summary: When your ex-friends-with-benefits proves he's incapable of keeping his mouth shut even while jerking off alone in his tent, you're forced to intervene. God, do you have to do everything yourself?
tags: MDNI, [SMUT] [ex-friends-with-benefits to lovers] [camp counselors][summer rivalry] [heavy mutual pining] [angst] [steve & reader are both college age] [fourth of july] [semi-public sex] [handjob] [tent sex] [trying to be quiet and failing miserably] [discussions of canon stranger things events] [oral sex f receiving] [talking about trauma/therapy] [fingering] [steve calls reader sweetheart, brat, bitch (once) and baby] [one thigh spank] [unprotected creampie] 5k words
a/n: saw this post from @s3xytosomeone and got inspired. let’s all just pretend i actually posted this on the 4th, okay? okay thanks!!!!
There are noises coming from Steve’s tent.
You lie completely still under your own tent’s ceiling, breath caught in your chest.
There it is again. Another soft grunt, but this one is deeper, almost desperate.
You’ve heard these sounds before. Your mouth goes dry as the reality of what he’s doing settles in your gut, a sharp ache building low between your hips.
Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.
At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show.
It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway.
Right after his eyes caught yours.
You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.
Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.
Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most.
You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means.
At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down.
Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless.
He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?
Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap.
Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.
God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you?
You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge.
Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree.
Stupid.
Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight.
You hope it does.
His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on.
You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.
“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you.
Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath.
“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you.
Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...
You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”
“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”
Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands.
Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.
Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
Lots of times, actually.
Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way.
Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.
It was the days that followed.
The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.
The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower.
It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.
But all that came to a screeching halt last summer.
“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”
You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness.
Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more.
You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach.
You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”
“—I was not whimpering.”
“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”
As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze.
“You offering?”
Your breath catches.
You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care.
But instead, you hesitate.
Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes.
Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap.
“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”
“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”
“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look.
“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him.
Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him.
He wishes you would.
You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”
Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.
And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much.
Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.
“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice.
“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”
Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart.
He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.
He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest.
Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you.
He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it.
Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot.
Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.
Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much.
He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you.
His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared.
Terrified, actually.
Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway.
So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door.
He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you.
But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down.
So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder.
His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips.
He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.
Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”
“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”
“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”
“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“
“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.
Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look.
“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”
Shit.
Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.
You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard.
But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.
His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.
Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him.
“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.
Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden.
You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning.
Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn.
You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.
“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”
“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.
“Sorry! Sorry.”
Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.
You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood.
You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.
“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away.
“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut.
“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”
You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly.
Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation.
Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes.
“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”
You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground.
He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”
You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”
“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off.
You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice.
With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag.
“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.”
“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”
You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric.
“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.
Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?”
“No, Steve. It’s not bad.”
A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”
There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance.
“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”
Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”
You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”
“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”
You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything.
“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.”
He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.
He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently.
You see that now.
His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his.
“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”
His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.
All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back.
Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.
You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up.
“Let me take care of you,” you say.
He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh.
Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time.
His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.”
You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”
“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”
You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”
A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back.
“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”
Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”
“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”
“That is the real reason!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours.
“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”
Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long.
You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’
Well, you could definitely give him more.
“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”
His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest.
It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—
Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it.
Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.
You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open.
“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy.
Shit.
You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.
He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe.
Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—
“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.”
“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”
He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”
The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue.
You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake.
He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning.
“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”
“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth.
Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it.
You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year.
Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you.
You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—”
“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.
When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long.
Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.
“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”
You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate.
“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”
You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”
He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”
Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake.
His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter.
“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”
“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”
Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him.
Only him.
“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”
You nod frantically.
“Go on, ask me for it.”
You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—”
“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours.
The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry.
“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”
Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his.
Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him.
Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust.
The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream.
You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling.
Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you.
He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit.
“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against that spot deep inside that has you seeing stars, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.
It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you.
He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort.
“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.
Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy.
Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.
And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.
“Truce.”
a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.
steve masterlist | cutie banner by @cursed-carmine
Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff, angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Requested by : anon
Word count : 15k whoops
Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
You were a tracker.
Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool.
So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes.
After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash.
“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”
You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.
You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest.
You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.
—
By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.
Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.
—
When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.
He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you.
He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.
—
At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all.
He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage.
Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated.
For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.
You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.
“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.
You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”
You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.
You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand.
If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity.
Over time, it turned into more than jars.
He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal.
He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.
Days passed like water through your fingers.
You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.
At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.
One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”
“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”
He looked at you like you were a miracle.
And one of those days, you fell in love with him.
You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.
You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.
So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”
“No,” you said, “but I—“
Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”
“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”
Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”
Nakia laughed.
“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”
“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.
“Because I might believe him.”
Nakia finally stopped laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”
You didn’t answer her.
—
Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”
T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”
“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”
Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”
“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”
There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”
Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.
“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”
Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”
—
Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.
You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.
He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”
He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.
Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.
Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.
Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”
“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together,
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.
“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.
But then you leaned in, and kissed him.
At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him.
He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”
The next few months unfolded in pieces.
You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.
Neither of you said “I love you.”
You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.
But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.
You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.
You both knew you might die here.
So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.
“I love you,” he said.
You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”
And then you let go and ran into the fire together.
—
The battle was chaos.
Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—
You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.
Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.
“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.
You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.
“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.
And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.
Bucky’s knees gave out next.
His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.
There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.
And then— nothing.
—
Five Years Later.
You came back gasping.
One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.
When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once.
You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.
That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.
“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”
He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.
“Talk to me,” you whispered.
And then— he broke.
His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”
You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”
“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“
“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall.
And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it.
And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.
After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.
—
You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago.
You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out.
And Bucky—God, Bucky.
Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.
Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.
You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.
Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.
You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.
And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”
He would nod against your chest and weep.
And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse.
He was still obsessed with not losing you again.
He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.
It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.
He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.
You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do.
None of it mattered.
To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.
When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”
“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”
He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life.
But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.
It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.
Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation.
You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.
And then one day— it was too much.
You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”
When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”
“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”
You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”
“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”
“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”
“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”
“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”
There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer.
You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”
That night, he promised he’d do better.
He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.
And for a while, he did.
But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.
Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.
Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.
He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.
When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.
“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.
“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”
“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”
He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”
“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.
“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”
His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”
“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”
He flinched.
“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”
“I do trust you—”
“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”
He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”
“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”
Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”
Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.
“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy.
You took a breath.
“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”
He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”
“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills.
His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”
You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.
But promises can rot when fed with obsession.
Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”
He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”
“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”
His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.
So you did.
“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”
He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.
“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”
You didn’t answer.
Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”
He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.
And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.
—
Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest.
He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”
Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”
Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”
“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”
Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”
“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”
Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.
“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”
Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you.
—
Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad.
He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.
She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.
He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.
Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”
He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”
That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”
“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”
Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”
Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.
“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”
She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”
Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”
Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.
“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”
Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.
Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.
Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.
—
Six Months Later
You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.
But there he was.
Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious.
“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”
The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky
You stopped breathing for a second.
Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.
You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.
You started to type.
Saw you on TV today. You looked—
You paused and backspaced.
Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.
Delete.
You looked okay.
No.
You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.
And then—
“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.
You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.
Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”
“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”
“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath.
Okoye gave you a really? look.
You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”
She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”
“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.
“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”
You laughed despite yourself.
—
One Year Later.
The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.
And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.
You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.
You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands.
You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.
And then the doorbell chimed.
You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.
In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.
It was a winter bouquet.
Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.
It was him. Bucky.
He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.
And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky.
You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?
You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.
Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?
Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.
You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.
You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.
And wasn’t this what you asked for?
You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.
A winter gift for a king.
You whispered, "I miss both of you."
—
You didn’t sleep much the year after that.
You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.
All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri.
But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.
You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.
You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.
But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.
You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.
Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.
At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours
You didn’t cry.
You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.
That night, your phone buzzed with a message.
Bucky : “You okay?”
That was it.
You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.
Are you okay?
You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.
Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.
A fucking text. Not even a call.
You set your phone down and didn’t respond.
You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb.
And that was the first night you drank.
You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.
You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.
It didn’t fix anything.
—
A Year Later.
You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.
You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.
Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”
You tilted your head, “What?”
She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.
You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”
Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”
“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.
You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”
Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.
“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”
Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.
For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.
Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening.
What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.
She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.
—
Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.
The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.
Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”
“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”
Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”
Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles.
Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He shouldn't be doing this, right?
Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs.
Focus, Barnes.
This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.
Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.
—
Call to Shuri, Wakandan Secure Channel.
“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”
“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”
A pause. “For whom?”
“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.
“Why?”
“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”
“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”
Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand.
—
You smelled him before he knocked.
He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood.
You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks.
The knock came a second later.
You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.
And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway.
His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it.
You froze for a moment.
“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”
You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”
Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”
You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”
He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”
“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”
“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”
Your brows rose. “You what?”
“Just for updates.”
“Bucky.”
“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”
“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”
“Okay, that was one time!”
“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.
“I know,” he said.
You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.
“You could’ve just called,” you said.
He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”
“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.
The silence stretched thin.
Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”
Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.
“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”
“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”
“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”
He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”
Oh.
He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”
Your breath hitched, just a little.
“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”
He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”
“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”
He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.
You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.
And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive.
Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”
You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”
Before you could respond, your nose twitched.
You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity.
“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”
He blinked. “...No?”
You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door. Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned.
You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.
Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”
You stared at them. Then at Bucky.
He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”
—
They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.
It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.
“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob.
Yelena, John, and Ava.
You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell.
You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.
“Got it,” you said, nodding once.
Then you turned, already moving.
Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.
You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.
—
Void, New York.
The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame.
People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.
You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him.
You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in.
The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.
Now it was just you and Bucky.
The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it.
You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.
And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.
You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.
You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.
But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand.
“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”
Right.
Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”
Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.
—
Bucky woke up in the snow.
He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.
Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.
He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.
He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.
Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.
He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey
And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.
He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—
Nothing.
No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.
“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”
He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.
“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”
But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.
He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.
He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.
He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.
He whispered your name over and over again.
The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.
Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier.
He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you.
You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.
The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.
You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.
You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.
You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.
You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.
It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked.
You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.
But they were gone.
T’Challa. Ramonda.
And Bucky.
He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.
Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”
The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.
You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.
And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”
Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.
The grief between you wasn’t just shared.
It was mirrored.
Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.
With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle.
It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.
And he was right.
He was there, with the real you.
You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.
That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.
Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.
And for a moment, you didn’t move.
But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.
You stayed like that for a while.
Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”
He just held you tighter.
You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”
“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”
Silence stretched again — for a while.
“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”
His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”
You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”
“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”
Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”
You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.
He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”
And this time, you walked out together.
—
Post-Void. New York, again.
You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him.
And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover.
Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.
Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?
You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.
Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?
And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.
M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.
You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.
The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest.
Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust.
“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”
You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”
He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”
You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”
Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”
You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”
Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”
She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.
As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”
You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.
You debated pretending you hadn’t either.
—
You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.
When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself.
The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.
Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.
Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.
The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken.
Oh.
The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.
You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.
Bucky stayed quiet.
He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.
When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.
He blinked, looking down to his feet.
“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.
And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”
He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.
“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”
You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.
“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”
Your throat tightened.
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”
Silence stretched for a long moment.
Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”
Bucky straightened a little.
“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”
You looked around the room again.
“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”
“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”
You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.
You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”
He looked… relieved.
He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.
“Okay,” he said.
And somehow, it was enough.
Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life.
—
You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.
But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.
The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.
But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.
“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.
You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.
He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.
“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”
“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”
You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”
“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”
When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’
“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”
Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.
You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.
“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.
—
Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.
She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.
“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”
You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”
“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”
You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”
She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found.
“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.
“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”
Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.
“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”
“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”
You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.
She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”
That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.
You smiled. Just a little.
—
Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.
He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.
“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.
You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”
He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”
You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.
You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”
“What does?”
“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”
“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”
You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”
His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”
—
Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.
It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.
You couldn’t sleep.
You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.
But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.
You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,
He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”
“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him.
He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.
You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.
“This place is too clean,” you said at last.
Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”
You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”
That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.
“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.
His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”
You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours.
—
The next few months passed easily.
You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.
Of course, the team noticed.
Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.
John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”
You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.
But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.
You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.
Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”
You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”
Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”
Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”
Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”
You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.
“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.
“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”
Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”
And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.
You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”
He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You tilted your head. “About what?”
He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”
That shut you up, but not in a bad way.
—
The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.
You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.
But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.
The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.
Bucky.
His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow
He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.
That’s when you saw John.
“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”
John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”
“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”
“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”
“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”
He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement
“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”
“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”
And just like that, you shut up.
He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.
And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.
“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”
Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”
You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”
He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”
You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”
“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.”
Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”
You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”
You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind.
Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”
John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.
The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.
You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.
“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.
So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.
Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.
He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.
You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”
Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb
You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.
“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”
You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.
“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.
Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”
“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”
“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”
Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”
You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”
He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.
“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.
Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t move yet.
“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.
“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.
“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”
Then he kissed you.
It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.
You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer
And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”
You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.
“You’re sure?” he asked again
“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”
His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.
“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”
You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”
He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.
You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.
Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.
“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.
You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.
Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.
“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”
Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”
“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”
You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified.
“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”
cw: reader has a dramatic inner monologue ( me😘 ), cursing omg, smut — sub leaning chan, male whimpering !!!, pussy job ( humping ), aftercare awww
summary: you went to collect your belongings from your ex’s house.
“well, well, well.” — the nerve of this man to answer the door in just grey sweatpants.
“how can you open the door naked like this? what if i was a neighbour?”
chan smiled down at you through loose strands of dark hair. he blatantly scanned over your outfit — a pink and grey iamgia set. he almost let his bottom lip slide between his teeth. *almost. he figured he should make at least some attempt at not pissing you off. “i knew it was you. i know what your knock sounds like.”
“fuck, i don’t even know why i came back here. i should have just made you bring my shit to my house.”
“you wanted to see me.”
“i wanted to make sure—“
“make sure you got everything, i know.” he finished your sentence for you. you hated how well he knew you. after breaking up with you he should have forgotten everything about you. he didn’t deserve the memory of your presence. “it’s so you never have to come back, right?”
“exactly, you can be smart sometimes.”
“i can, can’t i? well, come on in, sweetheart.” he turned his body to the side in the doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him, chest-to-chest.
“let’s not be starting with that now.”
“yes ma’am, my bad.” chan pretended to salute and you knew you wouldn’t get away from this house as swiftly as you thought. every little quirk he displayed, that rolled together into his goofy personality, brought a different memory to the front of your brain. and it made you nauseous.
“so. where’s my stuff at?” you scanned over the generously decorated walls of the house as you walked down the hall towards his home studio. please can my stuff be in the studio, you thought.
“your stuff’s in my room. you can go get it.”
uh. ok. you switched your direction to start walking up the stairs, not without giving him a disapproving look — you never used to have to do things for yourself when it was you and him. he was always opening doors for you, putting your feet up for you, making you dinner... while you were around halfway up, bang chan was still stood waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, one hand leant up against the bannister with a smug look on his face.
“so, now that we’re not together anymore, you’ve forgotten how to use manners?”
“i’m mean to everyone except my girl.”
you knew he was just playing, but you refused to let him know you still found him funny. “what you are is corny as fuck.”
when you reach his bedroom, it’s dark in there, save for the low lights on his headboard, and it almost looks like they’re casting a spotlight on the bag at the end of the bed. a dark coloured, monogram, louis vuitton travel bag that you can’t tell whether you left behind or he bought it new, just to give your stuff back in it. just to remind you of the life you’re leaving behind. bent in rather an uncomfortable position, you start rifling through the bag to check if everything was there. your toiletries, some pajamas and underwear, some clothes— you didn’t miss the sound of hushed footsteps ascending the stairs.
chan approached to the doorway, leaning his entire body against it and looking down at your figure bent over the bed “you been working out?”
“if you’re staring at my ass, i’m gonna be really annoyed.”
he stifled a laugh.
“and since you’re that kind of gentleman, you should be looking at no one’s butt except your girl’s. which i am not.”
“touché. you got everything?”
you zipped up the bag. “yeah, at this point, if i leave something here, it can’t have been that important to me.”
“mm.” chan pursed his lips, “that feels targeted.”
“nah, you’re just full of yourself.”
you picked the bag up off the bed, smoothed down your trackset and started to walk towards the doorway. the doorway that your ex was still very much stood in. unmoving, like he was the door itself.
“ is there a problem?” you blinked at him and signalling that he get out of your way.
“there’s actually one thing i forgot.”
“right. and that is..?”
“i want one last kiss. before you leave me in the dust.”
you threw your head back with an exasperated sigh. partially in disbelief, partially in annoyance. “your ass is crazy.”
with both hands, he reached to hold onto yours, after taking the bag out of your right hand and placing it on the floor. “i just need something to hold me over. i need closure.”
“boy… you got your closure already.”
“how?”
“mm. you know what you said, you got your closure.”
“just one kiss, baby. for the last time in our lives.”
you scrunched your eyes closed and let out a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “on the lips right?”
“no, your pussy.”
one of his brows quirked up at you and you couldn’t believe what you had just heard. “you got me fucked up—“
“that was sarcasm. god. yes, your lips, cmere.” he gently grabbed your jaw, pulling you in for the kiss and he wasted no time pushing his tongue into your mouth and gliding it against yours, making you moan. his hands roamed slowly; cautiously, down your back to find home on your ass cheeks, as if you had never separated. he deepened the kiss, switching between making out with you and pushing sloppy pecks on your lips. you let him have you for about 20 blissful seconds before you put your hands on his shoulders, signalling that it was time for him to cut it out.
“wow, wasn’t that nice?” you lifted your middle finger to try and salvage what was left of your lip combo. “not exactly one kiss but i’ll let it slide since i only just stopped you.”
“one kiss was never just one kiss with us though was it?”
“riiight… let me grab my shit and go.”
“you’re still not feeling for me after that?”
you sigh for what feels like the 10th time tonight. because of course you are, you just don’t need him to be knowing that.
“i literally knew you would try and get me. i need to get home, i’ve had this makeup on all day, i feel icky.”
“i can take it off for you, just wait” he grabbed back onto your hand and intertwined your fingers. “i’m not ready to let you go yet.” chan was sporting something of a cocky expression. like he wasn’t serious at all. but you could tell, he was masking a sadness under there. you just couldn’t understand how that could be.
“clearly.”
he laughed at your bluntness. even though shit wasn’t funny to him right now.
“what if i told you i can’t let go of you? like physically i can’t.”
“you can deadlift 350lbs but don’t have the strength to let go of my hand?”
his head jolted back in a confused expression, “how do you know the—? anyway, not important, that doesn’t even compare to how hard it is to let go of you. not even close.”
“no?”
he brought one of your hands that he was holding up to his lips to place a barely-there kiss on it, before pulling you closer to him by your hand. “no. don’t go home yet.”
you felt so conflicted. the reason you had left in the first place was because you were standing your ground. what was the point in all that if you weren’t going to continue doing so?
“fuck, ok, fine. but i’m setting down some rules.”
chan tried not to look too excited. not that it worked at all. “i’m all ears baby.”
“i’m deadass when i say; you will never see me again after this. don’t try hitting me up.”
he nodded affirmatively. “i got you.”
“and don’t tell your friends. or mine, especially not mine.”
“it’s our secret” he held his pinky up to yours, swearing this incident to secrecy.
“i can’t believe myself.” you whispered under your breath, intertwining your pinky with his and immediately crashing your lips together. you were so lost.
chan picked you up and carried you that short distance to the bed, just so he could lean his body over yours when he set you down. he pressed featherlight kisses all over your face and the expanse of your neck, making your squirm under him. you whined at the disappearance of his warmth on your neck only to open your eyes and see that he had gotten down on his knees at the foot of the bed. he started to pull your leggings off slowly, leaving kisses all over your legs. when his lips moved over to your inner thighs, chan made it a point to keep his hands steadily holding your legs open when they started twitching closed around his head.
finally, he licked a long stripe over your pussy through your underpants. “these are cute.” he whispered keeping his mouth on you while his big brown eyes bore into yours.
you didn’t reply, only rolling your eyes in annoyance as he dragged the panties down and immediately sucked your clit into his mouth. one of your hands flew to grab his hair while the other gripped the comforter below you. since the both of you had that mutual crash out on each other, you hadn’t been uh.. loving on yourself — you found yourself busy doing other things — so the yearning in you seemed to overshadow the fact that you were letting your ex eat you out right now.
one of chan’s hands reaching up to cup your breast and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger forced you to break your vow of silence. you moaned loudly and the sound went straight to his ego.
“oh, i know, baby. feels good, doesn’t it?” you didn’t think his tone could get any more patronising. and as much as you didn’t want to admit, it was turning you on so much.
the closer you started to get, the sloppier his lips got against your cunt. leaving heavy kisses all over the expanse of it and ever so often dipping the tip of his tongue inside of you, nose bumping against your clit. your legs started to quiver slightly, “i’m gonna cum, channie.” and that’s when he stops.
“oh my god, why?”
“i want you to cum on my dick, baby.”
you furrowed your brows up at him, but you refused to give in. refused to be submissive to him. especially, not after how he did you. you sat up on your elbows just glaring at him and he couldn’t help but smile back down at you.
“that a problem?” he ran his thumb over the apple of your cheek.
“no. get on your back.” you got up.
“oh, you’re gonna push me around?
“don’t you at least owe me that?”
he smirked at you, taking the place where you were laid on the bed and pulling his sweatpants down, leaving himself in some boxer briefs of a lighter grey.
“you left the boxers on.. you think you’re getting the same treatment as me?”
“not necessarily. i just like it when you undress me.” the way he looked up at your naked body towering over him was almost pornographic. his lips were still glossy from eating you out and his pupils were blown wide with lust.
you pulled his boxers down to reveal that he was already fully hard. chan moaned at the contact of your soft palm against the tip of his dick, slick with glittering precum. you circled your palm around the tip, making him squirm a little before pushing his dick forwards to be flush against his lower abdomen.
“what are you doing, hm?”
his hands rubbed over your naked thighs as you moved to straddle your bare pussy over the shaft of his dick.
gently, you sat down on it and started grinding yourself on him, your clit catching on his tip with each shift of your hips.
chan couldn’t even stop his eyes from rolling back, “ugh, fuck.” as his hand moved to grab your ass for stability. his tip nudging against your clit again and again pushed him into a desperate state. whining and moaning under you.
“fuckfuckfuck— that feels r-really nice. mmh.”
the lewd sounds he was making under you only made your pussy leak more onto his dick and you started effortlessly sliding on him. and still, the louder your moans started to get as you neared your orgasm again, you sounded nowhere near as pathetic as him. you weren’t talking to him and it was driving him crazy. somehow you ignoring him was turning him on more.
“keep moving like that and i’m gonna fucking cum. wait baby, stop, i’m—“ he cut himself off with a low whine.
leaning forwards, you braced yourself against him placing your hands on his arms at either side, unintentionally pinning him down and making his eyes roll.
chan’s breath started to pick up, “no, fuck, i don’t wanna cum like this. wanted to cum in you— ohh, fuck i’m cumming. i’m— shit.”
thick ropes of cum spurted out all over his abs that already glistened with a sheen of sweat. as he came, chan’s hips start stuttering under yours triggering your orgasm with the combination of friction and his cries of pleasure. you let your body flop against his, heavily breathing on his heaving chest.
“fuck.. why weren’t you talking to me?” he dealt a light swat to your ass to get your attention.
“i was concentrating.”
“concentrating on torturing me?”
you opted not to answer that one. “well.” you sat back up on him, not missing the way he twitched at your movement. “i hope you’re satisfied.”
the two of you looked at eachother while you got off of his lap. his hair was moderately fucked up, his cheeks were pink and his face was glowing.
“seems as though you are.”
“you’re cruel.”
you started putting your panties back on, “well, don’t be doing shit to people and expect them not to do shit back. does that make sense?”
he just frowned at you, watching you get ready to go. “wait…”
“what now, chan?” honestly. you did nawt have it in you to go again.
“i can still take your makeup off. i have wipes.”
oh. you watched him disappear into his en suite to clean himself and continued putting your clothes back on. he came out with some sensitive wipes and sat next to you, silently wiping your face, starting with your eye makeup.
“you know these wipes are actually pretty bad for your skin.”
a ghost of a smile settled on his features. “pfft, so why are you letting me do this?” by force of habit, your hand went to hold his arm where he was holding your face still and wiping with the other hand.
“i think it’s only bad if you do it often…”
“i see. who’s your source?”
“tiktok.”
“right.”
chan started wiping around your mouth which shut you up with an offended hum at which he laughed quietly. then he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “done.”
you looked up at him, letting him press a gentle peck to your lips. you both knew between you that this was really the last one and it made your heart ache.
wordlessly he walked with you, all the way to the front door. before you walked out, you stopped yourself.
“hey. if you text me i might reply.”
“oh, how lucky i’d be.” he smiled softly at you.
“but before u think about doing that, maybe take some time. figure your shit out.”
chan scoffed out a laugh. “yeah ok. i’ll see u later.”
.𖥔 ݁ SYNOPSIS . When you broke up with Jake, your whole world shattered, everything that was right, went wrong the minute things ended. So coming back after three months away from the city, fully MIA, made everyone turn their heads to your direction, including Jake’s—someone who you tried deeply to avoid to move on.
PAIRING ex!jake x fem!reader
FEATURING aespa ningning, riize shotaro, nct haechan, le sserafim yunjin +enhypen
TAGS smau (+written) ; crack ; university au ; lots of miscommunication ; dumbass jake ; cringey moments ; cliche ; 𝓦 none that I can think of other than suggestive comments?
CHAPTES UNDER THE CUT
SIDE A: THEIR COLLEGE YEARS After getting publicly broken up with because of a misspread rumor, you move away to "heal" and "start over". when you come back after months and see your ex and said person—who spread those rumors about you—getting closer each day, you realize maybe you shouldn't have ever come back. and it definitely doesn't help when your ex suddenly switches up.
01 ⟶ SHAWTY'S BACK - this chapter got accidentally deleted and I don't remember what was on it...just know that y/n's back, her friends are excited, ni-ki mentions it in the guys' gc so Jake (y/n's ex) goes and ask her if she's back and yeah ok
02 ⟶ THE FUMBLER
03 ⟶ RIKI JACKSON
04 ⟶ CHILD OF DIVORCE
05 ⟶ ACCUSATIONS W/ INSANITY
06 ⟶ COMPANY
07 ⟶ MOMENT OF REALIZATION ✎ 2.5k
08 ⟶ LATE-NIGHT TALKING ✎ 2.1k
09 ⟶ SMASH OR PASS
10 ⟶ YOUNG, DUMB & BROKE ✎ 3.1k
11 ⟶ MEMORIES OF YOU ✎ 7.2k
12 ⟶ DEEP DEEP THOUGHTS
13 ⟶ PLOT TWIST
14 ⟶ WHAT MATTERS IS YOU ✎ 3.7k
15 ⟶ 2 HOMOS, 2 BADDIES
16 ⟶ THE ROOMATES & RIKI ✎ 1.2k
17 ⟶ A GIRL W/ A STRONG HEART ✎ 2.0k
18 ⟶ BITCHNARI THE WITCH
19 ⟶ BETWEEN US GIRLS ✎ 1.6k
20 ⟶ WITHERED FLOWERS ✎ 1.8k
21 ⟶ DONT YOU WORRY CHILD ✎ 20k
SIDE B: FOUR YEARS LATER When your dad passed and just before he left for Australia, Jake promised to be back when you both were at your best versions. Now four years later, you found yourself back in your toes and doing what you tried for the past years: living in the present and enjoy every second of it.
22 ⟶ SELF-SABOTAGE ✎ 3.4k
23 ⟶ REMINDERS OF HIM ✎ 3.1k
24 ⟶ A GIRL'S NIGHT OUT ✎ 953
25 ⟶ EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED ✎ 4.3k
26 ⟶ THE WHAT IFS OF US
27 ⟶ SOMETHING INBETWEEN
+28 ⟶ more to come...
mars yaps . WELCOME BACKKKKKK new story yes sir🫡. disclaimer . this is a work of fiction, please don't take this seriously, the characters in this story are not how they are in real life (at least not that we know of).
content/warnings: ex husband/wife to lovers, angsty somewhat, smutty, sad sex a bit, unprotected sex, ambigous plot lines, hint at breeding kink, fem reader (fem anatomy described), mdni!, drinking, mini age gap implied
WC: 6.1k
A/N: i've been trying to come up with ideas for some fics pls send requests!!!! a lot of the ones i'm getting are amazing and i love and i do have quite a bit so bare with me pls :)))))) pls send more tho i love reading all ur creative ideas!!!!!!! anyways, enjoy this fic it's a tiny sad but like it's also cute and like they redeem themselves i promise
Your face was beginning to hurt from all the smiling you were giving your guests tonight- and the sad part about it? Not one single smile had been genuine.
It was your birthday celebration, and you decided to go all out.
Typically, your birthday was celebrated by your husband. He’d take you somewhere special, in a place where there was no one around for miles, and he’d cook for you, bathe you, hold you in his embracing and devoting arms as he made sweet love to you under the covers. He would condition your hair, careful with the roots, making sure that he wasn’t pulling too hard. He would let you sing to him, eyes filled with delight as he watched your desire to sing the absolute optimal just for him. When the day of your birthday finally came, he would spend hours verbally expressing how much he loved you, whether it was emphasizing the special way he loved how you made his orange juice, or how much he’d admired your ethic in being authentic. He’d sit there in tears, holding your hands into his, comforting you, and reassuring you of how much you meant to him.
That ended two years ago, when you chose tranquility over constant apprehension. You and Michael had been together for nearly three years when he proposed in Paris, closing an entire street just so he could fill it with your favorite flowers, playing your favorite music on the entire city’s radio station, and having almost every restaurant cook one of your favorite foods. A juncture like that made him grateful for his status, being able to pull off a special moment, such as his proposal, with no questions asked. You could feel the tears streaming down your face as Michael spoke every syllable with love, genuity, and admiration. It was a moment you never wanted to forget, and it was a memory you had playing in mind as you sat across from him, the divorce files under your hand as you brought the pen to the paper, signing off your name as the final authorization of no longer being Mrs. Jackson to someone you once thought you’d grow old with.
You were married for nearly 4 years; you practically spent your adult psychological development years with Michael. You met at an award show, being introduced to each other by colleagues. One lengthy phone call led to a date, which then led to frequent visits to each other’s homes, until one confident and cold night in the winter, Michael asked you to be his girl, and you happily accepted, warm, flushed cheeks apparent as he held your hand and pressed a kiss against your cold lips. They instantly warmed at the contact, and you leaned into his body more, yearning for the balminess that emanated from him to you.
You like to pretend and say you didn’t know where it went wrong, but you knew exactly when it did. It was the constant terrorization you were experiencing. It wasn’t completely Michael’s fault- he wasn’t the one who was sending you death threats or pointing out the flaws in your complexion. But what was Michael’s fault was never defending you the way you deserved to be defended. Michael was too good for anyone. His heart was pure, forgiving, always seeing the kindness in someone, even if they didn’t deserve it. It would anger you because there were so many times when he should’ve been mean and selfish if it meant defending you and your marriage.
↳ DURING MARRIAGE
“She sat there and pointed out how my weight changed, and instead of defending me, you turned to wait for what I had to say?” Was the first thing you spat out when you got inside the car after a ridiculous and disrespectful interview you two had done together occurred.
Michael huffed a breath, licking his lips as he looked down at the distance you instituted between the two of you. “I did that because it got very awkward real quick. I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“I don’t know, husband, maybe shut her up? Call her out for her disrespect? I sat there and basically shut her down myself, even when she was disrespecting the crap out of you!” You yelled back, fingertips etching into the palm of your hand.
You felt bad for yelling. You hated raising your voice; it felt like a method of disrespect. And it broke your heart whenever you had to do it to your husband. But you had been married for almost two years, and it had been the same argument over and over again. Whether it was one of his family members making a bold and snide comment about your relationship or the media asking personal questions, Michael never defended you. He’d be quiet, letting the words step over him and step on you. You’d sit there, heart heavy and slipping through your fingers and down the drain as you felt betrayed. The comments were never spoken about afterward, and Michael would brush them off whenever you’d inquire about them, giving you a forehead kiss and saying, “There’s no point in being mad, spirit. Don’t let them get to you.” It was code for the conversation being done, and you’d let the frustration bubble in your veins, taking a walk around your driveway as a reminder that you loved your husband, and married him because he was good to you.
That argument had turned into additional issues. If it wasn’t Michael’s specific moods in which he wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even you or his family, it’d be the power imbalance between the two of you. Your age wasn’t much of a difference, but the stature in the public’s eye played a major role in how people perceived your relationship.
“Michael, do you think she married you so her album can sell out?”
“Is it true you married Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, for money?”
“Michael, did you save her from poverty?”
“How does it feel for your husband to be at the top of the world, and for you to be, well, nowhere near there?”
You answered these questions on your own. You got sick and tired of the insolence and would pull away from Michael’s touch as you pointed to the interviewers, calling them out for their audacity and demanding that they see you for your own identity rather than as a wife. Michael wouldn’t say anything; he’d sit there, legs crossed and fingers bitten in tension. He wouldn’t ever break the silent treatment you’d give him, often spending nights in his studio, where he’d be away from your cries, drowning them out with demos or black-and-white films.
You took notice of this, of course, and began spitting out the word “divorce” to him, analyzing every detail in his body language to see how it would impact him. There would never be any trepidation ingrained on his face, and it would always end with you crying, pointing out that he was selfish. He wouldn’t say anything, ever, and let you wail until your voice rasped, carrying you to bed and leaving you alone.
↳ AFTER MARRIAGE/DIVORCE
Those habits lasted for two more years until you called it quits. It didn’t shock Michael; he knew it’d come eventually. That didn’t change the way his heart clenched in anguish, silent sobs filling his body at random times during the days. You moved out when he was across town, and didn’t bother reading the letter you left behind under his pillow. He knew that if he did, he’d follow you and beg you to forgive him. He was sure that you’d fall into his arms, and as a faithful man, he understood that wasn’t what you deserved. He faxed your lawyer to say he didn’t want any of your assets and insisted you take your rightful half of his. You refused, of course, and it irritated him, so he threatened that if you didn’t take them, he’d take you to court, and it would delay the process. It left you with no choice but to accept them, using that money to fund the charities you and Michael had frequently anonymously donated to.
The press was an absolute nightmare for both of you. For Michael, of course, it was a bit gentler. Sometimes, bold interviewers would gain the effrontery to ask him whether he felt relieved to be single now and could focus on making music.
“I did not circle that question.” Michael would always counter with humor, filling the room every time. But in his heart? He felt it crumble, every piece breaking and getting lost, never finding its home. His team advised him to avoid questions about you; his interviews had to be solely about him and his career. He didn’t retaliate and assented despite every fiber in his body, such as feeling nausea at the sound of your name, telling him otherwise.
The questions towards you were sickening, and you’d always go home and throw away another memory of your marriage out of anger, needing any sort of alleviation. It begins with selling the ring he gave you, using that money to book an entire karaoke bar for you and your friends to luxuriate in for the entire night and early dawn. Then, it went to tearing apart his clothes, ignoring the way it took a few whiffs of his distinctive scent for some sanity. Sometimes, if you were really drunk and wanting to be shabby, you’d send out someone from your team to buy a magazine of his and rip his pages up, burning every page and keeping your cold gaze as his face stared right back at you, haunting you whenever you closed your eyes.
This habit only lasted for nearly 6 months until you took the will and drove yourself to therapy. It was a hard first session, but opening up to someone else who was unbiased and could validate your feelings while pointing out any flaws was exactly what you needed. You had every right to leave Michael- the relationship was doing you more harm than good. But Michael also had every right to feel anxious and scared. That was something he had to realize on his own, your therapist stated.
↳ MONTHS PRIOR
Eventually, the media calmed down on the unnecessary comments, and your career stabilized. You were releasing music, doing occasional short films to test out your acting, and participating in photoshoots with fellow celebrities. It felt amazing, and you truly were healed. You hadn’t tested out dating, because a part of your heart still belonged to Michael. You didn’t mind, however, because in some way, you knew Michael still loved you back.
You and Michael bumped into each other at a conference with your label some months ago. It was meant to celebrate the charting artists, and you and your team were invited. The possibility of seeing Michael there didn’t even cross your mind. You had put on one of your favorite dresses and arrived confidently. You chatted with your artist friends, catching up with some old collaborators, and were making your way to your seat when your heel accidentally chipped, making your body slightly jolt. You felt yourself slipping against the tiled floor when a pair of hands caught you. You didn’t have to look up to see who it was- your body reacted to him before your eyes did.
“Caught ya.” Were the first words Michael had spoken to you after two years. Your hands felt clammy, and the room became sultry around you. Your lips parted, and your breath was staggering with unease.
He let go of your arms and tilted his head upward, tucking his hands into his pants. “Are you okay, spirit?”
That nickname. The nickname he gave you was because he loved your outgoing, benevolent spirit. “Uh, yes. My heel broke, it seems.”
You were avoiding saying anything else because you were frightened that speaking anything more would break you, whatever that meant.
“I always did tell you that those expensive heels are more tacky than the ones they have at Salvation Army.” Michael chuckled, and you mirrored. It felt so smooth, being able to fall into conversation with him. For a minute, you forgot he was once your husband, and when that realization dawned upon you, you felt your arms begin to quiver. Michael noticed this and, out of habit, brought his own to yours. You looked down, and Michael’s eyes were there with you.
Your mouth parted, lips pursed. "I hate that your touch still feels like home."
Michael’s breath became rapid and shallow, brows furrowed, and forehead tense with emotion. He was feeling dread in the pit of his stomach because, as always, he wasn’t sure if what he had to say was the right thing to say.
“I still miss you. I still love you. I will always love you, spirit. I know you left because you deserved better, and I’m glad you’re happy now.”
Those 28 words brought tears to your eyes before you could process them, and there was a new tightness in your jaw as you brought your fingers to it. You were now unsure what to say, not knowing whether the emotion you expressed was correct. Michael brought his hands back to his pocket and licked his lips. So you did what you always did, and feigned a smile, despite the agony laced in the veins of your heart. “Come to my birthday, it’s soon. And I really want you there.”
You weren’t sure if you were fully conscious when you blurted that invite to your ex-husband, because if it were in another setting, it wouldn’t have happened. But as the eyes around the room kept their gaze on you, you felt the uneasiness sit in your body. You fixed that jitter the only way you could: through lies.
↳ NOW
And that’s how you ended up standing in the corner of the crowded room, eyes searching for the one person you’ve been longing for since you last saw him those months ago.
There were over 1000 pink balloons scattered all over the place; one of Michael’s favorite colors on eyelids whenever you did your makeup. The DJ you had hired was playing tunes, particularly some of your ex-husband’s favorites, and some songs you both streamed at your wedding. Even the white wine that was presented to all guests for their first drinks of the night was his favorite.
The party started a couple of hours ago, and he wasn’t there yet. You ignored your friends' advice and went upstairs to your room, dialing his phone number. His phone rang until his voicemail ended, and you bit your lip in uncertainty. It was always hard for you to know what Michael was thinking and what he would end up doing.
You walked back downstairs, your body perspiring as you kept your eye on the door, waiting for him to walk in any minute. It was almost like your body was sure he was already there, because you turned your head, and there he was. He was in all black, hair short, and styled the way you liked it. He had his glasses hooked onto the waist of his pants, and his hands were crossed behind his back. His lips curved as he swept his dark eyes over your exposed body. Your dress sat so perfectly against the curve of your breasts, at the pinch above your waist. His eyes lingered against the muscle of your leg, the smoothness of it under the warm light so profound.
Michael walked to you first, head slightly nodding as he let laughter erupt from his chest. “This our song from the wedding. When my brother decided to embarrass himself and attempt to thrust his old hips in the air like old times.”
“I’m glad you remember that.”
“How could I ever forget one of the best nights of my life?” Your breath hitched, fingers carving into your palm.
“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“If my conscious mind ordered me to stay home, for the sake of our… circumstances.”
“And?” You bit your lip nervously, scared of the answer he would give you.
“Well, I’m here talking to you, aren’t I?”
You nod and close the gap between the two of you, pulling up on his body as you wrap your arms around his neck. You inhaled his scent, feeling no shame as you lingered on him a little longer, just so his smell could stay on you. Michael’s hands fall to the small curve of your back, patting it a couple of times before you pull away. “Grab a drink, I got your favorite.”
Michael follows you to the kitchen, nodding curtsly to other guests. “Just for me?”
You open a new bottle of his favorite wine and pour it into a red cup, filling it modestly before handing it to him. Some drips down your fingers, and you lap it up. “Just for you.”
He keeps his gaze on you as he pours the drink down his throat. Every linger on you is another quiver your knees give, but you couldn’t care less about the instability. It felt like home, a familiar sensation you didn’t know you needed until now. You grab his hand and drag him to the floor. You began dancing along, every beat matching every single shake of your shoulders. Michael danced along, appreciating every matching rhythm both your bodies gave.
Your eyes widened in elation, sweaty hair stuck on your forehead. Not on drugs, or even drunk, but high on the fact that you were right where you belonged. Your heart beat perfectly; it wasn’t in fear of any sort of radicalization or embarrassment. Instead, the blood flowed perfectly, an overwhelming sense of serenity radiating through the air around you.
Michael couldn’t keep his eyes off you. His eyes traced every shadow imprinted on your face, every detail of your makeup as it was chiseled perfectly onto your features. He watched as the droplets of sweat rose down the side of your face, and down your shoulders, escaping in between your breasts. He was jealous of them, wishing more than ever he could have a genie grant him one wish, just so he could become the moisture struck on your body.
His bulge hardened, every throb becoming tantalizing. He would take you right then and there if he could, not caring about the other bodies in the room. He’d undress you, removing every article of clothing from you with verse, and then press kisses against the bones of your hips, and then hover over your cunt, teasing it like he loved to do. He would gently nip at the clit, before dipping his tongue and lavishing it as if it were his favorite flavor of ice cream. He felt no shame in feeling these concupiscent thoughts. Your body was still his, your heart was still his. Even though on paper, you were long separated, his cock never stopped throbbing for you, and his heart never stopped beating for you. What he felt ashamed about was that maybe your intentions were genuine, and you had invited him for cordiality’s sake. Maybe you wanted to forgive and forget, and being a friend to Michael was your way of doing so. Either way, he would appreciate whatever you decided. Any sort of contact was better than no contact, and that was the proverb replaying in his mind over and over again, along with his other dazy thoughts, of course.
“I only threw this party for you.” You broke the hourly silence with a blunt yet silky voice.
“What?”
“I only threw this party for you. I told myself that if you came through, then it’d be true. What I’ve felt when I saw you at Epic was true.”
Michael stops moving, and his gaze is on you. It’s demanding, impatient. “Say it again.”
“I only threw this party for you.”
He lets out a soft groan, bringing his fingers to your chin and holding it against the softness of his hand. It makes your chin cramp a bit, but you ignore the sensation and focus on the other sensation your body endures. “Again, and again. Never stop.”
“I only threw this party for you. I only threw this party for you. I only threw this party for you. I only threw this party for you.”
Michael closes the gap between the two of you, a kiss so reverent. Every flick of his tongue matched your heartbeat. Desperate, foggy, rushed. He holds onto your face, bringing his wet lips across your face, pressing kisses on the bridge of your nose, below your eyebrows, below your ear, even on the ball of your throat. Every kiss was an apology, a plea, a dire and eager method to get you to be open-minded to what he wanted to say and do to you. “Let’s go upstairs. Away from everyone else, just the two of us, spirit.”
You nodded, holding onto his hand as you made your way through the crowd and up the stairs. You didn’t care about the gawks people were nosily glaring at you two; you only cared about the relief your body felt as you breathed. You unlock your bedroom door, and Michael follows you in. He locks the door, removes his shoes, and places them under the silk bench he is familiar with. You turn to him, and he points to your bed. You sit down, every live beat in your body compliant with him and his orders.
Michael skims the changes in your room, his eyes resting on the picture frame beside your bed. It was a sunrise in Paris, and Michael knew exactly why it was there.
"I practiced what I was gonna say to you for the entire night, and with inhaling your breath after a long time, I’ve already forgotten all of it." He breathes, a soft and bashful laugh following afterward. He could feel his neck hairs standing on end, hot and uncomfortable sweat painting his shirt. There was a tightness in his throat as he cleared it, arbitrariness laced in his words as he began to speak.
“When I fell in love with you, spirit, I was scared. Not because I was unsure, but because I loved you so much that it was overbearing. Every ounce of life inside my veins continued living for you. I didn’t want to know what waking up every morning without you looked like. I followed through with that by marrying you. Being your husband was a blessing, an opportunity so special, so filling. And yet, I was rigid. I was lazy, unwilling to place myself on the line because I let fear take over. To be honest, I think I’ve lived every day of my life scared. Even when I was a child, I lived in fear. Of my father, towards perfectionism. Towards the fans, the media. And then, without realizing it, I lived in fear that I wouldn’t be a good husband. That fear turned real, and I failed to acknowledge it. I let the fear of disappointing those who helped me be more important than my love and loyalty to you, and I diminished my vows. I have lived life in regret, torture, emptiness without you, my love.” Michael chokes, voice brittle as he feels his heart pounding in his ears. His eyes never left yours, wanting you to see the legitimate agony that rested in his soul.
You didn’t realize the tears were falling down your face until the top of your dress pressed against your chest, moist with the sweat from the night and your current tears.
“I have kept up with every change in your life. Every song has been played, every magazine has been purchased, and every movie has been watched. I have written you every single day, I have painted you every week. My life has been filled with nothing but despair, sorrow, and repentance. I came here tonight scared I wouldn’t make it through the door, but I saw your eyes on it. I saw that look, that yearning for my presence. I knew I made the right decision, and I don’t regret anything I’ve said, done, or thought since. I am sorry for the way I treated you. I am sorry for not being the husband your spirit deserved. And I’m sorry if I’ve taken everything from tonight out of proportion.” He manages to let out, fragility etched onto the wrinkles of his face.
The room is silent; the bass from down below is evident, making your feet involuntarily move. The cushion of your bed bounces slightly. It’s all you can focus on, because Michael’s words sit at the bottom of your mind. You’re silent, unable to move. You want to believe them, the sincerity behind them. But you know that he is no longer your husband. He doesn’t owe you any apology, just like you don’t owe him any response. And yet, the party you threw was just for him. It was the only way you could have him in your presence without using another excuse. Every color you chose for the decorations, every detail in your makeup, hair, and outfit, every food and drink on the menu, even the playlist, was all for him. You waited day and night, nervous energy in the air as your heart rate rose higher and higher. You yearned for his presence, for the kisses against your face, wishing he were there with you instead of somewhere far away. And now he was here, doing the very thing you had awaited for all this time.
The nervous energy lingers in the air as you wipe away the wetness from your cheeks. Your lips quiver as you part them. “Tonight has always been about you, Michael. Every part of it.”
He shakes his head, a hint of disappointment on his face. “Spirit, it’s your celebration.”
“I don’t care for that when it comes to you. I care about loving you. I didn’t leave you because I stopped loving you; I left because you didn’t love me enough. I wasn’t your first priority, like you were mine. And that was upsetting, so I left. But my heart never stopped loving you.” You whisper, staring at the scratches in the floor instead of looking back up. Your body feels heavy, tension engraved in your trembling fingers. You’re unsure of what to do anymore, of what to say.
Michael takes a few steps towards you, hands ghostly on your face as he brings them to your jaw. Every graze is intimate, longing for more. He’s waiting for you to accept his touch, and his hazy gaze is on you.
You look up, bringing your fingers to your lips. “I forgive you, husband.” He pulls you up with one hand, strength so evident as he clashes his lips onto yours. Every movement is needed, vigorous with thrill. He missed the taste of your mouth against his, a mixture so passionate and perfect. You let out a soft moan, mouth opening as Michael glides his tongue against the walls of your mouth. Your face is still glistening, and Michael appreciates the sight as he snaps his fingers, making you whimper as he pulls away. “I want you to undress. Slowly. Fold every piece of clothing carefully, honey. No messes.”
Your heels come off, bending down to grasp onto the buckle, jolting as Michael presses a hard slap against the cheek of your ass. You take off your dress, turning so Michael can zip down most of it. You’re in your undergarments, and Michael raises his finger. It’s a bold shade of red that harmonizes with the tension in the room. You unclasp the bra, nipples hardening as the cold air breezes past them. Your underwear slides down your thighs, and you tuck them in between your dress. Michael hums, and you tilt your head, tugging at his belt loops, pulling him closer to you. Your nipples graze against the cloth of his shirt as you lean in, pressing a kiss against the mustache hairs above his lips.
He pulls away, slowly unbuttons his shirt until you impatiently tug off the last few, not caring about the buttons that fly off onto the carpet under your feet. Michael laughs, watching as you let out a whine and softly claw against his t-shirt. He removes the black shirt first, unbuckling his pants before he throws the shirt somewhere across the room behind you.
“Lie down, so I can eat first. I’ve been starving for a long time.” You lie on the bed, head crashing with your silk pillow as you keep your gaze on Michael. He gets on the bed, fingers teasing your ankle as he brings them up your legs.
“I haven’t slept with anyone since you.” You mutter, eyes fluttering as the shivers prickling the goosebumps on your legs.
“Have you touched another man since?”
“I just told you I haven’t sle-“
“Answer the question, spirit.”
You gulp and look down at the hard grip Michael has on the inside of your thigh. “I tried to date someone for a few weeks a year ago. We kissed, that was it.”
Your body jolts as Michael slaps your wet folds. It’s a move that shocks you, but you find yourself dripping at the contact. You shake your head, fingers toying with your nipples as Michael spreads your legs apart, and on his shoulders. His face is between your legs now, and you hold onto the sheets, scared that if you let go, you’ll melt into the ground.
“I’m going to have my meal now. Don’t think of pushing me away, because I won’t stop. I need to show you who you belong to. Who you will always belong to.” And with that, his tongue consumes every drop of your juices. It doesn’t slow down, not even at your pleas for mercy. His tongue works overtime, making sure every crevice of your inside is coated. He moans into your pussy, the vibrations running through your entire body. It makes your toes clench, and you feel the sweat build up again. Every lap is sloppy and overstimulating, too much for the fact that you haven’t gotten any action since before you divorced Michael.
Michael always felt blessed with the talent he had in life, his compassion for sharing his wealth with the less fortunate, and the humility to serve those around him. But right now? He felt like the most fortunate man alive. He was experiencing a heaven-sent sensation of love, one that he never lost, not even when he hadn’t touched you for two years. Every throb against his tongue would make his eyes roll back, wandering his own hands down his body, feather-light flutters igniting goosebumps that made his tip leak in his underwear. Every ravish dip inside your pussy was satisfaction enough that he’d made it in life. Hearing your moans for his name, for his work, for his mouth, excited him even more. It took every willpower inside of him not to pound into you without warning. His body ached for you, and he couldn’t wait to finally paint your walls with his finish, releasing his yearning for you.
“I need to finish. Can I finish?” You pleaded, legs shaking as your nerves burned with fire, heat spreading under skin as Michael quickened his pace.
He gives a hum against your button, biting it gently before kissing your folds. “Of course you can, baby. Go ahead. Finish in my mouth. Give me something to drink.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head, back arching as you feel your body shake. Every twitch is familiar, frenetic, leaving your muscles tightening. Michael holds onto your hip, watching with admiration as you unravel under him. You keep your eyes closed until it passes over after a couple of minutes, and Michael’s undressed, hovering over you. Your body loses control, and before you can stop it, you’re crying. The tears aren’t overpowering, but they’re prominent enough to make Michael come down to your face, gently lapping at your tears.
“I know, spirit. I know. I love you. I love you. I love you.” He repeats over and over, wetting his cock with your juices before slipping inside you. You let out a sobbed moan, adjusting to his size as you feel the pain disperse into pleasure. You’re stuffed, and it makes you shake your head, mumbling incoherent words as Michael builds sensual thrusts inside you.
You wrap your legs around him, savoring every thrust inside you. It’s a fulfillment you missed so dearly. Only Michael’s cock could ever have you completely melted, so willingly underpowered. You nip at his neck, the whimpers in your ear becoming music. Your heart races faster, and your back jerks against the cushion of your mattress. Eventually, his thrusts build up an unrelenting tempo, one that you’re too mesmerized to match your hips to. His pounds become ruts, enclosing you into his arms with no option but to ask for more. The room becomes musky, bodies sticky with sweat. You don’t care about that, though, because you feel your stomach coil with tension.
“Finish, spirit. So you can finish again and again.” You nod into his shoulders, fingertips dug into the muscle of his shoulder, before your walls spasm around his cock, writhing frantically. Michael hums, giving you praise as his pace begins to stutter.
“I want, no, I need you to finish inside me, please. I need more warmth inside my walls, please.” You plead, and Michael recites the countries he’s visited in order to preserve his quivers. He lets his head fall back, letting out a loud groan as you bite onto his chest.
Michael complies and floods inside you, coating your walls. Your gut tightens as release washes over you once more, back arching with tremors as he slumps against your body. Your vision becomes starry, muscles still tense. Michael gives a short and quick flick of his tongue below your breast, before pulling away. He stretches his muscles before placing the cover over your exposed body, running to the bathroom for the towels next to the sink, and wetting them with warm water.
He comes back and finds your head resting on your hand, eyes fluttering in a pattern as you softly smile. He holds onto the softness of your arm before bringing the rag down your body, wiping you of any evident essence.
Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you open your mouth, slightly parted in relief. Your heartbeat becomes even, palms open, and eyes softly gazing over Michael’s face. “I don’t want to go back down there, not after tonight.”
Michael laughs, voice cracking as he says your name. It makes your face slightly crease in shock, unsure of what he could possibly say. “We don’t have to. Let us stay here forever.”
His words carry symbolism, like a promise so assuring. You’re beginning to sit up for a conversation before he rests his hand on your back. “Rest, spirit. You’ll be sore if you don’t.”
“But we have to-“
“You lie there and rest. Let me sit here and watch you sleep, like how I used to before.”
Your eyes well with tears, and your mouth becomes dry. “What will tomorrow look like?”
“Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, will look like me showing you how much I truly love you. I don’t expect us to get back together so easily. I expect to be patient, loving, learn my exact flaws, and show you how I’ve changed. I will show you for the rest of our lives that you’re my home, and I will be the home you’ve always deserved, for as long as you allow me.”
You softly nod, pinky reaching out for his hand before he laces his fingers with yours altogether. He brings his free fingers to your face, tracing over your eyelids before closing them. You let out a small smile, visioning darkening with sleep.
Michael sits for some time, thoughts running through his mind before he turns the lamp off, sliding next to you under the cover. His eyes never leave you, appreciating every soft breath you take as you rest so beautifully. And as he gives his thanks to the universe for bringing you back together, and falling to sleep, his hand never leaves yours, not for a long, long time.
Summary: You divorced Natasha Romanoff three years ago. Now you co-parent two kids, attend school events together, and pretend the life you almost had doesn’t linger between you. Then one night she stays for dinner. And suddenly everything feels dangerously close to the way it used to be.
(Men and Minors DNI)
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
Five Years Ago
The kitchen lights hum softly overhead, casting a warm yellow glow across the countertops and the small figure sitting in a highchair beside you. Katya Romanoff—your daughter, Natasha’s daughter—is barely a year old and already somehow full of chaos. A small plastic bowl of macaroni and cheese sits in front of her, though “in front of her” is generous at this point. The pasta is everywhere. Some of it is smeared across the tray of the highchair, several pieces are clinging stubbornly to her tiny fingers, and a streak of bright orange cheese sauce runs across her cheek like war paint. One noodle has somehow ended up tangled in her wispy reddish-blonde hair. She babbles happily to herself, kicking her little feet against the chair as she squishes another handful of macaroni between her fingers with delighted concentration.
You lean your elbows against the kitchen counter beside her, one hand loosely curled around your phone, your eyes flicking every few seconds to the time glowing on the screen. The numbers haven’t changed nearly as much as you’d like them to.
9:02 PM.
Natasha had said she’d be home by eight.
Your gaze drifts toward the door that leads into the hallway, like maybe she’ll appear if you look at it long enough. The apartment is quiet in that strange, stretched way that happens when you’re waiting for someone. Every tiny noise seems louder than it should be—the hum of the fridge, the faint clink of Katya’s spoon hitting the tray, the soft cartoon theme song playing from the television in the living room that you turned on earlier for background noise.
Katya squeals suddenly, jerking your attention back to her.
She holds up her fist triumphantly, a single macaroni clutched between her fingers like she’s just discovered gold.
“Is that so?” you murmur, your voice soft, tired but fond. “Very impressive.”
She grins at you with four tiny teeth and then promptly drops the macaroni onto the floor.
You sigh through your nose, rubbing your face briefly before grabbing a napkin to wipe the cheese sauce from her cheek. She protests with an indignant little whine, twisting away from you with surprising strength for someone so small.
“Hey, hey,” you murmur, trying not to laugh despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. “Your mama would say you look like you wrestled a bowl of pasta and lost.”
At the mention of Natasha, your chest tightens faintly.
Your eyes drift back to the phone.
9:17 PM.
Still nothing.
You tell yourself it’s normal. Missions run late. Debriefs run longer. Sometimes the team goes out after—Tony insists on celebrating anything remotely successful with drinks and obnoxious music. You’ve heard the excuses before. You’ve accepted them before.
But tonight feels heavier.
Maybe it’s the way Katya keeps glancing toward the hallway every time the elevator down the corridor dings. Maybe it’s the way she babbles out half-formed sounds that almost resemble “Mama.” Maybe it’s the fact that Natasha promised she’d be home tonight.
Katya slaps both hands into the macaroni again, sending a small splatter of cheese across the tray.
You exhale a quiet laugh despite yourself.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, scooping another spoonful and holding it toward her. “Eat the food, gremlin. Don’t redecorate with it.”
She opens her mouth immediately, accepting the spoon with exaggerated enthusiasm. Most of the macaroni makes it inside, though some still ends up smeared along her chin. She kicks her legs again, clearly pleased with herself.
You check the phone again.
9:31 PM.
Your jaw tightens.
Thirty minutes late.
Your gaze flickers back toward the hallway door again, but the apartment remains stubbornly quiet.
Katya starts fussing softly, her earlier energy beginning to fade. Her eyelids droop slightly as she leans forward in the highchair, smearing her cheek against the tray without even realizing she’s doing it.
“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, brushing a thumb across her soft hair. “You’re getting tired, huh?”
Another glance at the phone.
Still nothing from Natasha.
A slow breath leaves your chest.
“Okay,” you say gently, sliding the bowl away from Katya’s reach. “I think we’re done with dinner.”
She whines in protest, little hands reaching clumsily toward the bowl as you wipe them clean with a damp cloth.
“I know, I know,” you soothe softly. “But if I let you keep going, we’re going to have macaroni on the ceiling.”
Katya huffs, but she doesn’t fight when you lift her from the highchair and settle her against your hip. Her small body immediately curls against you, one sticky hand clutching weakly at your shirt.
The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet.
You glance at the clock again before turning toward the living room.
“Come on,” you murmur to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go watch cartoons while we wait for Mama.”
The living room glows with the flickering colors of whatever cartoon is playing on the television—bright animals bouncing across the screen, cheerful music chiming in the background. You settle onto the couch with Katya tucked into your arms, grabbing a small blanket from the armrest and draping it loosely over her legs.
She watches the screen with wide eyes for about three minutes.
Then her head slowly droops against your chest.
You shift slightly so she’s more comfortable, absently rubbing small circles against her back as the cartoon characters chatter away in the background. The warmth of her little body sinks into you, heavy and trusting.
Your eyes drift toward the hallway again.
Still no Natasha.
The clock creeps forward.
10:08 PM.
10:47 PM.
11:15 PM.
At some point Katya’s small fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your shirt, her breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep. Her face presses into your collarbone, warm and soft and peaceful.
Your chest aches.
“She said she’d be home tonight,” you whisper quietly, more to yourself than to her.
Katya doesn’t stir.
Eventually you push yourself up from the couch, careful not to wake her. The apartment feels even quieter now as you carry her down the hallway toward her room, the cartoon still playing faintly behind you.
The bedtime routine feels strangely lonely without Natasha there.
You change Katya into her pajamas, her sleepy little protests barely more than quiet whimpers as you wipe the last traces of macaroni from her face and hands. You brush her hair gently, humming under your breath while she clings to your shoulder.
“Shh,” you murmur softly as you lower her into the crib. “It’s okay.”
She squirms, small hands reaching toward you immediately.
Your heart twists.
“Hey,” you whisper, resting a hand against her tiny chest. “Mama will be home soon.”
The words taste hollow even as you say them.
After a moment her eyes finally close again, exhaustion winning over curiosity. Her breathing steadies.
You stay there longer than necessary, watching her sleep.
Then you quietly leave the room.
The apartment is silent again when you return to the living room.
The cartoon is still playing.
You turn the television off.
And you wait.
Midnight comes quietly.
The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up immediately.
The door creaks open, and Natasha steps inside.
Your wife looks mostly fine—no visible injuries, no blood, no limping—but there’s something in the way she moves that makes your stomach twist. Slightly slower than usual. Slightly looser.
And when she steps fully into the apartment, the faint smell of alcohol follows her.
Not strong.
But unmistakable.
Her green eyes land on you almost immediately, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“You’re still awake?”
The words are casual.
Too casual.
Something sharp twists in your chest.
“I was waiting for you.”
Natasha pauses mid-step, shrugging her jacket off slowly.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I know.”
Silence stretches between you for a moment.
Then you ask quietly, “Where were you?”
Natasha hangs her jacket on the hook by the door, clearly buying herself time before answering.
“Debrief ran late,” she says. “Then Tony wanted drinks.”
You stare at her.
“Drinks.”
She glances back at you, clearly noticing the tone.
“Yes.”
A hollow laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
“Right.”
Natasha’s brows draw together slightly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You stand from the couch slowly, arms folding across your chest.
“It means,” you say, your voice tight, “you told me you’d be home by eight.”
“Mission ran long.”
“And the drinks?”
Her jaw tightens.
“It’s not a crime to go out with the team.”
“No,” you say sharply. “But it is when your wife and kid are sitting here waiting for you.”
Her expression shifts slightly, irritation flickering behind her eyes.
“You didn’t have to wait up.”
“You’re missing the point, Natasha.”
She exhales slowly, running a hand through her red hair.
“I just got back from a mission. Can we not do this right now?”
“No,” you say immediately, your voice rising before you can stop it. “Because we never do it.”
Natasha freezes slightly.
“What?”
“You’re never here anymore,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now. “You leave before she wakes up, you come home after she’s asleep. Tonight she kept looking at the door every time the elevator dinged because she thought it might be you.”
Natasha’s face hardens.
“She’s one year old.”
“And she still notices!”
Your voice cracks slightly, frustration finally breaking through the exhaustion.
“You promised you’d be home tonight.”
Natasha rubs her temples.
“I said I’d try.”
“No,” you snap. “You said you would.”
Silence falls heavy between you.
The tension thickens.
“You think I want to be gone?” Natasha finally says, her voice quieter but edged with frustration. “You think I enjoy risking my life every week?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” you breathe, “that we’re supposed to be a family. And right now it feels like Katya and I are just… something you come back to when it’s convenient.”
Natasha flinches slightly.
The reaction is subtle.
But you see it.
A long silence stretches between you again.
Then Natasha exhales slowly.
“…I’m sorry.”
The words are quiet. Genuine.
Your anger falters slightly.
“I should’ve come home,” she continues, voice softer now. “Tony kept pushing drinks and I didn’t think about the time.”
You stare at her.
“She waited,” you say quietly. “She kept looking at the door.”
Natasha’s gaze drops toward the floor.
Guilt flickers across her face.
“…Is she asleep?”
“Yes.”
Another quiet pause.
Then Natasha finally looks back up at you, the sharp edges of her earlier defensiveness gone.
“I’ll do better,” she says quietly.
You want to believe her.
God, you want to.
Your shoulders sag slightly as the exhaustion finally settles in.
“Come on,” you murmur tiredly. “Let’s just go to bed.”
Natasha nods softly.
The argument dissolves into silence as the two of you move down the hallway together, the apartment dim and quiet around you.
In Katya’s room, the baby monitor glows faintly.
And in your bedroom, the bed feels just a little too big as you both climb into it—tired, tense, but trying to believe tomorrow will be better.
⸻
Four Years Ago
The apartment feels strangely quiet when you step out into the hallway, the absence of tiny footsteps and babbling voices almost eerie compared to the usual chaos that comes with a toddler. Katya had clung to your leg for a moment when you first introduced her to the babysitter—some college-aged girl Tony had sworn was “phenomenal with kids, absolutely top tier, five stars”—but after ten minutes of animated cartoons and a brightly colored toy box, your daughter had mostly forgotten you were even leaving. Still, as you follow Natasha down toward the waiting car, your chest holds that familiar, low hum of guilt that always comes from leaving your child with someone else.
Natasha notices.
She always notices things like that.
Her hand settles lightly at the small of your back as she guides you toward the car Tony had sent—because of course Tony Stark would send a car, because apparently showing up anywhere without excessive flair is physically impossible for him.
“She’ll be fine,” Natasha murmurs quietly.
You glance sideways at her.
“I know,” you say, though your voice holds a trace of hesitation. “It’s just… the first time we’ve left her with someone we don’t know.”
Natasha opens the car door for you, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.
“Tony’s terrified of Pepper,” she says dryly. “If the babysitter was bad with kids, Pepper would’ve had her blacklisted from the city.”
You snort softly despite yourself and slide into the seat.
The ride to the restaurant is calm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that used to feel normal between you and Natasha, but now feels… unfamiliar somehow. Not uncomfortable exactly, just different. Conversations between the two of you these days tend to revolve around schedules—when she’s leaving for missions, when you’re taking Katya to playgroups, when she’ll hopefully be home.
Still, tonight feels almost like old times.
Natasha’s hand rests loosely over yours for most of the drive.
The restaurant Tony chose is predictably extravagant. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, warm lights glowing across polished marble floors and pristine white tablecloths. When you arrive, the rest of the group is already seated around a long table near the windows—Steve and Sharon, Sam with a woman you vaguely remember meeting once before, Bruce nervously adjusting his glasses beside Helen Cho, and of course Tony and Pepper sitting at the head of the table like they own the entire building.
Which… they might.
Tony spots Natasha first.
“Ah!” he announces loudly, spreading his arms dramatically. “The Widow arrives. Fashionably late, as always.”
Natasha rolls her eyes.
“We’re five minutes late.”
“That’s practically an hour in Stark time.”
You slip into the seat beside Natasha as Pepper smiles warmly at you from across the table.
“I’m glad you could make it,” she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”
“That’s because someone keeps stealing my wife for missions,” you reply lightly, nudging Natasha’s arm.
Tony raises his glass.
“Saving the world isn’t exactly a nine-to-five gig.”
Natasha shoots him a look.
“Neither is building killer robots.”
Tony pauses.
“…That was one time.”
Dinner passes easily.
The conversation flows between stories from recent missions, Tony’s latest ridiculous inventions, and Pepper politely reminding him not to turn the penthouse into a testing facility again. Natasha actually relaxes a little as the evening goes on, her shoulders lowering slightly as she leans back in her chair, occasionally brushing her thumb against the back of your hand under the table.
For a little while, things feel… normal.
Almost like they used to be.
By the time the main course plates are cleared away, the table has settled into that comfortable, lazy stage of dinner where everyone is full and relaxed, glasses half-finished and conversations drifting in multiple directions.
Pepper glances at you from across the table.
And then she tilts her head slightly.
“You look glowing tonight,” she says thoughtfully.
You blink.
“…Glowing?”
Pepper smiles gently.
“Yes. You have that look.”
Tony raises an eyebrow.
“What look?”
Pepper doesn’t even glance at him.
“The one where someone might be expecting.”
The table quiets slightly.
Your stomach flips.
Pepper looks between you and Natasha with a curious smile.
“Is there possibly a baby number two on the way?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head quickly.
“No, nothing like that.”
Natasha chuckles beside you.
“Trust me,” she says lightly, lifting her glass. “If we were having another kid, I would know.”
A few people laugh softly and the conversation moves on almost immediately, but the comment lingers in your mind longer than you expect.
You and Natasha barely see each other these days.
Between her missions and your days revolving around Katya, your lives have slowly begun orbiting around different schedules. Passing each other in the kitchen, exchanging quick kisses before she disappears again.
The idea of another baby seems almost… unrealistic.
Still.
The thought lingers quietly in the back of your mind for the rest of the evening.
By the time you and Natasha arrive home, the apartment is dim and peaceful.
The babysitter greets you quietly from the couch, whispering that Katya had fallen asleep about an hour ago. After paying her—and listening to a brief rundown of how “she was seriously the easiest toddler ever”—you walk her to the door while Natasha disappears down the hallway to check on Katya.
Your daughter is still asleep when you peek into her room a moment later, curled up under her small blanket with one stuffed animal clutched in her arms.
Natasha watches her for a moment from the doorway.
“She didn’t even wake up,” she murmurs quietly.
“She’s been exhausted lately,” you say.
Natasha nods faintly.
The two of you step back into the hallway, closing Katya’s door carefully.
And for some reason, Pepper’s comment comes rushing back into your mind.
You hesitate.
Then quietly say, “I’ll be right back.”
Natasha glances at you curiously but doesn’t question it.
You disappear into the bathroom.
The pregnancy test sits in your hand for a long moment before you even open it. It’s one you bought weeks ago after a late-night pharmacy run for cold medicine, tossed into the cabinet and forgotten about.
You’re not even sure why you’re doing this.
Maybe curiosity.
Maybe something else.
The test takes only a few minutes.
But those minutes feel longer than they should.
When the result finally appears, your stomach sinks.
Negative.
A strange, sharp disappointment floods your chest so suddenly it almost catches you off guard.
Your eyes sting.
You hadn’t even realized you were hoping.
The bathroom door creaks open behind you.
Natasha’s voice is soft.
“…What are you doing?”
You quickly wipe at your face, but the tears have already gathered.
Natasha steps closer, confusion flickering across her features when she sees the test in your hand.
“Wait… are you—”
She pauses.
“…It’s negative.”
You nod weakly, staring down at it.
For a moment Natasha just looks… confused.
“I don’t understand,” she admits quietly. “Why are you upset?”
Your chest tightens.
“Because…” Your voice falters slightly before you force the words out. “Because maybe I was hoping it wasn’t.”
Natasha’s brows draw together.
“Why?”
The answer slips out before you can stop it.
“Because maybe it would bring you back.”
Silence fills the room.
Natasha goes very still.
You swallow thickly.
“You’re never here anymore,” you whisper. “I thought… maybe if we had another baby, you’d want to be.”
The words hang in the air.
Natasha stares at you for a long moment, something complicated flickering behind her green eyes.
Then she exhales slowly.
“…I actually kind of want another kid.”
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
Natasha rubs the back of her neck.
“Katya’s getting older,” she says quietly. “She should have a sibling. Someone to grow up with.”
Your heart stutters slightly.
“You mean that?”
Natasha shrugs faintly.
“…Yeah.”
The tension in the room softens just a little.
You look down at the test again.
Then back at her.
“So… we try?”
Natasha’s lips curve faintly.
“Unofficially.”
⸻
The pregnancy happens faster than either of you expected.
Within two months, you’re staring down at another test.
This time it’s positive.
And Natasha changes almost overnight.
She becomes the woman you fell in love with again—attentive, warm, constantly hovering nearby like she’s terrified you might vanish if she looks away for too long. She starts coming home earlier, sometimes even beating you back to the apartment with groceries already unpacked and dinner halfway finished.
The first time you wake up at one in the morning craving strawberry ice cream, Natasha doesn’t hesitate.
She grabs her jacket and disappears out the door.
The only open store is twenty minutes away.
She comes back forty-five minutes later with three different brands.
“You didn’t tell me which one,” she says simply.
Your heart nearly bursts.
For nine months she stays like that—doting, attentive, present.
When your son is born, Natasha cries the moment she holds him.
“A boy,” she murmurs softly, brushing her thumb over his tiny cheek.
You smile weakly from the hospital bed.
“What do you think about Elliot?”
Natasha looks down at him.
“…Elliot Romanoff.”
She nods.
“I like it.”
For a while, things feel perfect.
Katya adores her baby brother. Natasha carries Elliot around constantly like he’s made of glass. The apartment fills with the warm chaos of family life again.
But slowly…
Old habits creep back in.
A mission here.
A late debrief there.
A night out with the team that turns into three drinks too many.
Phone calls that don’t come.
Arguments that grow sharper with every passing week.
And somewhere between midnight arrivals and slammed doors, the warmth that came with Elliot’s birth begins fading into the same quiet tension that once filled the apartment before.
Like history repeating itself.
⸻
Three Years Ago
The clock on the microwave reads 9:48 PM, the glowing green numbers reflecting faintly off the dark kitchen tiles. The apartment has that same quiet, stretched feeling it always seems to get when Natasha isn’t home yet—the kind where every little sound seems louder than it should be. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The soft chatter of the cartoon playing in the living room. The occasional creak of the floorboards when one of the kids shifts their weight.
You’re standing at the edge of the living room now, leaning your shoulder against the wall as you watch Katya and Elliot on the couch.
Katya is three now.
Three years old and already convinced she’s much more capable than she actually is.
She sits cross-legged on the couch beside her baby brother, carefully holding one of his small stuffed dinosaurs in front of him like she’s personally responsible for his entertainment. Elliot, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to the effort she’s putting in. He’s sprawled back against the cushions, one tiny sock half slipping off his foot while his heavy-lidded eyes stare at the brightly colored cartoon characters bouncing across the television screen.
The flickering light paints both their faces in soft blues and yellows.
You glance down at your phone.
No messages.
Not that you expected any.
You stopped expecting Natasha to be home on time a long time ago.
But that tiny, stubborn piece of hope in your chest never really went away.
Every night there’s still that quiet thought in the back of your mind—maybe tonight will be different.
Maybe tonight she’ll come through the door at a normal hour.
Maybe tonight she’ll actually be here to say goodnight to her kids.
Your eyes drift back toward the door.
The hallway beyond it is silent.
Katya suddenly leans toward Elliot, pressing the stuffed dinosaur against his arm.
“Look, Eli,” she says proudly, her voice slightly too loud for the sleepy quiet of the room. “Dino!”
Elliot barely reacts.
His head droops slightly forward, his eyelids slowly beginning to slide shut as the cartoon music continues chirping happily in the background.
You push yourself off the wall and walk over to the couch, gently brushing your fingers through Elliot’s soft hair.
“Well,” you murmur quietly. “Looks like someone’s ready for bed.”
Katya looks up immediately.
“I help!”
You smile faintly.
“Of course you do.”
You lift Elliot carefully from the couch, his small body going limp against your shoulder almost instantly. He lets out a soft, sleepy whine before settling again, one tiny hand curling loosely against your shirt.
Katya jumps down from the couch and hurries after you as you walk down the hallway toward Elliot’s room.
“I help,” she repeats, much more seriously this time.
Her version of helping mostly involves standing directly in the middle of wherever you need to walk.
But you don’t say that.
Because if she wasn’t there, the hallway would feel a lot emptier.
And right now, you’re not sure you want to feel that.
“Okay,” you say gently as you push Elliot’s bedroom door open with your shoulder. “You can help.”
Katya beams like you’ve just given her the most important job in the world.
Elliot whines softly as you lay him down on the changing table, his sleepy eyes blinking slowly as you switch him into his pajamas. Katya stands beside you the entire time, carefully holding a small diaper like it’s a sacred object.
“Here,” she announces proudly, handing it to you.
“Thank you,” you say warmly.
She grins.
It takes twice as long to get Elliot ready for bed with her “helping,” but you don’t mind. Eventually he’s tucked into his crib, his stuffed bear resting beside him while his breathing slowly evens out.
Katya leans against the crib railing, peeking at him.
“He sleepy,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” you murmur softly.
You brush a kiss across Elliot’s forehead before guiding Katya back into the hallway.
“Your turn.”
Katya doesn’t argue.
She rarely does when it comes to bedtime.
Her routine is simple now—pajamas, brushing her teeth, one short story, then her favorite blanket tucked around her shoulders. The same process every night, steady and predictable in a way the rest of your life hasn’t been in a long time.
Tonight is no different.
By the time you finish reading the story, Katya’s eyelids are already drooping.
“Night, Mama,” she murmurs sleepily.
“Goodnight, bug,” you whisper, brushing her hair back from her face.
You close her door softly behind you.
And then the apartment falls quiet again.
The waiting game begins.
You sit on the couch with the television muted, the soft glow from the screen casting dim light across the room. Your phone rests in your hand, though you’re not really looking at it.
Time passes slowly.
11:04 PM.
11:52 PM.
12:38 AM.
At some point you stop checking.
You just sit there.
Waiting.
The sound of the front door unlocking finally breaks the silence.
Your head lifts immediately.
The door opens.
Natasha steps inside.
It’s 2:03 AM.
Your wife pauses slightly when she sees you sitting there, like she wasn’t expecting you to still be awake.
“You’re up late,” she says casually as she shuts the door behind her.
The familiar scent of alcohol drifts faintly through the air.
But there’s something else, too.
Something softer.
Sweeter.
Floral.
Your stomach twists.
Natasha doesn’t wear floral perfume.
She never has.
Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.
“…Where were you?”
Natasha shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it over the chair by the door.
“Out.”
“With who?”
She hesitates just slightly.
“Some people from the team.”
You stand slowly from the couch.
The scent becomes stronger as she walks closer.
That perfume again.
It clings to her clothes.
Her hair.
“Natasha,” you say carefully. “Who were you with?”
Her jaw tightens faintly.
“…Someone.”
A hollow feeling spreads through your chest.
“Were you sleeping with her?”
The question hangs heavily in the air.
Natasha freezes.
For a long moment she doesn’t say anything.
Then she exhales slowly.
“No.”
Your eyes narrow.
“No?”
“I wasn’t sleeping with her.”
“That’s a very specific answer.”
Silence.
Your stomach drops further.
“…Natasha.”
She runs a hand through her hair, clearly realizing there’s no point dodging the truth.
“We were drinking,” she admits quietly.
“And?”
Her eyes flick up to meet yours.
“…We kissed.”
The room goes completely still.
Your chest feels strangely empty.
Like the air has been pulled straight out of it.
“Nothing else happened,” she adds quickly. “I stopped it.”
But the words barely register.
All you can think about is the perfume clinging to her shirt.
The late nights.
The missed dinners.
The broken promises.
The way your kids fall asleep every night without seeing their mother.
Your voice comes out hollow.
“…Right.”
Natasha takes a step toward you.
“It didn’t mean anything.”
You laugh softly.
But there’s no humor in it.
“That’s almost worse.”
She doesn’t argue.
Because she knows you’re right.
The silence stretches between you again.
Heavy.
Final.
Somewhere down the hallway, Elliot stirs faintly in his crib before settling again.
You close your eyes for a moment.
When you open them again, your voice is quiet.
“I think we’re done.”
Natasha doesn’t protest.
She doesn’t argue.
She just looks tired.
Like she’s been expecting those words for a long time.
⸻
A week later, you place the divorce papers on the kitchen counter.
Natasha stares at them for a long moment.
Then she nods.
“…Okay.”
No shouting.
No begging.
Just quiet acceptance.
The process moves quickly after that.
The lawyers handle most of it, the paperwork sliding through the legal system with almost mechanical efficiency. Natasha never fights it. Never tries to delay it.
The custody agreement settles at 50/50.
Fair.
Simple.
Katya and Elliot will split their time between the two of you.
And just like that—
The life you built together ends. Not with a dramatic explosion. But with quiet signatures on a stack of papers.
⸻
Present Day
The house had felt too big the first night you slept in it.
Not in a bad way—just unfamiliar. The kind of quiet that comes from space instead of loneliness. After years of apartments and shared hallways and elevators that hummed through the walls, the simple fact that your front door opened directly to your own driveway had felt strange.
But the kids had loved it immediately.
Katya especially.
She had run through the empty rooms when you first got the keys, her small voice echoing off bare walls while Elliot toddled after her, barely steady on his feet at the time. The yard had sealed the deal for both of them—an actual patch of grass big enough to run across without bumping into anything.
Now, years later, that same yard is full of noise.
Bright balloons tied to the fence bounce in the warm breeze while a giant inflatable bouncy castle dominates the center of the lawn, packed with shrieking six-year-olds who seem physically incapable of staying still for more than half a second.
Katya’s sixth birthday party is in full chaos.
Exactly how she wanted it.
Kids from her entire class run back and forth across the grass, their shoes kicking up little clouds of dirt as they chase each other between the garden chairs and the inflatable castle. Someone’s brought a bubble machine that’s sending shimmering bubbles drifting lazily through the air, popping softly whenever one of the kids jumps too close.
You stand near the patio doors, leaning against the frame while you watch it all unfold.
And, as always—
Elliot is glued to your side.
Your four-year-old clings to your leg with the stubborn determination of someone who has decided this is simply where he belongs. His small arms wrap around your thigh while he peers cautiously at the chaos happening across the garden.
Several kids from his daycare are running around with the older ones, but Elliot has shown absolutely zero interest in joining them.
He presses his cheek against your leg instead.
“Eli,” you murmur gently, glancing down at him. “Your friends are here.”
He shakes his head immediately.
“No.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
He’s always been like this.
From the moment he could walk, Elliot had attached himself firmly to you. Katya had been independent almost to a fault as a toddler—running ahead, climbing things she probably shouldn’t, exploring every corner she could find.
Elliot is the opposite: Your shadow. Your little mama’s boy.
He shifts slightly now, attempting to climb up your leg in a slow, determined effort that would almost be impressive if it wasn’t so inconvenient while you’re trying to carry plates out to the patio table.
“Buddy,” you say patiently, steadying the stack of napkins in your hands. “I need my leg.”
“No,” he repeats, tightening his grip.
You sigh softly.
From across the yard, your mother laughs quietly.
“He’s just like Katya used to be,” she says warmly.
You glance over toward the garden table where several adults have gathered—your parents, a few of the other kids’ parents, and even Natasha’s family.
Her parents sit near the edge of the patio, her mother watching the children with the quiet attentiveness of someone who has spent decades observing people carefully. Natasha’s sister stands nearby talking with one of Katya’s friend’s moms while sipping from a plastic cup of lemonade.
They all showed up on time.
Natasha didn’t.
Your eyes flick briefly toward the driveway.
Still empty.
Not surprising.
You stopped expecting punctuality from Natasha a long time ago.
But, like always, there’s still that tiny, stubborn part of you that hopes she’ll show up anyway.
The party continues without her.
Katya bounces on the castle with three of her friends, her wild red hair flying around her face as she laughs loudly enough for the entire garden to hear. Someone starts a game of tag that quickly devolves into half the kids sprinting in random directions while the other half collapse into giggles on the grass.
Elliot remains firmly attached to your leg the entire time.
Eventually you manage to peel him off just long enough to set up the grill near the edge of the patio. The charcoal crackles softly as you arrange the burgers and hotdogs nearby, preparing to start cooking for the growing crowd of hungry children.
That’s when a car pulls into the driveway.
You glance up automatically.
Natasha’s car.
It takes her a moment to get out.
But when she does, she looks… mostly the same as always. Dark jacket, boots, red hair tied loosely back. There’s a faint tension in her posture like she came straight from somewhere else.
Your eyes flick to the time on your phone.
She’s about an hour late.
Which, honestly, by Natasha’s standards, is practically early.
You don’t say anything.
You don’t need to.
Because the moment Natasha steps through the gate into the yard, her mother turns and gives her a look that could slice through steel.
Natasha pauses slightly under that gaze.
“…Hi, Mama.”
The look only deepens.
You almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
Before anyone can say anything else, Katya spots her.
“MAMA!”
Your daughter launches herself off the bouncy castle with reckless enthusiasm and sprints across the yard, grass flying behind her as she barrels straight into Natasha’s legs.
Natasha barely has time to brace before Katya wraps her arms around her.
Natasha’s entire posture softens instantly.
“Hey, маленькая,” she murmurs, crouching slightly to hug her.
Katya squeezes her tightly—
Then immediately releases her and runs straight back toward the bouncy castle like the interaction never even happened.
Natasha watches her go with a faint smile. Meanwhile, Elliot doesn’t even look. He’s far too busy trying to climb up your leg again like a determined little koala.
Natasha notices. Her gaze flicks toward the two of you. Elliot completely ignores her presence. You sigh softly.
“Elliot,” you murmur, gently prying one of his hands off your jeans.
He whines quietly. Across the yard, Natasha approaches slowly.
You’re just reaching for the lighter to start the grill when she steps beside you and calmly takes it from your hand.
“I’ve got it,” she says.
You glance at her. Natasha flicks the lighter beneath the charcoal with practiced ease.
“Least I can do.”
You don’t argue.
The grill crackles to life as smoke begins curling upward into the warm afternoon air.
For a few minutes, the two of you stand there in that familiar, slightly awkward quiet that comes from years of history and the strange calm that followed your divorce.
Eventually Natasha breaks the silence.
“I went on a couple dates recently.”
Your eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Oh?”
She shrugs faintly, flipping one of the burgers.
“Nothing serious.”
You nod slowly.
“That’s good.”
It isn’t jealousy you feel. Not really. More like distant curiosity.
Your attention drifts back toward the yard where Katya is attempting to organize a chaotic game involving a beach ball and three kids who clearly don’t understand the rules.
“Oh,” you say casually. “Katya has her ballet recital next week.”
Natasha’s head turns immediately.
“When?”
“Thursday evening.”
She nods slowly.
“I’ll be there.”
You look at her seriously.
“You cannot miss this one.”
Natasha meets your gaze.
“I won’t.”
Something in her tone makes you believe her.
The grill pops softly between you. Soon enough, the burgers and hotdogs are ready.
Kids swarm the patio table like tiny vultures while parents laugh and try to organize plates and drinks. Elliot finally detaches from your leg long enough to sit beside you while eating a hotdog that’s almost bigger than his hands.
The birthday cake comes out shortly after. Six candles glow brightly on top. Everyone gathers around as Katya beams proudly in front of the table.
“Ready?” you ask. She nods excitedly.
And soon the entire garden fills with the loud, slightly off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. Katya squeezes her eyes shut before blowing out the candles in one determined puff.
The party slowly winds down after that. Parents gather their kids, balloons are untied, leftover cake is packed into small containers. One by one, cars pull out of the driveway until the garden finally begins to quiet again.
Your parents leave. Natasha’s family leaves shortly after. Eventually it’s just you and the kids.
Katya runs one last lap across the grass before collapsing dramatically into one of the lawn chairs.
Elliot climbs straight back into your lap. The sun is beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the yard. And for the first time all day, everything is finally quiet again.
⸻
Rain had been falling since sunrise. Not the light, misty kind that drifts through the air and disappears as quickly as it comes—but the heavy, steady kind that seems determined to drown the entire day in gray. It drums against the roof, streaks down the windows in long uneven trails, and turns the street outside into a blurred reflection of headlights and puddles.
By the time morning rolled around, the sky had already settled into that deep slate color that promised the rain wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
You’d gotten the kids ready for school anyway.
Katya had been practically vibrating with excitement, even while pulling on her little rain boots. Her ballet recital had been all she talked about for the past week, bouncing around the kitchen in her socks while explaining—again—how she was definitely the best twirler in her class.
Elliot had been quieter. He always was in the mornings.
Still half-asleep while he clung to your side, his small hand gripping the sleeve of your jacket as you walked them both across the parking lot toward the school entrance. The rain had soaked the edges of your coat before you even made it through the doors.
Katya ran ahead toward the elementary classrooms. Elliot stuck to your leg. As always.
The preschool wing sat just off the main building, bright with colorful posters and tiny cubbies that held miniature backpacks and rain boots. Elliot had reluctantly let go of your hand once his teacher knelt down to greet him, though he still glanced back at you twice before disappearing inside with the other kids.
That had been this morning. Now the rain hasn’t let up once. You glance out the window again as you grab your keys from the counter. Still pouring.
The recital isn’t until an hour after school ends, but the school had sent a message earlier offering to keep the participating kids—and their siblings—inside the building during that time so parents wouldn’t have to drive back and forth in the storm.
Which meant you could head there a little early. And you absolutely planned to. Katya had talked about wanting you in the front row for weeks. You slip your jacket on, grabbing your bag as you head out the door.
The rain hits immediately.
Cold droplets splatter across your shoulders as you hurry across the driveway and climb into the driver’s seat, shaking water from your sleeves before sliding the key into the ignition.
You twist it. Nothing happens. The engine doesn’t even attempt to turn over. You frown slightly and try again. The key turns. Silence. Not even the faintest click.
“…Seriously?”
You try once more.
Still nothing.
The windshield wipers squeak faintly as the rain continues pouring down outside, the steady rhythm almost mocking the situation.
You grab your phone, already pulling up the nearest garage. Every single one is closed. The weather had apparently shut down half the local businesses for the day. You lean back in the seat, staring at the useless dashboard. The recital starts in less than an hour. Your fingers hover over your phone for a moment. Then you sigh. There’s really only one option.
You tap Natasha’s name. The phone rings twice before she answers.
“Hey.”
Her voice is calm. You rub your forehead lightly.
“My car won’t start.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end.
“…Okay.”
“I need a ride to the school.”
Another small pause. Then—
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The call ends.
You exhale slowly and lean your head back against the seat while the rain continues drumming against the roof.
Ten minutes later, headlights cut through the gray haze of rain outside your driveway. Natasha’s car pulls up.
You grab your bag and hurry across the wet pavement, climbing into the passenger seat as the door shuts with a dull thud.
“Thanks,” you say, brushing rain from your jacket. Natasha nods once.
“No problem.”
The car pulls away from the curb, windshield wipers sweeping steadily across the glass as you merge onto the rain-soaked street.
The drive to the school is mostly quiet at first.
Then the conversation begins filling the space the way it always does these days—casual, neutral topics that circle comfortably around anything deeper.
“How are the kids doing in school?” Natasha asks.
“Katya’s teacher says she’s doing great in reading,” you reply. “Apparently she keeps trying to read books to the other kids.”
Natasha smiles faintly.
“That sounds like her.”
You nod.
“Elliot’s still shy in class.”
“Yeah?”
“He mostly just sits near the teacher.”
Natasha glances at you briefly.
“…Still glued to you at home?”
You snort softly.
“Like a barnacle.”
The conversation drifts from there. Your promotion at work comes up next. Natasha listens quietly while you explain the new responsibilities, nodding occasionally while keeping her eyes on the road.
It’s simple conversation. Easy. The kind of neutral ground the two of you have learned to exist on since the divorce. By the time you reach the school parking lot, the rain has only gotten heavier. But you’re early. Very early.
You check the time as you step out of the car. Forty minutes before the recital. Perfect.
Inside, the gymnasium lights glow brightly against the gray afternoon outside. Rows of folding chairs have already been set up facing the small stage area where a curtain hangs loosely across the back wall.
Only a few parents have arrived so far. Natasha steps in behind you. And almost immediately looks… uncomfortable. You glance sideways at her. She stands near the entrance for a moment like she’s unsure what to do with herself.
For someone who can handle international assassins and covert missions without blinking— Apparently arriving early to a children’s recital is far more intimidating.
You can’t help the quiet smile that slips onto your face. “Come on,” you say.
You walk toward the front row. Three seats sit open directly in the center. You claim them immediately.
One on the left. One on the right. And the middle seat left open.
“For Elliot,” you explain casually.
Natasha nods.
She sits down beside you, though she still looks faintly out of place surrounded by folding chairs and colorful decorations taped to the walls.
The room slowly begins filling with parents. Soft chatter echoes through the gym as more people arrive, umbrellas dripping near the entrance.
Eventually, a side door opens. A group of children spills into the room. Katya and Elliot among them. Both kids immediately spot you. And Natasha. They stop dead in their tracks. Their little faces freeze with identical expressions of shock.
Natasha is early.
For a moment, both kids just stand there with their arms hovering awkwardly in the air like they don’t quite know how to process this unexpected development.
Then Elliot runs first. Straight toward you. He climbs into the empty seat between you and Natasha before immediately leaning his head against your shoulder. One of his hands reaches for yours. The other grabs Natasha’s.
Katya hurries over next, her ballet bag clutched tightly against her chest.
“You’re both here!” she says breathlessly.
Natasha smiles softly.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Katya beams—
Then quickly remembers something important.
“Oh!” she gasps. “I gotta go backstage!”
And just like that, she spins around and runs back toward the stage area with the other dancers.
Elliot stays exactly where he is. Curled between the two of you. His small fingers wrapped around both of your hands.
The gym lights dim slightly. Soft music begins playing through the speakers. And the recital finally starts.
The recital lasts a little over an hour.
Which is honestly impressive considering the performers are a group of six-year-olds whose understanding of ballet seems to exist somewhere between enthusiastic spinning and aggressively enthusiastic hopping.
The stage lights glow warmly against the small wooden platform while the soft instrumental music plays through slightly crackling speakers. One by one, small groups of children shuffle onto the stage in pastel tutus and slightly crooked ballet slippers.
The performance is… chaotic.
Adorable.
But chaotic.
Half the kids are clearly trying very hard to remember the routine they practiced. The other half appear to have decided that improvisation is just as valid as choreography.
At one point a girl spins in the wrong direction and bumps into another dancer.
Someone else forgets an entire section and simply stands there smiling proudly until the next move starts.
Katya, however—
Katya throws herself into the performance like her life depends on it.
From the moment she steps onto the stage, she’s moving with fierce concentration, her little arms stretching dramatically into the air as she attempts a turn that ends slightly off balance but quickly recovers into something that almost looks intentional.
You clap after every routine.
Elliot does too.
Mostly because everyone else is.
But occasionally he glances up at you with wide eyes as if checking whether the clapping is still required.
Natasha sits quietly beside you the entire time.
But you notice the way her attention never leaves the stage when Katya is dancing.
When the recital finally ends, the entire room erupts into applause that echoes loudly through the small gymnasium. The kids flood off the stage moments later, running straight toward their families with flushed faces and excited chatter.
Katya finds you instantly.
“I did so good!” she declares proudly.
“You were amazing,” you tell her honestly.
Natasha nods beside you.
“Very impressive.”
Katya beams like she’s just been personally awarded an Olympic medal.
Elliot clings to your hand as the four of you eventually make your way back outside into the still-pouring rain.
The drive home is loud.
The kids talk almost nonstop.
Katya launches into a detailed explanation of every single move she performed, occasionally demonstrating from her seat in the back despite the limited space.
“I did the spin like this!” she insists, twisting her arms dramatically.
Elliot contributes occasional commentary between attempts to wiggle out of his car seat so he can climb into your lap instead.
“Eli, sit back,” you say for what must be the fifth time.
“No,” he replies stubbornly, halfway through another escape attempt.
Natasha chuckles quietly from the driver’s seat.
The windshield wipers sweep steadily across the glass as the rain continues pouring down outside.
Eventually the car pulls into your driveway.
Natasha parks.
And immediately—
“Mommy!” Katya blurts from the back seat.
You glance over your shoulder.
“Yes?”
“Can Mama come inside for dinner?”
You blink.
“…What?”
Katya leans forward eagerly.
“Pleeeease?”
Elliot finally manages to squirm halfway out of his seatbelt and immediately starts climbing toward you from the back.
“Yes,” he adds helpfully.
You sigh.
You gaze flicks briefly toward Natasha.
She looks just as surprised as you feel.
“…Only if it’s okay,” she says quietly.
The kids are both staring at you now with identical hopeful expressions.
You rub your forehead lightly.
“…Fine.”
Two small cheers erupt from the back seat.
Natasha glances at you again.
“…Thanks.”
You shrug faintly.
The four of you step out of the car and hurry through the rain toward the front door.
Inside, the house immediately fills with the familiar sounds of the kids talking over each other.
Katya drops her ballet bag near the door before launching into another enthusiastic retelling of the recital.
“I’m gonna be the best ballet dancer ever,” she announces confidently while kicking off her shoes.
“Ever?”
“Yep.”
Elliot bunny-hop walks beside you down the hallway, bouncing awkwardly with every step like he’s forgotten how normal walking works.
Natasha lingers slightly behind the three of you.
Her eyes move slowly around the house. The living room. The kitchen. The family photos along the hallway wall.
She’s been inside this house maybe three times total.
Katya’s birthday last week.
And once about a year ago when Elliot accidentally left his favorite plush rabbit behind after a custody switch — Even then she never stepped further than the hallway while you grabbed it.
Now she’s standing fully inside your home. Your space.
The kids settle onto the couch almost immediately, pulling out toys and beginning some elaborate game that involves plastic dinosaurs and a toy train.
Natasha hovers awkwardly near the kitchen entrance.
You notice her glancing between the kids and the counter where you’ve started pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
She clearly can’t decide what she’s supposed to do.
Join the kids?
Help you?
Eventually she chooses the second option. She steps quietly into the kitchen.
“Need help?”
You glance at her briefly.
“…Sure.”
Dinner is simple.
Pasta. Tomato sauce. Garlic bread.
The kind of meal that’s easy enough to make without much effort after a long day.
Natasha tries to help.
Tries being the key word.
She stands beside you at the counter, attempting to stir the sauce while occasionally getting in the way of whatever you’re reaching for.
Which suddenly explains a lot about Katya’s helpful tendencies.
At one point the sauce bubbles too aggressively and splashes up onto Natasha’s shirt.
She jerks back slightly.
You snort.
She looks down at the red stain spreading across the fabric.
“…Great.”
You grab a towel and hand it to her, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
She huffs quietly but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
For a moment, the kitchen feels… strangely light. Comfortable, even.
You move toward the oven just as Natasha steps sideways to grab a plate.
Your shoulders bump.
The movement throws both of you slightly off balance.
Natasha’s hands immediately grab your waist to steady you.
Your breath catches slightly. Her hands stay there for a second longer than necessary.
Your faces are suddenly very close.
For a moment—
It’s impossible to tell who’s leaning in. Maybe both of you. Maybe neither. But just as the space between you begins to shrink—
BEEP.
The oven timer blares loudly through the kitchen.
Both of you jump slightly.
“…Garlic bread,” you mutter.
Natasha steps back.
The moment evaporates instantly.
You pull the tray from the oven while Natasha clears her throat quietly.
Together you start plating the food. Then you pause when you reach Elliot’s bowl.
“Oh,” you say, grabbing a small sieve from the drawer.
Natasha watches curiously.
“What are you doing?”
You hold the strainer over Elliot’s bowl as you pour the sauce through it, catching the small chunks of tomato and herbs.
“He doesn’t like the bits.”
Natasha blinks.
“…The bits?”
“Yep.”
You slide the smooth sauce toward Elliot’s plate.
“And it has to go in a separate bowl so it doesn’t touch anything he didn’t approve.”
Natasha stares at the carefully separated pasta components.
“…He’s four.”
You shrug.
“He’s particular.”
Dinner eventually gets carried to the table. Katya talks almost nonstop while eating. Elliot carefully dips each piece of pasta into his perfectly filtered sauce.
You sit across from Natasha.
For a while, the conversation stays focused on the kids.
School. Friends. Katya’s ballet class. Normal things.
And somewhere during the meal, Natasha realizes something. This—
This feels normal.
Sitting at the dinner table. The kids talking. Plates clinking softly. Rain still falling outside the windows.
It feels so perfectly normal that it almost hurts. Like this could have been their life every single night. Before she even fully processes the thought, her hand moves under the table.
Her fingers reach carefully across the small space and wrap gently around yours. For a split second she braces herself. Expecting you to pull away.
But you don’t.
Your hand stays there. Warm in hers. And Natasha’s chest tightens quietly as she keeps holding it.
After dinner, Katya had been the one to decide the next plan.
“We should watch a movie,” she had announced with the confidence of someone who knew her decision would absolutely not be challenged.
So that’s how you all ended up on the couch.
The big grey blanket that usually stayed folded over the armrest had been dragged out and thrown across everyone, turning the couch into one big warm pile of limbs and fabric.
Elliot had climbed directly into your lap the second the opening credits began. He curled against you like a little koala, his warm weight settling comfortably as he leaned back against your chest.
Across from you, Katya had claimed Natasha’s lap without hesitation, her legs tucked under the blanket while she leaned comfortably into her mother’s side.
A large bowl of popcorn sat between you and Natasha on the couch cushion. It had started full. It definitely wasn’t anymore.
Natasha’s arm rested along the back of the couch. Behind your shoulders. Like it had always belonged there. Like it hadn’t been missing for years.
At some point during the movie, without really thinking about it, you found yourself leaning slightly into her side.
The movement was small.
Subtle.
But Natasha noticed.
Her arm shifted just enough for her hand to settle more firmly against your shoulder, fingers resting there lightly like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
The blanket stayed draped over all four of you, trapping warmth beneath it while the movie played on.
Elliot’s small hand kept sneaking into the popcorn bowl.
Katya occasionally whispered comments about the movie to Natasha, who responded quietly back.
Somewhere around halfway through the film, Elliot’s movements slowed.
His little fingers stopped reaching for popcorn.
His head tipped back slightly against your chest.
By the time the final scene played, he was completely asleep in your lap.
Katya lasted a little longer.
But even she was starting to blink slower by the time the credits rolled.
“Is it over?” she murmured sleepily.
“Yeah, bug,” you said gently.
Elliot groaned dramatically in his sleep as you shifted slightly.
“Noooo,” he mumbled.
Natasha let out a quiet laugh under her breath.
“Bedtime,” she said.
Both kids protested immediately. Which was expected. Still, it didn’t take long before the routine started.
You lifted Elliot carefully from your lap, his arms automatically wrapping around your neck even while half asleep. Natasha followed behind you down the hallway as you carried him toward the bathroom.
The light flicked on, making Elliot squint.
“Alright, champ,” you murmured, setting him on the little stool by the sink. “Teeth.”
He groaned like brushing his teeth was the most exhausting task known to mankind.
Natasha leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you with quiet amusement.
You squeezed toothpaste onto his tiny dinosaur toothbrush and handed it to him.
He brushed with exaggerated seriousness, foam building around the corners of his mouth as he scrubbed his teeth.
“Top teeth too,” you reminded.
“I am,” he mumbled through the toothpaste.
Natasha snorted softly.
Once he finished, you helped him rinse and wipe his face before guiding him back to his room.
His dinosaur underwear came off next.
“Hey,” Elliot protested sleepily.
“Nighttime pull-up,” you reminded gently.
“I don’t need it.”
“You say that now,” Natasha said from behind you, her voice calm but teasing.
Elliot huffed but didn’t argue any further.
You helped him step into the pull-up before pulling on a clean pair of pajamas—this time the blue ones covered in tiny rockets.
Then you lifted him into his small toddler bed.
He immediately reached for his stuffed triceratops.
Natasha stepped closer while you pulled the blanket up around him.
You grabbed the little picture book resting on his nightstand and opened it.
Without discussion, the two of you settled into the familiar positions beside the bed.
You read.
Natasha occasionally pointed to the pictures while Elliot followed along with heavy eyelids.
By the last page, he was already asleep.
You quietly closed the book.
“Night, buddy.”
A sleepy mumble was the only response.
You both slipped out of the room, leaving the door cracked open.
Katya was already in the bathroom brushing her teeth when you reached the hallway again.
Unlike her brother, she handled bedtime like a professional.
She rinsed the sink when she finished and hopped down from the stool.
“Pajamas?” she asked.
Natasha grabbed the pair waiting neatly on Katya’s bed.
The routine repeated again.
Minus the pull-up this time.
Katya changed quickly before climbing into bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
You reached for her storybook.
Natasha sat beside her, gently tucking a loose strand of Katya’s hair behind her ear.
The story was shorter.
Quieter.
Katya’s eyes stayed open a little longer, but they were already drooping by the final page.
You leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“Goodnight, Kat.”
She smiled sleepily.
“That was the best recital ever.”
Natasha kissed her forehead next.
“Night, детка.”
Katya curled deeper into her blankets. Within minutes, she was asleep too. You quietly turned off the light. Then stepped back into the hallway with Natasha. For a moment, neither of you moved.
The house had gone still now.
Just the two of you standing there in the dim hallway, the soft quiet of the night settling around you.
Natasha lingered by the front door longer than necessary.
Her coat was already on. Her car keys sat loosely in her hand. One more step and she’d be outside, walking back to her car, driving back to the quiet apartment that never really felt like home.
The house behind her was dim and warm. The hallway light glowed softly. Somewhere upstairs, the faint creak of the floorboards settled as the house cooled for the night.
She glanced back once toward the living room.
Toward you.
You were standing near the couch, arms loosely folded, watching her the same way she was watching you.
Something in your chest tightened.
“Nat?”
She paused mid-step.
Her hand stopped on the doorknob as she turned back toward you.
You hesitated.
The words hovered there for a moment, like if you said them out loud they might change something.
“Do you… want to stay a little longer?”
For a split second, Natasha looked almost stunned. Then something softer slipped across her face. Relief. Actual relief.
“Yeah,” she said quietly.
You nodded once and stepped away from the doorway.
“I’ll make tea.”
A few minutes later the two of you were back on the couch. Just the two of you this time. No blanket fort. No kids wedged between you. Just quiet.
Two mugs of tea steamed gently in your hands, the soft lamplight casting a warm glow over the living room.
For a while the conversation stayed simple.
Easy.
You talked about Katya’s recital again.
Natasha admitted she nearly laughed out loud when three of the girls spun the wrong direction during one of the routines.
You told her Elliot had been practicing a “ballet jump” in the kitchen earlier that morning and nearly knocked over a chair.
Natasha laughed softly into her mug.
“Sounds about right.”
The conversation moved easily after that.
School updates.
Daycare antics.
Time slipped by without either of you noticing.
The tea went cold. And eventually…
The moment from the kitchen came back.
Neither of you said it at first. But it lingered between you anyway. Natasha was the one who finally broke the silence.
“Earlier,” she said quietly.
Your eyes lifted to hers.
“In the kitchen.”
You didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. “…Yeah.”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “I almost kissed you.” There it was. Just… said. Plain and honest. Your breath left slowly. “I noticed.”
Natasha huffed out a quiet laugh. “Good to know I’m not subtle.”
There was a pause. You stared down into your mug. “I wanted you to.”
Natasha froze. “What?”
“I wanted you to kiss me.”
The words came out quieter than you expected. But once they were out there, they stayed.
Natasha stared at you for a long moment, like she was trying to process that information. Then she leaned back against the couch slightly. “I never stopped loving you.”
The confession came out so calmly it almost didn’t register at first. Your chest tightened. Her eyes stayed on you.
“That stupid kiss… all those years ago,” she continued quietly. “That was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “I threw everything away because I was careless. Because I thought I had time to fix it.”
You didn’t interrupt. Natasha looked around the living room slowly. Your house. The photos on the wall. The toys half tucked under the coffee table.
“I sat here tonight,” she murmured, “watching a movie with you and the kids… eating dinner at that table…” Her voice softened. “And it felt normal.” She looked back at you. “Too normal.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “The only thing I’ve ever really wanted…” A small pause. “…was you.”
The room felt very quiet.
“I was an idiot for letting you walk away.”
You swallowed slowly. Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then Natasha shifted slightly toward you.
“Is there…” she hesitated for the first time all night. “Any chance we could try again?”
Your heart gave a quiet, complicated pull. You didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. Natasha nodded slightly, like she expected that.
“You hurt me,” you continued honestly. “Not just with the cheating.” Her shoulders stiffened slightly.
“The late nights. The missions. Showing up late to everything.” Your voice stayed calm, but firm. “I don’t want to be the one sitting at home every night wondering if you’ll show up again.”
Natasha leaned forward immediately. “I will.” You raised an eyebrow.
“I mean it,” she insisted. Her voice was steady. Serious.
“I’ll cut back on missions. I’ll change assignments. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She pressed a hand to her chest lightly. “I swear.” Her eyes locked onto yours. “Just give me a chance to prove it.”
The silence stretched between you. You studied her face. The determination there. The vulnerability. Finally, you exhaled slowly. “…Maybe.”
Natasha blinked. “Maybe?”
“I’m not promising anything yet,” you clarified. “But…” You hesitated. “…we can try.”
The smile that spread across Natasha’s face was small, but real. “Thank you.”
You stood up slowly. “Well…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “It’s pretty late.”
Natasha nodded and stood as well. “I should probably head—”
“You could stay.” The words slipped out before you overthought them. Natasha blinked again.
“You can take the couch,” you added quickly. Then after a second— “…or the bed.”
Her brain clearly short-circuited for a moment. “The bed,” she blurted out immediately. You both froze. Natasha stared at the floor.
“…I meant—”
You laughed softly. “It’s fine.”
A few minutes later you were both upstairs.
Natasha borrowed a pair of your old pajamas—slightly loose on her but comfortable enough.
The normal nighttime routine followed. Teeth brushed. Lights dimmed. Quiet footsteps across the hallway. Then finally into bed. The mattress dipped slightly as Natasha climbed in beside you. For a moment both of you just lay there. Unsure. Then instinct took over. You shifted closer. Natasha’s arm wrapped gently around you, pulling you against her chest like it was the most natural movement in the world. You tucked into her side easily. The familiar warmth of her arms around you felt almost unreal. Natasha’s hand rested softly against your back. Her thumb tracing slow circles.
After a moment she tilted her head slightly.
And pressed the softest kiss to your lips. Just one. Warm. Gentle.
Full of years worth of things left unsaid.
When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the two of you slowly drifted off to sleep together.
Morning crept into the room slowly.
Soft grey light filtered through the curtains, the kind that came before the sun had properly decided to show itself. The house was quiet in that fragile early-morning way, where everything still felt sleepy and calm.
Natasha woke first. For a moment she didn’t move. Her arm was still wrapped around you, your back pressed warm against her chest, your hair slightly tangled across the pillow between you both. The steady rhythm of your breathing brushed softly against her collarbone.
It took her a second to remember where she was. Then the memories from the night before settled back into place. The recital. Dinner. The movie. The conversation. And finally… falling asleep with you in her arms for the first time in years. A small, almost disbelieving smile tugged at her lips. She shifted just slightly, careful not to wake you.
That lasted about ten seconds. Because suddenly—
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
Small feet sprinting down the hallway. The bedroom door flew open without ceremony.
“Mommy!”
Katya launched herself onto the bed like a tiny missile, bouncing hard on the mattress as she scrambled toward you. Elliot followed seconds later, a little more clumsy but equally determined, climbing up the side of the bed with sleepy determination. Natasha barely had time to react before both kids piled on top of you. You woke with a startled laugh. “Okay—okay—gentle—”
Katya immediately wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug. Elliot flopped across your stomach, half laying on you while still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then Katya noticed. She froze mid-sentence. Her gaze slowly slid past you. And landed on Natasha. Her eyes widened. “…Mama?”
Natasha lifted a hand in a small wave from behind you. “Morning, котёнок.”
Katya looked between the two of you rapidly. Then back at Natasha. Then back at you. Her brain was clearly trying to piece together a very big conclusion. Elliot blinked sleepily at Natasha too, clearly still processing the unexpected presence.
Then Katya suddenly gasped. “WAIT.” She scrambled forward on the bed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Does this mean you’re gonna get married again?!”
The question burst out of her with all the dramatic urgency only a six-year-old could manage.
Natasha blinked. Then she let out a quiet laugh. You groaned softly and covered your face with one hand. “Katya—”
Natasha’s arm tightened slightly around you from behind as she chuckled. “Well…” she said lightly. Her eyes flicked to you for half a second before returning to Katya. “We’ll see.”
Katya grinned like she had just personally solved world peace. Elliot, still laying across your stomach, simply reached over and grabbed Natasha’s hand with one of his small ones and your hand with the other. Completely content. And for the first time in a long time— Everything felt like it might actually work out.
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
Masterlist
A/N: so… it’s been a while since I last posted, but I’ve been working on this absolute monster of a fic. I think it’s my longest one I’ve ever written, my last longest one I think was 8k? But I don’t really write a lot of long stories because I prefer to have a bunch of little ones over one big one. and my phone is literally glitching as I type out this message right now. I think that’s because of this story. So, that’s amazing. Anyway, as always I hope you all enjoyed reading this! 🤍
summary: you began dating steve harrington in freshman year, before he became the king, and you watched as he dismantled your relationship until it was finally over, it’s been a year, and now he’s back.
word count: 5k
contains & warning: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, miscommunication, regret, lovers to strangers to lovers, exes, flashback scenes, sex scene/smut, yearning.
PART THREE: THE END
౨⋆ৎ inspired by i told you things by gracie abrams ౨⋆ৎ
july 23rd 1985
today
the second steves lips were on yours it felt like coming home. you were gasping into eachothers mouths like starved cavemen who finally got hold of a meal. he tasted like blood and salt, and you were melting into it. your entire body sagged in relief against his, hands coming up to clutch at his biceps to hold him there for ten seconds too long. your body remembering the way he tasted and felt in your arms before your mind could catch up to the moment. steve let out a broken sound against your lips, and reality sunk back in.
your hands that were holding on for dear life were now pushing him away, breaking the kiss suddenly as you both gasped for air breathlessly. “no.. no.. no.. you can’t just-“ you felt manic. you couldn’t believe how easily you let him back in, how easy it was to melt back into his arms. steves chest was heaving, his good eye blown wide as he nervously chewed on his split lip. “things aren’t okay! between us!” you gestured frantically between the two of you. you were panicking, yes, but you couldn’t tell if it was because steves lips were just on yours, or because of how badly you wanted to taste him again. you were yelling at him, angry at what just happened but the words felt directed to yourself too. everything wasn’t okay. you were doing everything you could to believe that, attempting to rebuild all your walls that he seemed to vaporize with a singular kiss.
steve started to shake his head frantically as you panicked. “i know! i know they’re not okay! im not asking for okay! im just… im just telling you the fucking truth! i love you! i have always loved you!” he was raising his voice, pleading for you to understand the choices he just made. “things are fucked. things are so fucked. but it doesn’t.. that doesn’t make this less real.” his voice was quieter now, broken even. straining to get through every word, and cracking on every syllable. his hands were gripping his hair. he looked like a man who was being torn into two pieces, physically and mentally.
you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyelids, trying to physically push out the image of him so broken in front of you. “im not saying it’s not real, steve. im.. im saying- fuck - im just saying its not fair!”
you opened your eyes as steve stepped closer to you “i know its not fair, i know that better than anyone. it wasnt fair when i took you for granted.. it wasnt fair when i made you feel crazy for.. for just wanting basic fucking decency.” you stared at him as he broke down, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t see king steve anywhere. this was your steve, but older… matured. this was the boy you wanted a future with, the one you imagined marrying, the one you imagined having six kids with and traveling the country in a motor home. “im not asking for fair. im asking for..im just telling you, i can’t pretend anymore.”
you felt you heart clench and ache as you watched him. it was taking everything in you to not pull him into a hug, let him sob on your shoulder and shatter against you. you would’ve taken it all for him back then, and you were realizing you would take it all now. the love was still there, you could feel it in the way you looked at him, but it was still mingling with the original betrayal. the one thing that tore you apart, tore you so far apart that you couldn’t even see him in the rearview as you were driving away.
“then lets not pretend, let’s.. let’s talk about it”
“okay.. talk.. please yes let’s-“ he sounded so grateful.
“nancy”
the name hung between the two of you like something poisonous. nancy wheeler. the girl steve cheated on you with, the one line he crossed that you couldn’t come back from. he’d never explained what truly happened, the relationship ended so abruptly. your relationship was a graveyard, there was no denying that, but there was never a funeral. there was never a eulogy. you both just assumed it was buried, and moved on with your lives as best as you could.
steves face seemed to harden in pain that had nothing to do with his injuries as his gaze became distant, looking inwards at a bad memory.
“i want to know. everything. i need to know, steve.” you could feel how tense you were, bracing for the worst information. you’ve spent a year assuming the worst, because he allowed you to. you always thought that meant the worst had been done.
“it wasn’t.. it wasn’t what you think. it wasn’t some grand affair. but it doesn’t matter. what matters is i was there with her, and i hurt you. that’s the part that counts. right?”
your brows furrowed together in confusion “what’s the truth then, steve? if it’s not what i think? because ive thought about it a lot, and it’s never good.”
“it was.. one night. after a stupid fight of ours. something about me being late or me being distant..” he shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips as he recalled the night that ended the two of you.
“i was pissed, and drunk.. and pathetic. nancy was.. upset about jonathan or something. i let her cry on my shoulder. it felt… i felt needed, and then she.. lifted her head to thank me or something. that’s when.. when she leaned in. she kissed me and i didn’t pull back, not immediately anyway. but then her hand came up to my face.” steve sank back down onto the couch, his elbows on his knees. “the second she touched me, it was like everything came crashing down. she didn’t feel like you. her hands.. they didn’t.. it wasn’t like the way you used to touch me. i pulled away and i realized what id just done. i realized i just threw away the best thing that ever happened to me. i felt sick, it felt like i was going to throw up, genuinely. i muttered some stupid shit about needing a drink and got the hell out of there.”
you stared at him with wide eyes as he recalled the story, lips agape. you couldn’t seem to find your voice, so he just continued.
“i drove around for hours.. fucking hating myself. i knew id done it. i knew id finally crossed the one line there was no coming back from.” tears were tracking down his cheeks silently.
you finally found your voice, and it was so small, full of a hope you couldn’t name. “it was.. just a kiss? you didn’t..?” the implication was unspecified but clear. you didn’t have sex with her? you didn’t take her out? you didn’t have feelings for her? you didn’t love her?
he cut in quickly “god no.. no. just.. the kiss.. was bad enough. i swear.. a five second mistake that ive spent regretting everyday since.” you didn’t know how to react. he had just confessed his year old sin, and you were.. relieved.
“why wouldn’t you.. tell me that? why’d you let me assume the worst for a year? i thought- god - you don’t even want to know what i thought.” all the anger was drained out of you, leaving only the heartbreak and the hurt. a year of torturous assumptions finally being given a voice.
“i thought if i tried to explain.. it would just be another one of my excuses. “it was just a kiss” sounds so fucking pathetic when you’re the one who just got cheated on.” it was such a simple statement, and a true one too. you would’ve said he was making excuses, you would’ve scoffed at his audacity to try and dismiss his infidelity. “part of me.. assumed i deserved it. i deserved that you assumed the worst of me. it felt like my punishment.”
his admission made fresh tears well in your eyes. he was dismantling every assumption you made of him over the past year. he cheated, yes, but the knowledge of him pulling away seemed to create a small hope inside of you. she kissed him, and once reality sunk in, he pulled away. it wasn’t emotional, he didn’t give her his heart like he gave you, and that relieved you in a twisted way. you could see the truth in his words in the way he spoke, and you could see the regret etched into every fiber of his being.
“you’re such an idiot” is all you could whisper. it was the kind of thing you’d whisper years ago, curled together after a stupid fight when his pride would get the best of him but his apology was written in the way he’d hold you and litter soft kisses all down your face and kiss away the tears in the corner of your eyes.
“i am.. i am an idiot. i was then, and now im.. im figuring it out. but im not that guy anymore, i will never be that guy again.” he looked disgusted with himself.
you didn’t know what to say, everything felt wrong. there were no words that felt good enough for a moment like this. for a year you had a story. you had a painful and solid narrative that gave you the reason to build your walls and keep your distance. it’s been only a few hours, and the foundation of that story has been dismantled. you felt like you were standing on unstable ground.
you stood in silence for a long time, not quite sure where to go from here, until his steady voice cut in “im gonna do everything. everyday. im gonna work for it, for you.” he stood back up with a new determination in his eyes that erased the last of his tears. “a week.. a month.. a year.. a decade. ill be here, just trying to be the person you deserved all along” he walked closer until he was standing directly in front of you again.
you looked up to maintain eye contact, the pain in his eyes was a direct mirror to yours. your hand lifted to brush against his cheek “steve….”
the moment your fingers made contact, a shudder ran through his frame and a whine escaped his lips, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned into your palm desperately. his own hand came up to press yours more firmly against his cheek, craving the touch of your hand. clinging to your comfort after a year of self-imposed exile.
“please…” he breathed out. it was so open ended. please what? please forgive me? please don’t pull away? please don’t leave? please tell me you love me back? steve was too broken to specify, too overwhelmed by the sensation of your skin on his so tenderly after so long.
you stroked his cheek gently “im still.. so angry with you” your forehead is nearly touching his chest from the proximity.
“i know. i want you to be. be so angry with me, but just don’t.. leave me again” you were close enough to see every mark, bruise, and scar from the battles he’s survived that you know nothing about. you wanted to trace them as he laid on his back and told you every story with his hands in your hair. you wanted to kiss them all better and hold him while he healed.
feburary 18th 1984
junior year
“you’re never allowed to leave me, you know that, right?” steve said confidently as you continued kissing the moles that scattered his body.
“why would i ever leave you?” you smiled teasingly and leaned up to kiss him, both of you giggling into the kiss.
he grinned against your lips “good. cause id be totally pathetic without you.”
July 23rd 1985
today
the contrast in the memory was brutal. the boy who joked around about you leaving, versus the man who was clinging to you and begging you not to let go. you stood there together in silence for awhile, his hand holding onto yours, still pressed against his face.
“i should get going, steve… it’s getting late” your voice was so quiet. practical. yet you made no move to leave, you were unsure on what things would look like once you stepped out of this fragile embrace. you felt his hand tighten on yours before reluctantly letting go. it was obvious he didn’t want to let you go yet, but he knew he had to.
“can.. can i call you? later? if that’s not-“ the request was so hesitant, so anxious.
“yes, steve. you can call me.” a fragile smile was on your face. it felt hopeful and dangerous at the same time. then you left, back in your car, back to your home, and back to the uncertainty of what would bloom between you and steve. but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the ache of what was lost.
august 12th 1985
twenty days later, today.
the atmosphere between you and steve that was once like an iceberg, began to thaw slowly and painstakingly. true to his word, steve harrington had been been working for your forgiveness and trust with quiet relentless consistency that felt more real than anything you’d had in the past.
the nightly calls started the very first night you left the byers home. they were awkward at first, full of long silences and hesitant questions. somewhere in between now and then, the calls stretched from ten minutes to two hours or more. he’d always call at 8pm, and you’d talk about everything and nothing all at once. you’d talk, and he’d listen, really listen. he’d remember details days later that you mentioned casually. you’d laugh until your stomach hurt, and sometimes even cried together when conversations got hard.
flowers began on the second day. bunches of wildflowers left on your car in your driveway, one or two times a week. always bright and simple flowers like daisies, sunflowers or bluebells - flowers that felt like you. flowers that he used to pick out of his own yard and tuck behind your ear.
the coffee came next. every tuesday and thursday there would be a takeaway cup from the diner left on your doorstep, full of your favorite kind of coffee. you always said they had the best, the espresso beans they used tasted fresher to you. you couldn’t believe he remembered that. it was always placed with a strawberry iced donut. there wasn’t anywhere in town that sold strawberry, which meant he would drive a town over before seven in the morning, just to deliver you a small comfort on the days you’d volunteer at the library.
it never felt pressuring, and he never showed up unannounced. if you didn’t answer the phone one night, he’d just call again the next night. his voice was always so gentle, assuring you were okay and making sure he wasn’t overstepping some invisible line. it was two days ago when you told steve about a new book you’d been wanting to read that finally came out, you gushed over it for about an hour on the phone. now there’s a familiar knock at your front door.
“hey? it’s.. it’s me. uh.. steve. sorry to just show up like this.” he called out faintly through the wooden door. you opened the door to see steve clutching a book to his chest, the same one you’d been gushing about. he looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there. your eyes locked on the book immediately and widened, full of disbelief. “you…got me the book?”
he seemed to remember what he came for and held it up “right. yes i.. this is for you.” he held it out towards you. it felt less like a book and more like an offering of peace. you took the book, your fingers brushing against his gently. his fingers seemed to freeze in time, hovering long after your hand had gone back down to your side. you stepped aside without another word, gesturing for him to come into the place that used to be his second home. steve stepped inside cautiously, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the invitation.
“so.. how’ve you been?” he stood rigidly, it was a far cry from the boy who used to lay sprawled out on your couch every afternoon.
“good.. it’s good to see you, steve” the admission was warm and genuine. it was good to see him, it was good to see him back in your home on good terms. the impact it had on steve was immediate. his shoulders relaxed and a goofy smile took over his face. “yeah? it’s.. it’s really good to see you too. can i..?” he gestured to the couch. you just nodded and sat beside him.
November 8th 1981
freshman year
“im faster than you!” steve yelled breathlessly as he chased you around the living room furniture.
“nuh-uh!” you teased as you ran past him, squealing when he wrapped his arms around you and spun you around.
“got you!” he was laughing uncontrollably, collapsing on the couch in a fit of giggles before kissing your cheeks “never you letting go”
August 12th 1985
today
“it’s weird, being here again. feels… good? i think” steve sounded so nervous. his knee was bouncing up and down from where he sat on the couch.
you looked up at him “does it feel any different? after all this time?”
“yeah.. it does. i think it’s me though, i feel different. just more.. aware. it smells the same. the rooms the same. you’re still the most beautiful thing ive ever seen. but im.. different”
you felt the heat rush to your cheeks immediately. being complimented by steve felt like everything. “steve…” you started picking at a loose thread on the couch, avoiding his eyes, you knew that once you looked into those puppy eyes you’d be a puddle.
“i spent a year trying to forget what you look like when you blush. it was a shitty year.” his voice was so soft, almost a whisper directed only for you. his eyes were tracing the lines of your downcast face. your blush deepened at his words and you smiled shyly.
“there it is” he breathed out in the air between the two of you, in awe, like he couldn’t quite believe that he was the reason you were blushing. you could hear the smile in his voice. his fingers slowly reached out, giving you time to pull away, before they connected with your cheek. he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. you looked up at him through your lashes, and his breath hitched. the small contact felt electric, a simple touch felt like everything after a year of longing. his thumb began to stroke your cheekbone a few times before he remembered himself and started to pull his hand away “i uh.. sorry. got carried away” pink was covering his cheeks now.
“don’t.. pull away.” your fingers brushed over the soft skin of his forearm, stopping his retreat from your cheek.
“okay.. okay. i won’t.” his fingers came back, more confident this time. cupping your jaw with his hand with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “is this.. is this alright?” his gaze involuntarily dropped to your lips before he forced himself to look at your eyes.
your eyelids fluttered as you whispered “yes”. a single word that felt like a key turning into a lock on a door that you both thought was bolted shut forever.
he leaned in just a fraction, the smell of him was intoxicating. “ive thought about this.. everyday since you left.” his other hand came up to cradle the other side of your face. he held you like you were the most important thing in his world, and by the way his eyes were sparkling, you felt like this time you just might be.
“steve i.. i-“ your eyes were locked on his lips now, craving the taste of him. craving the way his lips felt against yours, the way his tongue tangled with yours. the way he moaned when you would bite his bottom lip, the way his brows would furrow together. the way his lips always took in your top lip, with a smoothness that made you feel dizzy. you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
“i know.. god.. i know” you were both leaning in until your lips just barely brushed, it felt like a gravitational pull. you can feel the faint warmth of his lip against yours everytime he breathed out. his forehead rested against yours, noses brushing together, the both of you terrified to close the last small space between your mouths. “you smell like home.” his lips brushed against yours with every word he spoke before he closed the distance. steves lips moved against yours slow and gentle. his brows furrowed together in intense concentration as he put all his focus on the feeling of your lips against his. it lasted a few heartbeats, just enough to leave you both dazed before he pulled back to softly whisper against your mouth “you’re my home. wherever you are.. that’s my home”
your hesitation vanished at the simple and devastating words, and your lips moved forward to close the distance he created. he groaned into your mouth and it was the best sound you’d ever heard, a song you thought you forgot. his hands slid from your face to tangle in your hair, holding you against him with desperation. it was immediately deep, your tongues tangling together in perfect harmony. he kissed you like a man drowning who finally found air. your leg swung over his to straddle his lap, hands fisting in his t shirt as you made out desperately on your couch. it was messy, frantic, and a little clumsy but it was everything. it was real and honest, and full of a need you both never voiced over the year of separation. the taste of him made your head spin. after all this time, he still tasted like steve. your steve. the steve you fell in love with, the steve who broke your heart, and the steve who is putting it back together and holding it like it’s his entire world.
when you finally broke apart you were both gasping for air, and steve had tears in his eyes. “im not gonna fuck this up again, i swear. i swear to you i wont”
you nodded against his forehead, your walls completely gone. “please, steve. i can’t handle losing you twice.. i just can’t” the vulnerability in your voice was beyond honest. you couldn’t lose him again. you’d lost him once, and it broke you. what would happen if you lost him again? what would it do to your heart? your ability to love? you weren’t sure, but you knew that you would rather try again with steve, the one man you love to no end, than to go around and begin again with someone new. someone who doesn’t know your mind, body, and soul the way that steven harrington does.
his voice was firm, and absolutely certain “you won’t. you will not lose me, ever again.. ive spent a year in the dark, baby. you’re my light” you stared into his big brown eyes that were impossibly soft as you let his words wash over you before kissing him again so gently. your hands trailed down, until they were fidgeting with the hem of his t shirt. you wanted to feel him so badly, feel the warmth of his body against yours. his whispered so softly against your lips, “please.” as you began to take his shirt off.
there was a fine tremor running through his body from the overwhelming relief of finally having you in his arms again after so many empty lonely nights. he looked desperate. his hands were shaking, his lips were swollen, nose red from rubbing against yours as you made out, hair messed up from your fingers tangling in it over and over again, eyes blown wide and chest heaving. it made you want him even more. he used to be so sure, so arrogant about sex and intimacy. towards the end of your relationship it seemed to be a way to find a release instead of finding a connection, for the both of you.
your hands gently ran down his bare chest once you’d gotten his shirt off, fingers tracing new scars with a gentle touch. he shuddered as you touched him, eyes fluttering closed. “id lie in bed and crave the weight of you. the feel of your skin. the way your lips trailed on my…” he cut himself off “id close my eyes and try and imagine feeling it again, but it never worked. it was never like this.” steve whispered softly as his hands began to slide under your shirt to gently pull it off, eyes locked on yours the entire time to ensure it was okay. that he wasn’t going too far.
his breath caught once you was exposed to him, his hands came up to frame your waist. “you are so fucking beautiful, it’s unfair.” his lips began placing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone. it didn’t take long for his jeans and your shorts to come off after that. every touch was careful and soft, the both of you memorizing every inch of eachother again. steve shifted to lay you down on the couch, bracing himself above you on his elbow as he continued to kiss you softly before murmuring against your lips “im gonna make this good for you, im gonna take my time.”
and he did. the rythym of his cock sliding in and out of you was slow and deep, a sensual glide that made all of your nerves feel like they were on fire. one of his hands was stroking your hip, sliding up and down your sides, just wanting to feel the blood flowing in your skin to remind himself how real this was. his soft tummy pressed against yours with every thrust. every rock of his hips made your back arch as he dragged out until only the tip was inside before smoothly gliding back in until you were completely full of him. you were clenching around him immediately and tightly, the sensation having your eyes rolling all the way back. you knew you wouldn’t last long. you hadn’t been with anyone since steve, and everytime you attempted to touch yourself over the past year, you’d see his big brown eyes and hear his intimate voice.
your hands ran through his hair before settling on his shoulders to grip the soft muscle “you feel.. god you feel incredible, steve..” your voice was breathy as moans and whispers fell from your lips. your mouths were hovering on top of another, kissing occasionally but mainly just breathing in eachothers breath. your legs moved to wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, pulling him even deeper inside of you. a sharp gasp left his lips, hips stuttering, and you could tell he was reaching his release. you were as well, your hands tightening on his shoulders as your eyes squeezed shut, arching and gasping as you coated him in your cum. steve groaned at the feeling, but more so at the sight of making you feel good again.
you were sensitive and trembling, but you didn’t want it to end. “please don’t cum yet, baby” your body wanted him like this for hours.
“trying.. im trying, but you feel tooo good” he forced his hips to slow to an a barely there rock, a agonizingly shallow movement. his breath was ragged, shaky pants against your neck. steve was clinging to his control by a thread, his body screaming for release. your fingers began to stroke his cheeks and jaw, whispering how perfect he is into the air between your mouths.
his thrusts began losing their control, the tremors running through his thighs beginning to wrack his body before whispering frantically and repeatedly “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” into the skin of your neck, pressing wet open mouthed kisses as he gasped and filled you with his cum. you both stayed there for awhile, quiet and catching your breath as your eyes were locked on eachothers. steve kissed you as he began to push the damp hair off your forehead.
“i love you, steve. i have always, and will always be in love with you” you couldn’t be more honest. after a year of trying to forget him, trying to move on, trying to erase steve from everything you’d ever known, you knew you would always love him. you didn’t know it at the time, and neither did he, but you just had to separate and learn who you were individually before you could come together and be in love again.
he cleaned the both of you up so carefully, using a warm washcloth to clean your legs before helping you get dressed. “c’mon, please?” he gestured to the backyard with a dramatic pout to his lips. you let out a soft surprised laugh, you knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“how could i say no to that face, hm” you kissed his perfectly pouty lips and ran to get the quilt you’d used so many times before. steves face lit up as he began walking out to the yard, you trailed behind just as excited.
the night was quiet, and the stars above lit up the sky. you both spread the familiar quilt against the soft grass, then steve plopped down and dragged you with him, laying you in between his legs as you rested your back against his chest and head tilting back on his shoulder. you felt steves lips gently kiss your temple, lingering there as he breathed you in. it was just like old times but not, not really. you laid together under the starry indiana sky, two broken pieces of a whole that finally fit again. it felt like the kind of night you’d have when you were kids, where you’d dream about your futures. only now it was real, and the future was here, and you could finally say he was apart of it.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
my baby steve ugh. im honestly open to writing an epilogue and prologue for this series, if anyone would be interested in thatttt. likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you for reading ♡
