned his hands, though smaller, were Steve’s. You imagined strength and certainty instead of fumbling. His sadly unmuscular torso was Steve’s. Broad and solid. Steady. His lips were Steve’s. Warm. Patient. And the low groans that came from his mouth were actually coming out of Steve’s mouth.

The elevator doors slid open quietly behind you.

Steve stepped inside your apartment without thinking, keys still in his hand. He had come straight from the mission. He was tired. Bruised. Still wearing his suit. He had planned to tell you he was back. Planned to apologize for the silence. Planned to stand in your kitchen and pretend everything was normal.

He stopped when he saw you.

“Fuck,” you moaned out, grinding on his lap. “Steve.”

You moaned against his neck, the name slipping from your lips without thought, without awareness, stilling as soon as it left your mouth.

Steve froze.

Larry was too caught up in the moment to realize what you had just done. “C’mon babe, why’d you stop,” he said, tapping you lightly on your ass.

“Huh,” you said, too caught up in your own thoughts. “I’m sorry,” you said, looking at him.

“Why?” he said.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward, kissing him again. So lost in pretending it was Steve that you didn’t hear the elevator ding or the sound of Steve himself clearing his throat.

Normally, Steve would turn around and leave. He would give you your space. Your privacy. He always did the right thing.

But he didn’t like the way the man was touching you. He didn’t like the way he didn’t ask you if you were okay when you stopped kissing him. And he certainly didn’t like the way you moaned his name in that man’s ear and then apologized for it like it wasn’t exactly where it belonged.

Steve stayed.

And the silence between all three of you grew heavy enough to break something that none of you were ready to name.

The silence breaks when Steve finally clears his throat.

It’s not loud. It’s not aggressive. It’s deliberate.

A sound meant to be heard.

You don’t hear it.

Your attention is still locked on Larry. On the warmth of his mouth pressed against the curve of your jaw. On the way his lips linger like he thinks he has all the time in the world. On the way you are forcing yourself to stay present even though your thoughts are drifting somewhere dangerous and familiar and unwanted.

You kiss him again.

Slow. Distracted.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, light, almost hesitant, like they belong to someone else entirely. Like you’re playing a role you rehearsed but never quite learned to inhabit.

Steve takes one step forward.

His boots hit the floor with a solid, unmistakable sound.

The vibration of it travels through the apartment. Through the couch. Through you.

You freeze.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your muscles lock. Your breath catches halfway in your chest.

“Holy shit,” Larry breathes, pulling back just enough to look past you. His hands slide from your waist as his eyes go wide, excitement flashing across his face as recognition hits him. “No way. Babe, is that…”

Steve doesn’t look at you yet.

He looks at Larry.

Still in his Captain America uniform. The star on his chest catches the light. The shield is strapped to his back, worn and scuffed like it has been used exactly the way it was meant to be. His hair is still damp from sweat and rain and effort. He smells like the aftermath of a fight. Like ozone and steel and something burned.

He looks impossibly large standing there, filling the space without trying.

He looks like authority.

Like something immovable.

“Yes,” Steve says calmly. “It is.”

Larry laughs nervously, scrambling to sit up straighter like posture alone might make him impressive. “Captain America, man. This is crazy. I mean, I knew she said her dad was Tony Stark but I didn’t realize you guys were like this close.”

Steve’s eyes flick briefly to where Larry’s hands are still resting on your hips.

His jaw tightens.

You feel it happen like a shift in gravity.

“Stand up,” Steve says.

The tone is low. Even. It isn’t a request.

It shoots straight to your lower belly before you can stop it. Heat curls there, sharp and unwelcome and painfully familiar.

Larry blinks. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Totally.”

He gets to his feet quickly, tossing you to the side in his haste, wiping his hands on his jeans like a teenager meeting a celebrity instead of a man who was kissing you seconds ago. “Huge fan, by the way. Like massive. I mean I grew up reading about you, you know, saving the world and all that.”

Steve doesn’t respond.

He steps closer instead.

The distance closes until Larry has to tilt his head back just to look at him. Steve doesn’t crowd him. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t touch him.

He simply looks at him.

“You’re going to leave,” Steve says.

Larry laughs again, uncertain this time. “Oh. Yeah. I mean. Of course. If you guys need to talk or whatever.”

Steve’s eyes flick to you then.

Finally.

You are still frozen where you sit, heart pounding so loudly you are sure they can both hear it. Your cheeks burn. Your stomach twists. Shame and confusion and something dangerously close to relief crash into each other until you can’t tell them apart.

For half a second, Steve’s gaze softens when it finds you.

Just for half a second.

Then it hardens again.

“Now,” Steve adds, eyes back on Larry.

Something in his voice sends heat straight to your core before you can stop it. It isn’t anger. It’s possession. It’s certainty. It’s control worn like a second skin.

Larry swallows.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

He grabs his jacket, still grinning like this is already a story he cannot wait to tell someone. “This was wild though. Seriously. Nice meeting you, Captain America.”

Steve doesn’t respond.

Larry hesitates, then glances at you. “Text me?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Steve watches your silence carefully.

Larry takes the hint and moves toward the door, fumbling slightly with the elevator pad before letting himself out. The doors click shut behind him.

The apartment feels smaller immediately.

Too quiet. Too intimate.

You finally look up at Steve.

Up close, he looks exhausted. There is a bruise blooming along his jaw. A cut near his brow that has already started to heal. His uniform is scuffed, dirty, marked with evidence of a mission he never told you about. You fight the urge to rush over to him, to touch him, to ask if he’s okay.

The look on his face makes you stay planted right where you are.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth, then close it.

“I came to check on you,” he continues. “I didn’t plan on interrupting.”

“I didn’t see your texts.” you say.

“I can see why,” he replies.

There is a pause.

His eyes drop, just for a second, to your lips. Then to the flush of your skin. Then to the bottle of open wine he bought you, still sitting on the counter like an accusation.

“You said my name,” he adds.

Heat rushes through you instantly. “No I didn’t,” you say quickly.

Steve’s mouth twitches, just barely. his jaw clenching in nearly untamed restraint “You did.” He wished you knew how much effort it was taking him to hold himself back.

You cross your arms, suddenly self conscious. “That wasn’t…”

He steps closer.

You scoot back once more.

“You were pretending,” He says, not unkindly. A little annoyed that you thought you could lie to him. His senses were heighten just enough that he could hear your heart skip a beat when you lied.

He knew if you were aware of that fact you’d have another thing to add to the list of things you hated so much about that damn super solider serum.

You swallow.

“I should go,” you say, even though you’re already home.

Steve doesn’t move.

“You moaned my name,” he says again, quieter now. “Into someone else’s ear.”

Your breath stutters. The look on his face is unlike anything you have ever seen before. Gone is the golden boy from the forties. In his place stands a man who looks like he is being torn apart in ways far worse than anything he has ever survived.

“I didn’t - it was a mistake,” you repeat.

He took in a sharp breath “don’t say that” he said effectively making you close your mouth.

His gaze is intense, searching, like he is trying to decide how much truth he can allow himself to hear.

“what are you doing?” he asks you seriously stepping forward for every scootch back you take on the couch until your in the corner. he drops his shield on the floor lazily the vibranium clanging as he came to stand infront of you. he bent down slightly. you could smell everything, his usually ceder and oak scent mixed with sweat and maybe gunpowder from whoever he was fighting. it drove you insane as you clenched your thighs. “You joke. You tease. You laugh it off.”

You look away embarrassed.

“And then you do that,” he continues. “am i supposed to keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything?”

Silence stretches between you.

Heavy. Charged.

He’s waiting for you to say something. Anything that will snap the last bit of resolve he has left.

“I’m drunk,” you say weakly.

Steve lets out a slow breathy laugh knowing that a glass of wine wasn’t enough to get you drunk, enough to give you liquid courage, but you must have forgotten all the times he’d stayed by your side at parties and watched you down numerous drinks mumbling something about having your fathers tolerance to alcohol. “You’re sober enough to moan my name while feeling up another guy.”

That does something to you.

Something dangerous.

Your chest tightens. Your pulse stutters. The air feels too thick to breathe.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” you say.

“No,” he agrees. “You never do.”

The words hurt more than they should.

He reaches up, unclips his helmet that was hanging from the back of his suit, sets it down on the coffee table with careful precision. The sound is soft but final.

“You deserve better than him,” Steve says.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You’ve already told me that.”

“And yet,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours, “here we are.”

You move closer despite yourself, stopping just inches from him. “You do not get to be jealous,” you say quietly. “we’re just friends.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. “just friends” he says

Another silence. Heavy. Loaded.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops back to his side before he stands up to his full height.

“You shouldn’t settle,” he says.

Anger courses through you. He keeps saying that. Over and over. Like a warning and a promise he refuses to fulfill.

“Then maybe you should stop showing up halfway through my mistakes,” You counter pushing him back, he barely moved from your force but ever the gentleman he is he took a step back on his own accord. “This is your fault you know? You-you come in and save me everytime I might need you or - or when I don’t even know I need you, you remember everything about me, you care about me…” The word care came out of you mouth with a vicious poison “How am I supposed to not settle steve? When-when…” You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. “I’m never going to be able to find someone if you don’t just fucking leave me alone.”

The words land like a punch to his face. His eyes darken. “I won’t apologize for wanting you safe,” he says.

“I was safe,” you say.

Steve’s gaze flicks to the door Larry just left through. “No,” he says. “You were distracted.”

“Oh so now this is my fault!” You yell at him.

You’re certain the rest of the team can hear you screaming from downstairs. It’s probably only a matter of time before Sam or Natasha comes running up the stairs to make sure everything is okay.

You step away from him to the other end of the living room.

“YES!” He says following your every movement. “You let these men in here like you don’t care what could happen.”

“NOTHING WAS HAPPENING” you say so incredibly frustrated. “You know what?” you say with a scoff “if Larry can’t come here maybe i’ll just go fuck him at his place. See how safe I am then.”

You walk past Steve, your shoulder hitting his side as you pass him.

His hand reaches out grabbing your upper arm tightly. Not tight enough to hurt. But tight enough to make you stay.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Go to bed”

“What are you my grandpa?” You say roughly pulling your arm out of his grasp “I’m so done with this.”

You don’t even bother to wait for the elevator.

You grab your purse.

Your fingers shake as you click on Larry’s contact. You wait just long enough for Steve to hear you say, “Yea baby? It’s me, can I come over?”

Over the next few weeks, you hadn’t spoken a word to Steve.

Not really.

You existed in the same space, breathed the same recycled air, passed him in hallways and common rooms and kitchens, but you didn’t give him anything. Not your voice. Not your attention. Not even the courtesy of eye contact most days.

You barely glanced his way when you passed him in the main living quarters. You didn’t ask how his missions went. You didn’t comment when he came back bruised or bleeding or exhausted, uniform torn, knuckles split, jaw tight with things he never said. You didn’t sit next to him on the couch during movie nights or linger in the kitchen when he poured his coffee in the mornings, even though he still poured an extra mug out of habit before catching himself.

No, you were way too stubborn and way too fucking petty for your own good.

Because the moment Bucky Barnes walked back into the compound one random afternoon, you clung to the man like a lifeline and didn’t let go.

You supposed it was the equivalent of sliding into your ex’s best friend’s DMs.

Trying to bang your super soldier best friend’s scarier and bigger super soldier best friend.

You gave yourself a headache just thinking that thought.

But one thing had become painfully clear to you that night.

Steve fucking Rogers did, in fact, have some kind of feelings for you.

Whether he was into you or just wanted to fuck you, you weren’t sure.

You didn’t care.

You were pissed.

Pissed because the night you went to Larry’s house, you found yourself in a rather unpleasant situation with him and one of his roommates, and Steve wasn’t there to save you. You had to figure it out yourself. You had to leave. You had to make yourself safe with your own hands shaking and your heart pounding in your ears, keys clenched between your fingers like weapons.

Pissed because Steve had been right.

And you hated being wrong.

So yeah, you leaned into Bucky a little bit more than usual.

Not enough to make him uncomfortable.

But enough for him to raise an eyebrow in amusement.

It happens in the common room.

Bucky drops his bag by the couch, freshly back from a mission, the dull thud echoing in the open space. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, brushing the collar of his jacket, falling into his eyes when he moves. His beard is starting to grow in too, rough and dark and doing something unfair to his already dangerous face. Things you usually loved on Steve. When his hair grew longer on the sides and his beard grew in after a rough couple of days, when he stopped trying so hard to look like a symbol and just looked like a man.

“Well damn,” you say lightly, stepping into Bucky’s space without hesitation. “You disappear for a few weeks and come back looking like that.”

Bucky smirks, slow and knowing. “Like what?”

You reach up without thinking, fingers hovering just shy of his hair, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. “Like you finally stopped letting Sam bully you into haircuts.”

His laugh is low and surprised. “I hate my hair long.”

You grin, unapologetic. “I love it.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over your face, curious now. Amused. “That so?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back against the couch cushions, angling your body toward him in a way that is very intentional. “Makes you look less like an assassin and more like someone I’d absolutely love to make bad decisions with.”

Across the room, Steve freezes.

He’s pretending to listen to Sam. Pretending to look at something on his phone. Pretending not to notice the way you’ve angled yourself into Bucky’s space like you belong there.

But he notices.

Of course he does.

“Guess I can’t help it. Something about a man who doesn’t try so hard,” you flirt, voice easy, casual. You let your gaze flick pointedly past Bucky, just long enough to make sure Steve sees it.

Then you look back at Bucky and smile.

“And the beard,” you add, voice softer now, more deliberate. “That’s new too, right?”

“Still growing it out,” Bucky says. “Think I’ll keep it.”

“You should,” you say immediately. “I love when it gets like this.”

His eyebrow lifts. “You love it, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say, fingers grazing his jaw this time, a light touch that lingers just a second too long. “Makes you look older. Rougher. Hotter.”

Bucky catches the shift immediately. His gaze slides to Steve and back to you. “You’re poking the bear.”

You tilt your head innocently. “What bear?”

“The one pretending he doesn’t care.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh. That one.”

You reach out and tug lightly at the collar of Bucky’s jacket. “You grew it out more on the sides too,” you add. “Looks good on you.”

“Careful,” Bucky says, voice dropping, playing along now. “You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you mean it.”

You shrug. “Maybe I do.”

Steve clears his throat from across the room.

Hard.

Bucky’s smile widens just a little. “See,” he murmurs. “Bear.”

Steve finally looks at you.

You don’t look away.

Instead, you smile.

It’s sweet. Sharp. Weaponized.

Later, it only gets worse, your fault entirely.

You sit beside Bucky at a team dinner, knees brushing, shoulder pressed into his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You steal food off his plate without asking. You laugh at his jokes, loud and unrestrained. You lean in when he talks like his voice is something you want to catch in your mouth and keep there.

“You always this charming,” you tease, nudging his metal arm. “Or is this just for me?”

“Only for you,” Bucky says easily.

Steve’s fork bends in his hand.

“when was the last time you danced?” you ask Bucky suddenly.

Bucky blinks. “What?”

You stand, offering him your hand. “Come on. Your buddy over there has been saving a dance for a woman who’s definitely long dead,” Steve gives you a heated look but you smile, unbothered. “I know you used to dance back in your day. besides I need to burn off some energy.”

“Since when do you dance?”

“Since I’m trying not to commit murder.”

That earns a laugh.

Bucky takes your hand.

Steve stands at the same time. “We need Barnes for debrief.”

Bucky doesn’t let go of you. “It can wait.”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah, Stevie. It can wait.”

The nickname lands like a slap.

Later, when you finally cross paths alone in the hallway, the tension snaps tight enough to hurt.

Steve blocks your path.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says.

You fold your arms. “Doing what?”

“You know exactly what.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Being friendly?”

“You’re flirting with him.”

You smile. “Jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous.”

“Liar.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re playing with fire.”

You step closer. “Funny. You didn’t seem to mind this much when I was playing with someone else.”

His breath stutters. “That was different.”

“How?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean in just enough for him to smell your perfume. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence between you is thick.

Heavy.

Angry.

Unfinished.

And neither of you backs down.

You don’t stop.

That’s the problem.

If anything, once you realize Steve is watching, really watching, you lean harder into it.

Steve’s hand tightens around his coffee mug the next morning.

Natasha watches the whole thing with open amusement.

Bucky glances at Steve again, then back to you. He lowers his voice just enough to make it intimate. “You’re really laying it on thick today.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m just honest.”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t mind,” you say lightly.

Bucky chuckles. “Not at all.”

Steve sets his mug down a little too hard.

“You’re hovering,” he says flatly.

You don’t even look at him. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Bucky turns slightly, putting his body just enough between you and Steve to make the message clear. “We’re just talking.”

Steve’s jaw flexes. “You’re touching.”

You smile sweetly. “You never complained before.”

That does it.

Steve steps closer, presence heavy and undeniable. “You’re doing this on purpose.” he says again.

You finally turn to face him. “Doing what?” you reply in a mock voice.

“Complimenting him,” Steve says. “Like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, blinking innocently.

“You know exactly what,” he snaps.

Bucky clears his throat. “To be fair, she’s not wrong.”

You grin. “See?”

Steve’s eyes cut to Bucky. “Stay out of it.”

Bucky lifts his hands. “Hey. I’m just standing here looking handsome.”

You laugh, leaning into Bucky’s side. “You really are.”

Steve’s voice drops. “That’s enough.”

“No,” you say calmly. “It’s really not.”

“You don’t get to parade him around just to get a rise out of me.”

You step closer to Steve now, close enough that he can see the challenge in your eyes. “I’m not parading anyone. I’m just appreciating.”

“Bullshit.”

You tilt your head. “Is it?”

His voice tightens. “You’re listing off every single thing I know you like about me.”

You pause.

Just for a second.

Then you smile.

“Funny,” you say. “You noticed that.”

Bucky lets out a quiet breath behind you. “Oh boy.”

“You grew your hair out,” you continue, eyes locked on Steve now even though your hand stays resting on Bucky’s arm. “You let your beard grow in. You stopped wearing white shirts and started wearing darker colors. Youre doing all the things you know i like.”

Steve’s chest rises sharply.

“And now you’re mad,” you add softly, “because someone else is doing it better.”

Bucky shifts, clearly enjoying this far too much. “I wouldn’t say better.”

You glance back at him. “Don’t be modest.”

Steve’s control frays.

“You think this is funny,” he says.

“No,” you reply honestly. “I think it’s exhausting.”

He steps closer. “Then stop.”

“Why?” you ask. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The word lands sharp.

Bucky straightens. “Okay,” he says, gentle but firm. “Maybe we all take a breath.”

Steve doesn’t look at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

Bucky shrugs. “A little.”

“Why?”

Bucky meets his gaze steadily. “Because you’re both idiots.”

You snort.

Steve finally looks at Bucky. “You think this is helping?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Actually.”

Steve frowns. “How?”

“Because,” Bucky says simply, “you’ve been circling each other for years. And she’s poking you because she’s mad she likes you and that you won’t just say it.”

You scoff. “I am not.”

Bucky gives you a look. “You absolutely are.”

Steve’s voice drops. “Say what.”

Silence stretches.

Your heart pounds.

Bucky sighs. “See. This is the part where I exit before one of you throws something.”

You grab his sleeve. “Don’t you dare.”

He smiles at you softly. “You don’t need me to piss him off. You already have him right where you want him.”

Steve exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “What do you want.”

You swallow.

Then you straighten your shoulders. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”

His jaw clenches. “And I want you to stop using Buck as a pawn in your childish games.”

You glance at Bucky. “Sorry.”

Bucky grins. “Worth it.”

Steve takes another step closer. “You keep flirting with him because it’s safer than admitting you want me, admitting i’ve been right this whole time.”

You bristle. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

“Then stop doing this,” he says quietly.

You hesitate.

Then you lift your chin. “Make me.”

The room goes dead silent.

Bucky mutters, “Finally,” and slips away, leaving the two of you standing there, angry and charged and seconds away from something neither of you can outrun anymore.

Both of your chests heave heavily with each heated breath you share. Steve steps forward, his hand reaching out to grab the back of your head, bringing you in for a heated kiss. He has to bend down slightly and angle your head upwards in order to make it comfortable for you. You let out a shocked gasp at the movement; Steve takes the opportunity to run his tongue along your bottom lip.

The two of you are the only people left in the common room, but still, as the kiss grows heated and his hands roam across your skin, touching wherever his hands can explore, seemingly memorizing your skin.

You let your hands hurriedly explore every crevice of Steve’s muscular body, a moan slipping out of your mouth when he wraps his hands on the bottoms of your thighs and lifts you up effortlessly.

You break the kiss, your chest heaving. “What are you doing?” you ask.

Steve walks you toward the elevator, pressing the button and stepping in when the doors open. “I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman right now and take you up to my room,” he says roughly, not looking down at you, but his hands tighten.

You shudder at the thought of his composure breaking. An idea pops into your head as you lean forward, your tongue running up his veiny neck and your teeth biting down on his ear lobe. “I never asked you to be a gentleman,” you say lowly into his ear.

He lets out a laugh, stepping out of the elevator. “I’m not doing it for you,” he says. “You don’t deserve nice me right now.”

“No?” you say as he all but throws you back onto his bed. He stands at the end of it.

“No,” he says.

Steve's eyes darken with hunger as he towers over you, his broad frame casting a shadow across the bed. He yanks his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the chiseled planes of his chest and abs, every muscle honed from years of fighting. Your gaze drops to the massive bulge straining against his pants, and heat pools between your thighs at the sheer size of him. He notices, a smirk curling his lips. “Like what you see, baby? This cock's all yours tonight, if you can handle it.”

Before you can respond, he grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. His large hands grip your hips, pulling your ass up as he strips off your clothes roughly, shirt torn open, pants shoved down your legs until you're bare and exposed. You arch back instinctively, but he slaps your ass hard, the sting making you yelp. “Stay still, sweetheart. You're mine to play with now.”

He drops to his knees behind you, his breath hot against your skin as he spreads your thighs wide. Without warning, his fingers part your folds, two thick digits plunging into your soaked pussy. There was nothing gentleman like in the way he was acting right now. but fuck if you didn’t love it, it almost felt poetic, Steve Rogers was America’s golden boy, you knew your father often teased him for probably still being a virgin even a hundred years later. Turns out, Steve fucking Rogers is most definitely not a virgin and fucks nothing like you imagined the Captain America would. You cry out, clenching around the intrusion as he curls them deep, stroking that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Fuck, you're dripping for me already,” he growls, his voice laced with possession. “This tight little cunt was made for my fingers, wasn't it? Just mine, no one else. So greedy, sucking me in like you can't get enough.”

You nod frantically, pushing back against his hand in an attempt for more, but he tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to arch further. The pull sends a jolt straight to your core, and you whimper as he pumps his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with rough precision. “That's it, take it like a good girl. My good little slut, getting all wet and dumb for me.” The praise mixes with the dirty words, making your mind fuzzy, thoughts scattering as pleasure builds. “Let me ask you something,” he groaned into your ear, his back pressed against your arched back. His fingers slowed inside of you, hoping to stop your orgasm before it could crash over you. “All those manchilds you went out with, could they make you feel like this?” He asked you.

“Uh,” you said trying to think “no - no Stevie.” You said trying to roll your hips back but his pelvis held your lower abdomen against the edge of the bed.

He laughed. He actually laughed in your face, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” he said his fingers speeding up inside of you “They make you cum?” He asked you.

You shook your head hoping your honesty would work in your favor. He hummed “Admit you moaned my name and i’ll let you cum.” He said.

Your eyes rolled back into your head when he hit that perfect spot with his fingers. Just as fast as he found it he stopped suddenly, you yelled out. “I did, I did! M’sorry Stevie, couldn’t stop thinking- oh fuckkkk, couldn’t stop ‘maging it was you I was kissing fuckkk.” You said his fingers started their ministrations again.

“Suddenly such a good girl huh,” He said leaning down and biting your shoulder, “cum for me” He said.

Your first orgasm crashes over you suddenly, walls fluttering around his fingers as you soak his hand. “Steve, oh god…” you gasp, but he doesn't stop, scissoring his fingers wider to stretch you, prepping you for what's next. “One down, baby. You're gonna come so many times for me tonight, until you can't even think straight. pay back for all those asshole you brought around me.”

He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, and you whine at the loss, but then his mouth is on you. Steve's tongue dives into your pussy, lapping at your release like a man starved. He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking it relentlessly while his hands knead your ass, spreading you open. You buck against his face, grinding down as he eats you out with filthy enthusiasm, his stubble scraping your inner thighs. “Taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against your folds, the vibration making you tremble. “All mine. No one else gets this pussy.”

The possessiveness in his tone pushes you toward the edge again. You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling hard, urging him deeper. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your core, and rewards you by thrusting his tongue inside, fucking you with it while his nose bumps your clit. Your second climax hits harder, legs shaking as you scream his name, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down, not letting up until you're a quivering mess.

Finally, he rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You hear the rustle of his belt, then his zipper, and when you glance back, your eyes widen at the sight of his cock springing free, thick, long, veined, the head flushed and leaking. It's huge, bigger than anything you've taken, and the size of it ignites something in you, a thrill of fear and want twisting in your gut. “Steve, it's... too big,” you breathe, but your pussy clenches emptily, betraying your words.

He chuckles darkly, stroking himself as he climbs onto the bed, positioning you on your back. “Oh, you can take it, baby. I'll make it fit - stretch this pretty hole until it's molded to my shape.” He grabs your hair again, tilting your head back for a bruising kiss, his tongue claiming your mouth just like he claimed your pussy. You taste yourself on him, moaning as he lines up his cock at your entrance.

With one hand fisting your hair and the other pinning your hip, Steve thrusts in, unprotected, raw, the thick head breaching you inch by inch. You gasp into his mouth, the stretch burning so good, your walls yielding to his girth. “Fuck, so tight,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours. “Look at you, taking my big cock like a champ. That's my girl, nice and full for me.” The praise soothes the edge of pain, and you relax, letting him sink deeper until he's buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against your ass.

He stills for a moment, both of you panting, but then he pulls your hair harder, making you arch as he starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your insides. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he whispers hotly against your ear. “This pussy's mine now. Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimper, lost in the sensation, your mind going blissfully blank as he picks up speed. Each thrust bottoms out, his cock so deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach. Steve presses his hand down on your lower stomach, “Fuck baby, gotta see this.” He says changing the hand on your heads position so he was lifting your head forcing you look down at where your bodies met, specifically the space above it. And there it is, the faint bulge in your tummy with every plunge, visible under your skin as he rearranges your guts. “Stevie fuck” you manage, voice slurred with pleasure.

His eyes drop back to it, and he groans, pressing a hand back over the swell. “See that? That's me, owning you from the inside out. My huge dick making you all swollen and dumb.” His words hit you as he says it, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but the feel of him pounding you, the wet slaps of skin on skin filling the room.

You come again around him, third orgasm ripping through you, milking his cock with spasms. He doesn't slow, fucking you through it, his grip on your hair tightening until tears prick your eyes. “Good girl, coming on my cock. So pretty when you're falling apart.” But then you tug his hair in retaliation, pulling him down for a messy kiss, and he growls, hips snapping harder. The dual pull, your hands in his hair, his in yours, drives him wild, his thrusts turning brutal.

Your fourth climax builds fast, body oversensitive, and you babble incoherently, “Ste- ah- v...” barely able to form his name as he rails you into the mattress. “That's right, get all fucked out for me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. “Can't even say my name? Just a dumb little hole for my cum now.” The dirty talk pushes you over, and you shatter, vision whiting out as you squirt around him, soaking the sheets.

Steve follows with a roar, burying deep and flooding your pussy with hot spurts, claiming you completely. He collapses half on top of you, both heaving, his cock still twitching inside.

You couldn’t form a coherent thought but you knew in the morning you’d pat yourself on the back for being right about that super soldier stamina.

Steve's massive frame still hovers over you for a lingering moment, his cock twitching one last time inside your overfilled pussy before he pulls out with a slow, deliberate slide. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper softly, your body clenching around nothing as a warm gush of his cum spills from your stretched folds, trickling down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your mind is a hazy fog, every nerve ending buzzing with the aftershocks of those relentless orgasms, leaving you limp and boneless, eyelids heavy as sleep tugs at the edges of your consciousness.

He shifts immediately, the dominant fire in his eyes softening into something warm and protective. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble now stripped of its earlier growl, replaced by gentle concern. He brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light tenderness. You're too spent to respond coherently, just a soft hum escaping your lips as you nuzzle into his palm, seeking the comfort of his touch.

Scooting back, Steve stands up and walks to the bathroom grabbing a towel from the cupboard. He wets it quickly in the bathroom sink, the sound of running water a distant lullaby in your fuzzy state. Returning, he kneels between your parted legs, his broad hands careful as he lifts one thigh to clean the sticky mess between them. The cool dampness of the cloth against your sensitive skin makes you shiver, a faint gasp slipping out, but he soothes you with a kiss to your inner knee. “I've got you, sweetheart. Just relax, let me take care of my girl.”

He works methodically, wiping away the evidence of your passion, the slick remnants of your releases, the faint redness from his earlier grips, the cum still leaking from your puffy entrance. His movements are unhurried, reverent almost, as if he's worshiping the body he just claimed so fiercely. Every swipe is gentle, avoiding any pressure on your swollen clit or tender walls, and he murmurs praises under his breath - “So beautiful like this, all soft and spent for me” - his words wrapping around you like a blanket.

Once you're clean, he discards the towel and pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in his world. Your head lolls against his shoulder, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, and he rocks you slowly, one arm banded securely around your waist while the other strokes your back in long, calming sweeps. “You were incredible, you know that?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Took everything I gave and more. I'm so proud of you.”

The exhaustion crashes over you fully now, your limbs heavy, thoughts drifting like clouds, but his warmth keeps you anchored. He reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand, unscrewing the cap with one hand before tipping it to your lips. “Small sips, doll. Gotta keep you hydrated after all that.” You manage a few swallows, the cool liquid easing the dryness in your throat, and he smiles down at you, eyes crinkling with affection.

As he sets the bottle aside and tucks the covers around you both, pulling you flush against him under the sheets, his hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then lifts his gaze to meet your half-lidded one. “I love you,” he says simply, the words raw and sincere, carrying the weight of everything unspoken during the heat of the moment. “More than anything. You're everything to me.”

Your heart swells despite the sleepiness weighing you down, a sleepy smile curving your lips as you squeeze his hand weakly. “Love you too, Stevie,” you mumble, voice thick and slurred, but the truth shines through. “So much.”

He exhales a contented sigh, drawing you closer until there's no space between you, his chin resting atop your head. “Sleep now, baby. I'm right here always.” His fingers resume their lazy patterns on your skin, lulling you deeper into rest, the world fading to the rhythm of his breathing and the safe harbor of his arms.

© 2025 miasvelvetvoid, divider credit: @ithemes & @saradika-graphics

[godmadeaterribleerror]

messy

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 10.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦

You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.

Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.

But not him.

You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

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[honeysucklewatr]

loathe isn’t strong enough

angst | betrayal | slowburn | smut | masterlist

endgame—thunderbolts!bucky x ex-avenger!reader

synopsis: Stark Industries took everything from you, and you're determined to get your revenge back—by killing Tony Stark. The plan was simple: infiltrate the Avengers, gain trust and get Tony alone. You didn't anticipate how you'd fall for Bucky Barnes, having to break his heart in the worst way possible. Years later, you're faced with him again, but if you can't forgive yourself, how can he?

tags: ANGST. slowburnish. betrayal. hurt!comfort. smut; hatefucking, crying during sex. reader is morally grey. violence; mention of blood, guns. panic attack. trauma bonding. kinda found family. unreliable narrator.

wc: aprox 19k (longest fic I’ve ever written???)

a/n: life got in the way but hey, I’m back! This is not proofread, and i need to get this out cause it’s consuming me and i kinda hate it but fuck it, we ball. Glossing over the blip here so it’s left more for interpretation.

If anyone knew how to ruin something good, it was you.

All that you had to do was get inside and make friends with some of the people in the Avengers tower. But the mighty Avengers were a group of saps, and that made your plans so much harder to carry out.

They practically melted for you.

Against your better judgment, you let yourself into their lives. Everyone there loved you, and you let them think you did too. Even though deep down a part of you wanted to let it be real, you remind yourself of what they lacked, and what you'd lost in the face of these so-called “heroes." 

At first, Steve was the one who felt the most for you. He took pity and empathized with you like a kindhearted moron, thinking he'd made a grave discovery and recognized the potential you posed for the team. As if you didn't plan for that to happen all along and planted that seed in his mind the moment he met you.

You were trained for this kind of manipulation, and you weren't going to feel bad for it, not when you had something to achieve and no one to fall back on.

With nothing to lose, what's a little heartbreak?

You told them of your parents' passing when you were young, leaving you with no family other than the immediate ones who were already dead. What you didn't tell them was how they were killed, just brushing it off as something that happened too young for you to remember. Though you knew it all too well, and you were there for a reason. 

You let Steve take credit for your idea of becoming an Avenger, and they all fell perfectly for your little plan. 

It was Steve who introduced you to Tony—the man you were there to kill. 

You put on a fake smile and tucked your hands behind you, keeping yourself from inching forward and carrying out your mission. You'd spent so many years of your life having Tony's image drilled into your mind as the villain who was posing himself as a hero, telling yourself that he was utterly deserving of the smear campaign you originally planned to put him through. That was before you got close to the team. Before you landed on the idea of killing him, because you were finally close enough. The proximity that joining the team allowed you, it tempted you regularly, but you had to wait for the right moment. Pretending like you didn't hate Tony's guts was probably the hardest part. 

You infiltrated their trust and broke into their space. You took root inside their lives from the inside, and they welcomed you in with open arms. Like the perfect orchestration of a gorgeous tune, you drew the trap and they all fell inside, letting the kindness you showed them translate into trust and love. But you? You played the greatest trick on yourself. 

The grandest part of the scheme was the relationships you formed and the love you pretended to have for too long. Until that became real, because the truth was, you were never faking.

Bruce offered up his friendship and Clint his home like you were one of their own. Far too trusting for people who were meant to be protectors and careful assessors of danger. It was hard to pretend like the warmth you felt wasn't real when Clint baked cookies with his family and brought you some, or when Natasha would peel an orange and hand you half quietly. Natasha made it infinitely harder to hate her when she'd train with you endlessly as though she wanted to prepare you for when she wouldn't be around. She became your closest thing to a best friend you were sure you ever had— until she died.

They were all family that you loved despite it all. You let yourself believe that maybe you could have some sense of normalcy, that you could let your guard down even a little bit, and you let too many people in. 

Some people more than most— like Bucky. 

You didn't plan on falling for Bucky; you didn't even want to pretend like you loved him until you really did. But you had your own plans, your own mission, and your own vengeance to achieve, so stepping on some toes and hurting some feelings didn't mean shit to you. Even if it was the man that you didn't mean to fall for, who was carrying the brunt of the bargain. 

Bucky made it so hard to ignore him, with his soft smiles and his hand on your hip when you'd spar. His warm palm on your shoulder when you were out gazing on the balcony too long, and calling you to come inside for a cup of tea that he knew you would like. When your guard would fall, just for him, and he wouldn't push you for information, sitting in your silence with you. Because Bucky knew what it was like to get lost in your thoughts, and your mind is a war in itself.

Bucky watched you and knew you had your demons; he just hoped that in time you'd tell him about them. Slowly, you stopped calling him Barnes. You didn't know it yet, but you helped him take back his name, calling him James when others would call him Bucky.

Just being around him made you feel more human—more alive.

And damn him for making you care.

You hated how he made your heart flutter around him and your stomach drop when you'd worry for him. You shoved him into a wall once after he returned from mission, when he wouldn't answer you because he was occupied with disarming someone. One gruelling hour of him not responding over the comms on a mission you took as partners.

He came back to the jet with a few scratches on his face, but nothing major, and you still felt like you couldn't breathe at the thought of him not coming back. His chest heaved as you put a finger in his face, and his gaze seemed to soften in recognition that you were afraid, that you were scared of losing him.

It didn't take long for you to push him again and for him to catch your wrists, pulling you in, flush against him.

That was the first time he kissed you, swallowing your whimpered protest when you’d fisted his shirt and drawn him further into you. Desperately, you couldn’t even pretend like you didn’t want him once you’d touched. The two of you moved in unison toward the jet's couch as he walked you backwards, stripping you from your clothes without breaking the kiss. He lay you down like a careful art, taking his time while you calmed from the bottled-up emotions you refused to express out loud.

He loved you gently and softened the rough ends of his exterior so you could let yourself sit in the feelings that he also struggled to outwardly express. When you finally let him in and stopped pushing him away, he didn't just sleep with you, but he made love to someone for the first time since Hydra took him away. Truthfully, it was the first time he ever loved someone so deeply, and it scared him, but he knew it scared you too, so he let it consume him whole— for both of you. He did it again, and again, and he would've kept doing it if you'd let him. 

Bucky took you apart and put you back together as though you were his favourite mystery, caressing you like a Goddess on Earth.

Every touch felt like a blessing and in his mind leaving any part of you untouched was a sin.

Leaving bites over the scars on your skin, buried under layers of clothes that no one else had touched this delicately. You were completely and undeniably his. Neither of you ever told anyone about it, and how he held you after missions went wrong or how you sat with him when his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep. Bucky never pushed you for anything more. He was afraid of you losing interest, so he tried to build your relationship silently.

When you wouldn't come out of your room for dinner, he'd bring it to you, cooking things he knew were your comfort food. He'd knock silently and linger there just to make sure you really did eat it. He made quiet dinners for just the two of you, leaving specks of food on his shirt or his brow as evidence of his labour.

After going to the bar with the team one night, and you drank too much, and he offered to take you home. You, however, were entirely wasted and couldn’t give proper directions.

Bucky took you to an apartment that no one else knew he had and let you sleep it off there. Except you cried like a wounded, inconsolable child, and he felt the heaviness of your sorrow like it was resting on his chest. He gave you a key to keep going there the next day, and you never gave it back. 

Part of you knows you'll always be his, even after you have to break his heart. He would unwrap you over and over again like a gift he was grateful to receive. He held you after it all, and you knew it wouldn't be the last time because of how safe you'd felt in his embrace. And Bucky knew from the moment Steve introduced you that he wouldn't be able to let you go. That you were and are the reason he'd wake up in the morning despite his nightmares and demons. You made it all worthwhile for him.

You fell hard for him, head over heels and disgustingly in love. But Bucky fell so much harder, unravelling for you after years of conditioning and trauma that ran deep. You chipped away at his walls by letting him love you and letting yourself love him back.

It wasn't because of your mission that you did it. You truly did care for him and you wanted to tend to his wounds that cut through his mind like a plague. It all happened so fast that you couldn't stop it. You couldn't help the way you loved him so deeply that you wanted any part of him you could have, even if it was for a little while. Even if the love was built on lies and deceit.

You knew that once he found out, nothing would be the same, and the two of you would never be able to go back. So you settled for now, stealing kisses between missions and meeting him in his bedroom when everyone else fell asleep. He settled for holding your hand under the briefing table and bringing you snacks that he knew you loved, even when you'd push him away.

Despite your reluctance, he wanted you the same way you wanted him. He would take any bits you offered him because, in his mind, he wasn't worthy of anything else — and you helped him break that barrier of self-deprication by loving his scars like your own. 

It was Bucky Barnes who had to stop you when you cornered Tony in the lab. It was Bucky who caught you in the grand act of your plan and had to witness everything about your relationship crash and burn in front of him. You didn't want to do it like this, but you had no choice now. 

After the annual Gala that Tony threw in honour of his father, Howard Stark, the sack of shit who mindlessly supplied weapons to the most immoral people across the country, and even larger weapons of destruction overseas. It didn't fucking matter that Tony didn't do it himself, but he was aware, and that was more than enough. Tony worked with his father, did demonstrations of his destructive weapons, and had years of experience helping with the supplies before he was abducted.

It took seeing the destruction, feeling the pain that had been felt for decades through his own suffering, for him to understand the gravity of the shit he was part of. The fact that he couldn't come to that conclusion without all of that unnecessary suffering that made your blood boil.

After he praised his father and Stark Industries' history at the Gala, you couldn't take it anymore. 

You were getting too emotional. 

So you followed him into the lab, using your stealth training to sneak in behind him, just before the doors would have locked. Using the training the team had helped teach you against him, you made your move. Your hand on your holster, you silently pulled it out and pointed it towards the back of his head, mind full of doubt and unsteady conviction that told you this was what you had to do. 

His voice startled you as he was still facing the computers, "You've finally come to finish the job, huh?" 

You scoff, gripping your gun a little tighter, "You knew that I was going to do this, and still you let me join."

Tony turns to face you, his hand still holding his glass of whiskey he'd been coddling all night. You were watching him while everyone else conversed— while Steve asked if you were alright, and Bucky tried meeting your gaze. This anger was bright and intense, and it was all his fault. Maybe if he weren't alive, it might calm your thoughts— 

"Well, it's taken you what? Over a year to muster up the courage to kill me. You really think I don't do intensive background checks, sweetheart? Go on then, take your shot." He brought his glass to his lips and drank, testing you. "But you know this is quite ironic, right?" 

Tony was always skilled at this type of thing, riling people up and seeking a reaction. 

Shoving the magazine into place fully, your finger danced over the trigger, "Don't tempt me, Stark. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time."

He steps closer to you, "then why the hell didn't you? You could have, hell, you probably should have done it before you got the rest of the team attached to you."

You didn't let your expression fall, remaining as stoic as you could as you spoke, "I'm only here for you." 

Despite your differences and wanting him dead, you'd grown fond of Tony.

Tony says your name, the sound slightly slurred from drinking too much all night, which you were banking on. A hint of tenderness behind his voice, as though speaking to an old friend. Having him not entirely lucid would've made this easier, but alas, Tony was always even more talkative than usual when he was drunk.

"I know what Stark Industries did to your family and what they," he pauses to correct himself, "what we took. I know I'm not perfect, but you have to acknowledge that what you've done is evil just as the rest." Though his words felt harsh, he spoke as though he wanted you to know it was okay. That he understood. "Just tell me, is revenge what you truly want?"

You didn't trust your voice, so instead you nodded. He continues with the soft scoff, "Did you ever even really care?"

Your breath hitched as the words sank in. You did care, you cared so deeply that it hurt. Still, you let your hurt evolve and eventually involve the people you'd gotten to love. The people you were supposed to hate. But that didn't matter now; you knew you were too far gone. The only thing that should have been on your mind was killing the man in front of you for the crimes of his company. The crimes of his father and his father's father, even if you knew your judgment was bordering on playing God. 

Taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, because someone had to, right? If you had to be somebody's villain, then fine, as long as you finally felt like you'd done something. Done anything to ease the pain of the younger version of yourself that lost so much and vowed to do something about it. You shift the weight of the gun in your hand and look back up into Tony's eyes, unrelenting on you. 

You're about to answer him when the door slides open, shifting your focus from Tony and taking in the two men storming in. Bucky and Steve emerged in the midst of a conversation as they took in the scene before them and froze. Bucky's eyes immediately fell on you — gun in your hand, cocked and pointed at Tony. It was unmistakable that you had been playing them, but Bucky didn't want to believe it, not even when Steve put a hand to his shoulder and tried to keep him from moving closer to you. 

He says your name, his voice careful and soft, "What are you doing?" 

You take a shaky breath, trying not to meet his gaze and feigning unamusement, "What does it look like, Barnes?"

The sharpness of your tone made his brows knit into a pained expression. The use of his last name and not calling him James, like you usually would, punched him in the gut. You weren't here to coddle him or anyone else, including yourself. He says your name like he's pleading for you, and you shut your eyes, masking your emotions and swiftly swiping a forming tear away. 

"Don't do this," his voice a pleading whisper as he inches closer to you, but you don't let him.

You ignore him and kick Tony in the back of the knee, knocking him over. You turn to face Bucky, just as he's about to touch you.

The gun turns to him, and he inhales sharply, his resolve crumbling, "baby."

"Don't," you try to hide the shakiness in your voice as Steve also inches closer, "don't call me that and just stay right fucking there. I'm not here for either of you, just Tony."

Bucky's face drops further, a bitterness forming in his mouth as he repeats your harsh words back, "you were never here for me," repeating after you like each word was ripping his throat raw as he said it, "you're here for Stark."

Reluctantly, you nod. This was your mission, this was the vengeance you needed since you were a child, and you'd gone and made it a hell of a lot harder. He nods back, the gears in his mind turning, and his breathing uneven. You knew his tells when he was nervous or in pain, or on the verge of an anxiety attack. This was the ladder, and you were fighting the urge to run to him and explain yourself, but there was no time. There was no point now. 

You bite back the words; I love you, James. I'm so sorry. But you never say it. 

You fire a single round next to where Steve was, making him flinch. Warning him to stop inching closer when he thought you were distracted. Tony looks up to Steve, and they both look at each other like they were asking the other what to do. But Bucky, his gaze never falters from yours. He watches you like he knew this would be the last time, and you swore you could hear his heart breaking. You lower your gaze from his. 

"Both of you need to leave," taking cautious steps away from them and pointing the gun back at Tony. 

"Like hell we are," Steve says as Buckys voice fails to find him. 

Tony looks up at them, "Yeah, guys, listen to the lady. Save yourselves and leave. This is my fight. I made my bed, didn't I, sweetheart?" 

"Shut up, Stark, we aren't leaving." Steve stands, and this time you let him. He says your name like he's reprimanding you, "You need to think about what you're doing, think about the team."

You say nothing, and Steve's eyes catch Buckys briefly. The frustration inside you boils over when Steve speaks again, "Think of how you're hurting Bucky." 

"This isn't about him or us." The sharpness is heavily evident in your tone. 

Bucky's voice seems to find him as your gaze meets accidentally his, his eyes glazed over like he was on the verge of tears, "Isn't it always about us?" 

You don't respond, you can't. 

His big, beautiful, blue eyes were blown out despite how little you seemed to care in this moment for his feelings, or how little you chose to show.

He sees your internal turmoil and inches closer, "Please, I love you. Don't do this."

You bite your lip to stop it from quivering. He hadn't ever admitted his feelings so raw to you, just shown it in a lack of the words he couldn't find just yet. You ignore the loud pattering of your heart as you press the barrel of the gun to his chest, and he just lets you, leaning into it and wrapping his hand around yours— not believing that you'd really shoot him. 

You knew that after this, after killing Tony, Bucky would be far from loving you for what you had done. You weren't sure if you could even blame him for it. If you were in his shoes, you'd assume the same, that you had used him; his time, empathy, and courage to love again. If you were him, you'd hate yourself for making him love like this, and for what? Revenge? Peace of mind? 

You made him feel utterly used all over again, even after he had exposed all his scars to you and told you about his past. You listened with open arms and welcomed him into your embrace, kissing his hands, both metal and flesh, and whispering to him that he was worthy. Breaking his walls down just to make him build them up even higher. 

This is why you weren't supposed to let yourself get too close and too attached to the life you could've had with him and not the one for your own preservation. Vengeance had consumed you whole since the night your parents had died from a senseless attack carrying weapons etched with an Stark Industries on the barrel. How easily accessible these weapons became for people in your neighbourhood to find and purchase, and for worse individuals to buy in mass. All because the Stark family name had to be the top weapons manufacturer, no matter the cost and no matter the lives lost. 

You thought of the bloodshed, of the killings and the destruction that they caused and your blood boiled again. All because Stark Industries didn't do background checks on who they sold their weapons to. Bloomed bright with intentful retribution, you had convinced yourself; this was the only way. 

You let him lean in close, one last time. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs as he gazed into your eyes as though he were begging for you to snap out of it. But you were more yourself now than you had ever been, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat, inching a little closer to him.

"Then you're an idiot for loving me." You pulled your head back just enough to slam into his forehead and send him staggering a few feet backward, and he let your hand go. Before you knew it, he was focused on you again, whispering your name like a call to prayer.

Your hand moved too quickly for him to catch you, and you shot at Tony, striking him between the shoulder blades. Before Tony even falls over and grunts in pain, and Bucky grabs you. He knocks the gun from your hand and topples you over to the ground. 

"Get off of me!" you thrash but he doesn't relent.

He hovers over you, his legs on either side of your body. He thinks he's successfully disarmed you, leaning over and giving you an emphatic look despite how harsh your words and tone was. Despite how you had just shot Tony right in front of him, proving your lack of loyalty to the team.

Desperately clinging onto the hope that you still love him, or that the love was ever real. You buck your hips up high, trying to get him off of you, but he was far heavier than you. You're thrashing beneath him, and he holds your left arm with his flesh one, the metal one caressing your face—an action you helped him learn to do to prove every part of him was worthy to you. 

Steve was holding Tony's wound tight to keep him from bleeding out, but the crimson was spreading fast. The blood is pooling and reaching where you and Bucky were.

Bucky's eyes were glazed over and teary, threatening to fall down his face. The same face that you had become so enamoured with. 

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

But you do the one thing you knew would hurt him most. You reach up with your free hand, grazing over his metal arm like you used to, soft and tender with your gaze still on his, a reminder of your intimacy before ruining the trust between you. 

"But I have to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

He leans back off of you, his gaze falling to the vibranium arm before up to your face. Shocked and pained. His expression was beyond broken now, and you wanted so badly to take it back just as you did it, but this was how you made him hate you. A tear slips from his face and lands on your cheek as he stares down at you, never blinking, just staring in utter disbelief. 

Your heart aches and hate yourself for what you were doing, but you seize the opportunity while he is distracted. Shoving Bucky off of you fully, and he doesn't do anything to stop you, his eyes remaining on where you were just lying beneath him. The warmth of your cheek lingering under his phantom arm as he looks to it. 

You don't look back, you don't grab your gun off the ground, and you don't wish to meet anyone's gaze—especially not Buckys. 

You ignore whatever Steve was shouting to Bucky and stride your legs forward. Panting hard, you push yourself toward the glass windows, throwing a chair and causing it to shatter. You were prepared to jump when a bullet flies and grazes you in the side, coaxing a pained shriek from you as your legs work mindlessly, pumping and continuing to push you forward. Adrenaline fuels you as you glance briefly over your shoulder, just in time to see Bucky, with your gun in his hand and his expression utterly shattered like you'd never seen. 

This couldn't be love, because love shouldn't hurt like this. Love shouldn't bleed like this. 

He has to hate you now.

You turn back and leap through the broken glass, Buckys face the last thing on your mind as you descend from the tower. When Bucky ran to look over the edge of the shattered window, looking to where you had landed, you were already gone. The only thing you left behind was the pool of blood Tony was rasping in and a trail of yours, from the wound Bucky had given you.

New York quickly became the place you hated most, so you left the busy streets behind. 

The following weeks left you on a manhunt, from the Avengers, law enforcement, and Bucky Barnes. 

For the next several months, you avoided all places they frequented. After betraying all your friends, you didn't feel the most enthusiastic to return to any place they might be or risk incarceration. Especially not after attempting to kill Tony and finding out through news channels that he had died in a way that you hated— because it was honourable. He did the one thing you never thought he could, and was a hero in the very end. 

This sent you into a spiral that felt endless, and you became a mess of yourself. You started to get sloppy and started seeking old comforts. Natasha's voice would play in your head, nagging you to watch your six and mind the corners of buildings when you crossed the street. She would be the voice of reason in your head when you reached for the phone with no SIM card in your bedroom drawer and contemplated using it to call Bucky. 

She would play in your mind when you went to the deli with the sandwiches Bucky loved and bought his order just to imagine how it would feel to be him. How would it feel to be defiled by the woman you loved? To relearn love just to be used to get to someone else?

You would ruin your own appetite often, and you weren't sure if it was cause of your spiralling thoughts or the fact that you were hallucinating the voice of your dead best friend. 

One winter night, you wore an old jacket that still smelled faintly like Bucky, missing his touch more than usual. Your hands shoved into your pockets, and the jacket zipped up high, covering your nose. You felt the cold metal of something in your pocket. With peaked interest, you pulled your hand out and stared at the key in your hand, the one to the apartment Bucky had. The one he hardly went to. In your mind, it felt like a sign to go there, to feel the air that you both once breathed together in and memorize the smells. You couldn't help it; your legs carried you there without considering the consequences. 

Carefully, you unlocked the door with a swallow creak that echoed in the dark and nearly empty space. Bucky was never one for much decoration, so the apartment only had the necessary furniture and appliances and throw pillows you lent him that never went back home with you. Kicking your shoes off, you walked over to the kitchen, drawn by the hum of the refrigerator. Once you walked close enough, you froze. The fridge was open, the light still on.

Fuck, someone was here. 

Your name is said so softly, so gently, spoken as though afraid it might scare you away. Like he wasn't sure if it was you or a dream. You already knew who it was without even seeing his face.

You turn slowly to meet his eyes—evaluating. 

"James," you breathe, hands clenched inside your jacket pockets. 

The look on his face made you feel all the more worse. His eyes were sunken in like he hadn't slept, red and rimmed. In his hand was a case file with your name on it. 

"I thought you were really gone," the file drops to the floor as he reaches for your face, "I thought you were dead." 

Not expecting him to touch you, you take his hand off of you, "I shouldn't have come here," you sputtered, moving out of the kitchen. 

Bucky followed you out of the room, hot on your tail. You could feel the sharp daggers of his gaze prickling at your back.

He calls out after you, "Hey," you keep walking, ignoring him. he says your name, footsteps heavy after you, "I am talking to you, dammit!" 

Still, you pretended not to feel his presence behind you, walking fast through the hallway. But he wouldn't let you get away from this conversation, not again, and he grabs you by your arm, pulling roughly. "Stop ignoring me," he spat out, glaring at you, "quit shutting me out, you left for months,"

"I can't do this right now, Bucky." you hiss

He flinches at that use of his name, grip tightening, "You can't do this right now, huh? You came here to what, then? Torment me further? Kill me like you tried with Stark? You leave me in the dark for seven months, and you're the one who can't do this right now?" 

You pretend like his tone wasn't puncturing your heart and pull your arm, but he doesn't relent.

His eyes were piercing with intensity and frustration, "Do you have any idea what it's been like, wondering why you pretended to love me? Wondering why you left me like that when I would've given anything you wanted?" his voice rose quickly. 

You try to interrupt him, "You don't understand—"

"You're damn right, I don't understand! Fuck, why did you even come back here if you want to leave so badly? You wanted to disappear, so why come back?" His emotions rose in his tone.

You try again, mumbling his name, but he stops you, yanking you closer, "Shut up and fucking listen! For once in your life, listen to me!" his chest rises and falls, "You could've talked to me and told me what was going on, but instead you just ran!"

"You shot at me!" you counter. 

"You took my arm off of me!" he practically screams your name at you, "If I wanted to fucking shoot you, we both know I wouldn’t have missed.”

You gulp at the realization; he presses closer.

“You used me to get to him, and you knew," his voice breaks, "you knew what that was going to do to me, and you did it anyway."

Everything in his face looked sunken in, like he wasn't taking care of himself since you disappeared. Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelmed you like skeletons in the closet. Dozens of empty cans of beer and bottles of whiskey. Even though he couldn't get drunk, it looked like he had desperately tried. Packages next to the front door, labelled in Sam's handwriting, urging him to eat something inside them. Cardboard boxes full of cases, papers etched over the ground from when he had been frantically rummaging through for any kind of clue.

You hadn't gotten to see just how affected he was until now, and it was eating you alive more than you had already been doing to yourself. 

"You've ruined me. I'm ruined and you're here just to leave me, again." His thumb stroked your cheek lovingly and tenderly, while his words came out broken.

"The worst part is I would let you use me so long as you came back. Why wouldn't you come back for me?" his words sounding utterly broken and more of a statement than a question.

"I should have, James. I didn't mean for it to happen like that—" 

He pushes you against the door to the bedroom, your back hitting it with a thud. Arms on either side as his hips press against yours, pinning you there.

"Don't. Just don't lie to me anymore," he rasps, "you did what you had to, right? You had to use me like a pawn, and I just rolled over for you."

You can't help how your words get lost on you, and you drown in the intensity of his sharp gaze. The tenderness in those blue eyes that you grew to love was gone, but still you desired him more than anything else, and you couldn't help how your eyes flickered over his perfect, plump lips. Even in this moment, you burned for him and only him. His gaze turns into something deeper, something between hurt and lust that you barely recognized. Everything about his body language screamed that he was restraining himself from you. 

He catches your gaze, and his hand mindlessly lifts, caressing the side of your face. 

"God, if you wanted to hurt me, shooting me in the head would have hurt less." chest heaving against yours. 

Tears prickled at your eyes, "I am so sorry, Bucky, I really am."

He shakes his head slowly, "You don't get to apologize, not when you still have me undone for you." His eyes are boring into yours, but his words contrast with his actions: "I fucking hate you, and I want you just as broken by this as I am."

You gulp, "I am broken by this," his hand finds the doorknob and pushes it open, pulling you inside with him. 

"No, you wanted to use me," he walks you backwards and shoves you onto the mattress, and you let him. "I'll show you what it's like to be used."

"James—" you try as he flips you over onto your stomach.

"You want me to stop? You tell me now. Otherwise, I don't wanna hear you." He pulls at your hips and keeps you on the edge of the bed as he practically rips your pants off you. Metal knuckles grazed up your spine, pulling the fabric up with it and sending shivers like he knew it would, "I know you and your body remembers me enough." 

But you can't tell him to stop. You want him, you'll always want him.

The way he feels makes your core ache for him despite it all. You missed this— you missed all of him like an addict to his touch. Arching as he presses into you from behind, fisting your hair as he ruts himself against you, reminding you of what could have been.

Bucky was more than just a means to an end, and you wanted him to know that, but how could you? That you are capable of using him despite knowing his past? How do you convince him that you loved him when you'd shown him that you didn't want him? That he shouldn't want you?You've already shown your care to him, and he's well aware of how you'd used him, so maybe hating you was the only answer. Love might not be in your cards, but in this moment, your resilience was pouring through the cracks. If he hated you, then he would be okay, and the damaged parts of you couldn't reach him anymore. 

He leans over your back and shifts his hand from your hair to your throat; tight enough to threaten.

"You wanted this all along, didn't you?" breaths hot against your ear as his belt clinks open, "I've just been a bit of fun for you? An easy, broken man you could use over and over? A quick fuck?" 

Your lip quivers, "You were always more than that."

He releases your throat. Reaching over and down your chest to rip your shirt open easily. The fabric is thin—the buttons pop open and scatter across the room. With one quick, practiced move, he unhooks your bra without even looking at it. You gasp despite yourself and let him pull you up, bare back flush against his.

Your heart crumbles for him, and the damage you'd done that seems to follow you everywhere you go. In his mind, he already had his answer as to why you wouldn't come back, but he still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted you, even if it really were one last time before you left him again. 

Warm, soft tears roll down your cheek and onto his fingers, "James, I really am sorry, you didn't deserve this." 

His heavy length is pressed against your back as he grips your hair roughly, just enough to see your face. Bucky's gaze softens despite how tense he was, but you could still see the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"I told you, I don't want your apologies," tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He runs his fingers up your core, testing the wetness pooling there before he pulls your panties off, "I just want this."

You swallow your tears and the urge to try convincing him again. You nod—needing him just as badly, "Okay." 

The feeling of him alone makes you throb for him, aching for him like you have been for months.

Running his thick and angry red tip through your folds once, he collects the slick and watches your face contort in pleasure. He’s watching as you shut your eyes—savouring the feeling like you were deprived and storing the image in the back of his mind. He aligns himself and pushes the tip inside, making you writhe into the pillow.

But he doesn't coo at you like he normally would, he doesn't praise you the way he knows you like, and he doesn't try to make it slow and passionate. 

This was pure take and desire that consumed you both.

The stretch of him was as glorious as always, but fuck, you wanted to see him. He doesn't give a warning before thrusting in to the hilt, bottoming out and coaxing a sharp gasp from you. His lips close the distance to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses that quickly become rougher as he sucked purple marks—marking you in a physical manifestation of what you'd done to him.

Leaving something behind for you to be reminded of in the morning. 

Gripping your hips tight enough that it would leave bruises, and you didn't care. His hips sank hard, movements meant to reach a peak that could prove something to him or to you somehow. Punishing in his thrusts, rocking the headboard against the wall in every movement.

The soft exterior of the man you loved so badly was gone. He was taking you apart in every way he knew how, because Bucky knew how to make you sing for him and had your body memorized like the back of his hand. 

The sounds he made were between a whimper and a groan, as though everything about this was ripping him apart. You knew him so well, studied him like a roadmap you could never forget. You knew his body like it was tattooed inside your eyelids, never escaping the softness. 

Being rough wasn't something Bucky liked to do with you, unless you asked for it. So this? This was tearing him to shreds. After months without feeling the sweet plush of your skin, Bucky so desperately wanted to take his time, but he couldn't trust himself with being able to leave you alone afterwards.

If he took any more time, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go. 

You whined his name, wanting to touch him. Reaching back for him, grazing your fingernails over his forearms, and he takes your hands, kissing them like he was sorry. You cry out for him again, but he shoves your face into the pillow, shutting you up and muffling your helpless moans. Putting down his full weight and your hands over your head, whispering breathlessly into your ear. 

"You wanted to use me, so take it. Take all of it." 

Puncuating his words by snapping his hips even deeper into yours and reaching the spongy spot that made you see stars. You push back into him to meet his thrusts, he moans so beautifully for you—and he hated it.

He hated how you had him undone for him and could hurt him so deeply.

Holding both of your hands with his flesh arm so you couldn’t touch him, the metal one comes between you and circles over the sensitive bud, making you jolt. But he won't let you escape the way he made you feel, so he plants a knee on either side of you to cage you under him. He urges you on while keeping his punishing thrusts, snapping even harder, faster. 

Overstimulating all at once; the rigorous pace brings you there faster than you began, and you scream his name as you fall apart. He groans like it hurts as your walls flutter around him and the slickness urges him on. He doesn't relent, pushing deeper into you again and again, chasing his high as you writhe beneath him, cooing at him that it was too much to no avail. He grunts in your ear, and you swear you could've came again just at the rasp of his voice. 

“James please,” you whimper.

Suddenly, he hooks an arm under your knee and flips you onto your back. When you meet his gaze, you see the tears in his eyes just before he crashes his quivering lips into yours. His tongue swipes over your lip before he tangles the muscle with yours, sweeping every crevice of your mouth in a desperately possessive manner. He swallows your whimpered moans and ruts himself in short, deep movements, reaching into you like he could understand you like this. Like he could finally reach your mind and unravel you in this bed.

In his bed. 

The taste of salty tears touches your tongue as he devours your lips. His pace becomes uneven and sloppy as you feel yourself reaching that peak again. He pulls back just to attach his lips to your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark purposefully. His teeth sink in, and you moan his name loudly as you came again, grabbing at him now that you could. Hissing at your nails against his back, his moans are broken and he twitches and sputters your name quietly, spilling hot inside.

Still thrusting slow and deep like he just couldn’t help himself, he keeps his spend inside, not letting a drop escape as he remains sheathed in between your slick walls. He looks back down, taking in the deep marks he left there, a hint of apology in his eyes. He seems like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, leaning down and kissing you again—softer this time.

He swipes his tongue along your lips to coax you into opening your mouth for him again. He pulls back just enough to spit into your mouth. You swallow it for him, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck and pulling him back down like you couldn't let him go.

This time, Bucky whimpers at the contact you make, biting your bottom lip enough to coax another gasp and then pulling away entirely. He gets off of you, running his hand through his hair and dragging it over his face. He stands up fast and pulls his jeans back on.

"Where are you going?" you ask, but he doesn't look at you. 

"This doesn't change anything," he adjusts his belt through the loops, the sound clinking through the quiet air, besides the sound of both of your heavy breathing. 

You sit up, the evidence of the sanguine and desolate encounter dripping onto his sheets, "James, please, if you would just let me explain." 

He turns quickly, eyes red as he says your name like it physically pains him, "I told you, I fucking despise you. Loathe isn't strong enough to describe how I feel about you." 

You stop breathing for a moment, stuck in place. 

He continues, watching the pained expression on your face grow, "You're like a fucking plague on my mind, and I can't stand you anymore."

He takes backwards steps to the door, turning away from you, "I don't ever want to see you again, so you better be long gone by the time I come back here." 

You can't help the soft scoff that escapes you, gripping the sheet tighter, "and if I don't go?" 

He looks at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your face and studying each feature. After a beat, he looks back into your eyes. The look he gives you is colder than anything you'd ever seen before from him. 

"Then I will kill you myself." 

He slams the door shut behind him, the sound deafening—making you flinch as you close your eyes. 

You were right before; this wasn't love. Love doesn't hurt like this.

Tony Stark became a name that would send a shiver down your spine, but your fists didn't clench like before. 

You refused to acknowledge it with the same fierceness you had before, since your oversight had blinded you. Now, you could see how partial you were and how you'd let anger cloud your judgment and nearly kill a man for the crimes of people before he was born. You still had hate in your heart for him— how could you forget it? But at least now, that sharp pain shifted to an ache dulled that you only felt in your bones when it was cold and you thought of Manhattan.

Nearly half a decade after you last saw Bucky, your life is much different now. Half the Avengers are either dead or retired. Somehow, you still felt some responsibility for what you'd done back then, and how you could never explain yourself, but you were convinced that you were worthy of it anymore. Apologizing to anyone would be selfish because you knew it was for yourself. 

The apartment you lived in—if you could even call it that—was cluttered with clothes and takeout from weeks prior. You hardly left your place now, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life for the world and died.

An honourable death, for someone you thought to be the opposite of it entirely.

You didn't know how to deal with that or how to take back the things you'd done on your vengeful path. So instead, you stayed home and watched bad television. You were on your couch, licking ice cream off your spoon, when you saw the face that could've killed you on sight.

The bewitching face of the man you dreamt of more often than you'd ever admit, the piercing blue eyes of his unmistakable face above his scruffy appearance, and neatly tucked hair. He wore a crisp suit that you'd never seen him in before, besides a borrowed one from Steve at the many Galas you'd attended. He walked across wearing his stoic expression, the hint of sadness only you'd recognize behind his brief smile, before he spoke to an audience about a bill you didn't know anything about. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now a Congressman. 

You couldn't help the laugh that rippled through you at the thought that your James, your grumpy and impatient James, was now working a job that required him to not only talk to people often but also attend meetings regularly. The livestream of the video captured him shaking hands with people as he walked down the hall with other politicians, and then stopped. There you saw a short-haired woman, hair cut at her shoulders and a polished smile as Bucky bent down for her to whisper in his ear.

You felt an unfamiliar jealousy bubble in your stomach as you put the pint of ice cream on the table, spoon clattering on the coffee table, muttering to yourself from weeks of having no social interaction. Crossing your arms over your chest just as Bucky leaves the frame, and the woman does too. You throw your remote at the screen in an annoyed groan, hurling it harder than you intended. Wincing as you hear a soft crack and realize you've broken your television. 

When you got restless, you went on runs—always alone. 

That was how Yelena found you, cornering you at an intersection and somehow knowing who you were beneath the layers you wore to conceal your identity. She ran next to you, matching your speed, and you didn't have to turn your head to know it was her. 

"Yelena, long time no see, Sestra," peering over at her as you pull your headphones off.

Yelena smiles at you, "You remembered."

You don't smile back, but give her something in between, "Of course I do."

Yelena was an old friend, a person you knew through her sister Natasha and kept in touch with just barely. After Natasha died, you spoke to Yelena only once, to check on her and for your own peace of mind. You sought her out and cried with her for your fallen friend. You never got to explain yourself to Natasha, but Yelena still trusted you. You pulled her out of a low she didn't know how to navigate while you were going through one of your own. Yelena was the only person you told about what you had done to Tony. She listened carefully when you explained your true intentions for joining the Avengers, to see if she was truly empathizing with you. If anyone knew what it was like to face-to-face with someone who was the reason for your solace, it was her.

Clint was her Tony, and Tony was your Clint.

Though at least Yelena got to talk to him about it and found comfort and closure through it, you didn't even get to say goodbye.

She didn't judge you, not even when you brushed off more personal questions, mentioning the rest of the team, and purposefully glossing over Buckys' part in your story. She knew there was more missing, but she didn't push. You gave her general answers, and you told her of your vengeance and reasoning for doing what you did. You told her she wouldn't be hearing from you, and she did not protest.

But she told you she would come looking for you one day and apparently, today, was that day. 

She says your name, guiding you towards an alleyway. You oblige because you knew that Yelena wouldn't ask for anything from you if it wasn't serious. Yelena and you didn't have to see each other often for the two of you to converse like normal all over again, and you appreciated her for it.

"Are you alright?" you ask her, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"Oh, me? Fine, great. Working with idiots, but I dealt with worse before," she points at your pocket, "give me that."

"What? My phone?" but she's already reaching in your pocket, wiggling her fingers and pulling it out, "oh pfft, sure, yeah, go ahead." 

She types in the password without you having to tell her, saying your name when you're about to protest again, "Oh, shush, I have seen you naked. And you are too sloppy, too predictable," shaking your phone in your face, "you have not changed your password in 5 years."

You pout slightly.

Okay, maybe you have been getting sloppy.

She returns to going through your phone and reading over something aloud to herself before staring up at you. Shaking her head, she continues, swiping and swiping. 

"You have not texted or called anyone in, what the fuck, 6 months?" She pulls the phone case off and takes one of her earrings out, "What happened to having a life?" 

Popping out the SIM card and dropping to the floor before smashing it beneath her boot.

You exclaim, "Yelena!"

"What? You didn't have much on it anyway. Although I guess that means breaking it was useless," she tosses your phone into the bin as well. "I need your help, and we cannot be followed." 

You look entirely annoyed and wide-eyed at her, "You basically just called me a loser and broke my phone. You are going to be followed, whether you like it or not, Lena." 

She smiles then, putting her earring back into her earlobe. "Great, follow me then." 

Grumpily, you take one last look at your poor phone, cracked and at the bottom of the grimy garbage bin, before following after her. Taking a heavy footstep after the other as you follow behind her, just before she turns the corner out of the alleyway and onto the streets again. The familiar presence of her allowed you to roll your tensed shoulders back just a bit, still holding up some of the walls you'd built up high and mighty. You stared down at her shoes as she walked and noted how polished her clothes were, her suit brand new and tailored perfectly to fit her like she was ready for a fight right now. 

She walks across the street, and you suddenly realize where she was taking you, "Why are we going to my place?" 

"You have to change. I cannot take you looking like a teenage boy to meet Valentina," her eyes trailing over your outfit and then back to your face. 

You squint at her as you enter the courtyard—her movements too aware of an apartment building you’d never taken her too. She walks with too familiar a practice and holds the door open for you with a knowing smile, but you don't question it. Not yet at least.

Yelena plops on your couch and picks up a sock from the corner, staring at it, then you. "You live like this? Like slob?" 

You roll your eyes, walking over to her and taking the sock from her hand, tossing it into the laundry basket that you said you were gonna put away two weeks ago,

"I live alone, so who gives a shit." 

She hums at you like she knows something you don't, putting her hand under her chin and watching you, "You used to care how you lived. I don't get how nearly killing Stark made you this depressed."

You say nothing, pulling your hair back from your face and padding back toward the hallway, stripping off your hoodie. You make your way to your room to change, and Yelena stood and followed after you, replacing the couch with your bed. You try changing the subject,

"So, Valentina, huh? You still work for her?" you say as you rummage through your closet, struggling to find something that wasn't a hoodie or a shirt younger than ten years.

"She is the lady who's been giving me jobs, she’s reliable that much and she knows you’re still alive.” twirling her thumbs on the edge of your bed.

You stop moving and turn to face her. "Yelena, I don't do that shit anymore,"

Yelena sits up, "You don't just give that life up, don't kid yourself."

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, "Last time we worked together, neither of us had eyebrows."

She shrugs, "Eh, they came back." When you sigh, exasperated, she continues, "Come on, just this once. Come with me. I just do my job, clock in and clock out. Anyway, you are clearly not busy, so don't tell me you are because I know when you are lying." 

You mentally noted the exhaustion on her face and the bags forming under her smudged eyeliner. Yelena always got through her shit through humour, but something told you to go through with her ask and go anyway. 

Plus, you were bored out of your mind in your apartment.

You nod, "Yeah, sure, will you just come tell me what to wear then? I'm at a loss here."

Yelena stands and stretches her arms, making her way over to you. When she looks into your closet, she snort, "Your closet looks like mine. Lack of fulfillment and desperation."

Yelena purposefully ignores the men’s jacket sitting there, several sizes too big for you. She pulls out an old mission suit from the back of your closet, hidden behind a pile of boxes.

When she turns to hand it to you and sees the look on your face, she rolls her eyes, "I said my closet looks like this too. Jeez, you really don't get out much, can't even take jokes now." 

As you approached the bunker with Yelena, she began briefing you on her target. She explained, very poorly, who the Ghost was and how Valentina had sent you both to take her down by any means necessary. 

Yelena spoke just as you approached the hall. 

"She's stealing the files that Ghost lady. I need you to find them while I take her down, or you take her down, whatever floats your boat or whatever."

With quiet footsteps, the two of you crept into the bunker. The room was filled with boxes you assumed had documents and gadgets you hardly understood. Filing in after Yelena, you followed her to a packet of documents on top of a box, frowning at the symbols etched on the paper. Multiple designs for a suit and the letter S in different fonts stared back at you as you turned your head to her in bewilderment. Just as you looked at her, you caught a glimpse of a gun pointed at her by a tall man in a suit in dirty tones of blue and red. 

"Lena!" You shouted before grabbing her by her shoulders and rolling just in time for the bullets to fly past you.

Both of you huff as you land behind a box, still over Yelena. Getting off of her, you peer over the box, and the man shoots again, making you duck.

Still, you recognize him— John Walker.

While you don't know Walker personally, you know of his history and how he didn't even make it a month as Captain America before killing someone and having his shield revoked. Mentally, you noted how his replica shield wasn't made of vibranium, the same indestructible metal of Buckys arm. 

He says your name as though he knew you, and you snap your eyes up to his. You don't miss the frown on his face as he says your name again. 

"You were in the Avengers. I thought you were dead," clipping his gun into his holster, "Everyone does." 

Yelena peeks out, "You know him?"

You shake your head and step out, also leaving yourself exposed for Walker to establish some kind of connection. Yelena stands behind you when you hear a shadow. She yelps as someone new joins the three of you, flipping her over on her ass. Ghost, you recognized her from Yelenas brief description when another person emerges from the shadows, flipping a gun in their hand. When you turn, the Ghost is gone, and Walker is in your face. 

"Why the hell are you here? All official records say you're dead." His hand was on his holster, close to drawing it out again. 

Stepping backward, you scoff softly, "As you can see, I am very much alive, Walker." 

His eyes widen slightly at your use of his name, partly impressed that you even knew him and half-wary of you. The two of you remain staring at each other as Yelena dusts herself off and starts towards you, pointing at the Ghost who was fighting another person out of your line of sight. Walker draws his gun quickly to point at Yelena. 

"An ex-Avengers death isn't on my conscience," tilting his head at Yelena, and she looks unfazed, "but I am here for you," he says just as a sudden, deafening gunshot snaps the attention of all three of you.

Instinctively, you also draw your weapon, keeping the pistol pointed at Ghost. The three of you focused on the gunshot behind you and the hard thud hitting the ground.

Then you gasp when you see it.

The Taskmaster, someone you did know before and worked with after leaving the Avengers, is dead. Blood pooled over her mask and began spilling on the floor.

In your line of work, this was a common occurrence, bound to happen. But it has been a while since you’d seen a body of someone you knew, even vaguely. Your eyes shift up to the Ghosts as her mask cyphers off. 

"Well, my job is complete," she announces, stepping over the body.

John scoffs, disregarding the body like he were used to the sight, gun still in his hand, "mine isn't. Valentina was clear about needing you gone, Yelena." 

Just then, the sound of retching and dry heaving catches everyone's attention. You'll turn in unison, guns drawn and pointed at the new found voice when you see a man in blue scrubs, hair dishevelled and looking utterly afraid.

He keeps his hands up, a dry nervous laughter leaving him before he speaks, "um, is she, are they really dead?"

John ignores his question and walks towards him, boots heavy with practiced military precision in each step, "Just who in the fuck are you, guy?" 

"Bob, I'm Bob," he gulps as John waves his gun to urge him to continue explaining himself, "I just woke up in here. One minute I was doing a medical study, the next I'm here.”

You all exchanged glances, uncertain and confused.

Bob stammers as he racks his brain, trying to convince the menacing group in front of him of his innocence, “Please, you gotta believe me." 

You look over to the capsule behind him, the mould of a body in a high-tech casing that makes your thoughts race. If he were telling the truth, then he was a definitive experiment for Valentina just as you suspected John Walker to be. His enhanced strength only something you’d seen from your former Avengers—Steve Rogers and Bucky.

You thought back to when Bucky told you about the super soldier serum and how people continued to test in cruel ways to see just how far they could push the human body and create the perfect human.

The perfect experiment and weapon.

Your brows knit together, and you met Yelenas gaze. She's frowning like the gears of her mind have clicked into place and made the same realization as you. Of course, Valentina was playing you, she was always playing both of you. 

Valentina was killing people she had working for her previously—this was cleanup and you were doing the fucking dirty work for her.

"Okay," Yelena says finally, her gun going into her waistband and her other hand reaching to yours, lowering the weapon, "it's clear we have all been played here and all worked for Valentina in some capacity."

John grumbles, lowering his gun too, "What are you saying?" 

The Ghost rolls her eyes, "Are you a dense, dime-store Captain America? Valentina clearly sent us here to die," gesturing around the room. 

John stares at her, evaluating and intense, "I didn't know that Ghosts could speak." 

She smiles, a small hum of a laugh that was entirely humourless, "It's Ava, actually."

John scoffs again just as alarms blare and the bunker goes into lockdown. Bob scurries closer, and no one stops him. 

Yelena breathes out heavily, "We don't have time for this, you guys," staring at the elevator shaft, then at Ava, "We have to get out of here." 

Then they're all moving.

Without really telling anyone what to do, they were working in unison, as though this was what they were meant to be doing. John breaks open the power source, Ava unlocks the door, and Bob has the bright idea to get out of the Bunker by climbing. After listening to them bickering and scraping your knees against the elevator shaft a couple of times, you eventually do get out. 

In the car, Yelena shot an apologetic look at you from the front seat.

You gave her a tight, slightly annoyed smile back. You were sitting next to John Walker and the Ghost lady you now identified as Ava, and the loud man driving the car kept nudging Yelena and asking her questions, whispering about her having found her calling. You smirk to yourself a little when you see Yelenas' look of annoyance, not missing the silent acceptance there that she had found something worth fighting for. Ava adjusts something on her suit, while you stare out the window over John's head to watch the landscape. But he catches your eye, staring at you.

You frown, "What?" 

"You're Bucky Barnes's ex," he announces, and the pair in the front stop talking. 

"What does he say? Winter Soldier has a girlfriend?" Alexei catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, "You are Winter Soldier's girlfriend?"

You stammer, "No, I'm not."

"She is right technically, she's not his girlfriend." John says again, never shifting his gaze from you, "She's the one who backstabbed the Avengers." 

You wince, and Alexei gasps. Yelena doesn't even move because she already knew about this, even without you telling her about the part about Bucky. Ava doesn't budge either, unfazed by the declaration of your disloyalty as though she had anticipated it or had known somehow. 

Alexei suddenly laughs, "You are badass, like Lena, like Tasha!" he looks to Yelena, then you in the mirror again, "No mercy like the Soviet Union!" 

Yelena cuts him off, "Okay, Dad, please just stop. Let's just get out of here and go home." 

"Go home?" Alexei says, looking personally offended by her declaration, "No, no, no, this is a beautiful group, a new friendship and family to have and cherish. You cannot go home and forget all about this, Lena." 

"There is no point, they took Bob already," she says, looking out the side mirrors. 

"This is a glorious team! Just like when Natasha was Avenger!" Alexei gleams. Yelena shakes her head and groans at him. 

John snorts from next to you, "Yeah, go Thunderbolts." 

Alexei gasps dramatically, "You tell them of your little league team? Oh my, you already bonded." he snaps his head to look at you all, making the car jerk, "You know, one time someone pooped in the middle of the game, right there, on the field. It was so funny, they were so bad." Yelena grabs the steering wheel, steadying them. 

Ava suddenly announces that; "someone is following us."

Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she puts her mask back on and geo-leaps to the trunk of the car, facing the vehicle chasing you. 

Everyone quiets to look.

Yelena glances out her window, spotting three bulletproof vehicles roaring behind Alexlei's shitty taxi car. Despite his claim that it was bulletproof earlier, the shells whizzing past you now and shattering the windows proved otherwise.

A deafening screeching sound is played over the speakers of the truck behind you, and Ava nearly falls out of the car when you and John yank her back in through the broken window. She's disoriented over your lap as the shooting ensues.

In a swift move, Yelena peels out of the car, shooting out one of the tires and sending the vehicle crashing. Amongst the fiery crash, the other two roar closer to Alexei's terribly slow car.

Yelena sits back inside, fiddling with her gun, "That was my only bullet." 

John reaches for his gun, the magazine missing, "shit, I'm out too."

He glances back through the broken window, a roaring motorcycle appearing from the smoke of the crash, chasing behind the last of the three.

The name he utters makes the colour drain from your face, "Bucky?" 

You turn with him, and there he was. You feel your body run cold again, blood freezing in your veins. Bucky suddenly stops his motorcycle, grabbing the hitch of the other vehicle and pulling it to a taut. Anyone else would’ve been ripped in half but the sheer strength of him, Bucky yanked the enormous tank backward, punch the chain hard into the concrete below him. The car is then flying away from you and rolling into another fiery crash before you knew it.

John and Alexei laugh in relief as Bucky launches something beneath the other car, causing it to explode. Alexei hits the steering wheel, hollering something about ‘the Winter Soldier never retiring.’

The cheering dies down as Bucky turns his focus on Alexeis' car, pointing his weapon at it. 

But it felt like he was pointing right at you.

Suddenly, something is launched beneath Alexei's car and John curses. The explosion booms white as the car is airborne. Then you're sliding from the backseat, gasping as the car begins to flip. Ava and John hold onto the grab handles of the car, but you don't grab anything in time. 

You groan awake, wanting to rub your head.

Cuffs digging into your wrists as your eyelids flutter open.

Chatter makes your ears perk up, recalling what had happened, turning your disoriented head around and taking in the faces around you. You glance to your left, looking at John as he notices you lucid again, shooting you a reassuring smile— something you weren't sure about just yet. He mouths, asking if you were alright, and you nod, giving him a tight smile before turning your attention to a loud Yelena and Ava. 

"Yes, Bob!" Yelena exclaims as Ava continues for her, "We have been trying to tell you that!" 

But you feel eyes on you, piercing and intense. The hairs on your neck stick up. Looking into his eyes, you felt like all of your old emotions were back in full force, like they had never even left. His hands were on his hips, listening but not really hearing them as he watched you. Looking past all the other obstacles and through you like he knew what you were thinking. Probably because he knew you better than anyone else—and it felt like you were alone in the room when you looked up into his eyes. 

Shamefully, you looked back down, not wanting to meet his gaze. It was too hard, and you didn't know if you could take it. The last time you'd seen him, he said he never wanted to see you again. Said that if he saw you ever again, he would kill you. You betrayed him, broke his heart and made him feel like he was when controlled by Hydra; used and weaponized.

After a beat, he speaks, interrupting the rest of the group's bickering, “we have to move then.”

To your surprise, he walks over and uncuffs Yelena, breaking off the cuffs swiftly then Ava’s. "Valentina won't expect us to go together, let alone work together." 

Ava narrows her eyes, "You're letting us go?"

He moves to uncuff Alexei and Walker. 

"No, not exactly. But I'm trusting you guys won't betray me," he says, and you bite back a wince at his words.

Still, you avoid looking at him, staring down at your shoes as though it could get you out of this situation. John leads them outside as they’re too focused on their own quiet discussion to notice the tension between you and Bucky. 

Finally, Bucky stops behind you as everyone else regroups. He bends close to your ear, hands undoing your wrists, taking more time than you knew he needed.

He says your name, "So, will you?" 

"W—what?" you rasp, rubbing your unbound wrists together and trying not to look into his piercing blue eyes.

Watching you intently, he tilts his head ever so slightly, as though he were studying you. Looking over just enough to catch your eyes.

"Betray me again. Can I trust that you won't do that?"

You couldn't stop staring at the facial hair on his face and how his scruff had grown fuller. You wanted to badly to lean into him again, feel the touch of the one you'd been aching for and finally force him to listen to you, even if you knew it was self-serving to do it now that he'd clearly gotten over you.

You nod your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek. The sound of Yelena calling you guys to hurry up and come out from outside doesn't make him flinch, and he leans in a little closer.

The familiar scent of him—cedarwood and rich suede—engulfs your senses. 

An unexpected tug at the corners of his lips makes your skin bloom bright as he eyes the features of your face, stopping over the curve of your lips. He steps away enough to give you space to move. Reluctantly, you stand and walk over to the door, needing a breath of fresh air from his sudden proximity—when you catch something he says something just before you walk outside. A foot out the door and you still hear him with the smirk in his voice evident.

"You're so beautiful, even when you lie to me."

A familiar sense of bitterness filled your mouth when you entered the Watchtower. 

You probably should've been more specific about when asking Yelena about where she was leading you up to, because she failed to mention that the Watchtower was just the Avengers tower—renamed.

As you got out of the elevator, you couldn't help but notice the same features in the building you once resided in. Your eyes trailed over to the kitchen, where you'd cook with Natasha and Steve. Where you'd walk in at an ungodly hour for a snack, and Bucky would find you. The place Bucky cooked the meal for your first not-date, setting out wine, pasta and salad— before Sam and Steve had crashed it and ate more than either of you. It was once domestic and safe, but you could never fully let yourself simmer in it. Nagging in the back of your head like a virus that had no cure, you would never relax entirely. 

Distant discussion grabs your attention as you emerge from the elevator. 

"We are taking you in Val," John crosses his arms, staring over at Valentina, who had shifted her attention to you as you walked in with Yelena.

"Hmm, I don't think so, Junior varsity, Captain America." She smiled wickedly as John angrily pulled his gun out of his holster. 

A familiar velvety smooth voice called out to John to stop—Buckys.

"Walker," Bucky warned, and John let his gun fall back into his side. 

Valentina giggled, swirling her drink in her hand and looked to Ava, "Ah, Ava, it's nice to see you again," she shifted her focus over to Yelena, "Yelena, you look awful."

Before turning back to you and saying your name slowly, "I knew you wouldn't stay dead."

You give her a tight, unamused smile, "Still a cunt then, Valentina?" 

She smiles right back, turning to Bucky, "One betrayal wasn't enough, Congressmen? You want her to actually kill someone from your adorable little team this time?" and his jaw tightens uncomfortably. She continues, looking back to Yelena, "And you, are you sure you're still ready for that public-facing role?"

Yelena steps forward, "Hmm, eat shit, Valentina. Where is Bob?"

"You mean Sentry?" She tilts her head, and you turn to Yelena again, the documents you saw at the bunker filling in the blanks, "come on out." 

You all turn to see Bob walking down the stairs, clad in bright yellow and gold attire, looking entirely imperfect. His hair is now blonde and slicked back neatly. Yelena breathes out his name, but he avoids her gaze. His smile was uncertain and nervous as he stood next to Valentina. 

"Sentry is my protection plan, and my reason to sway the committee. I will be unimpeachable," she smugly glances around for your reactions. 

Bucky scoffs, "That is never going to happen."

"Enough talk, nobody messes with the West Chesapeake Valley," Alexei charges forward, towards Bob, "Thunderbolts!" 

Without breaking a sweat, Bob punches Alexei once, sending him flying backward into the wall.

Everyone is suddenly on edge as Bob becomes a bigger threat than anyone had expected. Your fists clench as you feel the tension rise above anything you could ever contain, snapping as the unsheathing of weapons filled the air around you.

Bucky points his gun, Ava geo-leaps and reappears behind him before he sends her staggering back again. John launches his shield, and Bob easily sends it back to him like a Frisbee. Yelena begs them to stop, both of you running towards him when Bob sends a current of energy, sending all four of you flying backwards again.

You groan as you hit the hard wall next to Alexei, distant thoughts of CTE rummaged as you daze at the concrete. Alexei is up before you and warily he helps you stand again. 

Bucky looks back towards you, sending you an evaluative look that borders on concern, before turning his attention to Bob and firing straight at him. You gasp when Bob stops the bullets midair and pushes them full force back towards Bucky, moving too fast for him to dodge them. Pushing yourself forward, his name name slips from between your lips. Everything swirls, it happens so fast, but John is there faster, blocking the bullets with his shield and staggering backwards. Ava and Alexei get there in time again for Bob to disarm them both effortlessly and throw them to the corner of the room. 

Yelena pleads again, jumping onto Bob's back, electricity flowing from her gloves to his neck, "Bob, you don't have to do this, you have a choice."

You feel your face heat; the situation Bob was in was all too familiar to your own, and Buckys ' gaze prickled at your back. You knew it was useless, but you grabbed Buckys disgraced gun off the floor and pointed it up at Bob since Yelena clearly didn't believe that he would disarm her like the rest of them. Suddenly, the metal of the gun is burning your skin and slipping through your fingers. You yelp at the seering sensation, dropping it to the ground, watching as the gun melts into a mush.

John reapproaches him as Bob throws Yelena over to the elevator and grabs John's shield, bending it in half. John eyes widen in shock as Bob grabs you both by your necks. You’re thrashing, clawing with the remains of metal flicking off your gloves as you try to get him off before he’s flinging you over to where the rest of the team was lying. 

Then Bucky flips his knife in his hand, launching it before John pulls him forward with just his mind. The knife uselessly clattering next to Bob. He holds him in the air for a moment before letting him crash to the ground again. But Bucky was headstrong, and you knew he wouldn't give up so easily.

He strips off his jacket, horrifically seductive in a time like this, and strides back for Bob, punching at him hard with his vibranium arm. But Bob was too strong, beyond anything any of you had ever seen and he catches Buckys hand, gripping tight. Bucky groans, trying to free himself when Bob yanks his arm out from his body, and you gasp sharply. Swaying a little, Bob hits Bucky hard over the head with his arm and knocks him out as he's sent back over to the five of you. 

You crawl over to his unconscious form and cradle his head in your lap, frantic.

"James, hey, wake up," lightly grazing his cheek as you shook him slightly.

The rest of the team is up quickly, Ava grabbing Bucky's arm off the ground and Alexei and John moving towards Bucky. You let them hold him up and drag him out of the room, into the elevator. Bob lets you all leave, the look of regret evident on his face, which made your heart pang for him, because you knew that look.

You’d basked in that feeling for too long, the emptiness and the loneliness that devoured you whole; you could see it all on his face even as the elevator doors closed. 

Staring at the Buckys' arm in Ava's hand, you couldn't help but think about when you had done the same to him. You gulp as you step away from him, hand clutched over your mouth with effort, just as the doors opened and Bucky began to stir awake.

Stomach twisting in knots as his detached arm brings you back. You look to Yelena, stepping out of the elevator before anyone else,

"I shouldn't be here when he's awake again." 

She briefly met your eyes, her own teetering on the edge of disdain for herself and for Valentina for turning Bob into this. But she knew what you meant and gave you a tight nod. 

You brush past the rest of them, walking fast and panting harder, memories flooding back in full force. Unable to stop yourself from dry heaving into your palm, anxiety peaked and caused you to breathe harder. Once you were far enough, you turned into an alleyway and threw up, clutching the brick wall for something, anything to ground you. Hacking up the shame and the guilt, despite not knowing when you had last eaten.

Bucky slips out of John's grip and mutters a quiet thanks as his eyes immediately begin scanning around— for you. 

He walks over to Ava, taking his arm from her and clicking it back into place, swinging his arm and recalibrating it. He says your name, "Where did she go?"

Ava shrugged, "Not sure, but she seemed kind of out of it before she walked off." Bucky frowns, and she continues, "She said something to Yelena before leaving, maybe ask her?" 

"Right, thanks," but Ava stops him from leaving too quickly.

"You two used to date, right?" she asks softly, like she wanted to coax the answer from him. But Bucky didn't need any coaxing. 

He nods and smiles fondly, "Yeah, we used to be together. Why do you ask?" 

She smiles at his admission, as though she knew something he didn't, "Oh, no reason." Bucky narrows his eyes but drops it, giving her another thanks before starting after Yelena and Alexei. 

He jogs into the street, finding civilians running around aimlessly. He ushers some of them quickly, yelling to get inside. He moves further into the crowds to find you and Yelena, helping a family up and inside another building. Multiple crashes shift his focus again. A helicopter strikes a nearby apartment building and sends debris flying towards a young girl. Alexei runs fast, getting to her and shielding her with his body. Alexei crouched over, standing once the debris broke over his broad shoulders. Alexei helps the girl up just as a dark shadow looms over the streets of New York and people begin disappearing. The little girl next to Alexei also disappears. The thought of you also getting engulfed in the darkness suddenly sends him into a panic, and he runs toward you and Yelena, yelling your names. 

"We need to get inside, come on," he rasps, urging you both. You nod at him, pulling Yelenas arm along, but she stays standing there, staring up at Bob. 

Your eyes shift to Alexei, dangerously close to being in the darkness as well, "Okay, look, you get him, Bucky, I will bring her," letting out a shaky breath, he doesn't move yet, so you try again, "I will be right behind you." 

He hesitates and then reluctantly nods because you were right and you were more than capable, he knew that. He starts towards Alexei and from the corner of his eye, Ava hauls John up onto his feet, and sprints towards the nearest building where the darkness hadn't reached quite yet.

In seconds, Bucky is pulling Alexei up, who was still trying to wrap his head around the little girl flickering out as well. They reach the arch of the building, panting and overexerted. Ava and John are already there, hands holding the wall as they try to catch their breath.

Bucky glances around, turning over, scanning and searching for you.

But you still weren't there yet. 

Alexei pipes up from next to him, glancing over to John, then to Bucky, "Where is Yelena?"

Ava points toward the dark shadows looming beneath the Void—Bob.

There was Yelena, walking closer and closer to it, and you, inches behind her. It looks like you’re saying something to her, but she doesn’t run. You keep following. Moments later, Yelena disappears, shifting from physical form into a shadow. Milliseconds later, you follow her, drowned out and turned into a shadow of yourself.

Alexei screams, moving out of the arch to get to her, but John holds him back tightly, not letting him go.

And Bucky nearly folds in on himself, breathlessly leaning forwards like the sight of you disappearing had punched him in the gut. He had just gotten you back, even if it was glimpses. He was breathing the same air as you just like before, and he refused to lose it again. You didn’t have enough time yet—he had to right his wrongs this time.

Bucky's body moves before his mind does, starting after you when John calls his name, "Bucky, you can't!" 

His chest heaves, "Why the hell not?" 

"It makes you relive things,” giving Bucky a solemn, knowing look, “it’s like a shame room that loops your worst mistakes. It's gonna make you— wait!, Bucky, hold on!” 

Bucky knew you must've been eating yourself alive for what happened back then. He knew you already had demons before he even met you, that kept you from being entirely honest with him, and that was enough for him. He doesn’t wait for another reason, running into the shadows of his past life and aching for his future to emerge—you.

Bucky crashes through mirrors and drowns in baths of blood in his shame rooms. He relives the worst things he'd ever done and has to feel the weight of the lives he'd taken as the Winter Soldier. Memories of the training he had done in the Red Room, where he had trained countless Widows and ultimately led them to their demise. 

He gets out of it, out of all of it, because he had made his peace and found the closure he needed years ago, because of you. 

While it hurt and he hated himself for those things he had done, he shook the you had already helped him through all of this and brought him to the conclusion that it was not his fault. This was forced onto him, and he was weaponized for this. 

That's what gets him through his shame rooms. 

In a blink, Bucky finds himself in the old Avengers tower in an all too familiar room — your old bedroom. Under the morning light, shining and glittering against your soft, bare skin, there you were, smiling at a past version of him. The two of you were lying under the sheets, naked and tangled together. He was asleep there, which was rare for him until he had met you. He watched as your eyes scanned over his sleeping form, running your fingers softly through his dishevelled hair and grazing his scalp, pulling a soft hum from him. he didn't understand why this was part of your shame room. He didn't understand why this moment could have been so shameful for you if this was all it was, since it felt domestic. 

That was until you kissed his cheek lightly, like waking him was a sin. Your expression shifted to a pained one as you scanned over his sleeping face, burning it into your memory. You spoke softly, careful not to startle him awake,

"I love you, James," tears prickling your pretty eyes as you lay your head on his chest, "I am so sorry that I love you because this is gonna hurt so much more. And it's my fault." Wet droplets touch his sleeping form as he stirs and grips you tighter amid his dreams. 

He furrows his brows at the scene before him. The thought that you loved him enough to be ashamed of it, confusing him all over again. His stomach backflips when he recounts your words. It dawns on him that you really did care for him and didn't mean to fall in love with him. At least it was real to both of you. He steps closer to the bed to watch you there, resting on his chest, eyes closed and eyelashes wet, when the memory reloops itself. 

You weren't in this memory, so that meant you got out of it.

This wasn't your worst. 

He leaves the bedroom and that memory behind, starting down the hallway of the tower. The sound of distant yelling pulls him in that direction, and he jogs faster, reaching the lab and pushing the door open. There you were, the past version of you that he had been pained over for so long that it started to numb itself. You were beneath the past version of him, wide-eyed as Steve held Tony's gunshot wound to keep him from bleeding out. 

You writhe from under his weight, bucking your hips up to get him off of you. He watched you closer, not missing the desperation in your attempts and the pain in your eyes this time. He watches as a single tear slips down your face, as though in preparation for what you had to do, while the past Bucky adjusted himself over you, gripping one of your hands tight to stop your pounding at his chest.

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

He watches as regret begins to flood your face and you reach up his arm, grazing up it like practiced movements. because you had done it dozens of times before, showing him that you loved him despite all of the odds and all of the things he had been forced to do. Showing him that you loved him, despite his past. He knows what's going to come next, and he hears your voice crack like it wounded you to say it this time around.

"But I need to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

The past version of him backs off from you and stares at the metal, hitting the ground, not taking in the look on your face. The past version of him didn't see the immediate regret plastered on your expression and the way you shut your eyes before moving and getting up. 

Then the memory loops. 

The pieces he had missed years ago were falling into place, and he was understanding you better now. With a heavier heart, Bucky looks around the room, looking for the next memory you might be stuck in. He stops at a reflective surface beneath a computer when he sees a glimpse of you—the real you.

The room was dark and only illuminated by the dark street lights. But there you were, sitting on the twin-sized bed, hunched over and looking towards another person. A younger girl with the same colour of hair and skin sat by the window, still, looking outside. The girl was maybe ten or eleven years old, and her back was facing him. Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her. He calls your name, and nothing happens. He tries again, and the lab darkens, mimicking the memory you were stuck in. He turns around to find you closer and himself in the room with you. He hesitates to reach out and touch you when a distant gunshot rips through the air, and he sees you flinch, retracting his hands. Deciding to watch and try to understand what you could never tell him, he sits next to you quietly, your eyes still trained on the younger version of you.

He watches the scene before him just as the memory reloops itself. 

A ten-year-old version of you sat by your window, reading from a book: The Giver. The spine was cracked, and you had a finger in your mouth, biting your nail like the story was keeping you on the edge of your seat. Before his brows could furrow, the doorbell rang, and you perked up. You called out your parents' names—no response. Placing your book carefully upside down to keep your page open, you stood up and walked out of your room and past your father's study. He was on the phone, looking angry and completely busy, your mother asleep in her bedroom after a long day at work. You thought you were being helpful. 

The young you rubbed at her eyes and walked to the front door, undoing the latch and unlocking it. When you opened the door, a tall man wearing a suit and tie peered down at the young you, grinning wickedly. 

"Are your parents home, sweetheart?" the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. 

"Yeah, who are you?" you asked. 

He said your father's full name and his workplace, easing the tension on your face. You thought you could trust him.

"I have a meeting with him, hmm? Would you let me inside to see him?" his eyes were dark with malicious intentions that a child would never understand.

You nodded and let him inside, pointing him toward his study. You were so young, so naive. You thought you were doing them a favour by allowing him inside the house. You thought that this was your father's friend, or his business partner or something. A horrible gut feeling pulled at Bucky as he was forced to watch what he already felt was coming. 

"Dad?" you called out, pushing your father's study open, the man inches behind you. 

Your father looked up at you, his expression quickly falling at the man standing there, holding a gun just low enough that you couldn't even see, but your father could.

"Be a dear, go get your mother too," the man said. 

You turned to ask him why when you saw it, the weapon in his hands. The white gun aimed towards you, bearing the symbol of the enormous building situated in New York.

The unmistakable name etched on the barrel of the gun—Stark Industries. 

You stared at it a moment too long, focused on the name and sealing it in your core memories. Encoding the name and wondering where you recognized it from, when the man nudged you.

"Get your mother. Now." 

Panic set in, and you turned to your father, a similar look painted over his. He nodded for you to listen and gave you a smile that was meant to soothe you. Even the young version of you understood, something was wrong.

You left the room, walking as quickly as your little legs could take you to the master bedroom and pushing the door open. 

She sat up, calling your name and asking if everything was alright. You told her everything, stuttering at parts because it was happening so fast. She calmed you down, sat you in her lap. She asked you to describe the man, and when you did, you saw the colour drain from her face. Now you knew you really had messed up, and you started to cry. She sat you on the bed alone, moving to her closet to the safe you were never allowed to touch and unlocked it. 

When she came back to you, she pressed a heavy gun to your hand and whispered your name, hurried in her actions. 

"I want you to lock the door after we leave. When you do that, go to your room and stay there. Do not open the door for anyone," you were crying as you listened to her. You protested, trying to put the gun down, but she held it in your hands, "If someone comes upstairs, you use this." 

You were shaking with fear and guilt for letting the man into the house, crying for your mother not to leave when she stood up. She kissed and hugged you tightly, and you knew what it meant. She left the room and walked towards your father's study. After a minute, you heard arguing about money, about a debt. The man laughed while you heard your mother cry. Suddenly, the study door opened, and hurried footsteps went through the front door. You ran after them, doing as your mother said and closing the door, locking both bolts. 

You sprinted back up to your room, sitting by the window still and knocking the book you had been reading earlier to the ground, letting it shut. Distant pleading bled through the glass of your bedroom window as the man dragged them out back, exactly where your room was facing. He lined them up, facing towards the house, on their knees. The man held the gun to the back of your father's head first, before turning it on your mother's. The gunshot rang through the air and through Bucky's ears, and instinctively, his eyes shut. The man in the suit left them there, bloodied and horrific, just below where you were, and purposefully met your eyes. The bastard knew you were watching, giving you the same wicked smile as before as he waved his gun at you and walked away. 

The young you watched the whole scene, hand pressed over your mouth to muffle your cries, as the real you remained slumped next to him, letting the scene replay all over again. Bucky didn't even realize his face was wet with tears until he looked back at you, watching your expression. He says your name softly, touching your shoulder. 

A shudder leaves you at the contact, finally looking up into his eyes, 

"I killed them, Bucky. Not Tony, not his fucking father. It was me."

He shook his head, turning you to look at him, "No, you didn't kill them. That man did. He pulled the damn trigger." When you shook your head and tears rolled faster, he cupped your cheek, concern etched over his face, "You can't blame yourself for this, sweetheart."

The distant chatter of the younger you leading the man up the stairs, letting him go to your dad's study, it was all too much. You had been in this room for so long, you couldn't recall when you weren't anymore. You gasped for air through your tears, trying to inflate your lungs fully but you couldn't do it. 

The air felt thicker—it felt wrong. 

It felt like the air that was filling your lungs was solidifying as it sat there, weighing you down. Bucky saw it; he always caught it. He says your name again, but it dilutes itself between your ears, echoing off the thumping of your heart. The sound is an echo in the cave between your chest cavity. 

You rasped through your tears, "Their blood is on me, James. I let him inside," pulse pounding through your ears. You're ripping at your chest as breaths come too short and words too fast, "It was me all along and I blamed Tony, and now he's dead and I can't take it back—"

Bucky recognizes the signs of a panic attack, having had many himself. 

His face shifts and his eyes grow warmer, "Hey, don't do that," pulling your hand off your chest and taking it in his, "You gotta breathe for me." 

He takes deep breaths, encouraging you to copy him. You do, but are continually unable to calm yourself down. He kneels on the ground, his hands still holding yours as he situates himself between your knees. For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing with you. The warmth of his hands grounded you amidst the cold storm that threatened to pull you under again. Wiping the tears as they flowed down your face. You couldn't help but lean into his familiar touch, seeking his reassurance.

He spoke softly, squeezing your hand gently, "You were a child then, sweetheart. You couldn't have known." You couldn't tell where reality began and the past ended, but his voice, his grip, grounded you. You began breathing more evenly. He waited for you to calm down enough to squeeze his hands back before pulling them to his lips and kissing them softly, "It's not your fault, you hear me? You did what you thought you had to."

Your breath still stuttered, but your stomach twists, "Why are you in here, Buck?" 

Bucky doesn't look at you for a moment, and he doesn't answer right away. Then he looks up with his gaze of something too raw to name, "you. I came for you." 

You feel your throat tighten at his confession; you want to say something, but you're at a loss. The gunshot echoes through the air again, and you squeezed your eyes shut before the memory started to loop once again. 

He stands, pulling you up with him and steadying you next to him with a hand around your waist, "We gotta go, okay?" 

You nod. He lets you stay silent, giving you time to gather it all and find your peace in the quiet. Without disturbing your sobered tranquillity, he leads the way out. 

Back at the Watchtower, you were bundled up in an old blanket you found in the closet. Thickly knit and cozy, it faintly smelled of antiseptics. You knew it must have been one of Bruce's he'd kept in the lab for when he would work too late in the evening and sleep there. Vaguely, you wondered if Bruce came by this tower anymore or if he and Clint even spoke. 

The television was on and snapped your attention just as it showed a rerun of an important announcement. Valentina had announced the New Avengers, featuring you, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, John, and Bucky. The crowd oohs and ahs as the group of you steps forward. You watch as Yelena leans forward to whisper in Valentina's ear, and her face pales. 

Bucky walks in, holding a stack of paper in his hands and reading it like he had a personal vendetta. He was focused muttering to himself about his distaste for the people he works with. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket off you slightly,

"Hey."

His eyes meet yours and he gives a slow, warm smile, "Hey."

You catch his eyes scanning over you, fondly like he remembered something.

Bucky crosses the room, setting his paperwork down on the table. He glances over at the television, "You were there, remember? What are you watching this for?" 

Glad that he didn't start with unpacking the heaviness in the room, you shrug, "I just turned it on, and I don't mind watching Valentina realize she's fucked herself over with us."

Bucky snorts, scooching himself closer to you. You're not sure how well you hid your surprise when he lifted the blanket and situated himself underneath with you, the domestication of the action making your heart skip. The warmth of his skin radiated off the shell of his thin shirt, even though he isn't touching you, just hovering close enough. You sigh softly, shifting your back against the couch to create some distance. 

"Thank you," and his eyes snap to yours, expression turning more serious. 

"Don't thank me," shifting in his seat and tugging the blanket, "I did what I had to." 

You frown a little, brows knitting as you turn your head back at the television. He was being serious, or he was just flat out lying to you now, right? 

You murmur your words, "You didn't have to come in after me. Especially not after everything I put you through." 

From the corner of your eye, you see his lips curl into a smile. 

"I think if you did try to kill me, I might thank you at this point," he turns to face you fully, tulting his head so he could see your whole face, "I mean, as long as you don't leave again. Or try to kill someone on the team. Actually, forget that last part, I can excuse it.”

You shake your head in disbelief, "You don't mean that." 

Squinting at you, he takes your hands off your lap and leans over, closing the distance between you, dropping his head in your lap. You freeze with your hands lingering just over his head as he situates himself, ocean eyes staring up at you like you'd hung the stars. The feelings, the memories, the love, all of it came flooding back like a dam that had been straining against itself, the current overwhelming. 

"You need to stop telling me what I do and don't mean." his hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, "This would've all been solved a lot quicker if you would quit doing that, sweetheart." 

His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over your ear, moving over to cup your cheek. Alleviated from his touch alone—you don't know how to trust it or yourself not to ruin things again. His eyes shone as they looked into yours and through you, as though he alone could grasp your thoughts. 

"If you told me you wanted Stark dead, I would've listened to you." Bucky quietly admits, his head still in your lap. 

"W—what?" You look down at him, not sure you heard him right. 

"I would've followed you anywhere, I would've loved you even after you did all of that." he slowly sits up, "You and Steve were the only ones who saw me beyond the things I’ve done. I know it’s wrong and I know it wasn’t his fault but for you…” he trails off before finding other words, “you just had to say the word.”

The sincerity in his tone felt like it had seized time, and you swore you could hear a pin drop.

How do you even respond to that?

Here you were thinking he hated you for all of this, and he's telling you he just wanted the truth from you. Mindlessly, your hands ran through his hair, calming your nerves and earning a soft hum from him.

With Bucky, you had been the one who first uncovered the mush of a man he always was behind that hardened armor—but he did the same to you.

Your guard was always down at his touch. He says your name like honey on his tongue, the sound familiar to your starved ears.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, but you can't tear your gaze from wanting to smooth the lines around his eyes when he’s deep in thought or touching the stubble he’d grown in your absence. 

"I'm thinking of how to apologize," your voice soft, hands even softer as you massaged his scalp for what felt the first time in an eternity, "and I don't know where to begin with it, and you're being too nice about it, like I didn't treat you badly." 

He laughs, hands dropping in surrender, "Being nice is a problem now?" 

"It is when you've fucked up and hurt the people you care about as many times as I have, James," and he laughs again but you can’t help but crack a smile back, "what the hell is so funny?" 

"I just realized you only call me James when you get worked up about something," you sigh, and he continues, "and you know I am not exactly the most innocent person in the world. I have definitely fucked up plenty more than you, and I will continue to fuck up cause that's just life." 

"You make it sound so simple," 

"And you make it harder than it needs to be. Redemption isn't erasing the blood that's been spilt to stop the bleeding; that's just counterintuitive. You're the one who helped me come to terms with that.” He touches your hand, “Let me help you do the same, hmm?"

You ponder it, not sure what to say. With a heavy sigh, you let it soak in the self-doubt and confusion that deluded you. When the weight feels like it has condensed, he sits up next to you. 

"When did you get so wise, Mr. Barnes?" 

"Oof," clutching his chest dramatically, "I was born in the 40's, pretty girl. I know a thing or two about life and having regrets.”

You laugh a little and he smiles at the victory, "But really, I am sorry for, you know, taking your arm and not telling you what I was really feeling."

He coos, "Yeah, that was a low blow, babe, hitting a man while he's already broken-hearted by taking his metal arm? You're a menace.”

His expression shifts into something more serious as he is more intentional with his words. Running a hand through his hair he sighs,

“Truthfully, you have haunted me for years. And that version of myself. What I said to you…” he trails off.

You let the air fill with uncertainty and unease as he tries to find the words; you didn’t have anything to say and ease the quiet with. When he sighs deeply, your eyes briefly meet his and his brows lift as the words finally find him.

“—When I told you to leave that day, I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to stay, and I have nightmares of the last time we spoke often. Every waking moment we have been apart has felt like I couldn't breathe freely."

"James," you breathe like the rug might get pulled from under you. You don’t miss the quiver of his lips as his gaze falters.

"—I thought you might've been the bane of my existence, but after I saw you again, that weight was lifted and I could breathe. I can't sleep without you near me. No, I haven't slept without you. I went to morgues, I called hospitals, I became a fucking Congressman to get access to more government documents, just in case you were mentioned in something, anything—"

The gasp that left you was soft and surprised. You couldn't help how your hands trailed up his arms while he continued pouring his heart out as though he just couldn't stop. 

"—I knew I’d fucked up as soon as I closed that door behind me. I should've let you explain, and I shouldn't have told you to go," but you're moving over him, starting to straddle him as he spirals in his own doubt, "I wanted you to stay so badly but you seemed so hellbent on leaving, I thought saying that might've made you stay, or helped me cope with it—" 

"James, I love you too," snapping his attention to you, holding his face in your palms.

He lets out a shaky breath, hands resting on your thighs in uncertainty and barely concealed restraint, “you do?”

You nod as his hands wrap around your torso, finally. Holding you tightly like he needed you to ground him in this moment to believe it. The feeling familiar but something still felt far away. You sigh deeply, trying to revel in the feelings of him, trying to hide the exasperation in your tone.

"You don't have to say it back, but you said it in the lab, and I should've said it back then." 

He shakes his head quickly, "but I do. Fuck, I do. I love you, I—I, God, I have always loved you, and it has been consuming me." 

You pull back just to look at him, and he immediately closes the distance, crushing his lips into yours. It was hurried, exhausted and hungry all at once. it was the kind of kiss you’d wanted from him for so long, the press of his soft lips threatened inhibitions. The taste of him could get you addicted all over, like a drug you’d long forgotten. You craved him and he was already here. You couldn’t have enough of him and you just got it back.

This feeling could drowned you with ecstasy but it be worth every second, as long as you felt it this vividly. The promise of his permanence could make you a religious person. The threat of not touching him like this again, it could end your sanity.

He breathes you in as you scrape your nails up into the nape of his neck, laughing into his mouth as he moans into yours. 

"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of this," pressing quick, wet kisses, “of you.”

His hands tangling softly through your hair as though he couldn't possibly let go. Pecking sweet kisses as if he couldn't believe this were real and he needed to touch you just to know it was really happening.

He drops his hands to trail down your sides and graze the curves he had memorized so fondly. Trailing to your hips and gripping them tight, he bucks his instinctively up into yours, coaxing a moan to let his tongue slide inside. He sucks on your tongue, persuading another gasp and making you say his name. you try to pull away for some semblance but he follows your candied lips, entirely feral. 

“Down boy,” You say as you try to pull away again, putting a hand on his chest in between you. But he won’t let you, chest pressed flush against yours like he couldn’t bear being further.

"I'm not letting you go again," your back arches as you lean backward, laughing as you try to create space.

Bucky has that same charm, smiling against your lips to make all reason disappear as you kiss him with the same reverence. You whimper into him as he drags your hips back and forth, just the way he knows you always liked.

He moans as you give in, almost whining when you follow his hips, "missed you baby. I’m never leaving you alone now yeah? Better get used to this sweetheart." 

You’re about to say something when a voice from the doorway startles both of you, "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this, ugh."

You nearly jump out of his lap as you turn to face John, looking at you in disgust. Ava, Yelena, and Bob snickering next to him, Alexei striding in past them, headed straight for the fridge. Yelena walks past the couch to get to the kitchen, Bob and Ava following behind her and shooting you smiles like they knew this was coming. You mutter quiet apologies as Bucky rolls his eyes, not sorry at all.

They stop at the kitchen island just as Bucky reluctantly lets you hop off of his lap to sit next to him, adjusting your top and dishevelled hair. You reach over to fix Buckys, and he smiles at you almost drunkenly, his lips swollen from ferociously attacking yours. 

You don't have to look at Bob to hear the smile in his voice, "I think you guys are perfect for each other." 

Yelena snorts, "Yes, both are broody and try to kill people, so perfect."

"That is what all good relationships have, Lena, passion! That means they love each other, eh?" Alexei winks at you. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks as you look over to Bucky, who's already staring at you, smiling sheepishly when you catch him. He can't help the need to be closer to you, and he tugs you closer to his chest. You let him, humming in content as he pulls the blanket over both of you once again.

Everyone else is already lost in their own conversations, the sounds of utensils and pans clanking—you're distracted by the sounds that prove Bucky is alive.

Drowning out everything that isn't the sound of his heart thumping under your ear and the rumble in his voice when he talks. You're shutting your eyes and smiling when he catches you basking in the feeling of him. He kisses the top of your head as he changes the news channel to something else that you couldn’t care less about.

The weight of the world rolled off your shoulders like raindrops and everything that had been done felt fleeting and utterly unimportant. You drift asleep for the first time in a long time and, with photo evidence that Yelena showed you the next day, so does he.

In his strong arms, forgiveness came easy and adoration could’ve consumed you whole. You were smitten but he was infatuated.

Unconditionally, undeniably, and terribly in love.

tag, you’re it: @herejustforbuckybarnes @thewitchhofoz @sebastians-love @onlyjunisworld @houseofhyde @letterstoangel @your-everyday-weirdo @flockoff-featherface @bratsoldier @wandanatissuperior @glorpalicious @little-letti @metal-armed-muse @emmaiscool22 @yyiikes @mamacocha9 @taylordaughter @heldbybarnes @mfstargrll @sakiigami @ultrahoney @skitwantstaste @winterdvil @himikoquack @dansplayboy

a/n: my first long fic, i’d love your thoughts and theories<3

[lunexiax]

𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙 (𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!nurse!reader

summary: You think Bucky may have an intense, innate hatred for you - something he is powerless to fight. You couldn't be more wrong.

warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication, idiots in love, description of medical environment & gunshot injury (non-graphic), cursing, angst with a happy ending, medical malpractice (seriously), nurse!reader written by someone who prob knows about as much about biology as a newborn

a/n: this was inspired by merry crush-mas by @unificsation - if you would like to see a much better version of the 'i think he hates me but he's actually in love and socially inept' trope, look no further!

dt @tw1sters who listened to me complain about writing this for far longer than what should be socially acceptable and read some bits i was unsure about. you are likely the only reason i finished this fuckass fic 🥀

You have only to look out the window at the first unfurling of whiteness across the city, and you see Bucky.

New York in the snow doesn’t look like Austria in 1945 - you know this - but you see him all the same. You see him in the pebbled grit of Central Park soil stubbornly fighting its way out of the first assault of white and you see him again when that grit is gone - when the snow has won and the soil is nowhere to be seen. You think of how the winter beat Bucky too once, many years ago.

You see him in the faces of busy New Yorkers who haven’t dressed appropriately for the biting chill, expressions twisted up into a squeezed grimace, like they are regretting leaving their beds and central heating for this torture. You think about Bucky freezing in the Alps or in a cryostasis chamber and wonder whether, in his lucid moments, he ever regretted the lifelong loyalty that made him follow Steve into a deathtrap. You always doubt it.

Mostly, though, you see him in the cold itself. It is reminiscent of the expression that crosses his face when you walk into the room - pained and frosty. Bucky can’t help the way he hates you. You see resentment stacked upon his face in layers, as if he really wishes he didn’t have to dislike you and he resents you even more for forcing him to. 

His hatred for you might be some old and ancient instinct. You can’t find any reason for it other than it being inscribed into him since birth. Bucky Barnes has 46 chromosomes, blue eyes and he has always hated you. It might also be an old and ancient instinct within you that makes you helplessly adore him.

You say this only because you’re not sure what he has given you to adore. His long, gruff silences? His domineering scowls? The tidbits you pick up from his conversations with others? Yes - you’re sure there must be something else to it. You cannot explain this feeling away by any other means. 

His flat stares do nothing to feed your affection for him - they just intimidate you. But they do nothing to wipe it away either. You feel his blue eyes regarding you with a sort of suspicion as you wipe his bare skin, dabble his wounds with antiseptic.

And you can bear it for the most part. You can smile and make jokes and act like his indifference doesn’t cut you. But you always hate this part. 

When you treat Sam or Nat, it is considerably less sexy. They will often require skin grafts or some other grotesque meddling of flesh and bones; they protest and whine their way through each procedure in a way that is mostly innocent, but extraordinarily annoying. 

Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t need you to click anything into place or drain any stomach-turning abscesses. He sits as silent as a stone while you clean him up and wrap his wounds in tight bandages, safe in the knowledge that they will quietly heal themselves before the day is through. He doesn’t complain the way the others do - doesn't speak at all unless forced. He only grits his teeth and stares fixedly at you. Sometimes a grunt rips its way up from low in his chest at a sudden sting from the antiseptic and your stomach lurches.

He somehow had enough time to grab himself a coffee before making it here, but it is going cold beside him. You wish he would busy himself with it just so he would stop looking at you.

In fact, you wish you could fade away. You wish you were anywhere but right here. You wish you were removing pieces of metal from his back like you had to last week, with his face planted firmly into the stretcher. At least then you wouldn't have to hide the way your hands shake and your breath staggers. You wouldn't have to be conscious of the way your eyes catch on his round, sloping shoulders or the swelling mountains of muscle on his arms. His deep, gravelly noises would be muffled by the bed.

“You guys got your asses beat, huh?”

You know better than to try to make small talk with Bucky by now, but his unfriendly eyes make your frantic mind do frantic things. They are narrowed on you and your brain invents different accusations that might be running through his mind but not reaching as far as his lips. The winning theory - that he senses your heavy, unadulterated want - sends a cold quake of dread down your spine. Your desire sits like some shameful, humiliating pit in your stomach. You wish you could rip it out, roots and all. 

“Someone sure did,” Sam says from the bed across the way, when it becomes clear that you’re not getting anything from Bucky. He doesn’t have a scratch on him - Rosalia has already began to run toxin screens. “I’m still intact. No ass whooping for me.”

“Yeah. Says a lot about your contribution,” Bucky grumbles, and his chest vibrates under your fingertips.

“Get outta here, man,” Sam laughs and you watch Bucky’s jaw twitch in response. “Just say you’re jealous of the wings.”

The conversation you started gets hijacked from there and suddenly Bucky is more than willing to talk, even though his voice is clipped and irritated.

Initially you thought it might have been an awkwardness that prevented him from being friendly with you, or maybe a snobbery. That would have been easier; if he thought he was somehow above you because of his station, you might have overcome your infatuation much earlier. But you caught him making casual conversation with the janitor in just your second week, asking her whether she was going to return to her native Latvia for the holidays.

You then reasoned that he must have some sort of trauma associated with medical staff. It made perfect sense. You couldn’t imagine how much pain was born from people who look just like you; people who wore your scrubs, who carried the same clipboards under their arms, pressed the same needles into his flesh. And sure - he never looks overly comfortable in the med bay - but he never seems to take that out on Rosalia or Tania or Jonathan. You’re pretty sure you even heard him invite Jonathan to the highly coveted Avengers team drinks a few weeks ago.

So you thought it must have been something in the way you handle him. You had tried to soften your touch, fingers barely grazing his skin while you cleaned him. It had just made him pout more. You had tried apologising profusely whenever you needed to poke or prod at him. He had just mumbled that it wasn’t necessary.

So - yes. Hatred for you must simply be a trait he was born with, like a birth mark. 

You try not to let your own rotten birth mark show while you bandage him up - the one that sits in you like a weight. You dab antiseptic onto the final wound on his collarbone just to watch him squirm. A punishment for the crime that only you are aware he has committed.

Bucky hisses and his flesh arm springs up on instinct to clutch your hip, anchoring himself. Your body goes still and Sam cuts himself off mid-sentence. His fingers feel warm against your skin, even through your scrubs. After one deep, solid breath, Bucky realises his mistake. He tears his arm away as if struck. 

He levels you with his eyes again, this time with increased intensity. He stares warily at you as if you had physically picked up his arm and splayed his palm out on your body against his will.

You clench your jaw - his instincts are not your issue. If anything, he should be the one apologising to you. You harden your own gaze in a sturdy endeavour to keep your pride intact.

“You okay, Buck?” Sam asks, shuffling a bit.

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Shit stings.”

You don’t miss the way Sam’s eyes shift to you with an apologetic grimace, but you do your best to ignore it.

“Well maybe if you stopped rolling in here like a crashed car after every mission, I wouldn’t have to use so much,” you say with a smile. A strained twitch of the lips from Bucky.

“How else is he gonna impress the ladies?” Sam calls out. “The whole brooding bad boy thing doesn’t work without a few bruises.”

Even just the idea of Bucky flirting with other women has a nausea fighting its way through your stomach and up your throat. Bucky doesn’t look any more pleased at the comment, until Rosalia advances a needle into Sam’s arm. Sam yelps. 

Bucky smiles then and it’s a wonderful thing.

“Sorry, Wilson,” Rosalia drawls cheekily.

“Why do you always have to take me by surprise?” He turns to point at you. “Next time I call dibs on you.”

“She’s my nurse.” Bucky’s voice comes out gruff.

You blink. So does Sam. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care - just continues to sulk, eyes planted firmly at the floor. 

Fuck - you’re pathetic. Your heart squeezes as if he had just called you his in any sort of meaningful way and you hate him, hate him, hate him.

Sam recovers quickly, but not without a lingering wariness. “You can’t own a nurse.”

He kind of can and he kind of does. You are one of the first in the world to get your DNP in serum-enhanced human physiology and were hired specifically to take care of Bucky and Steve. You look after the others on the team when you can, but you are technically Bucky’s nurse. You’re just not sure what to make of him calling you so.

“You call dibs on Rose whenever I’m working on you, Sam,” you say, because it feels much safer than anything else you are thinking. “Grass is greener and all that.”

“I’m offended actually,” Rosalia says. “Think I’ll hand you off to Tania from now on.”

Tania is the charge nurse in the med bay. She rules the floor with an iron fist, and uses the same iron fist to take care of her patients. Sam is pleading with Rosalia not to do that, turning his full attention to her - compliments and entreaties spilling from him.

“Nothing brings a man to his knees quicker than Tania,” you say to Bucky with a quiet smile, wrapping bandage tightly around his bicep. You try not to notice how much material is required just to cover the surface area.

Bucky just grunts back, as expected, but his lips twitch up. “Only been patched up by her once. I’d rather turn around and go right back to the shootout,” he says. And it’s gruff and not overly personable but it’s something.

“And undo all my hard work?”

“Think I’d come to you in worse shape than this after thirty minutes with Tania.”

A laugh is punched out of you. This is dangerous and unchartered and you feel giddy, even if there’s a wretched anxiety mingled in with all the excitement.

“I’m not even sure I could put you back together after that.”

“Yeah you could, doll. You always do.”

Doll.

Your face explodes with heat, gut softening into a warm, sticky goo. You were not expecting any sort of niceness or sincerity - he saves that for everyone else. It means nothing to him and everything to you and that alone is so terrifying that you can’t continue to tease him. You clear your throat.

“Can you sit up a bit? Wanna check your shoulder.”

When Bucky straightens his spine, it is abundantly clear that whatever moment of quiet amity you were sharing has passed. He is glaring at the floor and your chest swoops painfully. You sit in stony silence again with no Sam to break it.

Sometimes when he looks at his reflection, Bucky still sees the 26-year-old that fell from the train. It’s rare; just fleeting instances that leave him more bereft than uplifted, but it’s always when he comes back from the med bay. 

He sees that same optimism he had back in 1945 - the lust for life. He’s not the same man anymore and never will be. He has mostly accepted that, just like he has mostly accepted that he will never have you. But mostly is not completely. It’s the hope that hurts.

He only has to look at you to know that you are out of reach.

You are intimidated by him. He can see it clear as day on your face. It doesn’t matter that he always puts himself in the line of fire on missions, hoping to get banged up just enough that he can spend some extra time with you. It doesn’t matter that he never complains about the stings and the jabs you inflict on him, or that he brings you your regular coffee order that you never ever touch. You’re still spooked.

He thinks of yesterday, when his arm reached up to grab you reflexively. He had hardly touched you - hadn't ventured anywhere indecent - but you froze up as if threatened. He thinks of his slip-up; the word doll spilling from his lips as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he had forgotten for a brief second that you weren’t actually his to give affectionate nicknames. The way you had gone stock-still. The way you had ignored it, changed the subject. 

The fact that you are scared of him annoyed him at first, because here is a nurse who specialised in serum-enhanced physiology by choice. Could you not have thought this through a bit more?

But Bucky supposes he can understand it, after everything he’s done. And you’re not like that with Steve; with him, you’re completely at ease. He thinks maybe that is when he fell for you - watching you talk to Steve.

You’re intelligent and kind and pretty as a fucking picture. Definitely not the sort of broad who would bother herself with someone like Bucky. Bucky who is too old, too hollowed out. Whose mind is still recovering from being tangled up like wires. Who doesn’t even really know how to talk to you.

But sometimes he doesn’t see himself that way. Sometimes he floats back from the med bay and sees that 26-year-old starting back at him in the mirror and feels like maybe you could want him. Not now, maybe not even soon. But eventually.

It’s that blind optimism that has him fidgeting nervously beside Steve, balancing his words and pretending to watch Casablanca. He is vaguely aware that Steve is shooting him confused glances from the sofa. Bucky shifts; doesn’t look back at him. 

Eventually, he can sense that Steve is about to ask so Bucky bites the bullet - says your name. Steve raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Uh does she-” he stutters. “Do you know if she- Has someone?”

“Has someone?” Steve looks confused. Bucky wants to die. “What, like an assistant? I don’t think so. You think she needs one?”

“No,” Bucky says, voice strained and mortified. “Not that. She’s doing great. I meant like-”

He can’t finish his sentence, and suddenly all remnants of that 26-year-old dissipate into thin air. In fact, he’s sure that 26-year-old would be looking at him with utter shame and disgust right now. He imagines him saying something like: ’You can’t even talk about women? In front of Steve, of all people?’

Steve is clearly not thinking about all the times that Bucky had teased him for being nervous on the subject of women before the serum. He just looks even more bewildered.

“Buck, are you asking me if she has a boyfriend?”

He flushes and nods solemnly, as if he has just signed his own death warrant.

He had thought Steve might tease him a bit. Or smile and make some sickeningly earnest comment about how great it is that he’s thinking of getting back out there. God- Bucky fucking hates that term. He’s heard it too much in the last few years. What does that even imply anyway? That there’s some kind of mandate to find someone who can put up with him?

Steve surprises him. He frowns. “No she doesn’t. That I’m aware of, at least.”

Bucky can’t help the way the corners of his mouth creak upwards. He’s aware that he’s not the only person who has noticed you. He is inflicted with super-hearing, which means that when Rosalia cross-questions you about dates you’ve been on from across the med bay, he is a reluctant bystander. You react awkwardly, clearly more conscious of your witness.

You always say the same thing: ‘Yeah, it was good. I’ll tell you about it later.’

Bucky doesn’t know whether good means good or great or terrible. But he hadn’t heard Rosalia ask for a while, and he was starting to fear that the last good had meant excellent. That it meant permanent. 

“You’re not…” Steve stops, frowns again. “You’re not interested in her, are you?”

Bucky just shrugs, a little sulky. Leave it to Steve to nag him about getting back out there, just to turn around and whine about medical malpractice the moment it’s inconvenient. It’s not like Bucky wanted to get it bad for his nurse. It just happened.

“We all thought you hated her,” Steve says and he seems to be attempting nonchalance but Bucky’s head snaps to him with breakneck speed, so there is really no point.

“Hate her? I do not hate her. I-“ He stops. He had almost forgotten that he is mortified by this whole conversation. “That couldn't be further from the truth.”

It’s clearly starting to really dawn on Steve now. He looks 9 parts shocked, 1 part uncomfortable. “You barely speak to her.”

Bucky is sure he must be the colour of plums. “Yeah, I-”

I’m too fucking spineless. He can’t say it, but Steve understands.

“Well, fuck.”

For the first time in this conversation, they’re on the same page.

They sit in silence for a moment, side-by-side. Bucky watches Steve out of the corner of his eye. Ilsa is pleading for the pianist to play it again and the sucker usually starts sniffing at this part of the movie, but he’s dry eyed and contemplative. 

“You don’t think she thinks that, do you?” Bucky starts.

“What?” Steve asks, distracted momentarily as Sam walks into the room.

“That I hate her.”

“Who?” Sam pipes up. “Your nurse?”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “How did you know?”

“Everyone knows,” he scoffs. “You had it out for that poor girl since day one. Dunno why she’s still here. I woulda quit within a week if I had to put up with your crabby ass glaring at me all day.”

Bucky is horrified… or, rather he is something indescribably worse. Because he is coming to the awful, sobering realisation that he has fucked this up before it could even take off. Before it had even had a chance.

He hears Sam ask Steve why Bucky looks like someone killed his puppy and he hears Steve mutter back but it’s all white noise. 

No wonder you can’t stand him. No wonder he can never get anything more than light conversation out of you. Not that he’s ever really tried. Mostly it’s you that tries to initiate, now that he thinks about it. But that’s only because you’re scared of him - he doesn’t want to push you but maybe that just made it worse and oh god- he’s spiralling.

Bucky truly is no stranger to pain; it is his closest friend. Closer than Sam, closer than Steve. It has never strayed too far from him since he joined the war effort in 1942. It has sat with him in prison cells, conversed with him in cryostasis chambers, wiped his tears at the graves of family members whose funerals he was about 60 years too late for.

Bucky thought he had experienced every kind of pain. He had tasted every flavour, tried every size. If there is such thing as a pain connoisseur, it is him. But this is a very new, very different kind of pain. It steals the wind from his lungs.

And he knows this pain is irrational - of course it is. His life is a mosaic of nightmares. Compared to all the horrific things he had been through, this should be insignificant. He hadn’t ever been on a date with you. He had just swirled around in your orbit, hoping dumbly and ambitiously that you would eventually warm to him.

But truthfully, it feels like that 26-year-old is falling from the train all over again and hope is forever lost. He’s not even sure what that hope is for, he just knows it’s gone.

Sam is looking at him from the opposite sofa, face frozen in shock, and Bucky figures Steve filled him in. 

“Is that why you called her yours yesterday? I knew that shit was weird, man.”

“No I didn’t-“ Bucky tries to say, before remembering that he did. He scowls at the floor. “Didn’t even mean it like that.”

Steve notices his turmoil, because he always does. He shakes his head casually, even though his face is still twisted with discomfort. 

“Look, maybe we’re jumping to conclusions here. She could have read you better than we did. I mean, we’ve never actually talked to her about you so we can’t know for sure.” It’s abundantly clear that he doesn’t believe it and neither does Bucky.

“I have,” Sam says, arm flexing as he leans back into his seat.

“What?” Bucky’s head snaps up.

“I’ve talked to her about you.” Sam is enjoying the theatrics, smiling as he waits for them to ask.

“And?” Steve pushes.

“And she thinks you hate her.”

Bucky’s heart dives painfully until he feels it in his stomach. “And what did you say?” he damn-near growls.

“Well up until a few minutes ago I did think you hated her so I couldn’t exactly disagree-”

The urge to spring off the sofa and deck Sam in the jaw is suddenly overwhelming him. Steve reads it immediately and cuts Sam off.

“Doesn’t matter. Buck, if you really like this girl, you gotta talk to her.”

Doesn’t Steve think he’s tried that? He’s tried so hard, day after day, until he was blue in the face. He had even prepared topics that he thought you might want to talk about in advance, but something always happens. His mind goes blank or you start shooting the shit with Steve instead. Or, worst of all, your breath staggers and hands shake in trepidation when you get a bit too close to him and he just… deflates, reminded immediately of who he is and how people feel about him. 

“Start small, ask her a question,” Steve eventually says with a sigh. “It won’t be difficult. I promise.”

It is difficult - really fucking difficult, in fact - to be alone in a room with Bucky.

You don’t mind as much when Steve is there. He usually is because of how often they work together, and he takes enough pity on you to keep a conversation going while you tend to Bucky’s wounds and run tests on him. Even when Bucky is stoic and silent, you can rely on Steve to jabber steadily on in the background, despite the fact that it’s obvious there isn’t much to talk about.

But Steve has ushered Bucky into the med bay himself this time, insisting that he had some urgent business to attend to before he could go for his own medical assessment. You’re trying to still your hands while you wipe the soot from Bucky’s face. There’s a sharp, oily smell clinging to his jacket and skin. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared and jaw tight as if bracing for impact. 

He usually looks away when you’re this close. He glares at the floor or the wall or sometimes even squeezes his eyes shut completely. This time, the weight of his gaze is shouldered entirely by your face. He seems tired.

“Chin up,” you say softly, and he obeys, eyes still on you as you wipe his cheekbone. You drag the wet cloth along a faint, jagged scar there and have to resist the urge to take a step back with how boldly the hunger for him hits you.

You are so close togetherr that you can feel his skin jump when you drag it over an angry bruise on his jaw. 

“Sorry,” you mutter automatically, pulling away from the tender spot.

His voice comes out quick and rough. “No - it’s okay.”

You resume, cloth moving slower and more carefully now. You can feel his eyes trail around your face and it’s making your pulse thrum clamorously in your ears.

“I should really be the one apologising to you,” he says. Your eyes snap to his. “I’m always coming in to you battered and bruised.”

You huff a half-laugh, but it is mostly just a startled reaction to the fact that he is talking to you again today. “Yeah, well, keep it up please, or I might be out of a job.”

He smiles, blue eyes shining with mirth, and a live wire is sparking in your stomach. You have the odd compulsion to make him smile like that again and again. 

“Not true. You’d still have the rest of them to put back together. You deal with worse than me, right?”

You hum. “Depends on what you mean by worse. Tony wins the spot for most annoying, but you sure do take a beating better than anyone else I’ve seen.”

Bucky laughs and you feel a little bit fuzzy, like the rest of the world is blurring out. Your fingers pause against his face and you’re sure his smile must hurt a little bit with all the scratches and burns but it doesn’t look like he’s in pain. The only thing you’re reading is joy and it makes you go slack-jawed.

“Well, glad I nabbed the first spot in something,” he says, eyes still glinting. 

You’re starting to feel suspicion creep in, suspending you in this awful in-between. In between delving into the possible reasons for this sudden change and letting yourself enjoy it. Sure - Bucky talked to you more than usual after his last mission a few days ago, but it wasn’t like this. Had someone spoken to him - told him to ease up on you?

“Not something to be proud of. I’m running out of bandages.” You smile, popping open the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he says and that smile is still there, but his voice is low and gravelly. 

Is he… flirting with you?

A feverish warmth floods your cheeks, even while you convince yourself that it can’t be true. Because this is Bucky Barnes who doesn’t flirt with anyone, let alone you and he can’t stand you. So why is he looking at you in that all-consuming, all-confusing way? It doesn’t look like he hates you right now.

“Hi, you,” Steve’s voice calls out from somewhere behind you. It’s strange - the impact that it has on Bucky. It’s almost like he ices up again, eyes dropping from yours.

“Hi, yourself,” you chirp back, looking over your shoulder at him. “You might need to wait a while for me to finish up with Bucky.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll come back in a while,” he says, incredibly polite with a smile you can hear through his voice, even though your eyes are trained on Bucky’s sullen face. You’re disinfecting the wounds on his face harsher than before, trying to get this over with. “I just wanted to talk to you about a mission we have coming up next week.”

“Hm?”

“I can’t tell you too much but we’re infiltrating an active HYDRA base. We think they might be developing something. The issue is that it’s manned and it’s pretty possible that it’s manned with other supersoldiers. Which makes it incredibly dangerous.”

Bucky’s brows are pinched together while he watches Steve launch into his explanation. You never get this kind of background for their missions - you sometimes get a warning about what sort of job you’re in for while they are away, but most of the time they just stumble into the med bay after the mission and you pick up bits of context from there.

“Fury thinks it might be a good idea to have some medical staff on-hand. In case something happens.”

You catch on immediately, pausing your fingers and turning around.

“On-hand, meaning…”

“No! You wouldn’t be coming anywhere near the actual fighting, don’t worry about that. You’d just have to wait in the Quinjet with Sam in case anyone needs emergency medical assistance.”

Bucky tenses beside you but doesn’t say a word. 

“Well…” you consider your words carefully. Truthfully, you have no interest in being a hero. You want to stay as far away from danger as possible. But there is something exciting about the idea of seeing their behind-the-scenes operations. You’d pictured it so many times.

It’s definitely not the mental image of Bucky fresh off a mission, sweaty and pumped with adrenaline, that makes you reconsider. It’s the idea of a new challenge. Definitely.

“If the only danger is Sam talking my ear off, I can’t see why not.”

A pleased and grateful smile stretches across Steve’s handsome face. He opens his mouth to respond but Bucky gets there first.

“No. Absolutely not.”

The low rumble travels miles. He crosses his arms over his broad chest. In the white, sterile light of the ward, you can see every wrinkle and divot created by his frown. Gone is the flirty, tranquil Bucky from earlier - this is the one you know well.

“Buck, she-”

“Are you crazy?” His voice is sharper now. It feels like cold water has been poured over your head in a steady stream, and not just because you’re intimidated, but also because you’re humiliated. Blood is filling your cheeks and your ears.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. We need her.” He looks over to you and you nod once back.

You can’t quite believe it has come to this - Steve is apologising for having to take you with them against Bucky’s wishes. You know he doesn’t like you, but really? His disdain had never been hidden, but it had never been this open either. You feel your cheeks burning.

You’re angry now, too. What have you ever done to make him dislike you to this extent? You turn back to your work and begin to suture his wounds once more, perhaps using a bit more force than strictly necessary. Bucky is no longer looking at you, sulky eyes trained resolutely at the ground.

Steve mutters some vague excuse and walks out, leaving just you, Bucky and this ocean of silence and want swimming between you.

You’re strapped in. The Quinjet is gliding smoothly and emitting a strange whirring sound. It is just about the only evidence that you are above ground - which, strangely, unnerves you more than if you had been on a shaky, jerky helicopter. Agents are swirling around you, Steve is barking frantic orders and the only thing running through your mind is: I should probably have listened to Bucky

Crazy what stubbornness and defensiveness can do as motivation.

A pit is forming itself in your stomach and the way Bucky is looking at you from about ten feet away is not helping. He is not even ashamed of the oppressive scowl he’s fixing you with - when you catch him, he doesn’t bother to look away. You expect you’ll feel a whole lot better once he is out of your line of vision.

“You doing ok?” Steve asks, a weighty hand landing firmly on your shoulder. He’s not looking at you and you gather that you are an item on his check-list. Review inventory, count numbers, check on nurse.

“Fine,” you lie, just so he can tick one thing off. He gives you a tight smile and walks away. You wonder if he even heard your answer.

“Not too late,” Bucky pipes up from beside you, voice gruff. He’s still scowling. “We can call in an aircraft to meet us there and take you straight back. No shame in it.”

“No. Absolutely not. I want to do this,” you say, emboldened by his doubt. 

There may be a part of you - a small part - that feels the need to prove him wrong. It’s ridiculous, which is why you can hardly admit the desire to even yourself. There is nothing even required from you here except to hold tight and wait for them to get back. But this silent, grasping need to impress him is imprinted on your bones in some innate way and you’ll take any chance you can find. You want to change his mind about you.

Bucky grunts, determinately displeased, and you sit in silence for the rest of the journey. You had brought a book with you, but looking around, nobody else seemed to be occupying themselves in a similar way so your self-consciousness tells you that it would be silly. Instead, you fidget in your seat and watch the sun go down outside the aircraft.

You had thought that your nerves might dissolve once the team rolled out and you were freed from Bucky’s arresting stare. Truthfully, though, watching Bucky arm up, take one last look at you and march stiffly out into the darkness that swallows him, makes everything so much worse. You’re surprised to find that you’re not at all concerned about the danger that might be surrounding you - you’re just thinking about him.

The aircraft sits half-swallowed by the trees and you keep one ear tuned to the quiet in case it changes. Sam flips between camera feeds, the screens washing your faces in green and grey. The woods look fake through night vision, like some old video game from when you were a kid. You’re not sure where you even are - but it’s not snowing the way it is in New York. For a few minutes you talk about nothing and try to forget what’s happening outside.

An hour passes. The cameras show nothing but branches shifting in the wind and the occasional blur of some small creature. You tell Sam about how the Spider-kid had tried to flirt with you through a broken jaw last week; Sam counters with a story you had already heard at least three times already, but you listen anyway. 

You laugh too loud, then quieter, then not at all. Your eyes keep snagging on the edges of the screens, on the distance the cameras can’t quite reach. And because your heart is unruly and untameable, you can’t seem to shake the thought of Bucky moving faster than the others, taking point because someone has to. Somewhere out there, he is pushing forward like he always does - taking the brunt of the fire.

Another hour drags its heels. You almost ask Sam how long missions like this usually run but instead, you ask if he thinks these woods would be nice in daylight. Sam says they probably would be, if you like mosquitoes. You return to silence after that.

The first clamouring of life has you on your feet before Sam can say a word. The cameras bloom with dark shapes moving fast and you are already pulling on gloves, your heart loud in your ears. Bucky is there, of course he is, slung between Steve and another agent you can’t name, his weight dragging them down. The relief of seeing him alive fractures immediately because Steve’s hand is clutching at Bucky’s side - and it’s coated in blood.

The aircraft fills with noise and bodies. You guide him onto a stretcher, hands steady by habit even as your chest tightens. Blood slicks your fingers as you cut away his clothing; you don’t look at how much.

“What happened?” you mutter to Steve.

“Gun wound,” he says back, one hand on Bucky to keep him still. “There might be two, I didn’t see.” 

It’s instinct that has you going through the motions and applying pressure to his side as if he is any other patient. But Bucky is looking at you in that strange way again - soft and reverent. The world narrows to the warmth of his skin under your hands, the way he winces when you’re thorough, the way he watches you like you’re the only fixed point left. Outside, the forest falls away as you lift, but you barely feel it.

You run your hand across his side and back. “No exit wound,” you confirm to Steve, whose eyes follow your fingers frantically.

“That’s a bad thing right?”

“Not for you guys. You can’t sustain internal tissue damage or get infected. It looks like nothing vital is damaged so our only concern is blood loss. No exit wound is good.”

Steve nods once, relief coating his features.

You need to keep Bucky conscious, keep him talking, but you’re not sure what you can say to him just now. Your heart is jackhammering against your ribs and you have never felt less professional in your life.

“Aren’t you lucky you didn’t get your way, Buck?” You decide teasing him is the safest move, even if it makes him mad. “Turns out you needed me after all.”

“Always need you,” he says back, voice thick with pain. 

You blink and your fingers pause. Steve is looking between you both with a peculiar discomfort you’re not sure you have ever seen him wear before. Bucky is shot with a fresh bolt of pain and hisses. The sound brings you back.

“That’s true,” you say, with an insincere smile that probably matches Steve’s. “You just don’t always know it.”

“Sure I do, sweetheart,” he says and then you know he’s losing lucidity. His voice is somehow gruff and gentle at the same time. Your eyes feel swollen and you’re angry at him for doing this to you and doing this to himself and you’re furious at yourself for feeling this hissing, biting pain that is clawing away at all barriers to your heart.

It’s selfish to feel sorry for yourself while he is bleeding out, but you do. You wish you could talk to him and keep him conscious without letting him spout cruel nonsense that curls in your stomach and hurts. You wish he was in enough possession of his faculties to not tease you with unkind reminders of what you want but can’t have.

“Yeah? Doesn’t always seem like it.”

It’s meant to come off teasing, but it doesn’t. Steve has backed away to help with a limping agent, finally acknowledging that he is useless to you here. Bucky’s bleeding is mercifully slowing with the pressure but his eyes are still bleary and confused.

“I know,” he grunts. “I know it doesn’t. Can’t- Don’t know how-”

He leans up, stomach tensing under your fingers. Fresh blood spills from his wound and coats your scrubs.

“Relax, Bucky. Please.”

He breathes a pained sigh and lies back. You can tell that his muscles want to tense up with the pangs. He’s focusing on relaxing them for your benefit. He watches you work on his wound, holding pressure on it until your fingers go numb and your wrists ache. There’s a strange, grey ring around the bright azure of his eyes. You wonder if that’s the pain.

“Didn’t not want you here, doll,” he says eventually, eyes fluttering closed. “Just wanted you safe.”

You swallow roughly and your spit tumbles down your throat like glass. His face softens as consciousness leaves him. Your heart is fighting to escape your body and you wonder if he can hear the beat. 

“Why?” you whisper. He doesn’t answer.

Bucky is taken into surgery from the moment you land. The preoperative nurses rip him from you before you have the chance to say goodbye. You suppose it doesn’t matter. He is out cold - wouldn’t have heard you anyway.

It won’t be long until it’s over and he’s handed back over to your care - his enhanced healing means his body won’t put up much resistance to getting the bullets out - but the minutes drip by slowly. You try to occupy your mind by patching up Steve. You hadn't realised it at the time, too wrapped up in Bucky, but Steve had been hurt quite badly on the mission. He winces while you clean his wounds.

“You think he’ll be okay?” he asks you, worry varnishing his tone.

“Oh definitely,” you answer, and you wouldn’t usually give a straight answer to that kind of question - but his furrowed brows and pinched lips are softening you. “I think you guys are still not aware of just how resilient your bodies are. Doesn’t make you bulletproof, but it would take more than a shot to the side to take him down.” 

Steve visibly relaxes, even manages a smile.

“He was so worried about you in the Quinjet. Should’ve worried more about himself.”

Your heart lurches but you don’t raise your eyes from his bicep, where you’re stitching up a wound. “Why would he be worried about me? I was with Sam.”

“I know but-“ Steve winces once, measures his words. “Think he was just stressed about your safety ever since I brought it up. You don’t usually come with us. It’s a damn good thing you did, though.”

You don’t know how to ask more without being pushy - without being obvious. Your brain is working a million miles an hour and Steve perceives it. He sighs once and it’s the Captain America Sigh that Sam always rags him for.

“I think you two should talk once he’s out. I think you might… have some ideas about him that aren’t necessarily true.”

Your face moves against your will, muscles twisting and contorting into a frown that you actively fight. Some ideas about him? Your mind works to fill in the blanks that Steve leaves. Does he think you hate Bucky? It couldn't mean anything else - Steve would never urge you to clear up any good ideas about his best friend. 

Does Bucky think you hate him? That couldn’t be further from the truth. You know Bucky hates you, but you’ve never been fooled into thinking that he was anything but a good man. You have watched him fight his way out of the depths of hell and still continue to fight and to give, all so he can help others. How could you think anything else but that he is a good man - that he is the best man there is?

“Shit, I think I might have just made things worse,” Steve sighs, and this time it’s not the Captain America Sigh. It’s just a sigh. “I’m sorry, none of this is mine to tell. Just- please. Talk to him.”

//\\

Bucky is handed to Tania while you go to catch some sleep, even though it evades you. You stay up for hours instead, worry swimming through your thoughts. You hear through your comms that he’s stable, that he’s even been awake and talking for a few stints - but no more.

There is no legal painkiller or sedative that can be of any use to Bucky. His body burns it out before it can do its job. Still, the exhaustion seems to have worked well enough to knock him out cold. When he’s finally given back to you, he is practically comatose. He doesn’t move and hardly makes a sound, no light snores or grunts. You have to take his hand into yours and double check that he’s alive more than once. 

When you hear him start to come to, you pretend to be busy with organising the vials and bottles on his bedside so he can take five minutes to gather his thoughts. Clearly he doesn’t need five, or even one.

“Hi doll.”

Bucky might not have any drugs coursing through him, but he’s still relaxed and uninhibited from pain and drowsiness. His eyes are slightly glazed over and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. The word again - doll. It floods your body, warm and sleek.

“Hi Bucky.” You’re feeling shy as you give up any pretence of straightening bottles and move to sit at the side of his bed. “How you feeling?”

“Bit like a damsel.”

You smile. “That make me your knight in shining armour?”

He laughs slightly and he winces slightly at the motion, hand clutching his side, but doesn’t lose his smile. “Easy, sweetheart. Only so much my delicate masculinity can take.”

Steve’s plea from yesterday - to talk to him - is ringing through your ears. But you can’t work out how to get there. What is there to talk about, really? There’s no subject you can broach right now without sounding completely insane, or like you’re grasping at straws. So you stick to what you know.

“How is your pain right now? Are you feeling dizzy or lightheaded? You lost a lot of blood.”

“Not feeling dizzy or lightheaded,” he grunts, sitting up a bit higher in the bed. You note that he has ignored your question about pain. “Just feeling like a bit of a jackass.”

“Why’s that?”

For a moment, he just looks at you, face hesitant and brows furrowed. “Keep thinkin’ bout what you said before I passed out. About me not getting my way. Last thing on my mind before I hit the deck.”

Your face floods with heat - whether from guilt or mortification, you’re not sure. “Oh Bucky, I’m so sorry. I was just trying to keep you talking, not make you feel bad. I never would’ve wanted-”

“- I know, sweetheart,” he says with a sad, tight smile. “And it’s true that I didn’t want you there. You got that right. But not because you’re you. I just wanted you to be safe.”

“Yeah, you said that,” you mutter.

Bucky frowns. “I did?”

You nod and he lets out a croak that seems unintentional. “I really don’t know what I said back there,” he says. “Can’t remember very much except you and the pain.”

“You told me you need me.” you say, heart rabbiting. You know Bucky can hear it - you wonder if it’s beating aggressively enough for him to see it under your skin. “Said you always do.”

He nods and he’s not blushing, but his face has definitely warmed a shade. The shells of his ears have turned pink. He doesn’t seem capable of responding, so you power on.

“I kind of thought maybe you didn’t - well, don’t - like me very much. Do I… have that wrong?”

He pauses. “You got it wrong. Can’t say I blame you, though. Didn’t realise I was coming off like…”

“Like a grumpy old bastard?”

He gives you a hesitant chuckle. “Uh, yeah.”

“You don’t act that way with anyone else,” you say, because it would be so easy to just accept what he’s telling you, to let yourself think that Bucky likes you. Maybe even fool yourself to think that he might someday more than like you. But it doesn’t add up. For your own sanity and for the suffering that your fragile heart has already endured, you need to pull the truth from him. “With all the others, you talk. You’re nice.”

“I find it easier. With the others.”

If your heart breaks, you don’t feel it. Because even though his words should hurt you, the way he’s saying them is as if he’s saying the opposite. As if you just need to keep digging to find their real meaning.

“Why?”

“It’s different,” he says, brows furrowed and something akin to defensiveness is creeping gently through his expression. “And they’re not… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would you think that? You never make me uncomfortable.”

He looks up at you like the words aren’t quite landing right, like he’s listening for the catch. He looks remarkably like an old stray dog you brought home when you were nine; a rabid, scared thing that watched every hand carefully as if it might strike instead of soothe.

“You’re saying you’re not wary of me?”

When he says ‘wary’, you know he means ‘scared’. An ache spreads slowly from your chest.

“Never. I would never be scared of you. I might be nervous sometimes, but that’s not- It has nothing to do with… You’re a good man, Bucky, and I would never be scared to be around you. You might be the best man I know.”

He reaches for your hand slowly and touches you more gently than he does his own tender, pulverised, bullet-wounded flesh.

“If I were a good man, I’d leave you the hell alone.”

There’s no mistaking this. You have dug deep enough under that mountain of misunderstanding, have gouged out all the mud and tree roots until you found his meaning. And you find small things buried there along with it; little scraps of evidence that you hadn’t considered. How he shifts when you lean in, how his hands hesitate as if touching you might break something. The carefulness in his voice, the little ways he watches you when he’s trying not to.

And he’s just watching you still, like that frightened old dog who has never known gentleness, who is ready to scratch and bite its way to escape if things go wrong. 

You take his hand that’s clasped in yours. Bring it to your mouth and watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as you press a gentle kiss to his bruised, cracked knuckles.

“Don’t be a good man, then. Whatever you are is enough.”

There’s a vague hint of shame or discomfort in Bucky’s expression when his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he meets your eyes, but for the first time you understand that none of it is aimed at you. He’s ashamed and uncomfortable about how badly he craves the softness you’re giving him; maybe he thinks he still doesn’t deserve it.

Slowly, and not without ample doubt, you lean closer to him - giving him the permission if he will only take it. 

He does.

Bucky leans up and this time does not wince at the strain it is putting on his side. His fingers are at your jaw and his lips meet yours, soft and slow. He kisses you like he’s savouring the taste - as if he thinks that this could be taken from him at any point and he is selfishly deciding to make the most of it while he can.

If your lips weren’t moving against his, you would tell him that you will never take this softness away from him. It’s his for as long as he wants it.

He wraps his lips around your bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth with gentle insistence. Your breath hitches and you realise how close he is - how your bodies have somehow folded themselves together without you even realising, as if they were two magnets drawn together. Your hands are in his hair, his metal arm is clutching your waist.

The feeling of his coarse lips and sharp stubble is indescribable - somewhere close to divinity. You wonder how it can feel so right this soon.

When you part, your breath meets his own; both heavy and shuddery as they mingle between your lips. Bucky’s eyes are drooping, body more relaxed than you have ever seen it. But there’s an awe gleaming from him too. It makes your heart ache for the man who has never known this sort of affection, and soar at the same time because you, of all people, have the chance to offer it to him.

He gives you a nuzzle, forehead dipping into your shoulder. “Waited a while for that. Didn’t think…” he breathes, and it tingles on your skin even through the fabric.

You don’t get to hear how he finishes the sentence. You don’t find out whether he didn’t think it would ever happen, or if he didn’t think he deserved it. He puts the thought to death by kissing you again.

a/n: i sincerely apologise to every nurse ever. it is so obvious i have no idea what im talking about lmao

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468 @avgdestitute

[tw1sters]

Handful

Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3K ▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!! ▸ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3

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You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when you’re reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like it’s nobody’s business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls — even the ones above you. 

You’re wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up. 

That’s when he comes in. 

Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs. 

You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel. 

Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.

Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205. 

From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.

Ask and you shall receive. 

Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.

Every. Single. Day. 

The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns. 

Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.

“Steak alarm.” 

Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you. 

He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it. 

“Now that’s a meal.” 

Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days. 

And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you. 

You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.

It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way. 

Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made. 

But the more you see him, the greedier you get. 

When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you. 

Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation. 

It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends. 

However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it. 

“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement. 

Heat floods your cheeks. 

“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.

“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle. 

“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.

You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice. 

Handful. A handful.

All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.

From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.

So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.

You had mistaken that kindness for something more. 

It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.

You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again. 

Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.

Instead, Bucky stands at your door. 

He’s still in his fire station t-shirt. 

He still looks delicious.

Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”

Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”

He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself. 

“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.

“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”

“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”

Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.” 

Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?

“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.

“You don’t look sick though.”

“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky responds softly, “we missed seeing you around.” 

Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”

Real smooth. 

Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm. 

And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp. 

“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension. 

Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”

“What?” You whip up to face him. 

“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”

The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time. 

“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.” 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”

“Then why?” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”

“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”

“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”

You clear your throat and shrug.

“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”

“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”

“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.

Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”

Your heart skips. 

“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet. 

You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.

Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.

“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say. 

“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.” 

“Why?”

Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”

You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm. 

Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right? 

“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper. 

“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”

“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”

The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.” 

“Oh.”

“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”

Your lips part.

He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Bucky—”

“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

“Bucky!”

“Yes,” he shuts up.

“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” 

His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”

“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”

The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face. 

“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”

You smile. “I’d love that.”

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @Buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @larissabarnes @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00

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[blowingbarnes]

Booked Solid

Pairing: Congressman Barnes x Reader Word count: 4.6k Warnings: SMUT, p in v (doggy style), oral (f receiving), fingering, jealousy, established relationship, secret relationship, Bucky Barnes being down bad for you. Summary: It's entirely your fault that people think Bucky is still available, but that doesn't mean that you have to like it. +fran: this is in the same universe as undisclosed relations, can be read as a standalone. read all my congressman barnes works here dividers by @/bhavihelps

Before he met you, early mornings in his apartment were quiet.

Bucky went out for his runs pretending the sheer stillness of the place didn't make an itch bloom in the back of his brain. 

Sometimes the condo felt too big, even though it wasn't huge, it also wasn't a shoebox. 

Since the night in his office, though, he wakes up around 6:45am to the sound of his kitchen being used and, if he asked you, the sound of hearts breaking all over D.C. in the process. 

Bucky stretched in bed like a cat, groaning at the tightness in his low back that you'd definitely tease him about. He could hear your voice a little further down the hall when he got out of bed.

The sunlight spilling into the penthouse is soft and gold, cutting across marble floors and stainless steel like something out of an architectural magazine.

“Yes, I’m sure she’s very accomplished,” you said smoothly into the AirPod you had on. “No, I don’t need her résumé." You sighed. "If she’d like to attend the fundraiser, she can RSVP through the official channel like everyone else.”

He turned the corner and there you were. 

Your laptop was open on the kitchen isle, hard paper planner and your favorite pen beside it. Your hair was pulled up by the claw clip you had on, and the only thing over your frame was a blue striped button down Bucky wore the day before. 

You nodded you head as if the person on the phone could see you, and rolled your eyes knowing they couldn't, as you sliced and scooped half an avocado with surgical precision. 

Bucky leaned against the doorframe for a second and allowed himself to just watch you in your bubble.

Watching you like you’re something he’s not entirely sure he deserves.

“Mmhm. I understand,” you continue, voice honeyed but impenetrable. “But Congressman Barnes’ schedule is quite full. He’s not taking personal engagements at this time.”

You placed the avocado on a piece of toast on the counter by the stove, turning to your side and scooping some scrambled eggs from the frying pan to put on top of it. 

“I’m sure brunch would be lovely." Bucky raised his eyebrow at that, pushing off of the doorframe and walking over to stand behind you as you turned off the heat on the bacon pan. 

"Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one engagements with donors under forty who describe themselves as ‘emotionally intuitive.’” He snorted into your shoulder, pressing a kiss there.

You crumbled the crispy bacon on top of your toast, and put the rest on a plate over a paper towel to absorb the grease.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as you got off the phone. “Three women have tried to secure private time with you in the last twelve hours.”

“And?” he asks quietly.

You turn, holding his plate out to him. “And,” you say, eyes cool but faintly amused, “they can get in line.”

He takes the plate but doesn’t break eye contact. “Didn’t know I had a line.” You could kiss the smug smile off his face in a second. 

“Oh, you do.” You take a bite of your toast. “There’s a Pilates instructor. A nonprofit founder. And someone who signed her email ‘Future Mrs. Barnes.’”

His lips twitch. “And what’d you tell them?”

You swallowed the bite before answering it. “That Congressman Barnes is unavailable.” A beat. “For brunch,” you add lightly, raising your brow to make a point.

Bucky set his plate down on the counter by your laptop, and you do the same with yours, snagging a slice of bacon off the plate. “Just brunch?”

“Congressman Barnes’ personal affairs are private,” you say calmly, letting one foot rest on your knee, standing on one leg and leaning agasint the counter.

His thumb brushes slowly along your hip, his other hand braced on the counter, effectively trapping you between him and the marble. 

“You’re eating my bacon,” he murmurs.

“You’re welcome,” you shoot back, taking another perfectly measured bite. “For saving your old man arteries.” 

He actually scoffs while you take a sip off your coffee. “Old man?” 

“You are over a hundred,” you point out, finally glancing at him over the rim of your mug. “Statistically speaking, you should be dust.” 

He stepped closer, offended but amused. “Super soldier.” 

“Mm,” you hum. “Super stubborn. Super dramatic. Super in denial about cholesterol.” 

Another call came in, phone buzzing again. He reached past you and flipped the phone face down. “They can call back,” he said simply, with a smirk that told you the things going through his mind weren't simple at all.

You studied him for a second. “You know this is only going to get worse,” Another sip, and you put the coffee on the counter. “Election cycle. Public appearances. The mystery bachelor narrative.” 

He leaned down slightly, voice lowering. “Good thing I’m not a bachelor.” 

You arched a brow. “Oh? Since when?” His hand tightened at your waist — not possessive in a public way, but certain. 

“Since you started answering my calls at six in the morning and making avocado toast in my kitchen.” You pretend to consider it. 

“Strictly professional,” you said. 

“Mm.” His mouth curved. “Was it also stricly professional to sit on my face until you had a calf cramp las ni—” You didn't let him finish as you shoved a slice of bacon in his mouth. 

"Eat your bacon, old man."

The phone rang again and you turned in his hold, twisting just enough to reach across the counter and grab it — and in the process, you bent slightly over the marble, pushing your ass into his groin on purpose. 

Bucky groaned through the bacon slice. “Congressman Barnes' Office.” you say smoothly, voice honeyed and professional.

You shifted, grinding back into him some more. “Yes,” you continue into the phone. “I’m aware she’s very interested in supporting the campaign.”

You really hoped they could not hear the sound of your panties being pulled down.

The gala is loud in that polished, fake, expensive way — crystal glasses clinking, donors laughing just a little too hard, cameras flashing every few minutes.

She’s stunning. Effortless in that way that takes effort. Red dress. Confident smile. She waits for the donor Bucky’s speaking to finish, then slides in seamlessly.

“Congressman Barnes,” she says warmly, touching his arm like she’s testing ownership. “I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

Bucky immediately clocks what she's doing, and also your reaction, which is to take a couple steps towards him awith a painfully fake, polite smile. 

“I host a private policy dinner every quarter,” she continued. “Very intimate. Carefully curated guest list.”

“That sounds lovely,” you say before Bucky can respond. “If you’d like to submit an invitation, Congressman Barnes’ office reviews all engagement requests formally.”

The bitch has the audacity to look you up and down and dismiss you. 

“Oh, I’m sure we can skip the paperwork,” she says lightly, eyes sliding back to him. “This is more… personal.”

A lesser woman would've grabbed her by the hair and made a scene. 

If staring burned holes into people, she'd have a dinner plate sized one in the middle of her skull. “Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one dinners with donors,” you say, tone pleasant but final. “Transparency is very important for his campign.”

“I’m very persuasive,” she says, voice dropping, stepping closer to him. 

You stepped closer too — just enough to close the gap. “Congressman Barnes is very disciplined,” you answer smoothly. 

The tension hums, and her smile tightens. “Well,” she says, eyes flicking between you, “if he changes his mind—”

“He won’t,” you reply calmly. "Oh, I see Senator Whitmore," you turned your gaze to Bucky. "He was looking for you, Congressman."

Bucky gave her a half-meaning apologetic look. "Duty calls." And started to walk towards him with you. 

“You were about two seconds away from committing a crime in a ballroom,” he murmured in your direction, making you roll you eyes.

"I'm not jealous, she was…" You huffed. "Presumptuous."

As you appreach the older man, Bucky files your reaction away int eh back of his mind, smirking to himself. “Whitmore,” Bucky greets easily, slipping into politician mode without effort. “Good to see you.”

You spent the rest of the night a little quieter, not as many sarcastic remarks, shifting on your feet like you did when you were itching to get the hell out of the room. You contribute when needed, nod at the right moments, redirect a conversation or two.

When you both slipped into the backseat of the towncar, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, you haven’t said much in ten minutes before asking the driver to drop you off at your apartment, making Bucky whip his head towards you in surprise. 

"What?'

You shrugged. "It's on the way."

"I know that. Why are you going home?" The driver pulls up the partition when Bucky's voice goes up a smidge. 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” That makes his brow furrow and his lips turn. 

“Inconvenience me?”

You finally look at him then, composed but tired. “You’re a very busy man,” you said evenly. “Wouldn’t want to complicate your schedule.”

“This about red dress?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Don't insult my intelligence by insulting yours, yes you do.” His voice was stern now, like he was done entertaining whatever Catch 22 you had going on at the moment. 

“She was inappropriate,” you say.

“And?”

“And she clearly thought she had access.”

You swear you made sense most of the time. You do. But Bucky's been around for long enough to know it does make sense, even when it doesn't. 

“You think I’d go?” He was almost hurt at the thought of you thinking that.

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the point.” He sighed, turning his entire body towards you, two fingers tilting your face towards him. "You realize you're the one keeping me a secret, right?"

You huff, trying to stay mad, but he’s laughing softly now, clearly enjoying every second of your internal crisis.

“All I’m saying,” he continues, voice teasing, “is if you wanted to go public, I’d be very cooperative.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling back up. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“And I’m trying to choose you,” he says. “You don’t get to shut this off when it’s inconvenient,” he says quietly. “Not after tonight.”

"That's not—"

“You were ready to go home because some woman thought she had a shot. But you won’t let me make it obvious she doesn’t.”

"Your career is more important than my feelings, Buck. You can make real change here."

“I want to hold your hand without you dodging me in front of reporters.” That made you falter. He noticed immediately.

His teasing softened just a little, thumb brushing your cheek. “You know I’m not embarrassed by you, right?”

You look away, and he nudges his forehead against yours.

“Also,” he added lightly, grin returning, “I’d like to stop pretending my PR manager doesn’t kiss me goodbye like I’m shipping off to war every morning.”

You blink, head snapping back feigning offense. “I do not—”

“You do,” he says, delighted. “And it’s adorable.”

You swat his chest, cheeks burning, and he just laughs, catching your wrist and kissing your knuckles like he’s won something.

He ends up knocking on the partition again, and telling the driver to just go straight to his condo instead. 

By the time the car pulls up to his building, whatever sharp edge was left in your mood has dulled into something quieter.

“Bucky,” you murmur under your breath, low enough that it sounds like nothing.

He doesn’t look at you. “What?”

“You’re—”

“I know.”

The marble lobby gleams under soft lighting. A couple people linger near the seating area.

The doorman opens the door, greets him by name, nods respectfully at you.

Bucky doesn’t let go of your hand for a second, pulling your left arm behind you so he can have his right arm around your low back and pull you even closer as you wait for the elevator. 

You just smirk to yourself at the same time he does. A silent "so this is what we're doing now?" being responded with "yes, it is." just as quietly. 

The clicking of your heels matches the cadence of the thud of his shoes against the floor, the walk from the elevator to his front door seemingly shorter and longer than usual at the same time, anticipation bubbling in your stomach like freshly poured champagne.

Bucky unlocked the door and opened it, standing outside of the doorway looking at you like this was it.

This was your out.

You could keep the optics, turn around, and go to your place, and he wouldn't bring a public relationship up anymore for a while.

Or, you could step into his apartment, which you've basically made a home out of already, and stop hiding. 

You held his gaze for what it felt like a million years to the both of you, words caught in your throat. He raised his brow, posing the question once again. Daring you to dare him to choose you. 

And when you made up your mind, he could see it in your face. 

Every guarded wall just came down as you sighed, happily and anxiously at the same time, biting your lip and grabbing him by the tie, walking backwards into the dark apartment wanting nothing but to turn the smug smirk on his face into your most comfortable seat. 

It took him no time to press you up against the wall in the foyer, “Careful,” he muttered, one hand tight on your waist and the other hand coming up behind your head just before you hit the wall. His mouth coming down on yours immediately.

His hands met behind your back as his mouth worked over yours, tongue leaving no inch of yours unloved as your hands tugged on his hair and scraped the nape of his neck. 

He popped a single button and down the zipper went, the now itchy and bothersome fabric of your Saab gown dropping and pooling around your feet, leaving you only in black stockings and black lace panties. 

Bucky pulled away from your kiss to pepper kisses and licks and sucks down your jaw and neck, pulling your right leg to wrap around him, fully clothed. 

"I like this way better." The fact that he had you putty in his hands, practically naked, while all you did was pull his tie off and throw it somewhere you'd find tomorrow, should be at least a fineable offense. 

“This is so irresponsible,” you whisper.

He chuckles against you, pressing you on the wall harder so you feel exactly how irresponsible he's feeling. "Y'can complain tomorrow." He smirks. 

Bucky carries you to the bedroom like it's routine, because it is. He doesn't bother turning a light on until he drops you on the bed softly, your hair fanning out around your head and your lipstick long gone, replaced by a sheer flush from his beard rubbing all over your face and neck. 

He sat up on his knees once you snuck your hands under the shoulder of his jacket, shrugging it off and immediately going for the last few buttons of his shirt while your hands found themselves undoing his pants like you'd die if you didn't. 

You’re half tangled up with him, breath a little uneven, his mouth warm against your skin, his hands steady and sure like he’s still making up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself tonight.

You felt the buzz of the phone before you heard the ring. 

It came from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, thrown carelessly on the bed. He looked at you with an expression that bordered "are you serious?" before his mind took a more nefarious route. 

You fished the phone out from the pile of fabric, your blood immediately boiling when the caller ID revealed who it was. 

“Oh my god,” you say, sitting up slightly. “How the fuck did she get your number?”

“I didn’t give it to her,” he says easily, not even sounding concerned, keeping the assault of his lips on your neck. 

“I know! That’s worse,” you mutter, looking at the ceiling like if you stared at it hard enough a meteor would crash into her house. “That means she worked for it.”

“Answer it,” he says, kissing your sternum.

You turn your head to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Blue eyes meet yours as he flicks a nipple with his tongue and closes his lips around the peak.

“You want me to answer this?”

“Mhmm,” he groans, way too calm about it, biting the supple skin of your breast lightly. “Go ahead.”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs against your stomach, going lower and lower as his eyes look up at you, entertained, curious. “Let’s hear it.”

As your fingers swiped to answer the call, his hooked around your panties and pulled them off of you while his mouth bit at the skin below your bellybutton. 

You brought the phone to your ear and let out a chipper "Congressman Barnes' phone." out of your mouth. Much too chipper for someone who had said congressman between her legs. 

“Oh— I was actually hoping to speak to him directly.”

You glance down at Bucky as he holds your gaze, placing a kiss on your folds, making you choke on a breath. 

“Congressman Barnes is unavailable,” you reply evenly.

So unavailable. Not like he's flattening his tongue against you, parting your lips and licking the slick that has pooled there for his presence near you alone. 

“Well, I figured this might be a better number to reach him,” she says, a little sharper now. “Things tend to move faster when they’re… personal.”

Bucky can hear everything, the smug motherfucker. 

You throw your head back, eyes shut tight, taking a deep breath to not moan at the feel of his tongue circling your clit.

Bucky shuffled above you, getting comfortable with your legs over his shoulders and his front flush against the bed. 

“Not in this case.” He pulled you closer to him, groaning into you. The vibration caught you by surprise in such way you let out a whimper. 

“I’d still love to discuss dinner,” she continues.

“Of course you would,” you mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you say sweetly. “Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend private dinners.”

At this point, she was as annoyed that you picked up the call as you were. 

“Is that his policy, or yours?”

Bucky's metal middle and ring fingers plunged into your heat at the same time he sucked your clit into his mouth. "Both!" Your voice went up an octave before you tried to recover, glaring at him and only receiving a wet smirk in response. 

"He's a very busy congressman. Any communication will be done through official channels. This number will not be accepting anymore calls from…" You saw him raise his brow. "Anyone."

You hung up without waiting for a response, phone falling from your hand onto the hardwood floor as your hands threaded through his hair for purchase instead. 

"Fuck, Bucky—" You whined, grinding your hips down on his face, heels digging onto his now naked back. 

He chuckled against you once more, pulling his mouth away from your pussy to bite at the skin of your inner thigh, his own hips grinding onto the mattress. "Did so good, baby."

You whined, his fingers still curling deliciously inside of you, rubbing the spongy spot that made your feel like you were floating, soaking his hand and face even more. 

"Not gonna let anyone think you're single now." You said, a complete 180 of your own opinion barely an hour before. 

He kissed the spot over the bite mark. "Don't want you to."

You pull him up by the back of his neck, kissing him and tasting yourself. The kiss was messy, slow, as if he was savoring the moment you'd let all hell break loose. 

You made quick work of his pants, and he discarded them just as easy. 

Bucky turned you around on the bed, until you had both shoulders on the mattress, face down, and pulled your hips up, thumbs spreading your cheeks as his palms kneaded your skin. 

"God, sweetheart…" He bent down and pressed kisses up your spine, until you could feel his breath beside your cheek and the blunt head of his cock nudging between your folds. 

You sighed contently at the feeling, pushing back into him while your eyes met. 

When he pushed the first inch in, both of you sighed into each others mouths. 

Then he kept pushing, and further, and further, until your folds touched his pelvis and your mouth knew no other shape than his name. 

He kissed your cheek as you let your head fall forward, and he pulled out until only the tip of him was in, then pushed back in. 

So slow you could feel every ridge of him, the thick vein on the underside and left side that split into two the closer it got to where he'd spill into you. 

"Mmmmm, feel so good…" Your cheek was now smushed against the soft duvet that you chose, nails scraping softly against the fabric. 

Bucky kissed your shoulder blade, thursting deeper, but not faster, keeping you right where he wanted you. "There she is…" Another kiss.

His voice is softer now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, your fingers tightening in the sheets as he keeps that slow, deliberate pace—like he’s in no rush anymore.

You push back into him instinctively, earning a quiet, approving hum against your skin.

“Always so impatient,” he teases, but there’s no real bite to it. Just warmth. Just something fond underneath the heat.

“Not—” you start, breath catching, “not impatient—”

“Mm,” he interrupts softly. “You are.”

Another kiss, higher this time.

“But I like it.”

Your head turns slightly, just enough to catch his eye, and there’s something in your expression that makes his breath hitch—something open, unguarded in a way you don’t usually allow.

"Never gonna let anyone think they can compete, baby." Another punctuated thrust. "M'yours," and another. "Just like you're mine."

Your chest tightens just slightly, the weight of it settling somewhere deeper than the moment itself.

"Yours." You swallow thickly. "Yours, Bucky, please—"

His flesh hand reached down as his metal fingers interlaced with yours, deft fingertips teasing and rolling your clit between them like he was much used to doing. "I got you, baby, c'mon."

He felt you clech around him and groaned against your skin.

You pushed back into him in the same rhythm he pushed into you, a plap! plap! plap! of wet skin the only symphony aside from your moans. 

Your hand grasped at his forearm, desperate for some sort of grounding, anything to keep you from floating away like your mind thought it was gonna happen. 

“I love you,” you remind him, voice softer now, and he stilled for half a second.

Then leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly against your shoulder “I know.” His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, like he was anchoring you there. "I love you too, baby — fuck—"

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You swallowed deeply, turning your head just enough. “I love you.” A particularly deep thrust knocked the air out of your lungs and you let your head fall forward again. "I'll always choose you, Bucky, fuck, I'm—"

Your brain was mush at this point. Jelly. 

"I know, baby, c'mon," His fingers worked deeper circles, the spring in your stomach contracting so tightly you couldn't breathe anyjmore. "That's my girl, you're almost there…"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my God!"

Your eyes squeezed shut and a rainbow of colors exploded behind your eyelids, Bucky following suit at the feeling of your cunt squeezing around him.

He thrust until he was sure you had milked him of every drop, and that he had fucked every doubt straight out of you.

He stayed there after, barely holding his entire weight on top of you as you both breathed heavy, more than just the physical component of getting your brains fucked out weighting in your lungs. 

He pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder as your nails grazed his forearm lightly. 

“You with me?” he murmured, voice low, softer, careful.

You hummed faintly in response, eyes still closed, cheek pressed into the duvet. “Mm… yeah.” A shy smle adorning your face. 

“Hey,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder just enough with his nose. “Look at me.”

You turned your head, slow, a little dazed—and when your eyes meet his, something in his expression shifts.

“Hi,” you murmur.

He huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “Hi.”

Your fingers loosened slightly against him, but didn't let go. “I meant it,” you said softly after a second.

His gaze didn't waver. “I know you did.”

“I always do.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” it was muffled against your shoulder as he kissed it again. It’s not a question.

You shake your head faintly. “No.”

“Good.” His thumb traceed slow, absent patterns along your side, grounding, steady. “You still spiraling?” he added after a moment, a hint of that teasing tone slipping back in.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “A little.”

“Mm, figures.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him again. “You didn’t help.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re a problem.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you admitted easily.

He smiles at that—soft, satisfied in a way that doesn’t need to be loud. “Good,” he murmurs.

And when he pressed another kiss to your skin, it was slower, gentler. And the kisses that followed, all the way to your lips, were just as much.

Like he wasn't trying to take anything from you, just stay right there with you.

Exactly where you both chose to be.

Congressman Barnes Sparks Dating Rumors After Intimate Lobby Moment with PR Advisor

Washington, D.C. — Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes may have just traded his mystery bachelor status for something far more complicated.

Late last night, Barnes was photographed entering his Capitol Hill residence following a high-profile fundraising gala — but it wasn’t his arrival that caught attention. It was who he brought with him… and how he held her.

Photos obtained by The Capitol Wire show Barnes accompanied by a woman widely identified as a senior PR strategist from Pressing Issues PR, LLC, a firm closely tied to his campaign’s public image.

While the two have been seen together at official events for months, insiders have long maintained their relationship is “strictly professional.”

These photos tell a different story.

@/winterthorne the way he looked at her in that last pic??? yeah no that man is GONE

@/buckydefenseleague everyone saying “he’s just being polite” I’m sorry have you EVER been held like that by a man who wasn’t obsessed with you

🏛️ capitol sluts (congressman barnes taglist) : @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @barnesonly @54nboo

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast