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a lost soul finding peace in the fiction world | 20s | she/her

[snowynns]

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝓟.𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 ! 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍

♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Oh Ser Jackson, his Majesty, son and prince of the enemy kingdom, marrying you? This had to be a horrifying nightmare orchestrated by the gods.

♡. enemies to lovers, royal AU, percy's pov over letters, arranged marriage, percy is downbad, wedding night, porn w plot, f! oral, spitting, p n clit sIapping, fíngering, pussiedrunk, virginity loss (both), mating presses, manhandIing, size difference, creampie.

For as long as history could remember, the Kingdom of Solis had never bowed to famine, plague or the old gods when they demanded blood from daughters and called it the supposed duty of women.

And certainly not to the seas.

Your kingdom stood where the sun touched first. At the highest crest of the southern cliffs, where the mountains broke into gold-veined stone and warm rivers ran like melted amber through the valleys below, Solis rose in white marble and sunlight. Its palace—Helion Keep—sat upon the highest point of the capital, carved into the mountain itself, where your family had decided it belonged accordingly.

From your chambers, the entire kingdom unfolded beneath you.

Terraced gardens spilled down the cliffs in levels of jasmine and ivory roses. Long bridges of pale stone connected towers crowned with the gold of the sun. Markets below shimmered with silks dyed saffron, crimson, and royal blue. Even the guards looked as though they had been painted there— with bronze armors polished beneath the afternoon and spears gleaming like second sons of the sun.

Nothing in Solis fitted the word subtle. Your mother used to say that subtlety was for kingdoms with something to hide.

Solis had power and power deserved spectacle.

Which was why your bedroom ceiling had been painted like the heavens themselves.

You stared at it now from your chaise lounge, one silk-slippered foot dangling over the edge, a book forgotten in your lap as your ladies fluttered uselessly around the room.

“My lady—” “No.”

“Just hear—” “No.”

Lyra, your longest-suffering handmaid, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You have not even heard what I was going to say.”

“I know enough from your face to know I dislike it.”

“But my lady—.”

“Maybe I'll ask Father to cut off your head if you keep talking,” was your last reply before opening again the neglected book.

Beyond the open balcony doors, warm wind stirred the gauze curtains, carrying the scent of orange blossom from the lower gardens. Somewhere in the palace courtyard, musicians were rehearsing for the evening banquet.

As soon as your ears heard your mind translated it to nobles and diplomacy matters which = your father was about to ruin your day.

You sat upright. “Who has arrived?”

Lyra hesitated and immediately, your stomach dropped.

“My lady—”

In a second you were crawling between the no-longer-so-tidy sheets of your enormous bed, trying to escape any responsibility that might be placed on your shoulders that very night.

“Tell Father I have died.”

The door to your chambers opened.

Your father, King Helios III of Solis, entered with those golden robes that didn't help to walk, ceremonial rings and the expression of a ruler carrying the weight of six hundred years of war and at least three immediate headaches. (Mind you, you were one of them.)

“Father.” You said, voice muffled by the sheets.

He sat next to you, uncovering and holding your cheeks. “My sun flower.”

“Before we begin, I would like it noted that I may be against this conversation.”

“That saves us both time.”

Wasn't that wonderful? Your kind father wasn't going to torture you for long, only as long as necessary.

You narrowed your eyes. “Who is here?”

He did not answer, a bad sign already. Instead, he studied you with the same expression he wore over battlefield maps.

“The delegation from Atlantis arrived this morning.”

Your father continued, because tyranny now extended into parenting. “Their High Council has requested formal peace negotiations.”

“No.”

Well, that was your favorite word today, wasn't it?

“And proposed a political union between our kingdoms.”

His voice remained maddeningly calm but across the room, even Lyra looked like she wanted to flee.

Marriage to Atlantis.

To the kingdom that had spent centuries raiding your ports, destroying your fleets, and sending awful diplomats.

Your father stood by the open balcony doors, where the last of the evening light poured gold across the marble floor and turned the edges of his robes to fire, and for a long moment he said nothing at all, as though he were deciding which version of the truth a daughter deserved—the one told to princesses, fit for history books, or the one reserved for kings, heavy with graves and numbers and the kind of silence left behind after battlefields emptied.

You didn't need to hear the histories again.

For as long as memory had been kept in ink, the Kingdom of Solis and the Kingdom of Atlantis had belonged to one another only in violence.

No historian could agree upon where it had begun.

Some claimed it was the pride—that ancient kings, both too proud to bend and too convinced the gods themselves favored their bloodlines, had turned a bunch of differences into a holy inheritance of hatred. Others insisted it had been love, which was to your eyes eugh; a Solis princess promised to an Atlantean prince centuries ago, drowned before the wedding could take place, her death blamed upon betrayal, her body never returned. There were old songs still sung by servants in the lower kitchens that spoke of storms swallowing ships in mourning and the sea refusing to calm for an entire year.

Your tutors preferred politics.

Trade routes, they said, while pacing before maps stretched across classroom walls, fingers pressing into painted oceans and mountain borders. Salt and grain. Ports and taxes. Control of the eastern coast. Access to the southern straits. Men liked to call war honorable when it was always about ownership.

As a child, you had preferred the pride story. It felt more according to your personality .

Less pathetic than admitting entire kingdoms had slaughtered one another for generations over shipping rights or over the incident of a princess.

Regardless of how it had begun, by the time you were born, hatred was tradition and lived in the palace walls as naturally as sunlight did.

You learned it in stories told by your nursemaid while she brushed your hair before bed, tales of sea-born princes with smiles like sharpened knives and queens who lured sailors into drowning with songs sweet enough to make men forget they had lungs. Or in the way servants spat over their shoulders whenever Atlantean ambassadors were mentioned, as though the very name invited misfortune.

You learned it in your first history lessons, seated far too straight at ten years old while your instructor, old and severe and permanently offended by joy, pointed to battlefields on maps and recited casualty numbers as though they were scripture.

You too knew your great-uncle had died on the western fleet before you really understood what fleets were. You knew your grandmother still refused pearls because they reminded her of Atlantean royal gifts sent during failed negotiations thirty years before. You knew there were entire wings of the palace where portraits had been removed because the people in them had been lost to the war and your mother could not bear to look at the empty spaces their absence left behind.

Even celebration was about that hate.

Victory festivals filled the capital with gold banners and music and dancers in the streets, but always there was the undercurrent—that joy only existed because somewhere else, someone had been defeated.

Atlantis—always Atlantis—remained something distant and monstrous, less a kingdom and more a threat given architecture.

You imagined it often as a child.

Not as it truly was, but as children imagine enemies when they have only stories to build from. A place of endless storms and black oceans, where the sky was always bruised and the people had blue blood.

Their cities were rumored to be carved from the ocean floor itself, their palaces built into cliffs black with salt and age, their people born from sea water and tempers to match.

As a child, you had believed every ridiculous whisper.

That they slept in flooded chambers beneath the moon. That their royal family could call hurricanes with prayer alone. Even that if an Atlantean kissed your hand, your lungs would fill with seawater and scales would sprout all over your body!

You were embarrassingly old before you stopped half-believing Atlanteans did all this stuff.

Outside, a thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the southern mountains.

Your father had been talking and you heard nothing, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The war has lasted longer than your grandmother’s reign. Our soldiers are exhausted. Trade routes are broken. We can't rebuild villages faster than they can be burned. Every season costs us more lives.”

You crossed your arms resigning yourself to listening to your father's words.

“And who, exactly, is the unfortunate sea creature demanding my hand?”

“Prince Perseus Jackson.”

Prince Perseus Jackson—the heir of Atlantis, called the Tide Prince by enemies and far less flattering names by your generals. Commander of fleets. Breaker of the Eastern Siege.

Oh merciful gods, this could still be a bad joke!

You had believed, with certainty at thirteen, that Prince Perseus had the head of a fish, and not in the metaphorical way.

You remembered announcing this with confidence at breakfast, explaining to your mother that it was the only reasonable explanation for why no formal portrait of him had ever reached Solis, and if the Sea Kingdom was so determined to hide their prince, clearly it was because he had scales and unblinking eyes and perhaps gills where a proper neck ought to be.

Your brother laughed so hard he nearly choked on fruit.

Your mother, with the kind of patience only queens and saints possessed, had simply informed you that royal diplomacy would be significantly more difficult if you insisted on addressing the foreign prince as trout.

Finally the King moved toward the door.

“The formal announcement will not be made until tomorrow evening. You have tonight.”

“For what?”

“To decide whether you will make this difficult with dignity,” He opened the door to get going. “…or dramatically, which I assume is your preference.”

Lyra approached carefully, like one might approach a wild animal considering arson.

“My lady?”

You turned slowly. “If I throw myself from the balcony, do you think they will still make me attend dinner?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

This was tragic.

You walked to the balcony, gripping the stone rail.

Far beyond the golden city, beyond the cliffs and the rivers and the sunlit valleys of Solis, the sea stretched blue and endless toward a kingdom you had never seen.

Somewhere beyond that horizon was the man who apparently intended to marry you.

That same afternoon you were given a letter with the Jackson house seal. It was a deep blue color with subtle marine details embedded in silver ink.

You opened the seal with a small knife, considering at some point using it to tear the paper and send it back to him like that.

The parchment was expensive, thick and smooth beneath your hands, edged in so much silver ink it felt unnecessarily elegant. Even his stationery was smug.

You unfolded the letter slowly, suspicious already.

You expected some beautifully phrased threat disguised as diplomacy, or even the arrogance a lot of men used.

What you did not expect was this:

Dear future wife,

I was informed—repeatedly, and with great suffering on all sides—that it would be politically beneficial for me to write to you before our families force us into the same room. Apparently silence is considered poor courtship over Solis.

I argued that forced marriage should excuse a lack of romance, but your future in-laws are, unfortunately, optimists.

So.

Hello.

By now, I assume your father has explained the arrangement, and I imagine your reaction was somewhere between dignified outrage and the active consideration of murder. If so, I find that deeply reassuring. I would be concerned if you accepted this.

I am told you dislike my kingdom.

In fairness, the feeling is mutual, so at least we begin with honesty.

I know what Solis says of Atlantis. I imagine I have horns by now. Possibly scales. Someone, somewhere, has likely informed you I keep drowned sailors in the palace walls and sharpen swords on their bones.

For the record, only one of those things is true.

I will not insult you by pretending this marriage is romantic.

It is political, inconvenient, and being treated by every advisor around me as though it is the personal triumph of diplomacy itself, which should tell you how unbearable my week has been.

But it may also keep our kingdoms from spending another hundred years trying to bury each other, and I am selfish enough to think that sounds preferable.

You should also know that I did attempt to refuse.

This was received badly.

Mostly because I offered no convincing reason beyond “I would rather not.”

Apparently that is not how treaties work, my future queen princess.

So here we are.

I know enough about you to suspect you are proud, difficult, and entirely too intelligent to tolerate fools for long, which means we may survive this if I am careful and if you are feeling unusually merciful.

I will offer one promise, since everyone else seems determined to offer you expectations.

I do not intend to make a prisoner of you.

If this marriage happens—and it will, because neither of us is being consulted nearly enough—I will not ask for sweetness where there is none, nor obedience where it is not deserved.

That feels, at the very least, like fairer warfare.

Until we meet,

Prince Perseus Jackson.

P.S.

If anyone has told you I have the head of a fish, I regret to inform you the rumor is false. I am unfortunately very handsome.

—

Well, that last part was reassuring if we ignored how narcissistic those last words were. So your future husband was going to be the enemy army general? This could cause a scandal throughout the kingdom.

The next morning arrived with all the grace of an execution as the formal announcement was to be made by sunset which meant, according to the women of the palace, that your suffering needed to begin at dawn.

You were woken not by sunlight, nor birdsong, nor any peaceful luxury afforded to a princesses in a sentimental poem, but by the violent betrayal of curtains being thrown open and six women entering your chambers.

You opened one eye.

“Noooo, five more hours.”

“It is too late for no,” Lyra informed you, crossing the room with the merciless efficiency of a woman who had planned your downfall in advance. “The ambassadors have arrived, your father has requested your presence by evening, the entire court talking about the most scandalous political arrangement of the decade, and Lady Cassandra has already selected your gowns.”

You pulled the pink silk sheets over your head. “Tell them I drowned in cushions.”

“Given the circumstances, that may be interpreted as an insult.”

Fantastic.

You emerged from the blankets with all the dignity of a martyr and stared at the room now transformed into your own personal execution.

Your dressing table had disappeared beneath brushes, combs, perfumes, pins, ribbons, jewels, and enough cosmetics to prepare five royal engagements. Two younger maids were carrying in fresh basins of steaming water scented with lavender and orange blossom. Another stood near the wardrobe, holding garments draped over both arms like ceremonial offerings to an unwilling goddess (you).

At the center of it all stood Lady Cassandra, the royal dressmaker, who regarded human emotion as a minor inconvenience beneath the importance of her tailoring.

An hour later, you were regretting every decision that had led you to birth.

Your hair had been washed in rosewater and combed until your scalp hurt. Your skin had been rubbed with oils that smelled faintly of jasmine. Someone had forced tea into your hands while another woman debated with Lady Cassandra about the dress options.

You sat before the great mirror of the room while half the palace adjusted your existence around you.

“I don't like this,” you muttered as one maid fastened a bracelet around your wrist while another argued over pearls.

You met your own reflection.

Princesses, you had decided long ago, were merely decorations for the palace too.

Everything about the royal presentation was important. From the colors you wore, the stones at your throat, the embroidery at your hem— they were literally selling you out in the eyes of the enemy kingdom.

Unfortunately, Lady Cassandra agreed on that.

She approached carrying the gown and for one terrible moment, you forgot how to speak.

It was blue.

Not the pale blue of spring skies or harmless ribbons, but the deep, impossible blue of the sea just before a storm—the kind sailors prayed to and feared in equal measure. Rich silk spilled like water between her hands, layered with silver-thread embroidery that caught the light like moonlight on waves.

At the bodice, delicate patterns of curling foam and cresting tides had been stitched so finely they seemed alive, winding around your waist and ribs. Tiny freshwater pearls had been sewn into the design too—not enough to seem excessive, but enough that when you moved, they shimmered like drops of sea spray.

The sleeves were long and sheer, trailing at the wrists in translucent silk, while the skirts fell in heavy folds that whispered over the marble floor. At the neckline, subtle silver beading formed the shape of stars and compass points.

The maids moved quickly after that, slipping the gown over your shoulders, fastening hidden closures, smoothing every line until the dress sat against you like a second skin.

It was beautiful and that made you hate it immediately because it suited you.

The blue made your skin glow warm beneath the sunlight and turned the gold in your jewelry brighter and the silver embroidery made you look like a princess being offered to make peace.

Lyra stepped beside you, adjusting the final necklace at your throat—a collar of moonstone and white gold, elegant and cool against your skin.

“Well,” she said softly, studying your reflection with the satisfaction of an artist admiring finished work, “if Prince Percy does not fall in love with you tonight, I shall consider it a insult to the crown.”

You gave her a flat look.

“If Prince Perseus falls in love with me tonight, I will push him into the nearest fountain.”

“That's a romantic beginning.”

“A necessary drowning.”

She laughed, and for a moment, so did you until the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor met your doors, by the sort of hushed excitement that only meant one thing.

Someone important had arrived.

You were seated before your mirror while two women debated whether your sleeves required more silver threading when the youngest maid in the room, Elia, abandoned all dignity entirely and rushed toward the balcony windows.

“He’s here.”

“Who,” you asked dryly, though everyone knew exactly who we were talking about.

Elia turned, eyes wide with scandal and delight.

“The Atlantean prince. Their carriage just passed the east gates.”

Half the maids abandoned all pretenses of professionalism and hurried toward the balcony like birds fleeing toward gossip, gathering at the stone rail with urgency. Even Lyra, who prided herself on dignity, and Lady Cassandra, who claimed not to care and still somehow arrived there first.

You remained seated for precisely three seconds before your own curiosity betrayed you.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing while your hands worked on your hair.

“Completely,” Lyra agreed, already pulling you with her. “Move.”

The balcony overlooked the eastern approach to Helion Keep, where the long marble road curved upward from the city gates through the royal gardens and into the palace courtyards below. From here, on clearer days, you could see nearly half the capital— with gold rooftops, white towers and fountains catching the sunlight.

Now, all you could see was a gathering.

Guards lined the lower courtyard in ceremonial armor; servants moved like frantic ants between columns; even stable hands lingered near the entrance steps, pretending not to stare.

And there, at the center of it all the carriage.

It was impossible to mistake.

Dark as stormwater, polished to a shine that reflected the palace walls around it, the royal carriage of Atlantis stood waiting beneath the archway like a threat wrapped in elegance. Silver detailing curved along its sides in patterns like waves and sea serpents, and the crest upon its door gleamed unmistakably.

Sea-blue banners shifted from its frame in the warm wind with the house mark and the horses were enormous, black and restless, their bridles silver-chained and immaculate.

“I expected something with more fish.”

“Perhaps the fish are inside.”

Elia gasped. “Do you think he really has scales?”

Below, palace officials were gathering near the carriage entrance. Your father stood at the front of them, beside him stood your brother, looking far too entertained by the entire affair.

What a traitor of a brother you had.

One of the younger maids whispered reverently, “Do you think he is handsome?”

Another replied, “I think if he survives meeting her highness, that will be impressive enough.”

One way or another, you didn't get much closer to the balcony like the rest of the maids; only one thought entered your head.

You imagined him inside.

Prince Percy Jackson, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, a professional nuisance before even introduction. Perhaps he sat there, enjoying the spectacle, fully aware that half your father’s court was holding its breath for the privilege of watching him step onto stone.

It felt like something an arrogant man would do. That decided immediately if true, you disliked him even more.

You got out of the thought when some of the girls screamed as one of the carriage doors unlatched, the silver handle turning.

And at that exact, divinely cursed moment, the wind changed. Strong mountain wind swept suddenly across the upper terraces, rushing through the balcony in a warm gust that sent every curtain in your chambers billowing like sails. The heavy balcony shutters—usually held open against the stone—slammed inward with violent force.

One struck the marble wall with a crack like thunder and the other shut directly across your line of sight.

Gasps filled the room.

“By the gods—” “Open it!” “I can't see anything—”

By the time the maids reached it, fumbling with the polished bronze latches and silk sleeves and collective despair, the moment below had already passed.

The royal family of Atlantis—whoever they were, however they looked, however much of your immediate future stood among them—were already hidden beneath the palace arches, swallowed whole by marble before your court could properly devour them with its eyes.

The maids stared in open heartbreak, the open doors of the carriage and people below starting to move again. However, you felt strangely calm; you really didn't know if you wanted to see your potential future husband.

The rest of the day went with going from one place to another just to actually prepare you until you were summoned to the Hall of Crowns. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the western cliffs, pouring molten gold through the palace windows and setting the entire world ablaze.

Helion Keep had always been built for this type of spectacle, but nowhere was that more obvious than the great hall.

It stretched the length of the central palace—vast marble columns veined with gold, ceilings painted with the victories of dead rulers, chandeliers of crystal and sunstone hanging high above like captured stars. The floors reflected everything: candlelight, silk hems, polished armor, ambition.

But today the halls of Helion Keep had been transformed for the evening.

Gold lanterns hung from the archways, casting warm light over the polished floors. Musicians played softly from the upper gallery, low harp notes mixing in the environment, it was elegant enough to soothe any temper and expensive enough to remind everyone who was paying all of it.

The long banquet tables stretched through the center of the hall beneath the banners of Solis and Atlantis hanging side by side in what looked, frankly, like a threat.

The sun crest and the sea crest. Gold and blue. Fire n' tide.

At the highest table, beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with gods, sat your father.

On the other end the Queen of Atlantis was exactly what you expected and somehow worse for it—beautiful in the cold way winter storms were beautiful, dressed in silver-threaded navy silk with pearls at her throat like captured moonlight. She looked like a woman who had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.

Beside her sat the King, taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, wearing his own crown.

And then there was him.

At first, you almost missed him—not because he was a forgettable face, but because he was doing everything in his power to appear as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

He was not watching the room, the musicians or ladies laughing between them in a corner.

No, he was looking at his plate with total interest. As though the roasted figs before him had insulted his bloodline and he was deciding whether they deserved to survive being eaten.

For one brief moment, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with the court pretending not to watch your reaction, you simply stared.

He was, annoyingly, very handsome. Well that was unfortunate.

His dark hair fell slightly untidy despite every visible attempt of the palace staff to make it look presentable with the prettiest sea-green eyes you've probably ever seen.

His face was sharp, with a marked jaw and perfect symmetry, the kind sculptors would spend lifetimes trying and failing to reproduce without accidentally starting religions. Maybe he was some sort of godl— anyways.

There was sun still left on his skin despite the sea kingdom’s colder reputation, bronze against navy silk and silver fastenings.

Beside you, Lyra made a sound suspiciously close to suppressed laughter.

You did not look at her. “Say nothing.”

“I said nothing.” “You were thinking loudly.”

“I am merely relieved for you, my lady. Marriage to a trout would have been very complicated.”

Suddenly there was no more room for private irritation, because your father had moved from his chair and stepped forward from the throne dais and the performance had begun.

“Her Royal Highness,” the herald announced, his voice carrying through the marble, “Princess of Solis, heir of the Sun Court.”

Every eye in the room found you as descended the staircase beside the hall entrance with all the serenity of someone not imagining murder.

The blue gown swept behind you like tidewater, the silver embroidery making soft sounds. The moonstone at your throat felt colder now. Every noble in the room watched as though trying to calculate exactly how much peace cost and whether you looked expensive enough to satisfy the other kingdom.

At the end of the hall, your father extended a hand as you took your place beside him.

Across from you stood the royal family of Atlantis and Percy.

Dear Gods up close was worse. Much worse!

Why couldn't you tear your eyes away from that man? Perhaps it was the surprise of not seeing any scales on his neck or hands. You weren't sure if it was 100% real, but hus skin had freckles on cheeks and hands. What you were certain of was that the skin peeking out from his neck showed a single dark freckle.

The banquet endured for what felt like several consecutive lifetimes. You smiled when required, spoke when demanded, and spent the rest of the evening discovering that there were very few things more exhausting than being discussed as though you were both present and decorative.

Every noble in Solis seemed to have developed an urgent and deeply insincere interest in your happiness.

Every lord from Atlantis looked at you with the politeness of men trying to determine whether you would eventually become their future queen or their prince’s most elegant mistake.

Neither possibility appeared to reassure them.

And at some point, beside you, Percy performed no better.

He was civil, which somehow felt more irritating than open hostility as he answered questions with practiced ease, nodded at all the correct moments, and wore the expression of a man enduring a hostage situation with remarkable restraint.

You caught him staring at the doors more than six times.

But you sympathized because the moment dessert arrived, you briefly considered setting something on fire simply to create an exit.

Unfortunately, your mother had raised you better than that. Your father, regrettably, had not.

It happened just after the final toast. The musicians softened into quieter melodies, wine had made several ambassadors far too confident, and the court had settled into that dangerous part of evening where everyone believed themselves subtle.

Your father leaned toward you with the expression parents wore when they were about to ruin their children’s lives.

“Walk with the prince.”

You turned slowly. “What? No.”

Across the table, Percy’s father was having what appeared to be the exact same conversation.

Percy looked up at you and also said no.

Two kings, separated by kingdoms and centuries of conflict, exchanged the silent understanding of fathers united by mutual disregard for their children’s preferences.

Your father smiled. “It was not a request.”

Naturally.

And so, several minutes later, you found yourself walking with your hand over the arm of Prince Percy Jackson through the western corridors of Helion Keep in a silence so pointed it deserved its own poem.

Two guards followed at a respectful distance, to pretend privacy existed.

Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silver against the marble floors. The evening had cooled; the palace breathed softer at night, its grandeur less performative in the quiet hours.

Your shoes clicked against the stone and his did too.

It felt like an argument waiting to happen.

At last, Percy stopped near one of the smaller receiving rooms overlooking the lower terraces and pushed the door open with the resigned courtesy of a man offering someone the chance to murder him indoors rather than publicly.

You entered first.

The room was big— with velvet chairs no one actually sat in, books no one read, a fireplace large enough to roast tension over properly. The balcony doors stood open to the warm night air, white curtains shifting softly in the breeze.

Behind you, the door closed.

And finally you guys were actually alone. There was no court, no musicians and no parents controlling all your interactions.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke until you turned to look at him.

“I am not marrying you.”

The words left your mouth without mincing words, like finally drawing a blade after hours of polite smiles.

Percy, leaning one shoulder against the door as though preparing for impact, nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “I had assumed that might be your opening line.”

He had an annoyingly pleasant voice too.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back like a prince would do.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am also not particularly eager to marry you.”

“Good.” “Excellent.”

You stared at each other, it was going to be a problem if you two talked at the same time like that.

This, at least, felt honest.

You moved toward the balcony instead, needing distance, air and needing the moon to witness your suffering.

“I refuse to believe,” you said, looking out over the gardens below, “that two entire kingdoms have looked at centuries of bloodshed and decided the solution was forcing me to attend dinner with you forever.”

Behind you, Percy gave a quiet sound that might have been an agreement.

“I offered several alternatives,” he said. “Most involved gifting a bunch of ships.”

“How dare yo—” “And yet here I am.”

You turned back.

He had removed the formal mask, or perhaps simply grown tired of wearing it. Without the performance of the court, he looked younger and somehow more dangerous for it—less princely in a portrait and more like an actual man.

You folded your arms. “You wrote a very irritating letter.”

He sighed. “I was forced to write that letter under direct maternal supervision.”

“I could tell.”

“That should concern you. Imagine what I would have sent unsupervised.”

“I assume a blank page and an apology as PS.”

“You are optimistic, princess.”

Despite yourself, your mouth moved in a small smile that formed small dimples.

“You are still arrogant.”

“And you,” he said, with maddening calm, “are exactly as difficult as advertised.”

You narrowed your eyes.

There it was again—that infuriating ease, that careless confidence like he had never once in his life doubted his ability to survive the consequences of his own mouth.

You stepped closer.

“Let us be clear, Prince. I do not care how beloved you are in your charming sea kingdom. I do not care how many poets have embarrassed themselves over your face. I do not care how many battles you have won. I have no intention of becoming another admiring audience member in the Percy Jackson tragedy of excessive self-regard.”

He blinked as you talked and slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Oh,” he said softly, “you do have a vicious mouth.”

You frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

He stepped closer too, close enough that you could possibly count his freckles and your breaths could mingle if you both exhaled with your mouth.

“For a princess,” he said, voice low with an unmistakable amusement, “you are remarkably unladylike. I had expected elegance and grace.. Perhaps even a soft smile and some very refined passive aggression.”

You stared at him. He continued, clearly enjoying his own survival far too much.

“Instead, I find myself alone at night with a woman who looks like she might stab me with decorative cutlery.”

Your expression did not change. “Do you want me to prove it?”

“See,” he said, almost warmly now, “that. Exactly that. Very concerning. Not at all lady-like.”

“Percy.”

Your first time calling his name and it sounded like a warning in your mouth!

He seemed to like that far too much because he just leaned into your space. “Yes?”

“If you call me unladylike again, I will throw you from my balcony and tell both our kingdoms diplomacy simply failed.”

Private notes of Prince Percy Jackson.

Not intended for royal archives, review, or my mother’s deeply invasive curiosity.

If found, kindly throw it into the sea.

—

I was told, very firmly and by several people, that keeping a written record of this process might be “good for perspective.”

My mother said reflection builds character.

Annabeth, who I am increasingly convinced enjoys watching me suffer, said if I was going to be insufferable about this entire arrangement, I should at least be insufferable on paper where historians could mock me properly.

So here we are.

For the record, I hate it. I hate arranged marriages. And I hate political banquets.

And, perhaps most urgently, I hate the Kingdom of Solis.

That last one should probably be written down with some honesty, since this journal is meant to be useful and not simply an expensive place for me to complain.

In Atlantis, children are taught early that the sun burns just as easily as it warms.

I was raised to distrust them long before I was old to understand why and I'm pretty sure her highness the princess learned just the same way as I did.

In any case, I had heard rumors about the nobles who lived in the city where the royal family resided and how they looked non-human.

Dear journal, the truth is that I was expecting my future queen with fiery hair.

I have met her.

Unfortunately after weeks of council meetings, endless negotiations, and being informed by every living adult that marrying the Princess of Solis would be “historically significant” and “a stabilizing force for the future of both kingdoms,” I can now confirm that history is a malicious thing and should not be trusted.

I had, over the years, heard enough stories about the Sun Princess to build at least six entirely different women in my head.

Depending on who was speaking, she was either impossibly beautiful or terrifying enough to be a monster.

As a child, I was told she probably had claws! Which was fair, considering Solis spent most of my adolescence convinced I had the head of a fish.

Do I look like a trout? Do not answer that.

Still, when I looked up tonight and finally saw the woman I am apparently expected to spend the rest of my life married to, my first thought was not diplomatic at all.

It was, very specifically:

Oh, that is deeply unfortunate. She is beautiful.

Which is a disgrace, I would have preferred her hideous.

She looked like Solis itself had decided to become a person purely to be insufferable about it—elegant in that polished, sunlit way their entire kingdom seems to be, like she has been designed with the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel underdressed.

Beauty, in theory, should not matter. Entire kingdoms are not held together by bone structure and eye contact. Political alliances are not to become more complicated because the person across from you happens to look like the kind of mistake poets ruin themselves over.

And yet she walked into that hall wearing blue, looking like the best mistake to commit ever and for one brief moment I forgot what my mother had just asked me to pay attention to.

I suspect I am going to enjoy arguing with her and I also suspect it may eventually kill me.

The worst part—and I resent writing this—is that I understand why this marriage might work personally.

She would never disappear into someone else’s court, never let herself become ornamental or let anyone mistake the marriage for surrender of her house.

I would hate a wife I could intimidate.

She, I think, would hate a husband who tried.

So at least there is that.

Still, I remain opposed on principle. She is proud, difficult, and probably dangerous, very likely already planning how to murder me to escape this...

And I—sadly—am looking forward to seeing her again.

This is humiliating.

If anyone reads this, I will deny the part where I admitted she was is??? was pretty.

I would rather return to the fish head rumors.

—

The days that followed should, by all political expectation, have been the beginning of something graceful.

The royal betrothals were not promises of love between two people—they were negotiations, alliances and kingdoms trying to teach two unwilling heirs how to stand beside one another without looking as though they planned to commit murder before dessert 

And so your parents, in all their wisdom and complete disregard for your peace, would insist upon time spent together. 

Walks through the palace gardens beneath careful supervision for some bonding time, lessons on courtly customs and each other's culture or meetings with advisors who would explain, with grave importance, how one properly ruled beside someone they had known for six days and considered a trial sent by the gods.

You'd be made to sit beside him during council, to dine with him, smile beside him while old noblewomen whispered about some invented future heirs as though your body had become the public property.

And worst of all, to walk with him.

It would begin in the lower gardens of Helion Keep, where the white roses climbed the marble walls and the fountains had an incredible amount of decoration dedicated to the sun.

The Queen of Atlantis, Sally, suggested it first, with that serene expression she always wore and your father would agree immediately, because fathers were traitors by nature.

And before either you or Percy could invent a convincing plague, you would find yourselves dismissed beneath the late afternoon sun, sent walking together like characters in one of those terrible romantic poems old ladies adored.

He would offer you his arm because etiquette would demand it and you would take it because both your families watched from afar.

And for several long moments, you walked through the gardens of your childhood in a silence so stiff it might have qualified as architecture.

The sun hung low over Helion Keep, warm and golden against the white stone, turning every fountain to liquid fire. Jasmine climbed the walls in pale blooms, and somewhere beyond the terraces musicians practiced for some other noble event that with no doubt eventually will become your problem.

Beside you, Percy would walk like a man and not like a boy that gave you a headache every 30 minutes. His hand, where your fingers rested lightly at his arm, remained warm.

At last, he would speak.

“I have been informed,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, low amusement you were already beginning to distrust, “that I am expected to learn your favorite flowers.”

“How thrilling for you.”

“I thought so. Apparently this is considered courtship.”

The gardens opened wider here, into a terrace of columns and trailing vines. Below, the cliffs dropped toward the sea, and the wind carried salt even this high, threading through the warmth.

You slowed, so did he.

Percy stood a little apart from you now, though not by much, for the space between you had the uneasy quality of something negotiated rather than chosen, and even that small distance felt fragile beneath the weight of everything neither of you had yet said aloud.

When he spoke again, it was not with haste or provocation, but with a kind of careful deliberation that made it clear he was choosing each thought as though it might be later examined in a court of law.

“In Atlantis,” he began, gaze briefly shifting toward the horizon before returning to you as if measuring your reaction more than the view, “courtship is spoken of in far less poetic terms than I imagine your tutors have taught you here. It is not a matter of flowers, nor music, nor the pleasant illusion that two people might be gently guided toward affection by sufficient candlelight and well-timed conversation. It is instead spoken of as a kind of assessment, wherein one is placed in proximity to another and observed for signs of either compatibility or ruin, and from what I have gathered since arriving in your kingdom, Solis does not seem so different in its practices, only in the way it addresses it.”

You listened without interrupting, though your posture had already begun to harden in response, not because of insult alone, but because there was something irritatingly precise in the way he spoke—as though he had taken the time to learn your world and was now describing it without permission.

He continued, voice conversational in its restraint.

“I was told before arriving that your customs would require me to learn your preferences, and I admit I expected something far simpler, ornamental even, but what I find instead is that nothing here is truly ornamental at all, not your words, not your court, and certainly not you.”

That last part landed differently, though he did not emphasize it, and perhaps that was what made it worse.

You turned slightly toward him, the light catching the embroidery at your sleeve.

“In Solis,” you replied after a pause, your voice quieter now, though no less firm, “we are taught that endurance is not a performance, but a form of loyalty. That one does not measure affection by ease, but by whether something remains standing when ease is gone. It is not meant to be comfortable.” 

“For what it is worth,” he said at last, more subdued than before, “I did not expect you to be what you are.”

You glanced at him again, wary now, though not openly so.

“And what, precisely, did you expect me to be?”

Percy seemed to consider this with far more seriousness than the question deserved, “At first,” he said, “I expected red hair.”

You blinked once. “What?”

He nodded once, entirely unashamed.

“Yes, a hair that looked as though it might set curtains ablaze if left unattended. I was told your temper entered rooms before you did, and I thought it only courteous that your appearance should offer a similar warning.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the terrace stones, warming the marble beneath your slippers, and behind you the palace stood bright and watchful, undoubtedly full of nobles who would have paid obscene amounts of money to witness this exact conversation.

“And who,” you asked at last, with dangerous calm, “told you such stupidity?”

“A diplomat from the western coast. Though in fairness, he also insisted I had gills and slept upright in seawater, so perhaps his judgment was not flawless.”

“That man was my uncle.”

Percy let out a slow breath.

“That explains a great deal.”

You should not have found that amusing.

Instead, you folded your arms and resumed walking, forcing him to follow as the path curved past white roses and sun-warmed stone benches built for noblewomen to sit prettily and discuss each other’s ruin.

“And besides the red hair?” you said. “What else did your vast intelligence lead you to expect?”

Percy fell easily back into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back with the infuriating ease of a man too comfortable while offending people.

“I expected someone softer, perhaps more inclined toward performance. Instead, I find someone who speaks like a knight denied wine.”

You gave him a look.

“How devastating for you.”

“Profoundly. I was hoping for an actual bride. Instead I seem to have been promised a very well-dressed goblin.”

You stopped walking again this time so abruptly he nearly took another step before catching himself.

The fountain beside the terrace murmured softly as you turned fully toward him.

“And what, precisely, makes you believe I would ever concern myself with being your bride?”

Percy tilted his head slightly.

“Your father. My mother. Approximately six kingdoms and one old priest.”

There it was again—that calm, infuriating smile, as though he found your temper not alarming but entertaining.

It made you want to commit crimes.

“And you,” you said sweetly, which was always a bad sign, “are far too pleased with yourself for a man who arrived in my kingdom looking like a little kid.”

He placed one hand over his heart in mock injury.

“You’re cruel, my lady.”

“I believe the word is accurate.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer with that easy confidence that made you want to throw things, “accurate would be observing that for all your pride, you are still only a very elegant little tyrant with the disposition of a churl.”

Silence fell as the fountain continued its cheerful betrayal.

You blinked once. “A churl... How dare you.”

He seemed, for the first time, to realize perhaps he had wandered too far but it was too late now. He continued anyway, because his self-preservation was not a skill taught.

“Yes, certainly, sharp-tongued, suspicious, and trying to look like royalty.”

You stepped forward.

“And you,” you said, with a voice low and terribly calm, “are a loggerhead in expensive boots.”

Percy opened his mouth, likely to make it worse, and you did not allow it.

With one sharp movement, both hands planted firmly against his chest, you shoved him backward. There was a brief, glorious second in which surprise overtook princely dignity entirely.

Then Prince Perseus, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, terror of the eastern sea fell directly into the fountain.

Water erupted upward in a magnificent, deeply satisfying splash that also dampened a little of your poor clothes.

For one perfect moment, there was only silence.

Then Percy surfaced, soaked, hair falling into his face, staring at you with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him here.

Water ran from his sleeves, hiis boots and his now wounded pride.

You stood at the edge of the fountain like divine judgment.

“Well,” you said, smoothing your skirts with composure, “at least now you may feel more at home. Do try not to call for dolphins. The palace staff is already overworked.”

For once—miraculously—he had nothing to say.

You inclined your head with all the grace expected of a future queen.

“Sleep well, Your Highness. Do give my regards to the fish.”

And with that, before he could recover either dignity or a reply, you turned and walked back toward the palace.

Your spine remained perfectly straight but your heart was beating far too fast.

Behind you, somewhere between outrage and shame, Percy shouted your name across the gardens.

Servants moved through the corridors with the discretion of people who absolutely knew everything that happened. Noblewomen spoke in soft voices behind jeweled fans. Somewhere, without question, your aunt had received three separate and wildly inaccurate versions of whatever unfortunate spectacle had occurred in the western gardens.

You had pushed the Prince of Atlantis into a fountain.

In your defense, he had deserved it entirely.

You sat before your mirror while Lyra adjusted the final fastening at the back of your gown, her silence was talking for her.

Finally she said, very carefully, “I hear His Highness required assistance returning from the lower terraces.”

You met her gaze in the mirror. “I am sure the fish were delighted to have him back.”

She pressed her lips together. “My lady.”

“He called me a churl.”

Lyra nodded solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. “A grave offense.”

That, apparently, was the end of the sympathy, because moments later she stepped back, satisfied with your appearance, and said with the merciless calm of a woman, “Try not to drown him again before dessert. It would create paperwork.”

“No promises.”

Tonight’s gown was softer than the first, though no less beautiful—ivory silk threaded with pale gold and your hair pinned back with pearl combs, your jewelry lighter.

The problem with dignity, you had discovered, was that it was very difficult to maintain when one was still remembering the exact look on a prince’s face as he disappeared into a fountain.

You should not have been pleased, but you were.

By the time you entered the Great Hall, dinner had already begun.

The chandeliers burned warm above the long tables, scattering gold across polished silver and crystal goblets. Music drifted from the gallery overhead, soft for you to be ignored and the banners of Solis and Atlantis still hung together in stately disapproval, as though even fabric objected to the arrangement.

At the high table, your father was already seated, speaking quietly with the King and Queen of the other kingdom. And Percy was not there.

That was interesting, and a minor annoyance since your site was still next to his, if he wasn't there it would be very noticeable and you would be bombarded with questions.

But lucky you were, Percy entered as you took your seat.

Changed, thankfully, into dry clothes, though whoever had assisted him clearly deserved a raise for attempting to restore dignity to a man recently defeated by the decorative architecture that was the fountain.

His dark hair was still slightly damp, curling at the edges and he wore deep navy tonight, embroidered in silver at the collar and cuffs, the color making the bronze of his skin warm beneath candlelight.

His mother looked up at him once, only once.

Her eyes moved from his still-damp hair to the faint scrape at one cuff, then toward you.

At last she said, in the calmest voice imaginable, “Did you enjoy the gardens?”

You looked very carefully at your plate and your father suddenly found his wine fascinating.

Percy, without breaking, replied, “Immensely.”

That was all, the queen gave a small smile, nothing more.

He sat beside you, the chair making the smallest sound against marble. You did not look at him and he did not look at you.

The dinner resumed for approximately twelve seconds.

Then your aunt— a menace and a professional destroyer of peace—leaned forward from halfway down the table and said, far too brightly, “It is so lovely to see young people spending time together before the formal engagement. There is such a difference between duty and genuine affection, is there not?”

You closed your eyes briefly as Percy took a very slow sip of his drink.

Queen Sally, bless her terrifying soul, replied, “Indeed. I find mutual understanding far more reliable than charm.”

Your aunt sighed dreamily. “And did the two of you enjoy your walk?”

Percy set down his glass, without turning his head to look at you, he said, “I found it refreshing.”

You kept your own smile perfectly in place.

“How wonderful. I thought you looked more relaxed afterward.”

“I nearly drowned.”

You ended up talking.  “And yet, bravely, you survived.” 

“Your disappointment wounds me.”

“Be patient. I am sure another opportunity will present itself.”

Across the table, your aunt clasped her hands.

“They are already teasing one another. How sweet!”

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far from my mother, the royal council, and any servant. Should this be discovered, I will deny its existence, and possibly fake my own death. 

—

There are many ways in which a prince imagines humiliation may arrive.

One thinks of battles lost, of treaties broken in full view of rival courts, of saying the wrong thing before kings who remember such errors for decades and repeat them at every feast thereafter. One does not, generally, imagine that dignity will be destroyed by being pushed bodily into a decorative fountain by the woman one is expected to marry.

And yet, here we are.

I feel it important to record the event with complete honesty, if only because history has a terrible habit of making fools appear noble, and if I am to suffer, I would prefer future generations understand precisely how undignified the suffering was.

The fountain was cold... Needlessly cold.

It was also shallow and deep, which I suspect was an architectural decision made by someone who hated princes and wished to leave opportunities available for women with good aim.

There were swans nearby.

I do not know why this detail feels important, only that it does. There is something especially offensive about public humiliation occurring beneath the judgment of birds.

I had called her a churl.

In fairness, she had earned it.

In further fairness, I had perhaps underestimated how quickly a Princess of Solis might choose violence when presented with minor provocation. She did not argue nor threaten. She simply looked at me with the expression of someone reaching a deeply personal conclusion and then removed me from dry land.

Well, I was looking into those beautiful eyes and forgot I just insulted her.

There was one brief moment—one single, sacred second—where I understood exactly what was happening and had time only to regret my mouth and the long history of choices that had shaped it.

Then water and her.

She looked magnificent.

This is, perhaps, the root of the problem.

She stood there in all that royal composure, with sunlight on her dress, pearls catching the light, looking less like a princess and more like some old god of vengeance who had grown tired of patience and decided it was my time.

She told me not to call for dolphins.

And the worst part—the truly humiliating, soul-damaging part—is that I nearly laughed.

Not immediately, of course. At first there was outrage and a wounded pride. There was the cold and dripping indignity of climbing out of a fountain while two palace guards looked at the horizon in an effort to preserve everyone’s future.

But on the walk back, with my boots ruined and my dignity somewhere beneath a stone, I found myself trying not to smile like a complete idiot.

There is something alarmingly attractive about honesty when it arrives wearing pearls.

I dislike writing that and I dislike thinking about it even more.

The truth is that she is, for my disgrace, a little too much my type, which feels like a betrayal arranged by the gods for their own amusement.

I had hoped—sincerely and desperately—that she would be easier to resent.I wanted that the marriage could become little more than duty and I could respect from a distance and never think about after dinner.

Instead, I have been presented with a woman who looks at me like she is deciding whether I would improve the landscape as a corpse.

And apparently, for reasons I would rather not examine too closely, that is doing something to me.

She is proud and clever. She has pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh.

This is not ideal in a future wife.

It is, however, very much ideal in the sort of woman one writes terrible poetry about.

I am trying not to be that man but it is not going well.

Every person in this palace speaks of the wedding as though it has already happened.

They discuss fabrics, who’s coming, the ceremonies, the joining of courts, the endless practical machinery of binding these kingdoms together, and all of it with that tone nobles use when speaking about your future as though you are not sitting directly in front of them holding a knife.

And then comes the matter of having heirs. I won’t enter in detail for my own good tonight. 

Thanks to my own terrible mind, I cannot hear it without thinking of her and is unacceptable.

I would like to return to simpler concerns, such as war because now I find myself in the middle of council meetings wondering absurd things, like whether she would teach our children to be crazy like her or whether they would simply inherit it naturally. Whether they would have her eyes when she is angry, or my talent for making situations worse.

This is madness.

I have known this woman for what feels like six minutes and one attempted murder.

I need to stop writing now, it's late and im writing strange things.

This journal is becoming evidence.

—

Time, unfortunately, did what time always did—make things more complicated.

It would have been far easier if Percy Jackson had remained insufferable in simple and obvious ways.

If he had been nothing more than a boy wrapped in expensive silk, with every conversation ended in some sort of offense and every shared glance in the mutual certainty that history had been correct and your kingdoms were better kept apart.

But Percy, infuriatingly, insisted on becoming a person that actually thought of you.

Weeks passed after the fountain incident, and with them came back the machinery of royal expectation. Walks through the gardens became routine rather than punishment, the shared dinners were unavoidable, but got ordinary. You sat beside one another during council meetings where old men argued over the borders as though none of them had created the problem.

You learned of his silence a lot, he grew quieter when he was truly angry.

He also had the infuriating habit of leaning back in his chair during council as though he were bored, only to speak once and somehow say the most sensible thing in the room.

He was kinder to servants than most princes bothered to be and he laughed rarely, but when he did it was sudden and unguarded, you kinda liked hearing it.

And worse was that he listened and not because the courtship required it.

When you spoke of Solis, of the southern provinces,even of the people your father’s council liked to reduce to numbers, Percy listened like he was trying to really understand you rather than simply waiting for his turn to be right.

You hated how much that mattered deep inside.

Well, he still annoyed you constantly.

He still smiled at the wrong moments and said things purely to test your patience or walked through your palace one poor decision away from being banned permanently.

The western library was one of the oldest rooms in the palace, built in stone that held the warmth of the day long after sunset. Tall windows opened toward the cliffs, beyond them the sea stretched and it smelled of old paper, candle wax, and the kind of silence only old places knew how to keep.

Percy was standing by one of the long tables near the windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading through one of your father’s maritime records with an offended expression because of poor naval strategy.

You sat opposite him, pretending to read when you were actually watching him be irritated by other people’s incompetence.

It had become embarrassingly easy.

Weeks ago, you would have called him stupid for correcting your generals…

Now, you were beginning to suspect he was often right, but it was intolerable.

The room was quiet enough that the turning of a page sounded significant and outside, the sound of the sea seemed to be loud even when it was miles away.

Inside, Percy frowned at a map.

“This,” he said at last, tapping the parchment with the disapproval of a priest condemning sin, “is either the worst trade route I have ever seen or a very elaborate attempt of suicide.”

You looked up from your book. “It was designed by Lord Cassian.”

Percy glanced at you. “Wow, that explains everything.”

“Be careful,” you said. “If my father hears you insulting his council again, he may decide peace was a mistake.”

“Your father has watched me survive three formal dinners with your aunt. I believe he considers me battle-tested.”

“That is fair.”

He smiled then, faintly, and the way your heart jumped unsettled you in ways you were not prepared to name.

When did it become so easy? The arguments are softer and the silences easier in a way.

You had learned how he thought about some cultural things from your land or how when he was truly tired, he rubbed at the scar near his jaw without noticing or how his sarcasm came off when he was uncomfortable.

You had not meant to notice these things, really! You had certainly not meant to care.

And yet you do care and you do notice.

The candles burned lower, the sky outside was darkening as you two relied on the presence of the other.

Then came footsteps— fast and uneven. They weren’t the soft, practiced silent ones from the servants moving through the halls as though they were part of the walls themselves, nor the steady, unhurried tread of guards who carried all that armor. These steps were hurried, careless with panic, striking against the marble with force enough to pull both of you from the fragile stillness of the library.

A messenger appeared in the doorway, breathless and pale, his face drained so completely of color that for a moment you thought he saw a ghost. It was remarkable, the way fear could enter a room before a single word came.

Both of you stood at once.

That was another thing about being raised in courts—you learned young that there were expressions more powerful than announcements, that sometimes a single look could deliver catastrophe long before anyone dared say it aloud.

Something had happened and it was bad.

The messenger bowed quickly, the movement clumsy with urgency.

“My lady… Your Highness.” His voice was strained, and already your stomach had begun to turn.

“There has been word from the eastern coast.”

The silence got worse over the library, heavy and awaiting, even the crackling candles seemed to quiet. Percy straightened beside the table, every trace of ease disappearing from his posture, and you felt your own hands tremble a bit where they rested against the polished wood.

The eastern coast, close to the disputed waters.

The messenger swallowed hard, and in that small movement you could see how much he wished not to be the one delivering this.

“One of the Solis patrol ships near the border was attacked at dawn. It was intercepted near the reefs beyond Thalor Point.”

Your pulse slowed but not with calm, but with the kind of dread so deep it made everything inside you go frighteningly still.

“By whom?” you asked, though the answer was already gathering like a storm behind your ribs.

The messenger hesitated.

“Survivors report Atlantian sails.”

The sentence landed like steel driven through bone.

For a moment, no one moved. The room itself seemed suspended around those four words—the library, the candles flickering low, the endless sea beyond the windows, all of it held in place by that single sentence.

Atlantian sails.

Four words, and suddenly you were not standing in the palace library but sitting as a child in the history rooms, listening to your tutors show wars across faded maps with ink-stained fingers, marking coastlines where your people had drowned, where fathers and brothers and sons had vanished into the sea and never returned.

Atlantian sails.

Stories of burned ships with skeletons on black water and southern tides running red from the blood of your people.

Atlantis.

Beside you, Percy had gone very still.

He was no longer the man with you in the gardens, sunlight in his hair and teasing he pretended not to mean. Now he was simply that prince from Atlantis.

And suddenly, you hated how much that mattered to you.

The messenger continued, his voice low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter what little peace remained.

“Three confirmed dead. Several wounded. The ship barely made it to port. The council has already been summoned.”

Every fragile month of peace—every dinner, every forced alliance, every diplomatic smile—is already beginning to splinter beneath the weight of that old suspicion.

You turned to Percy just to look at him.

At the navy silk draped over his shoulders and that impossible green of his eyes and suddenly it felt absurd—how easily you had let yourself forget what his name meant.

His gaze met yours, and there it was the same terrible understanding.

You still were enemies, maybe with better manners and almost let you forget you were enemies at all.

Your voice was colder than you intended, but perhaps honesty did that to you.

“Were they under your banners?”

Percy’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked like someone standing on the edge of a war he could not stop. “I do not know.”

You swallowed against the bitterness rising in your throat. “But they were yours.”

Something changed in his face then—not anger but for sure hurt.

You could feel the slow rebuilding of walls you had foolishly believed were coming down, stone by stone.

“They may have acted without orders,” he said, his voice controlled. “There are captains in disputed waters who still don't know about the new peace we are trying to create.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “How convenient.”

His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

You stepped forward, your fury demanded movement and standing there with his gaze trying to read you was too much.

“No,” you said, your voice cutting through the room with more force than you intended. “My people are dead.”

His answer came low and stripped of every softness you had come to know in him.

“And mine have died in those same waters for generations. By the Gods, do not speak to me like I don’t know.”

You folded your arms, it was the only way to stop your hands from shaking. You held his gaze and forced the question out.

“Then tell me honestly, Prince—if your council decides this was justified, if Atlantis claims those waters again, if this peace fractures the way everyone always said it would… where exactly do you stand?”

He did not answer immediately and to be honest, since you had met him, this was the first time you were afraid of what he would say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt like a blade pressed carefully between your ribs. “Where I have always stood. With my people.”

Of course he did. What else had you expected?

All your conversations in the gardens could outweigh centuries of blood? That one prince could become something other than the sea he came from?

You nodded once. “As do I.”

You turned toward the door, if you looked at him one moment longer, you might say something unforgivable or ,even worse, you would cry.

To say that you walked to your quarters is something, because if anyone was to ask a servant about your wing, they would say that they heard muffled screams.

Your pillow is wonderful for screaming and letting out all your feelings.

The council chamber had been built for war a long, looong time ago so it's normal it sat beneath the oldest wing of the palace, part of the room was carved into the stone of the mountain, the walls were thick to keep secrets and you never saw windows open there, it was probably one of the darkest places in the whole kingdom. 

By the time you arrived, nearly everyone was already there.

Your father stood at the head of the great oak table, one hand braced against its edge. Beside him, your generals were gathered. Lords from the eastern provinces spoke in low, urgent voices.

Across from them stood the royal family of Atlantis.

King Poseidon looked exactly as powerful men did when forced to defend things they had not broken but would be expected to answer for all the same. The queen sat beside him, composed and still.

And Percy stood near his father, shoulders straight and the expression guarded.

You took your place beside your father.

The captain of the attacked patrol ship stood near the center of the room, arm bound in fresh linen and he looked exhausted.

Your father nodded once. “Speak.”

The captain swallowed.

“At dawn we were running patrol near the eastern reefs, close to Thalor Point. Visibility was poor, there was a lot of fog over the water, heavy enough to swallow the distance to the port. We spotted sails before we heard them.”

His voice roughened.

“Atlantian sails, they closed fast and were armed. There wasn't a signal offered bir request for passage.”

Your hands curled against the table.

One of your generals slammed a hand against the wood.

“Pirates do not fly royal banners.”

“No,” another lord said darkly, “but princes do.”

Across the table, King Poseidon’s expression hardened.

One of the eastern lords stepped forward, the grief making him brave and foolish in equal measure.

“For generations Atlantis has called those waters disputed only when it wished to steal them. How many treaties must we sign before your captains learn they do not own every place they can reach?”

Poseidon’s reply came like stone.

“And how many times must Solis build fortresses along shared waters before you stop calling expansion defense?”

The argument erupted with that, the voices rose, accusations started to fly over your head, some maps were unrolled and the borders stabbed at.

You had grown up watching councils like this from doorways, hidden behind the pillars while adults argued over the shape of your future.

Through all of it, Percy remained silent with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the maps and his jaw tight betraying what the rest of him refused to show.

When he finally spoke, it cut cleanly through the noise.

“If my father had ordered an attack,” he said, voice steady, “you would not be debating whether it happened.”

Every eye turned to look at the boy as he continued.

“This was not sanctioned by Atlantis. If we intended war, you would not be receiving apologies. You would be receiving fleets.”

One general sneered. “Don't be conceited, kid.”

“I’m honest,” Percy said. “That’s something both our kingdoms claim to value when convenient.”

Your father watched him carefully. “And what do you propose, Prince?”

Percy stepped toward the table.

“Find the captain responsible before this becomes an excuse for every man in the room to indulge a war already wanted.”

One of your lords laughed sharply. “And we are simply to trust Atlantis to investigate itself?”

“No,” Percy replied. “You are to trust that I would not stand here defending cowards. If an Atlantian captain attacked under our banners without command, then he has endangered not only your men but my kingdom. I will not protect him.”

Your father studied him for a long moment and then looked at you not as king but as your father.

He wanted your judgment because everyone in this room had seen the walks, the dinners and the fragile attempt at peace between heirs. Your opinion mattered.

You looked at Percy and you realized with sudden, miserable clarity that both things were true.

He was the enemy and he was not.

Your voice, when it came, was measured. “If this was unsanctioned, then the guilty should answer for it.”

The dark-haired young man gave a small smile while you were speaking.

“If Solis answers blood with blind blood, then we are not defending peace. We are merely admitting we never wanted it.”

One of the generals muttered, darkly with the suspicion of a man who had buried many friends. “And if Atlantis lies?”

Your father said nothing, King Poseidon’s expression didn't give away his thoughts and several lords shifted, preparing for another round of arguments. 

But to your surprise Percy stepped forward.

The prince of Atlantis stood beneath the torchlight, shoulders straight, gaze steady, looking not at the general asking but at you.

When he spoke, his voice carried cleanly through the chamber. “If Atlantis lies, then let the blame fall first upon me.”

Percy did not look away.

“I stand with my people,” he said, now it was only the truth stripped bare to hurt. “I always will. I am the son of Atlantis before I am anything else. Its blood is mine, its burdens are mine, and if war comes, I will stand before it, not behind.”

Your breath had been expelled from your lungs, this mattered because that was his answer.

Yet he continued.

“But do not mistake loyalty for blindness.”

His eyes remained on yours.

“If one of ours has done this—if an Atlantian captain sailed beneath our banners and spilled Solis blood for vengeance, or for the comfort of hatred—then I will not defend him. I will drag his name into the light myself.”

Percy’s voice lowered but no less steady for it. “I did not come here to inherit another century of graves.”

You opened your mouth to give an answer but he didn't let you talk.

“And I did not come here to ask for peace only to betray the woman I intend to have beside me.”

The words struck harder than the shouting of men in the room and across the table, your aunt nearly stopped breathing from joy.

Percy, apparently, had chosen violence against your heart.

Indeed your heart was betraying you in ways you intended to punish later.

“When I say I stand with my people, Princess, understand that I do not separate you from that future.”

Your throat felt dangerously tight.

“This marriage was meant to quiet kingdoms. Fine. Let it begin there. Let duty open the door if it must. But I will not stand in this chamber and speak of alliances as though you are merely another clause written into a treaty.” 

It's not like the room has disappeared, your father was still there, everyone was still there and somehow at the same time none of it existed.

It was only him and his softening voice.

“If you become my wife, you will not be an obligation I endure for peace. You will be my queen. Mine to honor before courts and councils, mine to protect when kingdoms are against us, mine to stand beside—not behind, you'll never be behind.”

You felt like you were going to faint when your brain reacted: he was in front of you and, and painfully slowly, knelt on one knee to take your hands, which were trembling like leaves.

“And if I must choose between disappointing old men who worship war and disappointing the woman I would ask to rule beside me, then let the gods hear me plainly now—”

His gaze held yours like a vow was being made.

“—I would sooner let kingdoms burn than fail her.”

Terrible, magnificent silence.

And you— you stood there with your trembling hands and jumping heart, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.

Because Percy Jackson, prince of Atlantis, had just declared such love words in the middle of a war council.

Like an idiot! A beautiful, infuriating idiot.

Your father cleared his throat once, but his mouth showed a small smile and King Poseidon looked at the ceiling, perhaps asking the gods for quieter sons.

“Your Highness,” you said, “that was either the most persuasive political argument I have ever heard…or the most elaborate public courtship attempt in history.”

At last—finally—Percy smiled.

“Can it not be both?”

By the time the council chamber had finally emptied, the palace had fallen into a peculiar silence only the deepest hours of night could create, when even the walls seemed exhausted by the weight of the day and every corridor felt longer than it had in daylight.

You were walking quickly to your chambers with your cheeks getting deep in color.

It wasn’t like you were fleeing, you refused even in your own mind to call it that! 

If you slowed and allowed yourself even a single moment of stillness—you would have to think, and thinking, after what had happened in that council chamber, would have your head spining.

Your pulse had not yet remembered to behave like normal.

Your father had said nothing as you left, which was infinitely worse than if he had chosen to give you both a talk.

Your aunt, on the other hand, had looked radiant with a kind of joy usually reserved for coronations and public scandals, and you had no doubt whatsoever that by morning she would have transformed Percy’s words into some elaborate thing involving grandchildren.

You intended never to forgive either of them.

Percy had stood in the middle of a war council, before your father and his own, before generals and men and all the hatred your kingdoms had spent centuries perfecting, and had looked at you as though vows were so simple.

As though loving you was not about the war.

You hated him for that but hated yourself more for the terrible, humiliating truth that part of you had wanted him to say it again.

Behind you, footsteps were approaching.

You already knew the sound of his damned boots, the irritating calm of a man who had just dismantled your entire peace of mind and still believed he had the right to continue speaking.

“Princess.”

You kept walking. “No.”

There was a brief silence behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of him quickening his pace, and then his voice again, closer now.

“Unfortunately, that is not specific enough to be useful.”

You reached the turn of the corridor with every intention of continuing, of disappearing into your chambers and locking the door firmly and condemning every poor decision your life had made as suddenly his hand closed around your wrist.

The movement stopped you so abruptly your breath caught and your pulse betraying you in one violent, humiliating motion.

“Let go.”

Percy stood close enough now that the corridor seemed smaller for it and his voice, “No.”

The sheer audacity of him!

You stared at him with all the fury you could still afford.

“In case the council chamber was not sufficient humiliation for one evening, have you now decided that physically restraining foreign princesses is the next great strategy in mind?”

“I decided,” he said, “that if I let you walk away now, you would spend the entire night being furious and I would spend the entire night with no rest, so I find both possibilities intolerable.”

Your fingers curled tightly at your side. “You should have considered that before declaring yourself like some mad knight in front of everyone.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping half a pace closer, “strangely enough, I do not regret it.”

“That makes one of us.”

His gaze searched yours, he had the prettiest gems as ocular globes… and those puppy eyes…

“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.”

You tried to pull your hand free as he did not tighten his grip, but neither did he release you.

“Look at me.”     “I am looking at you.”

“No,” he said, “you are trying very hard not to.”

“How dare you.”

Percy’s thumb shifted slightly against your wrist, a small movement, barely anything, and somehow it felt more intimate than if he had kissed you then and there. Why did your brain think of kissing him so bad?

“I am beginning to think,” he was giving a small laugh away, “that is how most of our important conversations begin.”

“In the council chamber, in front of both our kingdoms, you spoke as though—”

His expression changed then, the prince receding and the man remaining.

“As though what?”

You lifted your chin. “As though I mattered to you beyond treaties and borders and that noble performance you were attempting to offer your audience.”

For a moment, he just looked at you as he released your wrist.

“Did you truly think I would say those things for politics?”

Your throat felt tight with the answer and your voice lowered despite yourself as if you were scared someone heard.

“Did you mean it?”

Percy held your gaze with no wit left between you to hide behind.

“Yes.”

Your heart betrayed you immediately.

You hated it and hated him for making the truth sound reachable.

So like a fool, you made it worse. “Which part?”

His brow moved faintly.

“The peace? The alliance? The declaration dramatic enough to shorten my father’s life by several years?”

You stepped closer despite yourself, because if you were to be ruined, you would at least be honest in it.

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Not that. Me… Did- Did you mean me?”

“You are the only part of this I’m certain about, my lady.”

He lifted his hand again, slower this time, but it didn’t go to your hand or wrist, oh no, his fingers touched your jaw.

“I would stand with my people,” he said. “I would fight for them, bleed for them, carry every duty they place upon my name. But none of that changes what I know when I look at you.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, and gods, if you really kissed him would it be so bad?

“I did not expect you and I certainly did not want this. It would have been simpler if I disliked you. Simpler if you were merely beautiful, or merely cruel, or merely someone I could survive beside without ever truly seeing.”

His fingers caressed your cheek. “But you are none of those things.”

Your voice was barely yours. “And what am I, then?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth like he no longer intended to fight.

“You are the woman I would choose even if peace didn’t demand it. You are the person I find myself thinking of when I should be thinking of fleets and the thousand practical things princes are meant to care about.”

Your mouth gave a smile as your hands went to his chest, “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, his forehead nearly brushing yours now, “you are still holding.”

That was enough. You kissed him first.

It was a kiss with weeks of restraint collapsing under its own weight, anger and relief and want and the unbearable certainty that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, you had become hopelessly and disastrously attached.

His hand moved to your waist, yours caught at his collar.

Someone—perhaps both of you—made several decisions neither kingdom would approve of and history would likely judge harshly.

It was absolutely inappropriate for a palace corridor three floors from your father’s chambers but it was perfect.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke, because some things, once they happened, made language feel smaller than it had before.

If it weren't for the fact that your entire body and mind were so focused on the prince in front of you, you would have sworn it was a lie when Percy exhaled softly “I love you”.

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far AWAYYY from my mother, the queen. 

—

This was meant, when first I began it, to be a record of my path to discipline and thought, of the observations expected of a prince who intends one day to rule without error, and yet tonight I find that it has become something far less dignified, for I am writing not of things involving this nor even of the fragile peace that holds our kingdoms apart, but of her. 

We kissed. 

I attempt to write it with composure, to frame it as an event of little consequence, an impulsive misstep best forgotten by morning, but the truth refuses this, and so I am left with the plain, humiliating admission that we kissed in a corridor and now has become a place I will not be able to pass again without remembering it in full. 

She smiled, and I find that I cannot write that simply and move on, for it was not the smile she offers in court nor the sharper one she uses as a weapon.

It felt—  No, I will not write that.

I told her that I would choose her, that even if peace had not demanded this union, even if our kingdoms had never thought to bind us together in the hope of ending centuries of bloodshed, I would still choose her, and I said it without calculation, without weighing consequence, as though the truth of it required no consideration at all.

This is not how I have been taught to speak and is not how I have been taught to think.

And yet it is how I spoke, and worse, it is how I meant it.

At one point, in what I must classify as a complete collapse of discipline, I found myself writing—

my wife, my wife, my wife

I find the word returning with an ease that suggests this is not a passing thought but a developing problem. 

my future wife

No, that is worse, for it implies expectation rather than an actual thing happening, and I refuse to grant my own thoughts that level of confidence.

the woman I am to marry

This is correct but insufficient because she’s going to be my queen.

I may have developed the need to have her by my side forever.

—

How did you end up in this situation? I mean, yes, it was your wedding night and the marriage was supposed to be consummated, you got prepared for that, but you were hoping to have a few drinks, talk to your dear parents and family, and... Seriously, all because of a tradition? 

One moment there was the ceremony still clinging to the air like heavy perfume— with the oaths spoken and the weight of a thousand watching eyes pressing down—and the next, everything broke into motion, into sound, into laughter and applause.

Men and women of the court, soldiers and even the attendants who only moments before had been standing like statues, now moving with a jubilanty as though this had always been the point of the entire affair.

Someone spoke your name in celebration and suddenly the ground left you.

The sudden loss of ground startled something unguarded in you, your hand instinctively catching at the nearest solid thing—which, to your immediate and profound irritation, was Percy.

He, too, had been taken by surprise, though he hid it better, his posture adjusting as several men hoisted him upward with far less ceremony than you had been granted, the contrast not lost on anyone present.

Some women tried to take the various fabrics and pearls you were wearing, but they were only able to take out shoes and accessories in your hair.

A roar of approval rose through the hall.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice carrying to reach you over the noise.

You held his gaze, refusing to let the situation unbalance you further than it already had.

“If I fall,” you said, your tone even despite the circumstances, “I shall ensure you are blamed for it.”

There were petals on the way—scattered, thrown, caught in your hair and on your dress, their scent sweet.

The doors ahead grew fewer, more private.

And then, at last, you reached it; your shared chambers.

The doors were thrown open with force, the room beyond lit in warm gold, prepared in a way that left very little to the imagination of anyone who had arranged it.

You were carried inside first and set down with far more care than you expected, your feet meeting the soft bed.

A moment later, Percy was lowered beside you.

The noise lingered at the threshold as the last of the laughter and well-wishes spilling inward before the doors began to close, as though savoring the final moments of public presence before sealing you both as newly weds.

Your eyes really didn't know if they could meet those of your now husband; the room felt warmer than the fireplace should been able to bring.

Percy pushed himself up, his breaths heavy from the rough handling, and for you saw his body. The suit, a tailored thing of midnight wool with silver accents, had already been loosened during the toasts, all the buttons undone at the chest, exposing the tanned planes of his torso.

He moved first, sliding off the bed to kneel at its edge and moving you with him.

Your now husband caresses the fabrics; the wedding dress is heavy on velvets, rich wools, golden embroidery, and pearls. The truth is, it's not very easy to remove.

The bed was high, so you basically could see him, and damn, why was he on his knees fiddling with your silky clothes? 

His fingers tugged at the layers of the dress, bunching the velvet skirts up your thighs. The fabric was so pretty on you but he wasn't sad about taking it off if he could connect with your body and you. 

His fingers, callused from sword hilts and rigging sails, tugged at the laces of your gown, but the thing was a fortress of fabric, heavy with wools and pearls that resisted his impatience.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots. 

He wasn't gentle about it, yanking at the bodice until the golden threads strained and exposed the swell of your breasts to the cool air. You gasped, but he didn't stop, his hands roaming lower, bunching the skirts up to your hips. 

God, he didn't have enough patience right now to take all your clothes off properly so the poor wedding dress stayed half-on. 

His mouth was on you before you could catch the breath, hot and insistent, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dressed core, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

Percy Jackson, the man you hated so much, was now parting your legs with those strong hands, his eyes dark with want. 

He hooked one arm under your knee, spreading you wider, and then his fingers were there—the rough fingerpads brushing against your underwear and finally swollen folds. 

You were a soppy mess, slick from the tension of the day and the way he'd been staring at you during the vows, like he was undressing you with his gaze alone. 

“You're soaked,” he growled, a hint of approval lacing his tone as he slid one finger along your slit, teasing the entrance before pushing in slowly. 

The stretch was immediate, his touch firm but not rushed, circling your clit with the thumb while that finger curled inside you. 

Oh gods, his mouth was so close now, lips brushing your thigh as he licked a stripe up the soft skin, tasting the salt of your anticipation. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the heat, and he chuckled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. 

Then finally, you felt the first lick of his tongue—flat and broad, dragging over your pussy with such slowness. His tastebuds rasped against your sensitive flesh, the slightest inch of his tongue squeezing in alongside his finger, probing deeper. 

It was messy, the sounds of his breath filling the room as he lapped at you, sucking gently on your clit before delving back down.

To say that you were euphoric at this moment would be an understatement because you had possibly just opened the gates of heaven.

But still… still you felt nervous, with a million thoughts going on when his mouth connected your most intimate zone and so the words blurted out theirself.

“Wait.. I'm not,” a small moan comes out. “I’ve never done this before..”

His mouth, pink and wet with your juices, lets out a small sigh, “I’ve never participated in these activities either.”

His cheek rests against your thigh, looking up before muttering against your folds. “I learn as I wend.”

And unfortunately, the only thing you can do in response is with your hips, moving them slightly against him as a new wave of slick follows.

Percy won’t make you wait.

In no time his tongue has lapped all those juices and entered your cunt alongside his finger, trying to get more and more of the sweet flavor you are giving him, maybe he’s just getting addicted.

Again and again, you find yourself dragging out desperate pushes of your hips against his mouth— riding your sensitive cunt down his straight nose and making it push on the button of your swollen clit. 

You mewled, the pressure building fast, maybe too fast and he responded with a tiny slap to the cute nub! Even a glob of his spit mixed with your slick, and he rubbed it nice and good with your cunt, fingers circling and thumb pressing sloooow until you feel your walls fluttering around another invading finger— stretching you wider, his pads pressing against your squishy g-spot  making stars burst behind your eyelids. 

“Be honest with me,” Percy murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and lips slick with you. “Like your pussy is…Tell me when you're close.”

Gods, why couldn't you just say it? The words stuck in your throat as he worked you relentlessly, dragging out your orgasm so lengthily, his tongue tickling your constantly throbbing clit while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that had you arching off the bed. 

“How are you so good at this?” you gasped finally, voice breaking as the edge rushed up. “Is this your first time? Are you kidding me?”

He pulled back and gave a grin, chin glistening and eyes wicked. “First time, princess. But I've dreamed about eating your cunt plenty.” No joke in his tone, just raw truth that made your core tighten. 

“You do kiss- ah.. you do kiss your mother with that mouth…”

“As of now I'm kissing something sweeter.”

He dove back in, sucking harder, and you shattered, waves crashing through you as your pussy clenched around his fingers with slick gushing out. Percy didn't let up, milking every pulse until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted of you. 

But the heat didn't fade; it built. 

Percy stood, shedding the rest of his loosened suit with quick, impatient jerks. Finally, you saw it—his cock pulsing, fat with red veins snaking along the length. A sensitive slit at the tip, already beading, and heavy balls hanging low. 

He wasn’t just needy, he was ravenous, the angriest reddened tip flushed like it had a grudge.

He manhandled you onto the bed properly, moving you onto your back with hands that gripped your hips hard. 

It was both of your first times, and lord, he was just using his tip to fuck you—rubbing the head along your slit, teasing the entrance without pushing in. 

He was big, there was no way that would enter your poor pussy.

The stretch was immediate when he tried to push into your orifice, a burn that made you whine, but it mixed with the ache he'd already stirred.

You didn't know who was more pussy-drunk or cock-drunk—you, with the way your walls fluttered greedily, or him, groaning like a man possessed as he nudged in. Just a few more inches out of the numerous ones eased inside your cunt with the most lecherous sounds as if your clingy walls were trying to suck him up and weren't able. 

You were addicted to the way his girth was molding your channel to him, stretching wide, the burn blending into pleasure that had you clawing at his shoulders.

You guys started fighting a bit then—playful, your hands pushing at his chest as he tried to sink deeper, him pinning your wrists with one hand while the other guided his cock. 

“Stop squirming,” he laughed breathlessly, but you twisted, half-protesting the overwhelming fullness, half-pulling him closer. 

“It's not- Oh fuckkk- It's not going to fit-!”

Percy looked down, seeing that there was still some way to go, his cock was screaming in agony, needing to feel you squeeze him to oblivion, and that's how his hands released your wrists.

But it wasn't until you felt his hands on your legs that you understood what he was doing, lifting them up to his shoulders and beeeending you until your legs were giving him the perfect space.

“It has to fit, fit, fit, fit...” His hips moved like a piston, trying to fill you up until the sound of a resounding wap! echoed.

He finally made it fit, bottoming out with a shared groan that left you both dumb at the feeling, brains short-circuiting from the tight, hot clasp and his balls slapping your skin.

Percy started pumping then with no intention of giving a small break, the thick, vein-puffed length of his cock from tip to base to thwack! and plap! your cervix wetly. 

The man was breathing heavily as his hips continued to make the luxurious bed creak over and over again, letting out small grunts that matched your joyful moans.

Your vision blurred when a hand wandered down to give tiny slap slap slaps to your reddened clit, body arching as pleasure bordered on too much, slick coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs.

Percy watched you, transfixed, his own control fraying in a matter of seconds—when he saw the tears streak your cheeks, the way your mouth fell open in silent pleasured cries, he couldn't hold it. 

“Shit—you're—” He really couldn't hold it, hips stuttering as he filled you, hot spurts of cum flooding deep. Your cunt leaked out in both slick n’ his seed, the mess dripping onto the sheets.

The poor guy was trying to pull that high out of you, trying to wrench it as he gave you a puppy look, he just needed you to cum again. And you did, crashing over the edge with a big cry you muffled by biting his shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle as your walls spasmed around him, milking him dry. 

Percy was fucking you sloppily, the rhythm erratic as his cock dragged through the mess he'd made. His fingers reached down, joining to plug you up. 

Aah, lucky you both were married because for sure he bred you, and in this moment, you were drooling into the cushions, dumb on it, your body limp and buzzing. 

He laughed, dizzy and breathless over your look, collapsing half on top of you, his weight a grounding heat. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, affectionate even in the haze as you rolled onto your stomach, expecting him to rest next to you, catch his breath but oh no no no—he was playing with his cum between your legs, fingers scooping the leaking seed and rubbing it back in, making you whimper. 

Your man pushed up your hips, ass in the air, and you felt the blunt press of his cock against your stuffed cunt again. “Can't just stop at one,” he said, voice teasing as he eased in, the stretch easier now with the slick mess. 

You moaned into the cushions, face buried, as he started thrusting shallowly. 

He even joked, breathing hot against your ear, “Ship's arriving at the port—hope it's ready for round two.”

You managed a weak “Don't mess around,” but it dissolved into a gasp as he fucked deeper, his cock pushing out globs of his own cum, mixing it with your fresh slick. 

Your pussy was red from the smack of his hips against your ass, swollen and tender, and his pubic zone was also messy with your fluids, dark curls matted, and you heard the wap! plap! plap! sounds echoing—wet, obscene, driving you both wild.

Percy was so loving even when teasing you, one hand stroking your back while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him. 

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, pace quickening, the lewd squelches growing louder as he chased his release. Your body responded despite the ache, walls clenching around him, drawing him in deeper as he came inside once more, hard and sudden, flooding you until it was just an overspilling mess, thick ropes leaking down your thighs in rivulets.

The citadel's bells tolled midnight outside, but in the chambers, the real merging had just begun. Percy pulled out slowly and you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets. 

His arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Think we can skip the morning feast?” he asked, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You chuckled, turning to face him and a hand coming up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of his hair back from his forehead.

“The court would consider that a declaration of war.”

Percy shifted slightly closer, as though the space between you had become completely unnecessary. There was none of the earlier tension left in him now, none of the heat or provocation—just a look of love in his eyes.

“Then we are already off to an excellent start as a married couple,” he said.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The bells outside faded into silence, the palace beyond your chambers distant and irrelevant, as though the world had politely stepped away to allow this peace to exist without interruption.

You studied him in that quiet—the way the torchlight softened the features of him, the way he looked at you now without challenge or the distance between kingdoms that had defined everything between you.

Your fingers drifted from his hair to his cheek, resting there lightly.

“They will expect us,” you said after a moment.

“They can expect whatever they like,” Percy replied, his gaze soft on yours. “We’ve already done everything they required of us.”

Your hand slipped from his face, but he caught it before it could fall away entirely, threading his fingers through yours. 

You exhaled softly, letting your forehead rest briefly against his.

“Just this once,” you said quietly, “we stay.”

“A generous decree,” Percy murmured, his voice low with sleep and softer, it did not sound like the prince who argued in the council chambers or provoked you in gardens. “I should thank my wife for such mercy.” 

“Do not grow accustomed to it,” you replied with a small laugh. “I grant it only because you have ensured that walking tomorrow would be… unnecessarily difficult.” 

“I see,” he said slowly, as though considering this with more seriousness than it deserved, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Then I must accept this kindness with proper gratitude, my queen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Careful,” you warned, though it lacked the bite it once would have carried. “You will make a habit of saying things you cannot take back.”

“I do not intend to take them back.” His thumb moved faintly against your hand, absent and thoughtful. “We could go for a walk in the morning to see your favorite flowers.”

“Sleep,” you said. “If you insist on embarrassing us both in the morning, you will at least require the rest.”

A faint breath of laughter escaped him at that as his arm tightened around you.

“As you command,” he murmured. “My love.”

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

💭: Guys this is not proofreaded LIKE 70% sooo hopefully you won't find many weird typos or stuff TT Still I'm reallly happy because I don't tend to write such long oneshots, yippieeee!!

[todaywasafairytale07]

THANKS FOR THE FULL-COURSE MEAL 🙂‍↕️

[mochaization]

WE WERE SOMETHING, DON'T YOU THINK?

synopsis. your family said he'd ruin your future, that he was a bad influence, so they separated you from him 'for your own good.' years later, you see him again at college, and he's ... different in ways you don't know how to name.

pairing. r. sukuna x f!reader

content. light angst (i think), fluff, SOFT SUKUNA, sukuna's a bit mean at first tho, reader's family is shit, sukuna has a healthy family (wow), mutual pining, childhood best friends, college au, family pressure ( ´△｀), eventual romance. wc 2.7k (shorter than i thought)

♯ this is my first time writing a long oneshot pls dont jump me. i dont really like how i executed it but oohh welll it's already done ( ´∀`) enjoy!! art by 679sora!

The first time you meet Sukuna, he is sitting alone at the playground, knees pulled up to his chest as he plucks at the grass like he has nothing better to do.

You watch him from the swings, letting yourself drift back and forth. The chain creaks soflty in a slow rhythm.

Everything feels quieter today.

Sukuna is still plucking at the grass, piling them on top of his shoes. He doesn't look bored, if anything, he's deeply focused on what he's doing.

Curious, you hop off the swings and start walking toward him.

Up close, you spot bruises on his face and arms. He looks like he's been fighting a lot. He's actually bigger than he seemed from far away, shoulders tight like a coiled spring.

He notices your shadow before he even looks up.

His hands still mid-pluck. Slowly, his eyes lift to your face.

They're red and sharp. "What?" he asks flatly, voice rough for a kid.

You shift your weight, scuffing your shoe against the dirt. "Nothing."

He squints, unconvinced.

"Then why are you here?"

"You looked lonely," the words escape before you can even decide if they're a good idea.

He lifts one eyebrow. "I'm not," he mutters. "Mind your own business."

You snort. "You're sitting in the middle of the playground. That kind of makes it everyone's business."

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Then go away."

"You go away."

"I was here first."

"So?"

"So it's my spot."

Instead of talking back, you plop down across him, close enough to mess up his gathered pile of grass.

"It's our spot now." you declare, satisfied with the incredulous look on Sukuna's face.

He just stares, considering getting up and leave. But then he sighs. "You're annoying," he says.

You grin. "Thanks, i get that a lot."

He frowns, that was not the reaction he expected. But he just shrugs and goes back to plucking at the grass.

"What's your name?" you ask suddenly.

He doesn't answer right away. You start to think he's going to ignore you completely because he hasn't answered for a whole minute.

"For what?" he looks at you skeptically.

You blink. "So i know what to call you, duh."

He snorts softly, like that's a stupid reason. But he tells you anyway. "Sukuna," he mutters.

"Sukuna," you repeat it under your breath, testing the sound of it. Then you tell him your name.

He nods, repeating your name quietly. "That's a good name," he says.

After that, neither of you speaks again.

He stops plucking at the grass and just stares at the small pile for a while. Then he lifts his head, staring at you, who are leaning back on your hands, eyes looking up the sky.

Finally, he speaks up. "You're here alone?"

You shake your head, still looking up the sky. "No, i'm with my mom."

"Cool."

"Not cool," you sigh. "She's always mad about something."

"Huh," he mutters. "Why?"

You just shrug, as if it's normal. "Dunno. It's fine though, i'm used to it."

He frowns, crossing his arms. "Used to it? No one should be used to that."

You can't help a small laugh. "You sound mad."

"'m not," he admits quietly. "Its just weird."

"Don't think much about it, 'kuna. you'll get gray hairs!"

He lifts an eyebrow at the nickname, but he doesn't say anything about it. Just as he opens his mouth, someone yells your name.

You turn your head abruptly, narrowing your eyes as you see your mom striding toward you. Her jaw set so tight you're afraid it might snap.

"There you are!" She shouts.

Your mom's hands clamped onto your shoulders like a vice. She looks at Sukuna with a judgemental squint.

"I told you not to wander off," she hisses, her fingers locking around your upper arm. "And not to play with someone who doesn't know basic manners—look at you, you got your clothes dirty!"

She doesn't wait for you to answer. She pulls you upward, forcing you to stand. You look back at Sukuna as your mom drags you away. He looks genuinely baffled, still crouching with his pile of grass on his shoes.

The distance grows quickly, your mom's shadow looming over you. You glance back one more time and yell out. "I'll see you tomorrow, 'kuna!"

Sukuna blinks in surprise, staring at you for a moment. Then he nods slowly, like it's a promise.

You stumble forward, the force of your mom's grip makes you wince, but Sukuna's nod lingers in your mind. You're gonna make sure you'll see him tomorrow.

.☘︎ ݁˖

Sukuna's back at home, the memory of you still lingers in his head. He couldn't forget the way you talked, how curious you were about him, and the way your eyes were full of resentment when your mom came.

"Sukuna, are you okay?"

That question snaps him out of his trance. He looks up from his plate, meeting his dad's eyes.

"Uh, yeah," he mutters. "It's just that i met a girl i met at the playground today."

His mom jumps in, excitement in her voice. "Really? What is she like? Is she nice?"

Sukuna stays quiet for a beat, nodding slowly. "She's a curious one, but she's nice. Her mom, however.." He lets the sentence trail off.

He sighs before continuing. "I don't know, maybe she's in a bad mood. She was a bit harsh on her earlier."

His parents share a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. After a pause, his dad speaks softly. "You should be friends with her."

"Why should i?" He frowns slightly.

"She might need friends, 'kuna." his mom adds, gently brushing Sukuna's hair back.

The conversation goes on for a while before Sukuna eventually wanders off to his room. Sunglight pools across his floor as he drops onto his bed.

He tells himself that he doesn't care about you. But the interaction at the playground keeps replaying on his mind.

Meanwhile there's you, sitting on the edge of your bed, hands clenched on your lap.

Voices rise downstairs. Sharp, loud, and angry in a way that they've stopped trying to keep it quiet. Your name slips once, the sound tight and even more angry.

You stare at the floor, heart pounding. You promised yourself that you'd see Sukuna tomorrow. No matter what your parents say.

Downstairs, the argument keeps going.

.☘︎ ݁˖

You go back the next day.

He's already there, sitting in the same spot. Instead of tearing up grass, he brought snacks this time. He glances up when you approach, his guarded expression melting into something softer when he sees you.

After that day, it becomes a routine.

You go there almost every day without your parents knowing. Some days you talk, some days you don't, just enjoying each other's company. Sometimes you argue over nothing, share snacks, or trade small observations about anything around you.

When you ask about his bruises, he tells you they're from sparring at his martial arts class after school. Then he starts showing them off, insisting they're 'cool.'

It feels like your own small world.

Until it isn't.

Your parents finally catch you playing with Sukuna one afternoon, their footsteps cutting across the playground.

Your dad calls your name, sharp enough to make you flinch.

The happiness drains from your face the moment you see them.

Your body goes rigid, fingers tightening in the grass. Without warning, your dad grabs you roughly and pulls you back, making you grimace in pain.

Sukuna's on his feet instantly.

"Hey—" the word tears out of him. "Let go of her!"

Your mother shoots him a look so cold it could freeze the air.

"Stay away from her," she snaps. "She doesn't need a friend with no manners like you."

"Wha—"

"Don't act like you don't know," she scoffs. "She comes here without our permission, you probably encouraged it."

Sukuna blinks, stunned by the accusation. "I didn't make her do anything!" his hands shaking from how hard he's clenching it. "She wanted to come."

"Our daughter would never do that if there's no one encouraging her," your mom laughs condescendingly. "You're a bad influence."

The word lands like a slap on the face.

Sukuna just stands there. Not yelling, not fighting, just looking at you, hurt flickering in his eyes.

After a moment, your parents pull you away from him.

You twist in their grip, trying to look back at him. He's standing there with his fist clenching, looking at you like he doesn't understand why you're being taken away from him.

Your dad's hand tightens, forcing you forward.

And just like that, Sukuna sees you for the last time.

The next day, he comes to the playground, but you don't.

Seconds pass, then minutes, then hours. You still don't come. Sukuna doesn't move. The snack beside him sits unopened, already forgotten.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel. He looks up immediately, hoping it was you—but it's not. It was one of the adults in the neighborhood.

"Hey, kid," they say gently. "You shouldn't wait here."

"Why not?" He frowns.

The adult hesitates, then sigh. "Her parents.. they don't want her coming here anymore."

"They said she won't be playing with you again."

The words doesn't make sense.

"What do you mean?"

"They think you're a bad influence," They add quietly. "they said you're bad for her future, so they're keeping her away. For good."

Sukuna doesn't answer. He just stares at the ground, jaw tight. After a long moment, he grabs the snack beside him and shove it into his bag, movements angry.

"Thanks," he says to the adult quietly.

Then he turns and walks away without looking back.

He doesn't come back the next day, or the day after that. The playground remains the same, the swings creak softy, the grass still flattened where you used to sit together, as if nothing important just ended.

.☘︎ ݁˖

Years slip by, old memories softening into something easier to ignore.

You're in college now, living alone, finally far away from your parents.

The days blur into lectures, assignments, projects, and part-time work. It's not really exciting but at least it's peaceful.

Your last class just finished, and students scramble out of the room. Laughter echoes down the hallway, conversation overlap, you move with the crowd, already thinking going back to your apartment.

But you see a familiar silhouette leaning against a pillar, talking to someone. Tall, broad shoulders, and what's that—tattoos?

Your steps falter, breath catching in your throat. He turns slightly to your direction, as if sensing weight of your gaze.

For a moment, you only see his profile. Sharper, older, unfamiliar in any ways.

Then he turns fully.

He squints, then his eyes widen just a fraction, your name almost forming on his lips.

He stops before it comes out. He just stares at you, his expression guarded, as if he's putting up a wall.

But then he strides toward you, each steps confident and unmistakeable.

Panic flares in your chest. You look around for some sort of escape, but there's nowhere to go. When you look forward again, he's already in front of you.

"You," he says flatly. "what are you doing here." It doesn't even sound like a question.

"H-huh?" you stutter. "Oh, uh.. i study here."

His eyes narrow, sharp and unblinking, studying you. "Do you even remember me?"

"...Sukuna, right?"

"Right," he snorts. "how long has it been? Ten years?"

You nod, shame flooding your chest. It's been ten whole years you last saw him, and you can't even bring yourself to look at his face after that one day.

"...Let's go somewhere quieter." He takes your hand gently, a stark contrast to everything you've felt these past years.

He leads you to the quiet park behind the campus. The chirping birds and the rustle of leaves do little to soothe the tight knot in your chest.

He let go of your hand and turns around. The air between you is heavy, thick with words that neither of you know how to start with.

"How's your life? Did it get any better without me in it?" he asks bitterly, the question coming out harsher than he intended.

You gulp and let out a shaky exhale. "No—"

"Do you still let your mom control everything in your life? Or do they still think i'm a bad influence for you, that i'll ruin your future?"

You squeeze your eyes shut at the train of question, chest tight, every unsaid word for the past ten years pressing down on you. With a trembling breath, you finally look up at him.

"N-no.. not anymore," you say, voice shaky. "I left home last year, and i don't... i don't know what they think about you now. They probably don't remember you.."

Sukuna's eyes soften slightly, the usual sharpness fading into something almost fragile. He leans back slightly, letting out a almost inaudible sigh.

"I still think about you, y'know. All these ten years, i still hoped you'd come back to me."

His admission makes your eyes widen in surprise. You swallow hard, your chest tightening at his words.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't," he cuts you off. "don't apologize for something that's not your fault."

You blink, caught off guard by the his firmness in his tone.

"I feel like i should've apol—"

"It's not your fault," he repeats, looking away in frustration. "you were just following what your parents said, you had no choice."

At that moment, you notice something different about him. He's softer now. He's still a bit harsh like when he was kid, yes, but he's more gentler around the edges.

"I wanted to reach out to you," you say suddenly, making his head snap back at you. "saw my friend's instagram photo, and there you were. I clicked on the tagged account, i even had the courage to message you, but i was... a coward."

Sukuna looks at you, and without thinking, he brushes a strand of your hair back. You can feel heat creeping up your cheek at the contact.

"Coward?"

"Mhm, because of that day," you explain, voice barely a whisper. "i saw the hurt in your eyes when my mom talked badly about you.. and i thought you hated me."

He exhales slowly, a small, almost sad smile tugging on his lips.

"I missed you," he says. "i still buy your favorite snacks, still going to the playground when i have free time, though you won't be there."

"So how could i ever hate you?"

Your heart pounds loudly in your chest. The tension of the past ten years still lingers, but seeing his soft eyes, it feels... warm.

"I missed you too," you finally admit, voice quiet. "we were something, don't you think?"

"Something?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Y'know... we were best friends. But they had to ruin it all."

Sukuna laughs, low and soft, the sound carrying a mixture of relief and fondness. "You're implying we're not best friends anymore?"

"What?! No! i mean.. are we?" You stammer, cheeks heating.

Sukuna tilts his head, a teasing glint in his softened eyes. "Of course we are," he says quietly. "Unless.. you want us to be more than best friends?"

"Huh?!" Your voice suddenly squeaks. "Oh, sorry— i mean, huh? but we're best friends—"

Sukuna smirks, a teasing glint in his eyes. He loves how flustered you are over his words.

"Best friends, yes," he says slowly. "But doesn't mean we can try for more, if you want."

You bite your lip, trying to calm your pounding heart. "I never thought about it," you admit. "I don't know if i'm ready.."

Sukuna leans in a little closer, hands brushing yours before holding it. "Hey," he murmurs. "We can take it slowly, no rush at all."

"We just met after ten years," he smirks faintly. "We'll have to get used to each other again, won't we?"

"Yeah.. i guess we do," you say, glancing at him and meeting his gaze steadily. "It'll take a little time, but i'm glad i get to see you again."

He notices your steady voice, and a satisfied smile spreads on his face

"Good," he chuckles softly. "Just know that we'll get through everything, yeah? No running away again from me."

"I won't," you reply, chuckling despite yourself. "Promise, 'kuna."

The nickname makes him smile even wider. His hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and you can't help but lean in to his touch.

"You know," he starts. "I still care for you, and i will.. forever."

© mochaization 2026. DO NOT copy, reconstruct, reupload on any other platform, or feed my works to AI.

[aariellaaaa4]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 ..

in which, Hera’s first and only daughter joins Camp Half-blood.

cw: nothing really??? maybe mythology inaccuracy lolllz

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you didn’t exactly expect to make an entrance, but somehow that’s what happened. because the universe just likes you like that.

the camp bus wheezes and rattles before finally halting at the base of the hill. the gravel crunches under your shoes as you hop down — gracefully, of course. the summer air simmers warm and magical. your gaze lifts ahead, and a large pine sits at the crest, the branches brush the sky proudly as Camp Half-blood releases scintillations of light.

you’re still appreciating the shimmers when a girl with a scowl that could make cut through celestial bronze shoves past you.

“move it princess, some of us have actual training to get to.”

charming, you think.

before your brilliant brain could think of a retort, a girl with grey eyes and messy blonde hair steps forward, offering a small, assessing smile. “that’s Clarisse, she’s always like that after a long trip. I’m Annabeth.“

her eyes lingered over you — not unkind, but thoughtfully, as if you just asked her a seriously difficult riddle and she’s in the process of solving it.

“come with me.”

you follow her up the winding path, the strawberry fields spread out lazily to your left. as you near the top of the hill, the Big House comes into view, its blue paint unapologetically loud and bright against the grass.

you glance around and your eyes land on something — someone. standing on the porch was a boy with jet-black hair, leaning against the pillar with an easy, confident slouch. Percy Jackson. his sea-green eyes lock onto your group, then you specifically and he straightens up almost imperceptibly.

“took you long enough. Chiron’s waiting inside.”

his smile is amused, crooked if you look closely. he looks at you like he already knows you’re trouble. but he doesn’t seem to mind.

the screen door creaks open, and Chiron wheels out onto the porch. ancient kindness in his eyes. in his hands, he holds a simple golden goblet.

“welcome, my dear,” his voice is warm and calm. “let us see who claims the honour of your patronage. please, take the goblet.”

he extends the goblet to you, the metal cool against your fingers. as you take it, a hush falls over the group around you.

Connor whispers to his brother, “ten drachmas on Zeus..”

you raise the goblet, but before you could even take a sip, the air around you twinkles, the light bends like it’s laughing, a phantasmagoria to the mortal eye.

a symbol, complex and glowing with regal light, materializes above your head. it’s not a trident, or a lyre but a majestic, stylized peacock feather. it radiates an aura of undeniable strength and authority.

Annabeth’s breath hitches beside you. “that’s not .. possible.” Percy’s own eyes widen as he takes a half-step back — his words seem to have failed him.

the symbol fades and leaves silence in its wake.

Chiron bows, a gesture of deep respect.

“Daughter of Hera, Queen of Olympus. Camp half-blood is.. honoured.”

you smile, all sweetness and secrets, the silence stretching.

Percy recovers first, a grin blooming across his face. the pearly whites glint across his tan skin. “Well,” he starts, “that explains the whole… divine vibe.”

whispers rippled through the camp like fairy wings brushing against cobwebs; Hera doesn’t have kids, it’s a known rule.

you tilt the goblet, a drop of the purplish liquid escaping, and it plops onto your shoe. you feel the weight of the destiny in your hands.

after all, stories don’t begin by following rules.

———————————————————————-

authors note: chapter 1 done!! i feel like this lowk sucks cus im still improving my writing but i hope you love it!! yes. i know hera technically isnt supposed to have kids but thats the beauty of fanfics hehe. bye loves <3!

short tag list:

@mimikila @ot8srzlover

[maffi-maffi]

💔 I know people will hate me for this, but I can’t stay silent anymore

I just want to find at least one person who feels the same way I do.

Even if a hundred or a thousand people will hate me for it, I want that one single person who understands what kind of scar this MC left on me.

---

For a long time, I couldn't quite explain why I had such a deep dislike - no, a visceral rejection - of the MC of Love and Deepspace.

It wasn’t just that I found her annoying, rude, or bland - though many users defend her as "just a cute sweetheart" or "not that bad heroine".

No. I think I genuinely hate her.

And recently, after sitting with this feeling for months, I finally figured out why.

She is an empty shell.

A hollow, perfect otome heroine who had everything handed to her by default. She has:

- A loving older adoptive brother who would literally do anything for her because he had to watch her suffer as a child and ended up traumatized (while she conveniently forgot everything - how convenient, right?).

- A serious childhood friend who possibly had feelings for her but had to hide them to avoid hurting her with his evol - and of course she’s the only one who can make him smile again

- A literal husband from the future, who time-traveled just to save her (because even time itself is on this woman’s side).

- Not one but TWO ancient creatures (a mafia boss who created and controls an entire shadowy underworld mafia just to protect her, and a literal mermaid sea god whose soul is tied to hers across lifetimes) both of whom have loved her across lifetimes and would destroy the world for her!

The love interests? Fantastic.

They’re well-designed, emotionally rich, and full of potential.

But the moment you add destiny threads, past life reincarnations, and mythic soulmate-level love, something breaks.

I stop feeling like I’m part of the story.

I don’t feel like the MC.

I don’t feel like I’m influencing or choosing anything.

I don’t feel... close.

It feels like I’m just watching someone else’s picture-perfect story - some unreasonably lucky girl - from behind a screen. And I have absolutely nothing to do with it.

I think what makes it worse is that Infoflds advertises this as otome game from first-person POV.

A dating sim for women.

Isn’t it supposed to fulfill the fantasy of being special?

Of being seen?

But all I felt after a few months of playing and watching her was:

MC is the center of the universe.

And I mean that literally.

From what I understand, the plot eventually reveals that she’s a kind of cosmic entity - a celestial being that gave birth to an entire advanced civilization on another planet. She’s the source of life itself.

Every powerful man or godlike creatures in this world exists and lives because of her.

Loves her. Worships her. Saves her.

Even the player feels like they’re supposed to worship her.

She’s the chosen one. The universe, the love interests, and the story all bend to her - and honestly? It felt like the game was screaming in my face:

"Look at her! Look at everything she has that you never will!"

Yes, I know the mythic destiny trope is just a lazy storytelling shortcut to justify why all the LIs fall so hard so fast.

But still… it hurts.

This game showed me something I didn’t expect:

That I’m a non-MC reader.

Just a side character. A background girl.

And that’s why I adore non-MC stories with a reader.

They mirror how I feel in real life - painfully, but in a cathartic beautiful way.

They say: yes, even if you’re beautiful, loyal, smart, kind - if you weren’t born the Chosen One, if you weren’t written into the myth - then you’ll never be her.

You’ll never be the one they cross time and space for.

You’ll never be the cosmic soulmate.

You’ll never be the MC.

And yes, maybe I’m just a jealous bitter bitch.

Maybe I just fell too hard for the guys and now feel like a miserable outsider.

Maybe I felt like I was being pushed out of a story that never included me to begin with.

But this post - this pain - is real.

If you’ve ever felt like the story wasn’t written for you,

If you’ve ever watched miss Hunter be worshipped and thought:

“Why not me?”

If you’ve ever craved a story where someone like you gets to be seen, wanted, and chosen:

You're not alone.

UPDATE: I never expected this to blow up. Thank you for all the support (and the chaos). I wrote a proper thank you to my fellow non-MC enthusiasts here.

SECOND UPDATE: The response was insane. Check out here my first non-MC OC/Sylus fic dropping this week! ✨

[todaywasafairytale07]

I totally agree with this. I installed the app way back 2024 and had not stopped playing until today because I feel like it’s always the same plot with every myth, and I started to dislike MC’s character because I can’t connect with her. I think I’m burned out or I just want some progress in the main storyline. Anyways, I had fun but it’s time to let go.

[kannady]

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 2.1k

a/n: next updates might take some time. lemme know your thoughts!

read rest of the chapters here!

VII

The days morphed into one another, a smooth stream of routine. Seven of them. One whole week since the warehouse. Since the silence. 

Each morning, you woke up at 5:00 AM. Each evening, you left the facility exactly on time. You ate your meals. You attended your meetings. You ran your simulations. The world had not ended. EVER had not collapsed. The sky had not fallen.

And that was the problem.

Everything was back to normal. The unsettling part was that nothing had ever truly deviated from it. The "escape" of Subject M-7 was now a footnote, a minor hiccup mentioned in a single, bland email from management about reinforced security protocols. There was no evidence of a break-in. No deleted data. No mysterious power outages. 

The Project Umbra file was gone from the system, vanished as if it had never existed. It was as if Sylus had been a ghost, a fever dream that left no mark on the world.

The undisturbed state of everything was more unnerving than any bombastic, Sylus-style catastrophe would have been. It was all wrong. It was a perfect, polished surface, and you were waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the first crack to appear. But it never did.

What didn’t sit right, what coiled like a snake in your gut, was the file. Project Umbra. Secondary Subject: Former Onychinus operative. Role: Stabilizer. EVER knew. They knew you had worked for Sylus. They knew your past. They had deliberately placed you on that project.

And they were doing nothing.

That was the source of the paranoia, a constant hum that had started in the back of your skull and was now a buzzing frequency in your every waking moment. It was the quiet before the storm, but the quiet was stretching on into an eternity, and you were the only one who could feel the pressure.

You started seeing it everywhere. The way a higher-level supervisor’s gaze would linger on you for a second too long in the elevator, his expression unreadable before he returned to his tablet. The way the head of Bio-Division paused by your lab station not to ask about your work, but to make bland, pleasant small talk about the weather, his eyes curiously assessing.

You’d walk into the cafeteria, and your skin would prickle. Was that a hush that fell over the table in the corner? Did those researchers just stop talking and quickly look away? Or were they always like that, and you were only now noticing? Every whisper behind a cupped hand felt like it was about you. Every shared glance between colleagues felt like a silent communication of something you weren’t aware of..

The feeling was a physical weight on your shoulders. You’d spin around, certain someone was staring, only to find a junior tech diligently mopping the floor or a janitor emptying a trash can. You were jumping at shadows, but the terrifying part was the growing certainty that the shadows were, in fact, watching back.

Even Mara. Was she being different? Her usual, easy-going teasing felt slightly forced. Her questions about your weekend felt a little too probing. When you mentioned feeling tired, did her concern seem a little too sharp, a little too focused? Or were you just seeing phantoms, painting your own fear onto the blank canvas?

The logical part of your brain, the scientist, screamed coincidence. Confirmation bias. You were looking for threats, so you were finding them everywhere.

But the part of you that had survived five years in Sylus’s world, the part that could sense a trap by the faint scent of ozone in the air, knew better. This was how it started. This was the slow, psychological boxing-in.

They weren’t coming for you with guns and handcuffs. They were letting the walls close in quietly, letting the paranoia do their work for them, letting you isolate yourself with your own fear.

The most chilling question of all began to form, sharp and terrifying. What are they waiting for?

***

It was Friday. The air in the lab was charged with a different energy, the anticipation for the weekend. Your favourite day of the week. The one where the promise of two free days stretched out. Your colleagues were already making plans, laughing as they shut down their stations, talking about a new bar downtown for a work dinner.

You gave a half-smile, a practiced look of regret. "Wish I could join. But I’m swamped. You guys have fun."

It was a lie, of course. A carefully constructed one. For the past three days, you'd been strategically negligent. A data analysis left unverified. A calibration report filed half-finished. Small, irritating errors that were beneath your paygrade but just significant enough to be noticed. You'd let them pile up, a tiny monument to manufactured incompetence, waiting for the one person guaranteed to take the bait.

Dr. Voss didn't disappoint. He walked up to your workstation just as the last of the team was filtering out, his expression pinched with disapproval.

"Dr. (Y/N)," he began, his voice low and cold. "This is becoming a pattern. Sloppy work. Careless mistakes." He launched into a lecture about work ethics, about the weight of responsibility at EVER, about how expectations were higher for someone of your ‘proven, if recently erratic, capabilities’.

You nodded along, feigning guilt, letting his words wash over you. This was the script and you were playing your part perfectly.

Finally, he sighed. "I cannot in good conscience let this slide. You will stay and correct these oversights. I want every task on this list completed and on my desk before you even think about leaving tonight. Understood?"

"Understood, Dr. Voss," you said, your voice appropriately meek. "It won't happen again."

He gave you one last, withering look before turning on his heel and leaving. The lab door hissed shut behind him, and you were alone.

Perfect. This was far less suspicious than choosing to stay late by yourself. You had a legitimate reason to be there, logged in the system by your superior's own command.

The work itself was mind-numbingly simple. You began with a focused efficiency, your fingers flying across the keyboard. The "mountain" of tasks Voss had implied was little more than a molehill. Within two hours, every report was corrected, every analysis verified, every box ticked. You sent the final file to Voss's terminal with a soft ping.

Then, you sat back in your chair. The lab was utterly silent, bathed in the low, ambient glow of idle holoscreens. You had plenty of time.

The objective was clear, a question that had been burning in your mind for a week. Did EVER still have Sylus's Evol fragment? The data would be locked down, encrypted, requiring a clearance level you couldn't hope to get your way around. Trying to access it from your workstation would trigger a dozen security flags before you even got past the login screen.

You needed a different approach. Perhaps a more physical one.

Your eyes scanned the lab, landing on the central server bank humming softly against the far wall. That was where the real-time, high-security data was processed and stored locally before being uploaded to the more secure, off-site mainframe. It was the facility's beating heart, and it had one critical vulnerability, maintenance.

Every system, no matter how secure, needed physical upkeep. And physical access required keys, codes, and, most importantly, a maintenance log.

You stood up, your chair rolling back silently. You didn't go to the server bank. That would be too obvious. Instead, you went to the supply closet, your movements casual, as if fetching more toner for the printer. Inside, amidst the boxes of gloves and reagents, was a small, wall-mounted terminal.

The Facilities Maintenance Log.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the deafening silence. You navigated the menu. Server Bay 7A. Scheduled Maintenance. You scrolled through the history and there it was. An entry for last night, 11:00 PM. A routine filter change and diagnostic run. And the technician's ID: T. Riggs.

Bingo.

You couldn't access the data, but you could find out if the physical housing unit for a high-energy, volatile substance had been tampered with, moved, or, more likely, if its security had been ncreased after the supposed "escape."

Your eyes darted toward the senior researchers' offices. Their terminals had broader access permissions. Dr. Voss's office door was, as always, locked. But Mara sometimes forgot to fully log out when she was in a rush to leave.

You moved quickly, slipping into her dim office. Her holoscreen was dark, but a gentle tap on the keyboard brought it to life. No password prompt. She’d left her session open. A thrill of guilt mixed with adrenaline shot through you. You pushed it down.

Navigating to the Facilities Management portal, you typed in the work order number from the log. 

The screen swarmed with data. A list of tasks performed. Filter replacement. System diagnostic. Energy shielding security, check.

Your breath caught. Energy shielding security. That was it. That was the confirmation. They wouldn't be running a security check for an empty chamber. The check was performed to ensure the containment field was stable because there was still something incredibly powerful inside it to contain.

Sylus hadn't taken it. EVER still had his Evol fragment.

The realization was a cold splash of water. He hadn't completed his objective. So why had he left? Why vanish so completely if the very thing he came for was still here?

The soft, almost imperceptible hiss of the lab's main doors starting to open shattered the silence.

Your head snapped up. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, closing the tabs, wiping the history, plunging Mara's screen back into darkness just as the door finished its cycle.

You held your breath, frozen in the dark office, listening. The only sound was the low hum of the servers. A false alarm? A night cleaner?

Then, a voice, smooth and familiar, called out into the empty lab.

"(Y/N)? I saw the light on under the door. What are you doing in here?"

Your head snapped up, your blood running cold at the sound of the voice. It was Mara. She stood in the doorway of her own office, not with anger etched on her face, but with a single, perfectly arched eyebrow raised in pure confusion. The fluorescent light from the main lab haloed her figure, making her expression difficult to read.

For a terrifying second, your mind went completely blank, every carefully prepared alibi evaporating into panic. You were caught. Flat-footed, in the dark, with your hand literally on her keyboard.

"What are you doing here?" you blurted out, the words coming out more accusatory than you intended.

Mara didn’t flinch. She took a few steps into the office, her eyes flicking from your undoubtedly guilty face to her now-darkened computer screen and back again. A small sigh escaped her. "I forgot to log out," she said, her voice dry. "And left my lipstick in the drawer. Real question is, what are you doing in my office, (Y/N)?"

She moved past you, her shoulder brushing yours. She didn't seem hurried or alarmed. She simply tapped her keyboard, bringing the screen to life, and with a few efficient clicks, properly logged out of the system. The action was so normal, so mundane.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your heart hammering against your ribs. This was it. This was where it all fell apart. You scrambled for a lie, any lie, about a misplaced file, a corrupted report you thought she had.

She turned to face you fully, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked disappointed. "You know," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, though the lab was utterly empty. "You could have just asked me."

You blinked, certain you had misheard. "What?"

Mara’s gaze was steady, knowing. "I'm not an idiot. I've seen you all week. Jumping at your own shadow, looking over your shoulder. You think no one notices that?" She shook her head slightly. "Whatever you were looking for on my computer… you could have just asked me. And I would've told you."

Your mouth went dry. This wasn't in any of the scenarios you'd prepared yourself for. This was something else entirely.

She took your stunned silence as confirmation. Her expression softened from disappointment.. "The fragment," she said, her voice so low you had to lean in to hear it. "It's still here. In the facility. Deep-storage sub-basement. They moved it the night the subject escaped."

The admission hung in the air between you, simple, devastating, and utterly unexpected. She knew. She knew what you were looking for. She knew what it was. And she was just telling you.

idk if ive reached the limit or what but im unable to tag any more people. lmk if this can be fixed somehow!

tags: @nm4565natty, @dysphxriaii, @animegamerfox, @floofycookie, @food4me-always, @dummiebunny, @starllight613, @natashahbarry, @hao-ming-8, @eve-rockin-blog, @sylusgirlie7, @babygirl-panda19, @chaoticfivesworld, @wakeupr41, @poptrim, @brailsthesmolgurl, @seung185, @mimiu3usoft, @theplaid-wearingmoose, @moonchildjae00, @pinksaiyans, @vintag3u, @peachystea, @69-gojos-wife-69, @harusansthings, @dyeinsomniadontwake, @perqbeth, @dramaticalsachan, @dana-nite, @blusterry-bomb, @miffysoo, @his-ocean-emissary, @totallytaurus4, @sleepykittyenergy, @terriblesoup, @mcdepressed290, @ikesimpleton, @meyline, @decaf-nosebleed, @ili6a, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @adeptustemptations, @sylussweetkitten, @roschea-arts, @blipblopblopblip, @eolivy, @coeurdeveea, @sylussplushie, @thestarsaboveme

@cordidy, @bxtchopolis, @sabage101, @stxrrielle, @lighting-and-shadow, @peachhiz, @z3vl, @inara-lumina, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @bubbleteakittyy, @sillyfreakfanparty, @inzanekillian, @54fangirl, @lluvia1415, @obeythebutler, @beaconsxd, @raethewargeneral, @vyntheria, @claireeredfield, @velvtcherie, @it-is-tea-time, @babylavinawr, @jaebumspetitegf, @xsammijoanneex, @sikrettt, @lostpsycho13, @junlight, @aboobie, @jaams-backpack, @sh4do3, @nnasv, @lov3vivian, @rosiesareblu, @lemon-seeds81, @sakuraneko-sakupanda-chan, @moth-quasar, @quill-for-glory, @silver--47, @snowylizard0, @justpassingdontworry, @snowy-violet, @raendarkfaerie, @lunadisun, @violentriddlehoard, @september-2121, @aweebs, @emneedshelp, @mariahuchiha90, @mephisylus, @zellllyyyyy, @wackyquacky, @eurynam, @prettytemis, @sherlynxx, @nnasv, @frog-and-moon, @potania, @preeyas-world, @alyyylog @josephinex2712, @luvvhue, @annicishana, @blueeyedbrat0716, @pines06, @iiyumiii, @lads-kitten

@mononlogue, @sofszz, @seungkwansflower, @probably-hyperfixating, @leiaglamela, @idkmanimjusthorny, @anonymousarely, @treeteaofversailles, @lucifer-says-hii, @alwaysawkwardvalery, @king-dynamight, @milkyasteroids, @gojoswaterbottle, @jexireads, @violentriddlehoard, @queen-serena88, @nvllmortality, @fiendsgf, @antonneva, @lucifer-says-hii, @junrui, @givemeabite, @kitty-yaps, @treeteaofversailles, @nightmarewasheree, @alxqrl, @arrozyfrijoles23, @darkeskye, @wiggly-yrath, @bluelilyofthevalley, @depressedbutwelldressed13, @slowburnmithy, @chiizuyu, @nicolenanami, @beaconsxd, @raendarkfaerie, @annavittoria-mm, @st4rqirl, @aurum-antics, @cockiiess

[orphicmeliora]

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)

Masterlist

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

NOTES: The one shot I planned to write turned into a full-blown series, who's surprised? The tag list for this fic is CLOSED. the banners belong to @/uzmacchiato

You can also find this series on AO3

»»————> INDEX <————««

✧･ﾟBlurb

✧･ﾟpreview

✧･ﾟpart 1

✧･ﾟpart 2

✧･ﾟpart 3

✧･ﾟpart 4

✧･ﾟpart 5

TAGLIST: @animegamerfox @sweetcalebb @ciaradream8 @hwangintakswifey @nm4565natty @zaynieinsanie @inzayneforaj @aara08 @multisstuff @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @yellowxiaotae @harmlesscouch @ourgoddessathena @dwuclvr @asilaydead @thelittlebutton @idiots0up @crazyzombieblaze @cordidy @storiesbyparadise @whosthought @sylustabbykitty

@someonenamedray @sheismaryy @sylusjinxedpaw @pemhpredo @perla-drg @bazpire @myrunawaysweets @sadgutaches @detectivelucky @demon-master-zero @hoe-in-deepspace @tinyweebsstuff @qstrea @vintag3u @algrimmammon @peacedreamer14 @seraphim-terrestrial @crimsonsylus @cielphanthomhivesimp @li-zayne-wife @boy-pussyyy @tinydonkeysforlife @zarakem @my-loved-figure-skates @criffininflight @escapeis @yu-87 @noblognamepleasee @paper--angel @syluslittlecrows @luckysaladfreakbagel @loliesaregreat @littleappleprincess @agustdxjiminx @codedove

@agentofloveandcourage @alphasavage555 @discreatesnowreader @hqtoge @hrollingcookie @plzdonutpercieveme @princess-vibes25 @in-a-far-away-land @orcawholikeskrakans @muddygurlll @afoolishreader @meheartlatinas @gemjimin @xsammijoanneex @quill-for-glory @thelittlebutton @kooidoom @hmwtgs @beatricetonguedi @paintedperidot @inara-lumina @snowstopia @jadeymeciela @floofycookie @greenisthecolorofherheart @lilacsxjoon @suhsun4 @zeverean @nm4565natty @kobenio @unknownpersonwithaknife @dana-nite @sorablooms @underratedbitch-number13

[todaywasafairytale07]

ZAYNE’S MYTH WTF IT’S A ROLLERCOASTER OF EMOTION 😭

[readwritealldayallnight]

Intended

Part One - The Proposal

Call of Duty Medieval AU Knight!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Princess!Reader

With tired feet threatening to drag with every step he takes across the stone floors, feeling as heavy as the considerable armour he dons from head to toe, he pushes the immense doors open and steps into the room, dreading that he knows already what is to occur beyond these walls.

Though not a scholar by any means, and with one too many blows to the head throughout his years of combat, he remains far from a stupid man, wise enough to know what he is about to walk into, why the had King insisted that he cut his morning hunt short, a request the gluttonous man rarely makes, and present himself before the royal at once.

The young man had hoped to avoid this day if only for just a short while longer, to delay the inevitable conclusion he was walking towards at this very moment, but alas, the Gods had a different fate in mind for him it seemed.

To think, how different life has already become since the Queen’s passing no more than a fortnight ago, a sudden pain in her chest having worsened overnight until the bells in the steeple were announcing her demise for all the kingdom to hear.

With the customary period of grieving scarcely come and gone, her subjects were still mourning the loss of the singular person capable of keeping the King in line, all while the now widowed man was already itching for change.

“Took you long enough.” The King was to be found where he was always sure to be, at the head of the table decorated in a lavish feast, now only to enjoyed by one. He’d at least had the decency to wipe the remaining ale from his lips before addressing his most trusted knight, a few persistent droplets clinging to the scruff around his mouth.

Still clad in his bloodstained armour, for a short hunt did not necessarily equate an unsuccessful hunt, the Knight’s prizes were being dragged into the kitchens as they spoke, leaving blood stained trails in their wake. He stepped purposefully further into the grand room, his every step intentional until he was near enough to his King to detect the subtle sway in the way the older man held his cup.

The man was drunk, as he had been for a very long time now, though not yet appearing belligerently so.

In spite of his heavy armour and chain mail underneath, Ghost moved as silently as his name might suggest as he moved to kneel before his highness, lowering his gaze to the expensively tiled floor beneath him, one he’d come to know with great familiarity after nearly two decades under the man’s service.

“Enough of tha’. Stand up, boy.” The King’s booming voice echoed through the room, commanding his knight to rise. “What’d you bring me back today, hm?”

“Snagged a pair o’ deer up by the creek. Dozen or so hares. Few birds.” Ghost’s low timbre reached the man’s ears at the same time as his cup reached his lips again. He need not know about the boar he and his men had nearly caught before they were summoned back to the castle, what the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Good, good. A more than adequate prize, considering. Very good. You never fail to succeed, do you Ghost?”

“Sir.” Was the only reply he would offer, along with a curt nod, never one to bask in the man’s praise.

“Haven’t called you here to discuss game, however.” The greying man clarified, glancing around to his handful of servants in waiting, stood silently in the shadows of the room, prepared to answer to their King’s beck and call. “Leave us.” He instructed, not needing to repeat himself before every soul was scattering this way and that, all too eager to be out of the man’s sight, though a few were certain to be found with ears pressed up against key holes in hopes of eavesdropping.

“I will keep this short, not interested in formalities these days.” the man began, grunting as he struggled to stand from his seat, swaying slightly in place until he was near enough to the knight to see his reflection in his armour. “Twenty-five years is entirely too long to have kept her sheltered the way her mother did. Ridiculous. As if keeping one hidden away would bring the others back. Senile woman. Should have done this ages ago. Long overdue. Owe every grey hair on me to that wench.”

Ghost allowed to man to ramble on, mumbling between sentences as though he could not decide whether he was speaking to himself or the only other soul in the room. Ghost remained steadfast in his place as he listened to the man go on, eyes silently taking him in. It was hard to believe sometimes, that this was the same man, the supposed King, who had over two decades ago slain each and every member of his family, sparing only the young boy he once was, bringing him back to the kingdom to be raised into the fearsome Knight they now called Ghost, only to repay the debt of having spared him his life. Never once had Ghost looked up to the fat man before him, not during his tainted childhood, and certainly not now as a man twice his size, serving him bravely throughout the years as he always has, though forever carrying a flame of hatred for his heighness.

“Her mother is gone now, gone, rest her soul. I need her gone, as well. Taken care of. No longer my burden, if you understand.” The King continued, finally slowing in his speech to glance up at the Knight for he stood easily over a foot taller than most men in the court.

“Are you askin’ me to kill her, sir?” Ghost inquired, without a hint of emotion in his tone. He was all too aware as to the her they were referring to.

“Worse.” The King clarified before taking another swig of his drink, his teeth coloured a deep red when he opened his mouth again to bear a snarky grin at the younger man. “I’m askin’ you to marry her.”

With a steadying breath, you dared to inch yourself closer yet, ignoring the tumultuous feeling in your stomach as the toes of your shoes dragged any loose hay along the floorboards with you. Your fingers clutched the at the fabric of your skirts, keeping them lifted enough as to not trip and fall too soon. Perhaps the impact would not be as painful as you were imagining, perhaps the fall would be the most frightening part of it all, a mere few seconds of wind rushing past your ears until it was all over, your woes solved for all eternity. Let them think what they might, say what they please, it would be of no matter to you in the end, nothing more than a stain on the cobblestones below when it was all said and done.

“What in the- what do ye think yer doin’ up there m’lady? ‘Ave ye gone mad?” A familiar accent called from the ground, the annoyance in his voice clear as day.

“Is it not evident, Mr MacTavish? That I am in the midst of ending my suffering once and for all.” You declared with your chin held high, refusing to meet his eyes as you attempted again to convince yourself to go through with this, to remember that this would be the lesser of two evils, the solution to a problem you could not otherwise solve.

“Come again?”

“I clearly intend to kill myself, MacTavish.”

“Not if yer intention involves jumping from there, m’lady.” The handsome stable hand clarified from the ground.

“I beg your pardon?” Only now glancing down at the man stood a mere few yards away, hearing his grunt of effort as he threw down the sack of grains he’d been carrying over one shoulder, his piercing azure eyes squinting to decipher your form through the low light of the torch flames.

“S’not high enough, ma’am. You’ll twist yer ankle at best, but yer certainly not going to kill yer self from that height. Sorry to disappoint ye.”

“Oh. Well- are you certain?”

“Positive. I myself jump down from there often, an’ I’m afraid I’m still standin’. Ye did not want to go any higher than that, did ye?” He questioned, stepping slowly closer with every word he spoke.

“Well, I am still a tad afraid of heights, you see.” You admitted, pinching the fabric of your sleeves in worry.

“Aye, I remember well. I’ve rescued enough of yer kites over the years, m’lady.” He agreed all too nonchalantly, not a trace of panic to be found in his voice, only mild irritation at the inconvenience you were creating for him.

“I see- uh- this doesn’t change my intentions! I will- I will find another way.”

“Of course, of course. Did ye want a rope perhaps? Seems like a fine night for a hanging, if ye prefer.”

“Gods no.” You rejected the idea outright, having witnessed one too many public hangings to know that the men’s limbs kicked and thrashed too much for your liking, fighting for life far longer than you’d prefer to experience yourself.

“Agreed. Perhaps we could fill a pail with water and ye could drown yerself. Nah, on second thought, ye deserve something quicker. A beheading might do the trick, though if yer aim was to remain subtle that one might be a touch too-

“Oh, forget it!” You exclaimed, stepping back from the edge of the barn’s second storey, all but huffing as you made your way down the rickety ladder, careful not to trip over your skirts in the process, though uncaring for how dirty or ripped they might become. None of it mattered anymore, carried the same importance as it might have only a moon ago, not when your mother was gone, the only person left in your family who loved you for who you were, the only one who stood up for you against your father.

“Now, don’t suppose ye’d want to tell me what this is all about then?” He asked soon as your two feet were safe on the ground again, reaching across to pull a strand of hay from your hair.

“Do not stand here and treat me as though I were a fool, pretending as though you haven’t heard.” You bit back at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “I would imagine the deaf are the only few who have not heard the news at this point.”

“Ye always have had a way with words, haven’t ye m’lady?”

“John…”

“Apologies. Only tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He answered somewhat sheepishly, at least pretending to appear remorseful for his teasing. “Though I suppose it is a rather improper time to jest.”

“An excellent deduction.” You snapped, though the soft look in his eyes already had your cold exterior melting, unable to keep the facade up around him. “John- what am I to do? This- this all feels like a terrible dream.”

“Nothing is set in stone yet, m’lady. There has been no official announcem-”

“There will be no announcement! No engagement! They will shove me into a wedding dress and stick me at the altar as though I were a child’s doll and that is how the world will find out! You know how my father is, he will see to that this happens as quickly as possible.” You couldn’t help but to whine, unable to grapple with the idea that your worst dreams were coming true, that the day you’d been dreading since you were a little girl was finally coming to fruition.

With nothing to be said, John opened his arms in invitation, not a word needed as you stepped into his embrace and allowed his embrace to be the first comfort you experienced in a long time.

“What shall we do, John? How do you imagine we stop this from happening?” You spoke into his chemise, the smell of wood and dirt and sweat emanating off of him a familiar and safe aroma during such a tumultuous time.

“Ach, I dinna ken, m’lady.” He replied, leaning his cheek against the top of your head as his hands soothed up and down your back.

“There must be something that can be done. We simply have to think. Perhaps we could-”

“M’lady.” John interrupted apologetically, the look on his face when he pulled back was a pained one, a regretful expression you did not often see from the bold, confident man you’d come to know over the years. “M’afraid there’s nothing to be done this time, other than grin and bear it.”

“You’re speaking as though this is certain to happen!” You gasped, pulling back from his embrace, upset by the way he was unwilling to fight for you and your freedom as you were.

“And yer speaking as though ye have a say in any of it.” He countered. “What exactly do ye predict will happen to ye if you refuse your father, hm? What do ye think he’ll do to ye? Send ye away something far away if we’re lucky. Say he did so and jus’ throw ye down in the dungeons instead?”

You stared down at the ground as you toed a clump of dirt, the truth in his words not anything new to you, though hearing it from him didn’t lessen the sting or soften the impact.

“Now I pray every mornin’ and every night that yer mam’s soul rests in peace, Gods bless her. But she isn’t here anymore, m’lady. She can’t protect ye from this any longer. M’afraid I can’t protect ye from this, either. Oh, please no- do not cry, m’lady. Cannot bear to see ye cry.”

John quickly stepped forward and closed the gap between you both again, pulling you back into him as your tears threatened to spill over, the frustration and anger and sadness and helplessness and fear catching up to you all at once as you struggled to come to terms with the fact that this would be your new reality, whether you liked it or not.

For better or worse, as they say.

The stars had shifted outside, the darkness growing deeper as he hours changed and sand fell through the glass. John had calmed you down some, as he always seemed to be able to do, and had you both now sitting semi-comfortably together in the corner of the barn, seated on bales of hay and safe from any prying eyes. This had always been your little corner, a spot solely for the two of you, ever since John had begun working in the stables and caught your eye.

“John,” you whispered to him, though there was no one near, the words you were about to speak feeling too sacred to be said too loud. “I am frightened.”

“Aye, I dinna blame ye.” He replied, tightening his hold around your shoulders as you leaned further into his touch. “Cannot imagine being in your shoes.”

“He will kill me.”

“Nah, yer father will not lay a finger on ye m’lady. Not if you do as he wishes.”

“No, not him.” You clarified, shaking your head as you pictured a pair of dark eyes peering through the small slits of a Knights helm. “The Ghost.”

“Oh. Him.” Was the only reply John could manage, staring off into the distance with you as you both appeared to imagine the man in question. “I dinna believe he’ll hurt you, m’lady.”

“You know as well as I do the things he has done. He is cold, ruthless. Not a single one of his enemies has survived him.”

“Well, you will have to ensure you do not become his enemy in that case.” He tried to tease, though the smile never quite reached his eyes as he said it.

“John.” You spoke again, turning to meet his gaze as you took a steadying breath, not failing to notice the way his eyes dropped to your bosom for a fleeting second as your chest rose and fell. “I want you to take me.”

“M’lady, they would kill us both if we tried to run anyw-”

“No, no.” You interrupted him, correcting his misunderstanding. “Not take me as in flee. I- I want you to take me, John. To bed.”

“Oh. Oh.” John replied, his cheeks reddening to a deep crimson as he scratched the back of his neck, eyes scanning your face. “M’lady, you know I could not.”

“I will not have that monster be the first person to touch me, John. I want it to be you, after all.”

“Bonnie,” the pet name he used for you on rare occasions slipping out as you cupped his cheek with a warm hand, trying to convey the severity of your words to him. “Ye do not know how I long for ye. How much I wish I could be the one to feel ye, to show ye what pleasure can be found in another’s touch.”

Whether by gravity or coincidence, you knew you were both inching closer to one another, hot breaths beginning to fan across the other’s cheeks with every word said between you.

“Then please John, take me. Have me. I am yours.”

He plucked your hand from his cheek with both of his, bringing your palm up to his chapped lips for a kiss as he shut his eyes, as though he were in pain doing so.

“M’lady, ye know well as I do that we could never. The risks far outweigh anything else, I fear. Ye cannot imagine how it pains me to say so, for I do want ye. I need ye.” He registered, tightening his hold on your hand as he pressed it against his chemise where you could feel his heart beating beneath. “But I’ve always known that I can never have ye.”

Though his answer was expected, the disappointment was still poignant, an ache settling deep in the cavities of your heart as you nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“I can-” he added, reaching a single finger up under your chin to tilt your eyes back up to his. “Give ye this, however.”

That was the night John MacTavish gave you what you’d always dreamt he would, your very first kiss, tucked safely together in the back of that barn without a soul around to judge you, to sell you out, to report back to your father and ruin you.

If only life could have ended there, with his lips on yours, his arms around you and yours around him, hearts pressed together as they beat as one.

But alas, fate had other plans in store. And though you had never feared goblins or ghouls as a young girl, had never worried about the shadows under your bed or shapes in your wardrobe, you found yourself now with a growing fear of ghosts. Or at least, the Ghost.

Taglist: @lunamoonbby @connnn @backgroundgirl887 @iminlovewithjasontodd @zendariii @aminitacarrow @pookiei-bookie @kotterisanna @joufrance @konigsm @ichordrunk @succulambb @happygalaxymilkshake @bubbygworl13 @shitaaba @just-lost-inbetween-worlds

[todaywasafairytale07]

i spent all my dias in this event but i don’t know if i’m happy that i got Sylus and Caleb instead of Sylus and Zayne, who are my mains 😮‍💨

[todaywasafairytale07]

Soulmated so hard the other one gave his to her.

[danysdaughter]

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting.

That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[todaywasafairytale07]

I NEED MORE OF THIS AHHHH IT’S SO SO GOOD

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix - Masterlist

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 92.2k

Warnings: enemies to lovers; slow burn; Bucky is harsh on reader for a while; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood; loss of parents; violence; injuries; fever; sexism; prejudices; knife throwing; theft; crying; classism; manhandling; self-loathing; talk of betrayal; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; kissing; protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is the story that received the highest number of votes in last month's WIP poll. I inquired through another poll if you all preferred this to be a series or a one-shot, and well, here we are. I don’t know how long this will end up being, but I guess about 6-7 chapters. Hope you'll enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

♡ This series is complete ♡

Requests for bonus chapters are open

~ Chapters ~

• part one

• part two

• part three

• part four

• part five

• part six

• part seven

• part eight

• part nine

• part ten

• epilogue

“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.”

- ShannenHeartzs

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[todaywasafairytale07]

Oh my heart. This was made perfectly🥹🩵

[aquaticmercy]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[todaywasafairytale07]

[todaywasafairytale07]

U give me attitude, I give you one also 💅

[novthirty]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter three]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

a/n — can i finish this fic by sylus’s birthday? i genuinely don’t know… 😭 but i’m finally on break so i’ll try my best in the next few days! anywho, we’ve finally caught up to where the one shot ended so get ready for the angst 😋

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open! series masterlist | part two | part four [coming soon]

chapter three: countdown— the night softens people in ways that can only be done in the haze of darkness, revealing a vulnerability too fragile for the harsh rays of the sun. you know this could be more, you know this could be everything. but the clock ticks down to what you know is inevitable. wc: 7.9k

A constant chill sweeps through the streets of the N109 Zone, creeping into the compound as you exchange flowy shirts and iced tea for thick sweaters and hot cocoa. It’s on one of these nights just past the first snowfall, towards the end of November, when he finds you in the kitchen minutes after midnight. Sitting alone, lighting a candle atop a puny cupcake. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” His voice rumbles through the kitchen, startling you and breaking your focus. The lighter slips from your grasp, falling and smudging the frosting. Well, shit. You didn’t exactly prepare a backup. 

“Uhm,” You stare guiltily at him like a deer caught in the headlights. There was no way you were getting out of this one, were you? Not when he’s standing with his arms crossed, disappointed, like a parent who’s caught their child red-handed. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in quiet frustration, “Please. Please. Do not tell me that today is what I think it is.”

“Surprise?”

“Surprise? Is that all you have to say for yourself?” His eye twitches. Even on your own birthday, you don’t fail to surprise him at every turn. Here you are, having thrown such lovely and thought-out celebrations for everyone’s birthdays, settling for a cupcake and a lonely celebration on yours. “Why on earth would you decide to keep this information from me?” 

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, judging by his stern gaze. 

You knew this world had a lot to offer; you had barely explored the criminal underbelly that was the N109 Zone, barely stepped into the shining beacon that was Linkon city. You were sure there was more than enough to fill in the gaps of your bucket list. But nothing could match the reckless but youthful adventure of getting lost with life-long friends. Nothing could live up to the warmth and solace of being surrounded by family, as you blow the candles on another year.

You try to keep it all buried under the surface– but with a sigh, you decide to cut open old wounds and bare a little more of your heart to him, “There was more to be sad about than to be happy, I guess. I had so many plans, so many people that I—“ You cut yourself off. Those heart strings were too fragile to be tugged at. “Well, now it’s all kind of gone to shit, huh?” You laugh bitterly. 

Without missing a beat, Sylus asks, “And what were those plans?” 

You reminisce on your old life, splitting the deformed cupcake with him as you recount plans that will never be. It hurts less than you expected it to, to breathe these lost wishes into existence for someone else to hear. 

He listens intently, chiming in with similar experiences or places that he’s seen in this world– frankly, it reminds you of when your elders used to go on about their wisdom and their golden years. “Your age is showing, grandpa,” You tease him, and he lightly glares at you. You take the opportunity to ruffle his hair, “Your hair’s already silver, too.” 

Eventually, your lunch break comes to an end, and you bid him goodbye as he returns to his office. You sigh as you clean up and throw away the candle you never even got to light. Oh well. There’s always next year. 

Later that day you wake up in the afternoon, ready to start your shift— only to be greeted by streamers and balloons lining your path downstairs. “Happy birthday!” The whole house cheers as you enter the living room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus— the most notoriously unfestive man you’ve ever met— is wearing a cone shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors.

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the compound. (You feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule, but that’s a job for future you.) They bring you to Linkon City, driving past the welcome sign as the sunset casts a pink glow over the horizon. It’s your first time visiting for leisure, your previous excursions into the city being solely for Onychinus business. 

Sitting beside you at the wheel, Sylus participates in the idle chatter, but inwardly he feels ashamed. He's upset that you kept the date to yourself for so long; but more than that, he’s angry at himself for never having bothered to ask. So, in the final hours of your birthday, he does his best to make up for it. 

The four of you drive around the city with Mephisto following from the skies, visiting various spots that were eerily similar to the ones you had described mere hours ago to Sylus. The itinerary matches your original plans to a T, as he drags you to every activity you had desired to partake in, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. 

Your last stop is a shopping center, to which you groan, already knowing the fate that awaits you. Sylus is the type to spend more than he needs to as a statement. He insists that you wait for him in the plaza, no doubt going off to the most luxurious store in the mall looking for a hefty price tag. You sit by the fountain, deserted due to the late hour, dangling your feet as you wait for him to return.

You gasp as a cold pair of hands suddenly covers your eyes. “Keep still, sweetheart,” He whispers in your ear, shocking you out of your bored reverie. You keep your eyes forward as he pulls your hair aside, breath hitching as he clasps a necklace around your neck, the cold metal brushing against your skin. It's a thin chain, with a gem of your favorite color set in an intricate frame. You don’t know much about jewelry or gems, but you can’t comprehend how much this must have cost. The way it sparkles and glints under the light makes it clear that it must have cost a fortune. 

“Sylus, I can't accept this…” You turn around to face him. Just as when he took you shopping before the auction, it’s far too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much. 

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?” 

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipating into stutters and heated stares. This tension follows you as you reunite with Luke and Kieran, the two having gone their separate ways to buy you their own present— a new set of knitting needles, and a mug with the words “World’s Best Secretary” that they’ve decorated to hell and back with rhinestones in your favorite colors.

The four of you spend the rest of the evening dining in a fancy restaurant, bypassing the queue with Sylus’s name alone. It’s a strictly no-work evening, as you bicker with the twins and coo at Mephisto (You have since learned he cannot digest food. It’s a shame, and you’ve been pestering Sylus to add it as his next upgrade.) You turn to him, casually silent throughout it all. All throughout the night you’ve been hyper aware of his heat pressed against your side, his thigh brushing against yours, even as he seems unaffected himself. He raises an eyebrow upon catching your gaze, “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

You nod; a true, content smile on your face. It's not exactly the birthday you envisioned for yourself this year; the absence of your friends and loved ones still acts as a wide, gaping hole in your heart. But nonetheless, you now have a newfound family to spend your special day with— and that’s more than you could have ever expected. 

When the cake is brought out— a fancy, two-tiered thing in your favorite color— you make a wish. It’s not about your wistful longing to go home. It’s not about your hopeless desire to wake up from this strange dream. It’s a wish for all your moments to be like this— heart full, and with family by your side. 

After dinner, Luke and Kieran have to leave for a mission they couldn’t get out of. “Happy birthday,” They each greet you again with a hug and a disappointed goodbye, “Sorry we can’t continue the celebration back home.” You wave off their worries— there’s always more fun to be had once they come back. 

“Boys, take the car,” Sylus tosses over the keys, “I'll be taking Treasure out for a spin. She’s been getting a little dusty, lately.”

The twins glance at each other with a knowing look, subtly looking towards you with a hint of mischief, “Oh, gotcha boss.” They lightly snicker as you two walk them to the parking lot. 

“What's so funny?” You narrow your eyes, knowing very well by now that that look means nothing but trouble. 

“Nothing to worry about, Ms. Secretary… Nothing to worry about. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Luke grins before rolling up the driver’s window. 

About half an hour later, you deeply regret not listening to your instincts as you scream your head off, clung to Sylus's back like a koala as he goes faster than you thought was technologically possible. ”What the fuck— Sylus, slow down!” Your shout fades into a shriek, your screams of terror echoing throughout the empty road as he leans the motor til’ your knees are brushing against the pavement, a shit-eating grin on his face behind the visor of his helmet. 

“Her name’s Treasure,” He said, pulling out the beast of a motorcycle from his Linkon safe house, introducing it to you as one of his most prized possessions. You don’t know what you were expecting when he tossed over a helmet and told you to hold tight, but you certainly didn’t expect to have a near-death experience on the day of your birth. He continues to rev up the engine, a hellish speed that shortens a fifteen minute trip out of Linkon to a mere three minutes. 

You cling on for dear life, your whole body wound tightly in fear, and eventually he settles into a safer speed, adrenaline fading and allowing you to enjoy the night breeze. “Let’s take a little detour, hm?” You barely hear him over the rumble of the engine, making a turn just past the Linkon City welcome sign and to the opposite direction of the N109 Zone. He drives through the wilderness and the winding roads, bringing you to a rocky cliff side. 

You gasp at the sight before you, taking off your helmet to admire it in all its glory. You could see the entirety of Linkon from here, a circuit board of lights and neon colors, casting a dim glow over the city skyline. It's rare to find a clear sky in the winter, giving way to the full moon and the sea of stars. 

“Can we take a picture?” You ask hesitantly, fully expecting him to say no. 

He nods, “You should have memories of your birthday.” Your jaw drops. There are only a handful of photos of him on record– he rarely ever lets anyone take a picture of him, out of caution on his identity being leaked. 

As the one with the longer arms, you gesture for him to take the picture, posing for a selfie with the skyline in the background. But as he hands you the phone, genuinely satisfied with the photo after taking a look– you think, is he messing with you? The photo is blurry, the both of you a little bit out of frame, and his finger blocks the corner of the image. 

You laugh in confusion; you genuinely cannot tell whether this is a prank or not. “Let’s take another one, I'll do it this time.”

You don’t know how long you two stay there, with your head laid against his shoulder, a quiet peace settling over you two as you talk about anything and everything. On the ride home, you find yourself flushing despite the winter chill. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder as your eyes meet in the side mirrors, turning and burrowing your cheek into his warm shoulders. The journey home feels like an adventure coming to a close, street lights blinking against the night sky and quiet rumble of the few cars on the highway at this hour. 

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today.” You whisper before shutting the door behind you. 

From then on, the air between you two shifts, becoming significantly more… tense. What were once casual interactions turn meaningful with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; dear, darling, sweet girl. You assume it’s just how he is, given what you had seen of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more?

—————————————————————

But of course, no matter how much the dynamic shifts and bends between the two of you, it doesn’t change the fact that with winter chill comes holiday tunes and festivities. You were absolutely appalled at their lack of holiday spirit in the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So, on the week before Christmas, you once again strong-arm Sylus into having your festive way at the Onychinus base. 

It begins with you dragging your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway. 

You two spend an hour walking through the farm with mugs of hot cocoa, eventually settling on a tree that you have to lug all the way back to base. You huff as you carry the other end of the cart, your breath coming out in clouds of condensed air ever since you two brought it out of the truck. You wheeze in exhaustion, “Are you even lifting?” You helplessly ask Sylus, who looks too nonchalant considering the literal tree you two were carrying. 

“Oh? My bad,” Is all he says before swooping in with his evol, red tendrils wrapping around the trunk to carry it the rest of the way. You hold in the urge to scream and cuss at him. This man just loves to test your patience. 

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the day, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the compound, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making sardonic yet supportive comments before returning to his work.

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of entertainment to see you struggle on your toes placing the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever nearby surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist, lifting you up with one arm. 

You squeal, gripping to him tightly and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice." In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder. 

—————————————————————

Your mood has been nothing but jovial the whole week of Christmas, caught up in nothing but festivities in anticipation of the holiday. And so, it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. “I'm fine, just a bit sleepy,” you explain as he voices his worries. He doesn’t believe you, not one bit, judging by the way his eyes continue to follow you through the rest of the night.

You open presents with everyone at midnight, gathered around the fireplace with the whole Onychinus family. This time, you knitted Sylus a scarf; he wraps it around himself immediately, already knowing it’ll be a staple in his closet for the winter months to come. He looks to his right and sees Mephisto with a matching, tiny version around his neck. 

Meanwhile, you were overwhelmed upon unwrapping the large present addressed to you and finding a high-grade coffee machine, one of the fancy ones with a latte art feature. How did he know? You narrow your eyes at him across the room, a satisfied smirk twisting his face. You’ve never said anything about it, only looked at the ads and the site out of boredom and curiosity. (Simple answer: He had Mephisto spy on you when you were scrolling your phone.)

You smile and thank everyone at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it. Physically, you celebrate and have your childish fun with the twins, dancing to merry tunes and having all-out warfare with the crumpled wrapping paper littering the floor. But mentally, you were far away— your eyes speaking of a grief none of them could begin to comprehend. Once the cookies are nothing but crumbs and the wrapping paper is all cleaned up, he decides to take you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong. 

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air,” He invites you, donning his coat and boots. 

You throw him a skeptical look, “In this frigid temperature? Are you insane? I'm already shivering here inside,” You fake-shiver dramatically just to prove your point. 

“Well then, isn’t it fortunate you just received a plethora of winter clothes for the holiday?” He gestures to the pile of fancy, designer items you had folded on top of the coffee machine’s box. You’ve long since learned to pick your battles with this man– and it is simply not worth it anymore to argue with how he spends his money.

“Well-played,” You begrudgingly acquiesce, following him up to the rooftop where you sniffle from the cold air biting at your nose. 

You’ve spent countless nights here in the warmer months, the only place where you could pretend the N109 Zone wasn’t the bloody death trap it truly was, shining under the glow of the moonlight and the stars littering the sky. Only from the top– from an untouchable position of power– could this wretched, dangerous city look so beautiful. 

“What's on your mind?“ Sylus asks, breaking the peaceful quiet. “You haven’t been yourself all evening.” It faintly reminds you of those nights in spring, wind brushing against your cheeks as you slowly began to let down the barriers of your heart, the terror of slumber softened by the comfort of company. A lot has changed since then, you think. But at the same time, there’s a lot that hasn’t. 

“I—“ You hesitate, planning on brushing it off like you always do. But then you realize: you trust Sylus, more than anyone else in this world. 

And so, you decide to bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it. 

It's a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. (No, not left behind. Taken away from you.) 

You try to string sentences together, try to give justice to the people who brought meaning to your life, to the reckless and stressful and beautiful joy of your old world— but how do you capture all that you’ve lost in mere words? It's too much. You feel your chest cave under the weight of these emotions, far too heavy for one heart to handle. “I miss them so much,” Your voice cracks, small tears streaming down your cheeks— but he offers you a quiet grace and says nothing of it. It’s such a painfully simple sentence to express the torrent that devastates you— and yet, he understands.

The night softens people in ways that can only be done in the haze of darkness, revealing a vulnerability too fragile for the harsh rays of the sun. And thus, it is here beneath snowfall and starry skies, where he sheds his claws and his barriers, telling you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, finding kinship with you through loss, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his home. You already know, of course, that sooner or later he will meet her again. It was inevitable, written into the cards as it was written into code. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself.

His eyes speak of so many more untold truths— of love hidden deep in the crevices of his heart, taking root in his chest for the past millennia and shaping the man he’s become. “I had never known love until I found her.” He speaks of her with such fondness sparkling in his eyes, an adoration reserved for his one and only— his sorceress, his soulmate. It makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side. 

Although you stay by his side and offer him words of comfort, deep inside you also want to claw at him. Force his eyes on you so you can feel even a smidgen of that pure adoration for yourself. But you can only feel bitter guilt taking root inside you. After all, who are you to meddle in their tale? Who are you to rival fate itself? 

It is winter solstice now, a period marked by a perpetual chill and the longest nights of the year. Your relationship with Sylus is one that has prospered in darkness; taking root in the midnight hours, your most tender and vulnerable moments allowed only under the cover of the night sky. But inevitably it will be overshadowed by the return of summer and with it, his soulmate— the woman who brought sunshine to his darkest days.

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun rises, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City. It’s rare for you to see Sylus in the daylight; shrouded in sunshine rather than moonlight, surrounded by crowds rather than deserted streets. “I go here every year,” He boasts as he leads you to the temple fair, determined to make your first New Year’s Eve here memorable. 

“Oh?” You’re rather surprised, given that he doesn’t exactly have a penchant for celebrating the holidays. But you smile, walking forward to match his stride, “Well then, I'll trust you to lead the way!”

He takes you around the fair— buying from the various food stalls he says are the best, watching the street performances he’s probably seen countless times before, doing all the festive gimmicks he knows you’ll love, even if it isn’t his cup of tea. He keeps you occupied, making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad.

At the front of the temple, you ask him to take a picture of you in front of the pretty backdrop. You pose for a few pictures, guided by his direction until he hands you the phone, “Tell me if you want me to take another.”

What greets you is the blurriest, most unflattering photo of you to exist in both your old and current world. You scroll through the rest of the pictures only to find they all hold the same level of (or rather, lack of) quality. You stare blankly at the screen and sigh, “This is good enough for me.” Everyone has their weaknesses, you suppose. 

Although Sylus mentioned that he’s a regular here, you’re still quite surprised to see his words ring true when all of the vendors greet him warmly, recognizing him from years past. “Let the lady choose one! It’s on the house,” A vendor selling fortune bracelets tells him, overjoyed that he finally brought someone along. You scan the numerous pieces on display, your eyes landing on a small beaded bracelet— the tag marking its fortune for “a safe return home.”

Sylus gracefully does not comment on this as the vendor packs the bracelet, bidding you two a jovial goodbye.

The two of you sightsee for a while before finding yourself sitting across from each other at a caricature portrait booth, directed by the artist to, “Look into each other’s eyes! I’ll make sure to capture the lovely couple you are.” Neither of you step in to correct him. But the artist’s light mood quickly fades as he soon realizes the type of client he’s dealing with. “Miss, please stop moving,” He says for the millionth time, absolutely fed up with your silly behavior.

You cannot stop your smile from trembling, your eyes locked on Sylus’s as the two of you went head-to-head in a staring contest– which you promptly lost five seconds in by bursting into giggles. You’re about to keel over, cheeks puffed up from poorly restrained laughter. Meanwhile, Sylus is comically straight-faced, amusedly raising an eyebrow at your antics, “What's so funny? Is there something on my face?”

Afterwards, he stakes his claim on the portrait, “It’s only right, considering what a hard time you gave the artist,” He reasons, snatching the paper from your hands. 

You slump and walk past him, grumbling, “I'd like to see him try to stay serious with your ridiculous face.”

But behind you, you don’t see how his eyes are locked on the sight of you captured in charcoal and ink, genuine glee transforming your face. You’ve never looked so beautiful, he thinks. Falling into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, shoulders momentarily free of the burden of all you’ve lost. He carefully stows the paper away, making a mental note to tip the artist extra. 

When night falls over the city, he brings you to the tallest building in Linkon for the best view of the fireworks show. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. Fortunately, you find a secluded corner where the two of you sit and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions.

“I don't do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy on most days, but now fills your heart with domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.” 

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you. 

The world he lives in is a cruel and violent one, where people’s eyes sparkle with greed, envy, and lust. A part of him doesn’t understand how something as superficial as fireworks can bring people such joy, how holidays inspire a brief kindness in their hearts, as if it’ll make up for their sins the rest of the year. But maybe he can understand it, just a little bit now, he thinks. Because if it means seeing this look in your eyes again, so childlike and enchanted by the sight before you (the first time he’s seen happiness override the grief shadowing your eyes), then he would light the sky every night, just for you. 

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a big bear hug. “Happy new year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy new year.”

—————————————————————

Even the high-paced criminal world of the N109 Zone slows down on New Year’s Day, people burrowing in their homes to ward off the early January chill sweeping through the city. Work inside the Onychinus compound pauses as the world comes to a frosted standstill, and you spend a lazy morning with Sylus under fuzzy blankets and the warmth of the fireplace. 

You don’t know how you ended up in this position. You’d gone straight to bed after returning from Linkon– a mere hour of slumber until you woke up breathless, heart racing from the shadows conjured by your own mind. You crept downstairs, hoping to find solace in the company of others. Of course, Sylus is still awake. “Can’t sleep?” He turns down the volume of the boxing match on the television, so you can settle in peacefully at his side. You stare listlessly at the violent match on the screen, listening to his peaceful humming, until you fall back asleep.

But come morning, you’ve woken up with your legs tangled in his. Wrapped in each other’s arms, his chest rises and falls against yours, your head tucked under his chin as his breath lands right against your ear. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen Sylus in a deep slumber. You’ve fallen asleep countless times in his company, often waking up in your bedroom, carried back by him at some point while you were unconscious. Your heart flutters at the trust he’s shown you, but it also aches. It confuses you more as to where you stand. You know his heart still belongs to the hunter— there’s no doubt about it, with the grief that filled his eyes at the mention of her name, as he told you of the tragedy that befell them. 

But at the same time, you’ve toed the fragile boundaries of your relationship far too much for you to be called just friends. In moments like these, a part of you foolishly believes that maybe you could occupy his heart, take things further without restraint. But neither of you take a step towards confronting it, just living in this in-between of not just friends, not just coworkers, but not lovers in any sense.

You breathe in his scent and painstakingly pull yourself away, trying your best not to disturb him. You can no longer deny how much you want this, how much you want him. You yearn to wake up everyday pressed against his warmth, arms wrapped around each other with distance being non-existent. But a larger part of you, the one with a sense of self-preservation, also knows this won’t lead to anywhere good. And so, you slip away in the early hours of the morning and decide never to speak of it again. Instead, you ponder over your place in his life— and how long it’ll be yours.

—————————————————————

Almost a year has passed since your arrival, and you’ve grown more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It’s not exactly what you had envisioned for yourself. You had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But as you’ve learned, plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool. 

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of defending Onychinus. Anxiety fills your mind on the days of their missions, and you become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, patching up their wounds as soon as they step through the front door. But Sylus— you’d think he was invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch. 

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. 

It's early January, almost a year since your arrival into this world. But you vividly remember the injuries that plagued you those first months, and the struggle to take care of yourself— washing your hair with a broken shoulder, eating your food with a fractured wrist. Most of all, you remember the loneliness of your hospital room. How you secretly sought his company; because despite your fear, his visits were better than the loud silence that filled your days. 

Sylus has been in this business for decades, has probably been injured like this far too many times to count. You think to yourself— how often has he had to go to sleep caked in blood, far too tired to care for himself? How many times has he faced the aching loneliness after a mission gone wrong?

So, you resolve to stick by him despite his insistence that he can handle it. You know his injuries will only linger for another day at most, but still, you survey him with a keen eye, spotting the flinch of his shoulders when he tries to reach for the painkillers on his shelf. You clock the injury even if he hasn’t mentioned the pain– and it leads to you sitting by the edge of the tub, washing his hair for him.

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” He shrugs you off, his words less biting than he intended under the influence of his medication, “This is nothing new to me.”

“I know very well how capable you are, but it doesn’t mean you have to take care of yourself alone.” You pester him some more, and he begrudgingly hands you his shampoo. You squeeze out a dollop and gently run the foam through his hair, thoroughly covering every spot. You hold back a giggle; he looks like a tamed lion, eyes shut in bliss as you massage the sides of his head.

When he comes out of the bathroom, robed and bandaged, he’s just about ready to knock out. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to hitched breaths and deluded murmurs about a time long past. The whisper of an ever-so-familiar name. The analog clock ticks every second, and it only solidifies the knowledge that your time by his side is limited. Things have been going far too well; but soon enough, your world will be upended again. 

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold. 

—————————————————————

The prophecy fulfills itself on the tenth day of January, marking a year since you first entered this world. The whole base knows exactly what day it is, and you feel them handling you with more care, treating you like a bomb about to detonate. It bothers you. It’s not as if you’re made out of glass (even if you feel you’re about to shatter at any moment). On your break, you decide to leave for the rooftop for a brief reprieve. 

When you return, the phone rings, and it’s as if god has chosen to send a punchline your way.

You wish you didn’t answer the phone. You wish you didn’t speak to the business associate who held the information Sylus was apparently desperate for. You wish you didn’t have to inform him of the cryptic news. You wish you weren’t there in the office when an underling comes to deploy the intel. Because it only confirmed what you knew all along was coming: a hunter with a protocore in her heart.

Her picture is projected in a hologram, and somehow, you automatically know it’s her. It’s uncanny, how alike the two of you look. From the corner of your eye, you even see Sylus do a double-take as the image fully renders. Maybe if the situation was different, you would’ve wondered at the physics of it all. Maybe you would have been more hungry to understand the science behind how you ended up here, to understand the connection between you and the hunter. But your curiosity has been overshadowed by heartbreak.

You know what’s coming. You know the end of your time here is nearing. The past year has lulled you into a false sense of security, one you desperately tried to believe in— but you can’t. You’re no longer the glass half-full kind of person you once were. Life chewed you up and spat you out to fend for yourself in this new world, and you know your hopes will only get crushed. Because seeing the longing and disbelief in his eyes, as he comes to terms with his lover being within reach; it only cements the fact that you have no chance. Never had a chance. 

(Already, you can feel a love that was never yours slipping from your grasp.)

You feel the change in the air the next few days, and you’re suffocated by it. You find yourself growing lonelier; this compound never seemed so large and empty before. Luke and Kieran become busier than ever, collecting information on the hunter while going about their usual responsibilities. Even Mephisto is out on the field, with the new task of following (or rather, stalking) his new target.

Sylus has sent the headquarters into a frenzy for this woman— but you? He has you go about as usual. No extra responsibilities, like he wants you to remain untouched by the business of his past love. (It’s far too late for that.) Rather, it seems he’s actively seeking you out. On days where he isn’t spent with the task of balancing his search with his regular Onychinus duties, he seems to gravitate towards you, looking for any excuse to be in your company.

But you? You try desperately to avoid him. You sneak around him like a mouse in a cat’s territory, stepping around glass and limiting your interactions to work, treating him with an amicable professionalism. It's like a cold glass of water has been poured over him. Even when you two were no better than strangers, you had never treated him so clinically. You can tell he’s hurt and confused by your behavior, but you shove down the guilt— because this is what you need to do to protect your heart. 

At some point, he eventually manages to catch you, pulling you aside with the ominous words no one wants to hear, “Dear, I think we should talk.” 

Your eyes well up in tears but you try your best to blink it away. It’s one thing to know, another to be confronted by it. The knowledge that what you have can’t continue is already ruining you, and you think you might break if he voices into existence. “What's there to talk about? What you’ve always wanted is almost in your hands.”

Sylus flinches at the total defeat in your voice. He can feel that you’re putting up boundaries with him— ones that he should’ve held in place, with how his heart is already taken by another. But little by little you crept into his life, into his heart, carving your place in it. And now, he doesn’t know what to do with the pain of you closing yourself off from him. 

But like always, you smile and try to soften the blow, “It’s okay, Sylus. I'm happy for you. I mean it,” You lie through your teeth. Despite how much pain this forced happiness inflicts on you, you will never have it in you to purposefully hurt him.

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you had become one of Sylus's closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you softer sides of him— ones that you knew existed in the game, and ones that you discovered for yourself. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel a tremendous guilt. 

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. Facing burnout in your final year of university, you began to cope with a game suggested to you, becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. He'd drawn you to him with his soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature and line of work. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had passingly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man, a small part of your day to cope with the struggles of your reality. 

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a long time, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of your fictional crush being in close, real proximity. He hadn’t trusted you, either. You could feel his suspicion in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you. 

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up in your reality. But as you grew to accept that the situation you’re in is as real as the blood that runs through your veins, came to terms with the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart. 

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who offered you a place in this world, who indulged you in your lowest moments, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims. 

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. She looms in the background of every moment, a constant reminder of what you cannot have. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never even had. 

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life. 

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer now reborn as the hunter, his soulmate, the one he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side for all his highs and all his lows. His love for his soulmate was forged in fire and blood; but this? This new love is bathed under golden light, born out of mutual care and an unexpected connection.

He has tried to keep his thoughts loyal and true to the love he has been seeking for centuries— but he can no longer deny the pull he feels towards you. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate.

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take another love away from him again.

—————————————————————

It all comes to a head when you hear a familiar voice raging through the corridors, wrecking a storm through the compound as she is brought here unwillingly. Sylus and the twins coming back with the hunter— bloody and bruised from her disastrous entry into the N109 Zone. Here it is. Your time is up.

For two people who are often so shamelessly true to themselves, both you and Sylus are the type whose true feelings are never encapsulated by mere words, whose eyes speak more of their soul than sentences ever could. Knowing this, you avoid his eyes. You shield your hurt in forced happiness, as he hides his internal conflict behind a cold veneer. 

The two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds.

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for any reveluvs here, i listened to night drive the whole time i was writing the motorcycle scene<33 (for non-reveluvs u should go check it out its an absolute banger) also, SYLUS’S BDAY MEMORY 🥹 his bday scene in the previous chapter is no longer canon-compliant considering the event story… (like UGH ofc this man never told anyone 😩) but i do find it funny how in this story the reader is the one who hides it from him; taste of his own medicine LOL. i headcanon that she remembered his bday from the game and shocked him to his bones when he saw the exact date plotted on their calendar

feel free to dm/comment on the series masterlist if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist 💕

taglist — @mangooes @mentaltrouble2201 @animegamerfox @crazy-ink-artist @phisen @jeondyy @t4naiis @wifunozomi @munimunni @blessdunrest @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @paintedperidot @mansonofmadness @pillarofsnow @sylususeyourevolonmepls @angelichiaro @mephisto-with-a-knife @crimsonmarabou @hikaru-sama @flamedancer13 @tati-the-fangirl @ameili @poptrim @caramelizedpopcirn @cupid-gene @vvonunie @lunia-likes-pomegranet @iamawkwardandshy @tinyweebsstuff @astolary @vyntheria @theloveofnagiseishiroslife @velourmobius @beaconsxd @hon3yydew @kira-loves0905 @codedove @that-lost-one @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @kaiii07 @bohoooitsme @everythingistaken00 @rmjace @red-raf-sy @goddexxluv @seris-the-amious @stellisangelicus-world @alhaith4ms @young-adult-summer @junrui

comment and reblog if you enjoyed!

[kannady]

more than gold

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: you were getting flashbacks of a previous life or maybe you were just going crazy. a man lingered in your memories, plaguing your heart and mind. and who was desperately in need of your help?

a/n: where the extent of my creativity ends, @silverianni's begins. wonderful idea, but a not so great execution. im afraid i might not be able to write it in the way you anticipated. honestly, im not proud of this at all LMAO. but ill try my best. heres a snippet for now. its very basic but theres a couple more chapters to go. and once again, i cannot express how much i hate how i wrote this. but then again its 5 am. let me know your thoughts or should i even continue it?

Trudge. Trudge.

It was eleven, and you had just gotten off work. Sometimes you liked working at the local bar, but most of the time, like today, it was a pain in the ass. One drunk customer refused to leave, drowned himself in liquor, and forced you to sit through his sob story about how his wife caught him cheating and ruined his life.

Sigh.

You almost knocked some sense into him. But for what? He wouldn’t give a shit, and you’d lose your job. Not exactly a win-win situation. So you hoped you’d see him somewhere else. And maybe today was your lucky day.

“Come on, sexyyyyy! Let me take—” Hiccup. “—you ‘ome.” He flashed a grin at a young schoolgirl who had just stepped out of the academy.

“No, thank you, mister. I’m quite alright,” she replied politely, trying to step around him. But he grabbed her wrist.

“No!” he shouted, catching you off guard. “You brats ‘ave no respect for the elderly!” His grip tightened, and he started dragging her toward his car.

Time to strike.

You sprinted forward, swinging your satchel hard against his head. With a grunt, he released the girl, clutching his skull in pain. She seized the moment, darting away with a breathless “Thank you!”

“YOU! How dare you—” He tried to throw a punch, but you dodged effortlessly. “I’ll make this short.” A sharp kick to his groin sent him crumpling to the pavement, writhing and howling.

Smirking, you crouched beside him, slipping a hand into his pocket and retrieving his wallet. Your brows lifted. He was loaded. With feigned innocence, you slipped a hundred-dollar bill into your pocket. “You forgot to tip me.”

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you turned and walked toward your original destination.

“Only you and this flower… can touch me here.”

A whisper, hot breath grazing your neck. Instinctively, you clenched your fists and whirled around. “Okay, back the-” Alone. In the middle of an isolated alley. “-fuck up?” You scanned the area but found no one. Just a cat rummaging through the trash.

You frowned, confused. You’d definitely heard someone, someone who had been right behind you, whispered in your ear, then vanished. You were a bartender, but you never drank on shift. So you weren’t imagining things. Still, this wasn’t the time or place to dwell on it.

You kept walking until you reached your destination. For some reason, your friends thought a midnight get-together was the perfect way to spend the weekend. A few hours ago, you’d have agreed. But now, you were exhausted, physically and mentally. And that eerie whisper clung to your memory like a stain. You just felt… off. Shaking away your unease, you stepped into the restaurant, greeted by laughter, clinking glasses, and the familiar hum of old stories, enough to drown out your worries for a moment.

You ordered dinner, downed a drink, and reminisced about the old school days. It felt good to laugh like this after so long.

Then you froze. The air turned to ice.

There stood a man, his gaze locked on you. Silver-white hair, slicked back, with a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. His eyes were ethereal. Crimson, like wine spilled over snow. They didn’t just look at you—they pierced you. His frown was barely perceptible as he spoke.

“Before you tried to kill me, did you consider it’d end like this?”

Suffocation. Like the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs. You gasped. “What the hell?”

“See! I told you it was a bad idea. Anyone would react like that.”

You blinked. Everything was normal again, just you and your friends, eating, drinking, laughing. No sign of the mysterious man. But the unease lingered.

You were not okay. You needed help. Now. Were you overworked? Drunk?

Questions flooded your mind. Absently, you excused yourself and headed to the restroom.

Staring into the mirror, you replayed the moment. Was it a memory? It felt familiar, like you knew him. But you couldn’t put your finger on it. The whisper in the alley, the glimpse of the stranger. What was happening to you?

You took a deep breath, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on your face. Refreshing. Maybe you just needed sleep. That was the only explanation you’d accept. You weren’t crazy and you knew that.

Then you straightened and met your reflection.

“Please help me!”

Your head snapped around. Another voice. Female, desperate. Not a memory, but close. Too close.