kurogxrix

[kurogxrix]

I KNOW HE’S SO FOUL BUT I LIKE HIM A LOT! -> D. DIXON

— [ THE RICH WHORES. ]

table of contents; reader is 18 and daryl is in his early 20s, brief references to past abuse, you’re very flirtatious, it’s giving lizzy grant, mutual pining, sexual tension, hb is down bad, you bond over dysfunctional topics, loser!daryl, mildly implied gooner!daryl, implied panty fetish, he’s so awkward bless him, he’s got a staring problem, fluffy, public touching and kissing.

this is based on a super cute request sent in by my lovely bubbles anon <3

he used to see the way merle looked at girls like you and it repulsed him.

you’ve gotten close with the greene sisters; namely beth. you’re close in age and clothes size, too. beth’s jeans are a little tight on you but daryl’s not complaining. the way they hug your hips and cling to your legs. . . they look good on you.

the other day he noticed a little butterfly inked to the skin at your naval. a simple print that probably cost you twenty bucks; but it’s dainty and feminine, like you.

well, perhaps not dainty.

you’re not meek like your mother. you’ve got your father’s temperament. ed peletier.

daryl scoffs. gone too late. fucker had it coming.

though unlike ed—your temper is easily tamed. but feminine, oh yes. you’ve got your mother’s soft features. kind eyes, a gentle voice and one of reason. you’re the light of the group. the breath of fresh air. the innocence—though foolishly assumed and falsely perceived. daryl’s got a hunch about that seeming innocence of yours and its authenticity.

and there’s something in the way you smile.

you’ve smiled less and less since your little sister went missing, but still you find it in you to muster the odd one; which is where you differ to your mother who spends her time weeping, sleeping, or weeping herself to sleep.

your smile? well, it’s endearing.

no, no that’s not it.

it’s. . . enticing?

no.

dangerous. simply put, you’re poison to all men.

a venus flytrap, if you will—but for men.

whenever you smile at him daryl feels as though he’s in enemy territory. treading on thin ice. crossing some sort of boundary. you make him question his morals, like to look at you bends his code of conduct. he doesn’t really have a code but he knows he shouldn’t be looking at you like this, or thinking about you the way he does.

which is hysterical in the grand scheme of things since he’s barely two years your senior and you are a young woman. very young. jail bait, if daryl wasn’t just as young. but merle looked at you the same way back at the quarry.

just as bad as him. daryl muses, picking at the blades of grass at his feet. he scoffs.

then your bubbly laughter carries across the field and crawls up the hill to his tent, and why? just because. and you’re talking to glenn again, who daryl suspects had the hots for you (not that he blames him) before he met maggie.

thank god for maggie.

though he doesn’t think you like glenn any more than you do rick or shane.

then there’s the issue of sex. it’s all he thinks about when you’re around. he wonders if you’ve ever been with anyone. you dress revealingly, though you blame the georgia heat. tonight you’ve borrowed one of beth’s dresses—a summer dress that cuts off at the knee. it’s lacey and floral and super pretty.

there’s a chill in the air and the breeze is damp, but still you insist on wearing barely anything. it must be deliberate. he’s not calling you promiscuous but you have this nimbus about you.

daryl’s never felt the warmth of a woman squeeze him. the closest he’s gotten to that is the rough skin of his palm, or that one time merle paid one of his call girls to take his little brother’s innocence. (he bolted the second she stripped to her underwear.)

he’s just never been that into someone, or so he tells himself. it’s better than admitting he’s undesirable, not that he really cares—he also tells himself.

but he can’t help wondering what you must think of him. he’s never concerned himself with the opinions of others and far less with their opinions of him.

then you had to come along with your prettiness—effortless and natural—and a pair of legs that go on like route 66.

it’s ridiculous and he hates you for making him so smitten. no he doesn’t, not really. so he’ll just keep loving on you from afar if it means he won’t feel so vile for it. stupid, again.

and he can just hear merle’s voice now.

‘look atchu, little brother. watchin’ ‘er from afar like you ain’t never seen a woman before. . . she’s a fine piece’a ass though, i’ll give ya that. so what’cha waitin’ for? stop chasin’ ya own tail an’ get yer virgin dick wet!’

“fuckin’ prick.” he grumbles, flicking the dirt beneath his nails.

“that’s not very nice now, is it?”

his shaggy brown hair slips from his brow when he snaps his head up, blue eyes landing on you. he never heard you coming. “didn’t mean you.”

“talking to yourself?” you ask him, amused, and tilt your head when he ducks his.

“nah,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for you to catch it, and resumes fiddling with the grass.

you smile like you always do, even in times of trouble, and pinch your dress to your sides when you settle beside him on the ground. “that’s okay. i do it, too.”

your shoulder bumps his and he tenses, then side-eyes you through a curtain of mousy hair. “want somethin’?”

“thought you might be lonely.” you shrug, looking out over the farm, hair floating aimlessly behind you.

“nah,” he eyes you, then looks down again. “prefer my own company.”

you hum, not making any attempts to move. all you’re doing is fucking sitting there and still you manage to slow the world to a stop.

daryl flicks his hair back over his eyes, anything to keep them from finding their way back to you. “shouldn’t ya be with yer mom?”

“every time i come over, you try to get rid of me.” you turn to face him, leaving his question to hang emptily and unanswered in the air. “why?”

he gnaws at his lip, then shrugs. “said i prefer my own company.”

you watch as his hands delve into the grass again to twiddle a weed. “you don’t like me, or something?”

“nah.”

you sigh, hands falling defeatedly into your lap. “was that a ‘nah’ as in you don’t, or a ‘nah’ as in you do?”

he huffs. “i do.”

you frown. “then why is it that whenever i try talking to you, you act like you’re allergic to me or something?”

he shrugs again and you roll your eyes, leaning toward him. he freezes. “you allergic to girls, daryl?”

only the pretty ones.

“nah.” he repeats again.

you purse your lips. “okay, then.” and stand up to fix your dress. as you do, his eyes wonder just high enough to catch a glimpse of your underwear. he swallows.

“good talk.” you tell him with a flat smile that looks almost painful to wear.

he watches as you turn, then as you start back down the hill. “fuck.” he throws the grass from his hand, then scrubs the green dew against his jeans. “hey, wait up!”

you stop and turn back to him, hopeful. “yes?”

he should’ve thought of something to say first.

when he says nothing, you nod and start to turn away again.

“ya don’t have to leave.” he then blurts, halting you. “i ain’t good at talkin’ but, uh, i’m good at sittin’.”

you smirk. “i’m allowed to stay so long as i sit in silence and watch you pick grass?”

he blinks, swallows, then nods. you snort. “alright, then.” and make your way back up the hill.

“ya don’t have to if ya don’t wanna—”

“shush, we’re playing the quiet game, remember?” you plonk yourself back down and hug your knees to your chest. your dress slides down your thighs when you do, bunching where your hips bend. he stares for a moment, and suddenly the grass is fascinating again.

you drum your finger against your knees, then blow a escapee hair from your face. you’re dramatic about it, making a deliberate raspberry-like noise.

daryl stops fidgeting to shoot you a fed-up glare.

“what? i had too much air in my mouth.” you tell him, then gasp and smack a palm to your forehead. “oops, does that mean i lost? that’s a damn shame. . . unless you wanna go for round two?” your smirk broadens when the double entendre swoops straight over his head. or maybe it doesn’t.

he rolls his eyes, but you spot the faint hint of a smile trying very hard not to show itself. “whatever, crazy girl.”

“crazy? me?” you press a hand to your chest, clutching your invisible pearls. “i lose one round of the quiet game and suddenly i’m the local rebel? coming from a bad boy, no less.”

daryl scoffs. “ain’t a bad boy.”

“well, you certainly look the part.” you grin and rest your cheek atop your knee, smushing it. he averts his gaze from you, afraid his mask will slip if he looks too long.

“says the girl who looks like she got lost on her way to church and wound up at the local strip joint.”

you let out a rambunctious laugh. “a girl can’t believe in god and expose her ankles? sorry, did i get lost on the way to church and wind up in the nineteen-sixties?”

daryl smirks. “yeah, better put those legs away before i jump on ya.”

then he clears his throat, ‘cause where the hell did that come from?

your brows shoot up. this is the most he’s said to you since the apocalypse started. “what, these old things?” you outstretch your leg, not bothering to pull your dress back down when you do, and scoot it against his. “try not to shoot any blanks now.”

his leg tenses against yours, but he doesn’t pull it back or nudge yours away. “more of a boob guy myself.”

he hasn’t seen a pair in his life, other than in merle’s magazines.

you throw your head back with a chuckle and he huffs out a laugh of his own. if he knew you were this easy to be around, he wouldn’t have spent so much time avoiding you. for a second, he forgets why he did in the first place.

then you roll your head to the side, hands cemented behind you. your hair falls back over your shoulders, neck and chest curving into the moonlight.

then he remembers.

he looks away, face suddenly serious. the air around you goes cold and you frown. “daryl?”

“should probably turn in soon.” he mumbles.

“did i do something?”

“nah.”

‘cause you didn’t, and never do. you don’t have to do a damn thing to make him feel this way. not anything at all. you could be a mute and he’d still be floored.

“will you stop saying that? my father died and my baby sister is missing. forgive a girl for needing a little fun.” you hug yourself, eyes drifting over the fields as they water. “thought you’d need some too with merle getting left behind and all.”

daryl joins you in your daze, his eyes finding a distant tree to focus on. “don’t need fun.”

you scoff. “right, no. you want peace and quiet. well, don’t worry, message received.” and take to your feet again.

a rough hand reaches for you, clasping you by the wrist. it’s unsure in its grip, fingers flexing. you pause halfway up, brow arching expectantly. he drops his hand, but this time he’s able to hold eye contact for longer than a nanosecond. “got grass stains on your ass.”

you heave out a frustrated laugh and rake your hands through your hair. “what is it with you?”

he watches with an unreadable expression as you pace the small space of his camp, hands on you hips.

“you tell me to leave, then you ask me to stay but i mustn’t speak to you; then you flirt with me, then you go all quiet and stare at the grass; then i try to leave again and you reveal that you can stare at my ass, but you can’t bear to look me in the eye.”

he lowers his head, ‘cause it is pretty bad when you phrase it like that.

unsure of what to say or if it’s even worth finding the right words anyway, he opts for silence. in his experience, it’s usually the safer option.

“then when i call you out on your bullshit, you’re at a loss for words.” you scoff, head shaking as you look around at nothing in particular. “sorry i ever bothered you. sorry i tried to be your friend when no one else wants to, i’ll let them know not to bother.”

he just sits there and takes it. he knows you’re right, knows he’s been a grade-a windbag. he should let you go. let you forget him. let you go fuck glenn or shane or whoever—‘cause at least they can say more than three words to you and not grow sweaty under the collar at the mere sight of you.

he should save you the trouble—let you hate him. but he already hates himself enough for the both of you.

“hold up!” he calls to you, actually standing up this time. as soon as your pretty face—crestfallen and lost—turns to him, silver beneath the moonlight and framed by hair that curls against the breeze, he almost forgets his own name.

the pause must’ve been a long one, ‘cause you turn away from him with a roll of your eyes, legs glistening under the stars as you wade through the tall blades of grass.

“ya don’t bother me.” he says anyway, the words clumsy and goaded by gravity with their leave. part of him hopes you don’t hear him and keep walking. but you stop, maybe listening, probably seething.

“ain’t good with girls,” he carries on, picking at his fingers and the various cuts and calluses they brandish. “never ‘ave been, never will be.”

that makes you look over your shoulder, a soft frown pinching your brows together.

“ain’t had a girlfriend, not since kindergarten.” he swallows, staring down at his feet like he’s only just discovered them. “lasted ‘bout ten minutes ‘cause she held hands with some other boy when he shared a crayon with ‘er.”

you can’t help but laugh at that. the fact that he’s not trying to be funny, but is being deadly serious. you wouldn’t be surprised if that actually happened, condemning him to a romance-less life ever since.

the sound of your laughter draws his gaze up, surprised. pleasantly.

a’right, keep sayin’ shit like that.

“i, uh, didn’t expect ya to stay this long.” he scratches his head.

dick.

you smile, arms folded as you lean your weight onto one leg. “that’s alright, it’s the thought that counts.”

he grimaces. “nah, it’s actions that matter most. i’ve been a prick.”

“you’re shy.” you start to approach him again, slow. “nothing wrong about that. in fact,” you keep walking, dress scrunched at your thighs to avoid dampening its hem. “i like my men kinda shy.”

he takes an awkward step back but you keep walking.

“you intrigue me, daryl dixon.”

he blinks, gormless, like you’re speaking a foreign language or asked him to recite the alphabet backwards.

“ain’t that interestin’.” he shrugs, then pockets his hands.

“well, you’re interesting to me.” you sit yourself back down and pat the space next to you.

it would seem you’re a believer in second chances. and third, fourth, and fifth.

“yer forgivin’.” daryl comments, joining you after a moment’s hesitation.

“there’s nothing to forgive.” you smile. “it’s natural to be nervous around your crush.”

his cheeks stain red and he averts his gaze. “ain’t crushin’ on ya.”

wanna protest any harder, jackass? his inner monologue berates.

“oh, yeah?” you grin, finding his embarrassment cute. “why’d you mention your kindergarten girlfriend and the fact you haven’t had once since, then?”

he fumbles, siphoning through his mental filing cabinet for a half-decent excuse. “makin’ conversation.”

“usually people start with the weather.” you prop your chin in the cup of your palm, fingers feeling the earth beneath you like his did.

“my mama used to tell me never to mention the wind in front of ladies.” he watches your fingers, then mirrors you with his own.

“yeah, the breaking of wind, perhaps.” you take notice of the way his shoulders have softened slightly, his demeanour less cagey. “you never talk about her. is she alive?”

those shoulders stiffen again and you eat your words.

“. . .nah.”

you should’ve followed your own advice. the weather it is. “it’s not so chilly tonight.”

he steals a glance at your attire. no shit.

“it’s quite pleasant actually, since it’s so hot during the day, and all.” you smile hopefully at him, silently encouraging him to engage with you. you know he’ll avoid you like the plague—or this brain virus—come tomorrow, anyway.

“yeah.” he agrees, sheepish.

you sigh. “have i saddened you? i’m sorry.”

“she died years ago.” he pulls at the lose threads that stray from the frayed seams of his denim. “doesn’t make me sad anymore.”

“it’s okay to be sad, daryl. she was your mom.” you place an ambiguous hand on his, experimental. chancing. testing the waters. “my dad was an ass, but i have my days where i miss him. or maybe it’s just sadness for my mom, or the fact that i don’t have a dad anymore and wish i did; or wish when i did have one, he was better.”

“never said i don’t miss ‘er.” he mumbles, hand still beneath yours. “i do—just ain’t sad anymore.”

you nod, unsure of what to say next. “okay. well, that’s a good thing.”

“m-hmm.” his finger flexes against yours, but whatever he’d built the courage to do, he thinks better of it.

“listen,” you clear your throat, the now somber mood contradicting your intentions. “thank you for your help with finding sophia. without your tracking skills, i fear our attempts at finding her would be a lost cause, so. . . thank you, daryl.”

he’s silent for a minute, glances at you, then back down at the ground. you see a flicker of shame. “she’s still missin’.”

“not for much longer, i hope.” you look away, also—up at the sky. “me and mom have been praying for her safe return.”

“been prayin’ to the guy who let ‘er go missin’ in the first place?” daryl asks, bewildered, a little frustrated. then he scoffs, ripping the thread he’s been playing with from its lining and chucking it somewhere behind him. the breeze takes it. “some god he turned out’a be.”

you’ve got nothing to say to that. you suppose he’s got a point, but abandoning your belief would mean facing reality; something you don’t want to do. not yet. not now.

because then you’d have to consider the possibility of never seeing your sister again, and your god has been keeping you sane so far. that much he’s been good for, at least.

“if yer askin’ him why he won’t let us find yer sister, mind askin’ him why he allowed a goddamn apocalypse to happen while yer at it?” he harshly adds. “would love to hear his reasons.”

“if you’ve got a bone to pick, it’s not with me.” you tell him, exasperated. “i don’t want my first proper conversation with you to be a fight.”

“my fight ain’t with ya.” he meets your eyes now. really meets them. there’s a switch in his expression, subtle. you barely catch it. “it’s with that fucker up there—he’s got’a lot to answer for if ya ask me.”

“well i didn’t.” you snip, holding eye contact. there’s anguish swimming within those blues. anguish, deprecation, and sincerity. maybe tenderness, or something similar.

he drops the subject, tearing his gaze from yours to look out over hershel’s land. your stare lingers for a second longer, then you allow your eyes to drift out over the fields.

“your dad teach you how to hunt? you’re good at it.”

in your peripheral, he tenses. brittle and unannealed. “nah. just somethin’ i picked up through the years. merle taught me some stuff, but he was away a lot.”

you nod, getting the feeling you shouldn’t pry about his father. “doing what?”

“jail time.” he tells you, casual. “but before that, servin’. with the army.”

you reckon the topic of merle is a safe-ish middle ground to meander into. “so he’s served two different kinds of time?” you try to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t laugh or so much as smirk.

“uh-huh.” you see him visibly relax, more comfortable in and of himself. and with you. “got discharged from active duty for punchin’ out his general. served multiple sentences for drugs, mostly. few vandalisms, couple drunk an’ disorderlys. one battery charge i think, maybe two.”

your brows almost become one with your hairline. “wow, he always seemed sort of. . . untouchable.”

“sure thinks he is.” daryl lets out a chuckle, one of nostalgia and greater times. “truth is, he’s fuckin’ soft in the head. hard-hearted, though.”

you watch him divulge to you, embracing his openness. you feel special, like you’re the first and only girl he’s revealing such things to. you probably are.

“was always there for me, though. we were just always on the road—driftin’. all the drug shit an’ him runnin’ from the law. . . we could never stay in one place. all i’ve known is the road, mostly. after my mom. . .”

he zones out a little, the rest of his sentence never reaching the surface.

“my dad was in trouble pretty often, too.” you hug your knees to your chest, chin propped against your forearm.

“what for?” though daryl suspects the answer is obvious.

“domestic stuff.” you offer him a flat, tight-lipped smile. “but he never did time, just got a slap on the wrist.”

daryl shakes his head, brows knitted. “an’ you miss this guy?”

you shrug. “he was my dad, y’know?”

“yeah, i do know.” he bristles. “my dad beat me black an’ blue as a kid. hell, merle only joined the army so he wouldn’t kill him.” he tsks, eyes narrow. dark. “don’t miss him at all. not one bit.”

you sigh, wondering if attempting to befriend the mysterious daryl dixon was worth it.

“an’ since ya believe in that stuff, yer lookin’ in the wrong direction if ya wanna talk to yer pops.” he comments, jutting his head toward the ground.

“i do believe; but i don’t talk to him.” mist starts to roll over the hills, condensation settling on the grass. you inhale, hold it, then let it out. you feel alive, like you can breathe freely and without fear of consequence. “do you believe in hell. . . or your own version?”

“don’t ‘ave to believe in hell to think bad people go to bad places when they’re gone.” he bends his legs, knee bumping yours. “our dads are havin’ a blast together, i’m sure.”

you snort at that. “yeah, probably.” you nudge him with your shoulder. “sorry your dad was a dick.”

he side-eyes you, then nudges back. “right back atcha.”

you don’t move away when his arm remains pressed against yours, and you don’t look away to gaze at nothingness and ponder the meaning of life.

he doesn’t look away either.

think of somethin’ to say, genius.

“yer, uh. . .”

c’mon, mister big shot.

he wishes he was as good at talking to you as he is with himself.

anythin’s better than nothin’.

“you don’t have to keep thinking of something to say, daryl.”

thank god.

“just kiss me.”

shit. his eyes dart.

“or tell me i’ve read this wrong.” you know you didn’t. you see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t realise you’re watching. you’ve noticed the way he’s been acting tonight—nervous, giddy, and eventually, like himself.

“i know you’re sweet on me, daryl.” you recline onto your side, propping yourself up with your arm. “i like you, too. why’d you think i’m up here?”

he lets his eyes wander you, only landing on your lips briefly before they slip past your neck where they hover at your chest, then down to linger at your legs.

it’s not ogling or invasive or hungry. you don’t feel violated, you don’t even feel self-conscious.

you feel seen and appreciated. he makes you feel beautiful. like you’re the only girl ever.

you lean a little closer. he doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t meet you in the middle either. you frown. “what, never been kissed before?” it’s said in jest, but he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“oh, wow,” you don’t mean to sound so surprised, but you are. he’s just got that look.

the typical bad boy look.

the guy that all the girls want. the one who’s waiting outside school with his motorcycle, cigarette in-mouth whilst he smirks at passersby and onlookers.

you clear your throat and he does the same.

“like i said, always been on the road. . .” he rubs at the back of his neck, then slings his arm to dangle lazily over his knee. “ain’t like i never wanted to, never tried. ain’t ever been a good time.”

“please, don’t explain yourself to me.” you place a comforting hand atop his forearm and squeeze. “it’s no big deal.”

not to someone who’s been kissed.

he glances at your hand, fingers twitching with an ache to touch you. hold you.

he’s just so bad at this. how can someone who’s never felt love’s embrace know how to give it? learn to identify it and when to reciprocate it?

“just thought we could both use a distraction, y’know?” you lift yourself off your hip to straddle him in one swift motion, hands planted on his chest. he quickly straightens his legs to accommodate you, but he’s not sure what to do with himself beyond that.

“think about something other than the fact our lives didn’t get any worse when the world ended.” you flick your hair off your shoulders, fingers curling under the straps of his vest. “if anything, they got a little better. . . since i got to meet you and all.” you grab his hands and situate them at your waist. “you can touch me, daryl.”

he nods, gripping you a little tighter. “this yer idea of a distraction?” he swallows when you lower yourself, face inches from his. you’re even prettier like this. “workin’ yer way through the group?”

you arch a brow, provocative. “yes, you’re my final stop.”

he snorts, eyes flitting between yours and your pouty lips. you smile until it balls at your cheeks and crinkles your eyes; his heart stops. “rick’s married, glenn’s with maggie, shane doesn’t know whether he needs a shit or a haircut, and dale’s triple my age. i only want you, daryl.”

his name sounds angelic on your tongue, like it was written for your voice.

“why do you find that so hard to comprehend?”

he eyeballs you, his lids droopier than usual—so much so that you can’t see much past the blonde wisps of his lashes.

“never had a pretty girl sit on my lap an’ tell me she wants me. expect me to know what the fuck i’m sposed to do?”

“i already told you what to do.” you murmur, low. your breath fans over his lips, teasing.

so he closes the distance, slowly. hesitant. his nose brushes yours, five o’clock shadow scratching against your chin like velcro.

your eyes flutter shut when you finally feel his lips graze yours, cautious. unsure.

so you slide your hands up over his shoulders, nails nipping at the nape of his neck before scraping their way up through his hair.

it’s greasy, split, rat-taily and matted. you scrunch it, drawing a groan out of him, granting you the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

your face tilts, lips parting against his. he’s inexperienced, unpracticed, messy.

and you love every second of it.

he’s more confident now, too. his hands start to roam south, fingers creeping toward those pink frills.

the air isn’t so cool anymore, like you’ve both created your own humidity; and as he starts to grope you with a bit more need, you feel his hardness probe at you.

it’s actually pretty foul. all tongue, teeth, and claw.

and you’re finally living again.

it’s the distant call of your name that pulls you apart, the sloppiness of your separation almost echoing— tinny and crude as it floats over the land.

you’re breathless, fingers tangled in his hair and your lips kiss-bitten. “it’s my mom.”

daryl groans, his own lips swollen and spit-slicked. “let ‘er look.” and he leans in again, but you push yourself off of him with a sly, bubbly giggle.

“stop it.” you chastise, and dust yourself down with a smirk. “same time tomorrow?”

“will ya be wearin’ that dress?” he asks, wiping around his mouth with the back of his hand.

you correct your hair and swipe a thumb over your lips. “why, so you can rip it off?”

“i’d rather ya kept it on.” he retorts, expression dreamy.

why must he only know what to say when you’re leaving?

you shake your head, amused, then twirl on your axis to trot back to the rv.

“can’t ya leave yer lips?” he calls after you, cock stiffened angrily within its denim confinements.

you don’t answer, but a pair of panties land on his lap in response.

[kurogxrix]

Making Out for America

Chapter 5: Insure Domestic Tranquility

masterlist || one || two || three || four || five

update: I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 4.5k

gif by sebastiansource || dividers by cafekitsune

The next day came, and you stood at the podium, the same Jameson Foundation banners rippling in the wind gently above you. The first few questions were exactly what you’d anticipated, the press opened up with questions on your father’s legacy and the foundation’s continued growth.

But you knew deep down, you knew where everyone’s real interest lay. And that was with Congressman Barnes.

It was a strange kind of irony. You had only agreed to this engagement to shine a spotlight on the foundation, on your father’s work, his legacy, the cause he devoted his life to. And while the turnout today was bigger than usual, it was clear they weren’t here for that.

They were all here for the man with the metal arm and the headline-making engagement. And it was only a matter of time before they started asking the more personal questions. 

"You've spoken so passionately about the foundation, but I think the public is curious about something else too. How has life changed since your engagement to Congressman Barnes?" one of the reporters questioned from the second row. 

You forced your smile. “It’s certainly been… an adjustment,” you said smoothly, just like you practiced. “Our lives were already demanding before, and combining them has been both a challenge and a privilege—” 

Another hand shot up before you even finished. “Was it love at first sight?”

You recoiled slightly, trying hard to fight the cringe creeping on your face. You weren’t used to a crowd like this. They interrupted you before you could even finish your sentence. 

This wasn’t the Jameson Foundation crowd anymore. It was a crowd full of Capitol hounds, eager for a stupid headline. You actually felt bad for Bucky for dealing with all this bullshit. 

You laughed softly, and that sounded real enough to pass. “Let’s just say he made a strong first impression.” Not technically a lie.

The crowd chuckled politely, and the questions started coming faster now. 

“What’s something we don’t know about the Congressman?” 

You hesitated for a moment, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because there wasn’t much you could answer. Bucky never let you get close. Most of what you knew was already known to the public. You stood up straighter, trying to come up with something. 

“He makes very good chili dogs,” you say with a nervous chuckle. “And his vibranium arm is dishwasher safe.” 

That entices another round of chuckles and wholehearted laughter from the crowd. You sighed in relief. The fact that his vibranium arm was dishwasher safe probably made him look silly, but the crowd is eating it up. 

“Do you see yourself stepping back from the foundation to take on a more traditional role… say, as the Congressman’s wife?”

“Absolutely not,” you said firmly. “This foundation is my life’s work. Congressman Barnes supports that, and he always will.” 

He better, you thought quietly. You straightened yourself to mentally prepare for the next question, but then another voice cut through the crowd. 

“Are you two… truly in love?”

Your breath hitches. When Bucky was asked this question during his interview yesterday, the lie came so easy to him. It came off so naturally that you almost believed him. He and Voss warned you, reminded you how to smile, how to speak in a way that felt heartfelt without being too vulnerable. And still, for some reason, your words caught in your throat.

You hadn’t had many relationships. Your world has always been a little isolated, your focus locked on the foundation and your career. You’d lived in your own little bubble for so long, but then there were those moments with Bucky that burst the bubble. 

The way he looked at you while you comforted him during his panic attack, like you were the only person that could keep him grounded. The softness in his eyes once he slipped the wedding ring on your finger delicately. 

How natural it felt, sleeping next to him, held tight like he didn’t want to let go.

They were small things, maybe even meaningless to him—but they stuck with you. 

All these rare yet soft moments shared between you two would make any woman fall in love. 

You sucked in a breath when you realized everyone was waiting for your answer. 

“I do love him,” you said clearly. “And I truly believe that if my father were here today, he’d be proud to know I’m marrying someone as exceptional as Congressman Barnes.”

Once your interview was finished, George drove you across town to Bucky’s office for a quick “debrief” on the rest of the week’s agenda. It was the kind of thing that easily could’ve been handled over email, but of course, Voss insisted it be done in person.

In her exact words, she said, “I know you two can barely tolerate each other, but at least try to act like you enjoy being in the same room.”

So here you are. Both you and George walked into the building, and in George's nature, he insisted on waiting in the hallway. 

As you enter the room, you find Voss and Bucky already seated at the table, mid-conversation. They both stop talking as soon as their eyes land on you. 

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Barnes,” Voss says warmly, rising to her feet and pulling you into a quick, professional hug.

You return the gesture with a polite smile. “Voss.” You glance over at Bucky and he’s keeping his eyes down on the papers in front of him, not looking at you. 

“Bucky,” you say evenly.

He doesn’t look up.

“Have a seat,” Voss gestures to the empty chair, that was unfortunately, right next to him.

You hesitate for a moment. You’re not sure if you even want to sit next to him. A part of you understands that he just wants to keep his distance—but pretending you’re not even in the room? 

It was a new low. 

With a reluctant sigh, you take the empty seat. You glance in his direction, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment. Nothing. His eyes stay fixed on the papers, as if you’re completely invisible.

“Your interview was fantastic,” Voss says with a bright smile. Either she’s blissfully unaware of the tension between you and Bucky, or she’s choosing to ignore it. 

“You made our Congressman look like a dream,” she adds, nodding towards Bucky. “The way you two answered those questions was so convincing, I almost believed you were actually in love.”

“Yeah,” you force a polite laugh. “Bucky almost had me fooled too.”

Voss chuckles, and she pauses for a moment, looking at Bucky to see if he has any intention of adding to the conversation. 

Bucky finally looks up from his papers with a clenched jaw. “Glad to know I’m such a convincing liar,” he mutters, still not looking at you. 

Oh, so now he addresses you—and with a sarcastic remark at that. 

You raise a brow and cross one leg over the other, not looking at him. “Actually, now that I think about it, your ‘ I am very much in love with her’ line could’ve used some work.” 

Bucky shifts in his seat, propping one hand on the arm rest as he finally looks at you with a disbelieving look. 

Voss laughs nervously, glancing between the two of you like she’s not sure if she should be here or not. “Well, whatever you did, it worked. The public is starting to love–”

“You know,” Bucky interrupts her, his eyes glued on you now. “That’s rich, coming from someone who used the phrase ‘strong first impression’ like we met at a job interview.” 

You finally look at him with a tight smile that you know will get under his skin. “Well, isn’t that what this entire relationship is?” 

Voss clears her throat, clearly trying to keep the meeting from derailing. “Okay, okay,” she says, waving a hand. “Let’s focus. You two can bicker like an old married couple later—” 

“And what the hell was up with that dishwasher-safe arm comment? You’re painting me as a joke,” he bites back. 

“You can’t be serious,” you scoff, glaring at him now. “I’m not painting you as a joke. I made you seem approachable. It was a cute fact.” 

Bucky mumbles grumpily under his breath and sinks back into his chair. 

You tilt your head and sweeten up your tone, just enough to make sure you piss him off. “Don’t be so sensitive, sweetheart . It was cute.”

You see his jaw clench as he turns away, avoiding your gaze now. But the flush that’s creeping on the side of his face gives him away.  You lean in closer, trying to get in his face. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” you tease. “I thought we were supposed to be practicing with the nicknames… you know, to make them feel natural?”

Bucky opens his mouth to snap back, but Voss’s voice cuts through before he could even get the chance. 

“Okay, you two can rip each other’s throats later,” Voss says firmly. “This week we’ve got engagement photos scheduled, and after that, I suggest you two start locking down wedding plans.”

You nod, keeping your focus back on Voss. Even though you’re not looking at him anymore, you can feel the tension radiating off of Bucky next to you. 

“Ultimately, the wedding date is your call,” Voss continues with a serious tone. “But as your press secretary, I’d recommend holding it soon after the photo release—strike while the media is still buzzing.”

“Fine by me,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

Voss smiles at your response. Then her eyes flick between you both, her eyes lingering on Bucky a bit longer when she realizes he isn’t responding. 

“What about you, Congressman?” she prods gently.

He doesn’t respond. Bucky just stares down at the papers in front of him like they were more important. Voss lets out a long exhale through her nose and pushes on, undeterred.

She dives into a fully detailed rundown—rambling on everything from upcoming press appearances and engagement photos to how the two of you should present yourselves when asked about your relationship. Her words start to blur into one long stream, like background noise. But you do catch a few key points, something about Bucky making an appearance at one of your upcoming foundation events, something about “maintaining the illusion.”

Finally, Voss rises from her seat, collecting her folders with a dramatic sigh.

“Well,” she begins. “I’ll leave you two be to—“ she waves a hand vaguely between you, “sort out whatever lover’s quarrel you’ve got going on.” 

Then she strides out the room with her heels clicking, the office door closing behind her.

A very awkward and uncomfortable silence settles between the both of you. You glance over at Bucky. He’s still staring down at the papers in front of him, chin propped in his palm, doing a painfully good job of pretending you don’t exist. 

Again.

“Is this going to be a thing now? You ignoring me unless there’s a camera in your face?” you spit out. 

Bucky’s fingers twitch slightly, but he still doesn’t look up. 

“I get it, okay?” you go on, your voice getting shaky despite your efforts to remain poised. “This whole thing sucks. But I’m still showing up. I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to make you look good. The least you could do is acknowledge I exist.”

His jaw clenches, and still, he says nothing. His eyes remain glued to the paper in front of him, like if he just stares at it hard enough, you’ll disappear. 

“Nothing?” you whisper in disbelief. “God, I don’t even know why I bother.” 

You stand, pushing the chair back slightly. The sound startles him, but he still doesn’t lift his head. You get it—this was only for show. But if you were going to be bound to each other for the rest of your lives, the least he could do was treat you like a human being. Because the other night, when you stayed at his place, he did treat you like you mattered.

Now it feels like he’s built his walls back up twice as high as when you first met him. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t climb them. You can’t even see past them.

“I understand that this whole thing is for public appearance,” you say softly, your back turned to him. “But I didn’t sign up to feel like I’m some… some burden. I’m not your enemy, Bucky. And I don’t know what I did to make you treat me like one.”

You give him a moment to see if he’ll say anything. But he doesn’t. With a heavy sigh, you begin walking towards the door. 

“I’m trying,” he finally murmurs under his breath. “I’m doing the best I can.” 

You stop with your hand on the doorknob. You turn slightly to him and say, “Then help me understand, because I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m going to get.” 

And then he’s quiet again. 

“I’m standing here trying,” you mutter with a voice crack. “And you won’t even look at me.” 

“I can’t,” he says quietly and broken. 

You turn to face him fully now, your heart pounding loudly in your chest. His eyes are unfocused, locked on some distant point in the office like he’s not really here.

“You won’t ,” you corrected him. “You won’t let me in.” 

“No,” he snaps suddenly, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet. “You don’t get it. You can’t get it.”

His sudden movement startles you, but you don’t feel scared—just surprised. His voice is rough and strangled, like the emotions are catching in his throat. His body is shaking again, and before you even realize it, you’re already taking small steps towards him.

“You think I’m keeping you at arm’s length because I want to?” he says, voice shaking uncontrollably. “You think this is easy for me? Sitting here pretending—when every time I look at you... I—”

He stops himself short, his breath hitching. 

He turns away with his back to you, bracing both hands on the table to support himself. His whole body is trembling as he tries to keep himself grounded. 

Your hand rests gently against his back, and he stiffens under your touch.

“When every time you look at me… what?”

He doesn’t answer. He won’t and he can’t. Because if he says it, if he tells you what he’s done, he doesn’t think he’ll ever see that softness in your eyes again. And that… that would break him.

As you’re standing there, watching him crumble apart again, your heart can’t help but ache for him. Even if Bucky isn’t really yours, watching him like this, hurting and haunted, it makes your heart crack wide open for him. 

No one wants to watch the person they care about suffer. 

“No matter how many times you push me away,” you say softly as you rub your hand gently on his back. “I will always be here for you. You just need to let me in.” 

Bucky shudders beneath your touch. “You don’t know what I’ve done,” he whispers. 

“No,” you admit softly. “I don’t. But I know it wasn’t really you. Whatever you did, you were controlled. You were used.”

He lets out a hollow, bitter laugh and shakes his head, lips trembling as he tries to fight back his emotions. 

Then, he finally lifts his head slowly. His eyes meet yours for the first time, and the look in them nearly knocks the air from your lungs. 

There’s so much pain in them. Guilt, self-loathing, and grief.

Your hand reaches up instinctively, cupping his cheek, tilting his face towards you, to make sure he sees that you’re still here. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers come up to rest over yours, holding your hand there with a gentle squeeze. 

“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asks, voice so quiet and broken. 

You blink, forcing back the sting in your eyes. “Because I see you, Bucky. And beneath all the pain, I know there’s a good man trying to do the right thing.”

Bucky swallows, and his hand rises to gently cradle your jaw. His fingers are rough, but he holds you with a softness that makes your chest ache. He leans in closer—close enough to feel his hot breath against your lips. He hesitates, giving you every opportunity to pull away. 

Because what he’s about to do next will change your relationship forever. It would mean more than a stupid signature on a piece of paper. More than a stupid ring on your finger. And more than a stupid interview.

And yet, you don’t pull away. 

So he leans in closer and kisses you.

And it’s not for show. There are no cameras around. It’s not for press. That kiss was just for you . 

His lips are warm and soft. He moves slowly and carefully, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he makes the wrong move. Once Bucky realizes you’re not pulling away, when your hand moves to the back of his head, something in him gives out. 

The kiss deepens, and his hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you against him. The kiss is messy, aching, and full of all the words he couldn’t say. 

When you two finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath. He shuts his eyes as one hand is still caressing your face, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a shaky breath. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You might’ve taken offense to that once, but you don’t hear any regret in his voice, just fear. Fear of what this means, fear of what he’s allowed himself to feel. Despite his words, you knew deep down that that kiss wasn’t a mistake, it was real. 

And you know he felt it too.

So instead of pulling away, you gently reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Hey,” you whisper. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. It’s okay.” 

Bucky was wearing a simple crisp collar button up shirt and some slacks. He didn’t have the usual tailored tux he was used to being photographed in. Voss had told him to keep it “classy and casual” for this shoot. Her exact words had been, “Wear something that makes you look domestic.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

The shoot location was set in a soft field of greenery. Tall grass swaying gently, flowers blooming in warm colors. It felt wholesome and peaceful. Any real couple would’ve loved to have engagement photos taken here. Bucky stood there, tense in the middle of it, waiting for you to arrive.

He had offered to pick you up himself, but you’d insisted George bring you instead. He didn’t blame you.

Things had been awkward, really awkward, since the kiss. He didn’t even know why he did it. It wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to. God . He’d lost count of how many times he’d looked at you and felt that same need, that dangerous and selfish need to kiss you. But it was the first time he had acted on it.

He couldn’t explain what it was about you. Your warmth, how inviting you were, the way you saw straight through him. It was so opposite of the life he’d known.

Bucky knew he shouldn’t have kissed you, that by kissing you, it would change everything between you two. That by kissing you, it’d only make the truth about your father hurt even more.

You deserved honesty, and he’d kissed you with a mouth full of secrets. 

But what made him feel even worse was that he didn’t regret the kiss. Not one bit. Especially after the way your hand slipped to the back of his head, pulling him closer. 

He shudders at the memory. 

He knew he was a terrible man, but he didn’t think he’d stoop this low. But when you reassured him and told him it was okay, then surely you must’ve felt the same way? Surely, the feelings are reciprocated—whatever feeling this was. He didn’t know anymore. Feelings are hard. And he hasn’t felt anything like this in over seventy years. 

Bucky was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear the car pull up. 

“Good morning,” your soft voice calls out from behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts like sunlight cutting through a haze of dark fog.

He straightens up immediately. He turns, and when his blue eyes land on you, he feels like his breath was knocked out of his lungs. 

There you were, standing tall, probably the most stubborn woman to ever exist. But despite that, Bucky knew with certainty that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

“Morning,” Bucky mumbles, his eyes taking you in up and down, not even trying to hide it. “You look… good.” 

Fuck . Bucky mentally cursed at himself. You were standing there looking like a dream, and the best he could manage was the most generic compliment known to man.

She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and still, the only thing I can come up with is “looks good?” 

You stood there with a raised brow. Your hair wasn’t done with a million bobby pins this time. It was made just how you like it. Your makeup was light, nothing camera-heavy, just you. And the dress flowing lightly in the gentle breeze topped it all off. 

Bucky swallowed hard as he watched you glance down at yourself, the softest smile tugging at your lips. That smile, God, that smile— it messed him up more than it should have.

“Well,” you say with a light shrug, glancing down at yourself, “if these are going to be framed and hung up for the world to see… I figured I might as well wear something that actually feels like me.”

Bucky nods firmly, agreeing. “Looks good.” 

“You already said that.” 

Goddammit. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” the photographer calls, adjusting his tripod. “Right this way, please.” He gestures toward the center of the field.

Bucky clears his throat, extending a hand for you to grab, and you do. Your soft hand slips so softly and so easily in his as he leads you to the center. He watches as your eyes trail to his left arm. 

“You’re not covering it up,” you point out innocently. 

He glances down, then back at you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m not,” he says quietly.

The photographer adjusts his lens, looking through it as he calls out, “Let’s start with something simple. Just stand close together and face each other—hold hands.” 

Bucky steps closer to you, his hand never leaving yours. With his free metal hand, he hesitates before grabbing your other hand. Catching him off guard, you reach for his instead, grasping it firmly. You angle your body towards him, and for a brief moment, your eyes meet.

His breath gets stuck in his throat. 

“Closer,” the photographer calls. “Let’s see some of that newly-engaged warmth.”

Bucky takes a step closer, swallowing nervously as he looks down at you. You also take a step forward until there’s barely any space left between your bodies. 

You glance up to meet his eyes again. “This warm enough for you?” you tease, your voice low enough for only him to hear. 

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, his gaze steady on yours. “You tell me, sweetheart.” 

Now your breath hitches. You knew that he’s only saying it to keep things “natural,” but no matter how many times you two petcall each other, it always makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The photographer keeps snapping away, muttering compliments like “perfect” and “hold that right there.”

“Now let’s try one where he stands behind you, arms around your waist,” the photographer instructs.

Bucky feels you hesitate for a moment, but his feet is already moving before he can think. He stands behind you, his arms slip around you and you tense under his touch. His arms lock gently at your middle, pressing against your belly, pushing you closer against him. 

You’re thrown off guard at how natural this feels. 

“Now look over your shoulder at him—yeah, just like that,” the photographer praises. 

You turn your head over your shoulder, and the breath catches in your throat. Bucky isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking at you. Only at you.

Your heart pounds loudly in your chest, and you’re pressed so tightly against him that you’re sure he can feel it. His arms around you are warm, solid, protective, and in this very moment, it doesn’t feel staged. It doesn’t feel fake. 

In this very moment, Bucky was yours. And you were his. 

Your voice comes out shakier than you’d anticipated. “Bucky—” 

But before you could get the words out, he leans in, pressing his nose against your hair, inhaling you, taking in your scent. You hear him let out a soft sigh as his body relaxes behind you, but his hold on you is still strong. 

“Excellent!” the photographer calls out, adjusting his lens again, completely oblivious of the tension between you two. “Let’s do one where you’re kissing now.” 

Bucky goes still. His hands are still resting gently at your waist, and you sense his hesitation. Like he's stuck between instinct and restraint.

You tilt your head back slightly to look at him. “We don’t have to,” you say quietly, offering him an out, even though your voice betrays a hint of hope. 

After everything, you didn’t want to push him, not after how weird things had felt since that first kiss that you two never even addressed.

Bucky’s gaze drops to your lips, then slowly finds your eyes again. He doesn’t say anything yet, just places his hands more firmly on your waist and gently turns you to face him. His lips part to speak, and when he finally does, his voice is low and hoarse.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he mutters, only loud enough for you to hear. 

You pause for a moment. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back to those blue eyes that keep inviting you in—whether you liked it or not. 

“I want this.” 

Bucky breathes in sharply. Just like before, his hand rises to caress your jaw with a careful tenderness that makes your chest flutter. Then, he leans in and kisses you. 

He kisses you like no one was watching. He kisses you like you truly belong to him. He kisses you in the way he would want to, regardless if there was a camera or not. 

The camera shutter clicks in the distance. The photographer says something encouraging, but to Bucky, it’s just noise. He can’t hear any of it, not over the pounding of his own heart, especially not when your lips move so naturally against his. 

And that’s when it hits him. That feeling he’s finally come to recognize. 

The feeling he never knew he was even capable of having.

It washes over him now, and it’s undeniable and terrifying all at the same time. 

Bucky is in love with you. 

back || next (in progress)

[kurogxrix]

i love this series so so so much

Wildflower

Chapter 6: Valentine's Day

masterlist

Pairing: Single dad!Farmer!Bucky Barnes x Florist!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, angst and hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, sex, f!reader, small town, mutual pining, daddy kink

Word Count: 4.0k

gif by thenameswintergifs || dividers by strangergraphics-archive

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” Jamie huffed as he stared out the passenger window with the bouquet of roses balanced carefully on his lap.

Bucky kept his hands steady on the wheel. “Sometimes you’ve got to be straightforward about these things. You never know what kind of intentions these women have.” 

Jamie scoffed. “Straightforward?” he shakes his head. “Funny for you to say.” 

Bucky raises a brow. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You really think I haven’t noticed the way you ogle my boss?” Jamie rolls his eyes. “You’re not very slick, you know.” 

“What the hell?” Bucky straightens up in his driver’s seat and turns to look out the window, avoiding eye contact with his son. “I don’t ogle anyone—”

“Oh, come on,” Jamie cuts in, relishing the way his dad is getting flustered over this. “You act like she drives you up a wall, but the second she’s in the room, you go all soft-eyed and start drooling. It’s embarrassing.”

Bucky glances at him with a raised, almost offended, brow. “I drool?” 

Jamie waves his hand. “That’s besides the point. The point is—you’ve got it bad.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bucky said sharply, eyes back on the road. “I don’t have time for relationships. It’s always just been me and you against the world, Jamie. You know that.” 

“I know,” Jamie sighed, sinking into his seat. “Just… it would be nice to see you let yourself be happy, you know?”

“I am happy.” 

Jamie gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, he just keeps on driving. 

This wasn’t the first time Jamie suggested that he try to put himself out there and get back into the dating pool. And every single time it was brought up, Bucky shut it right back down. The concept of dating while living in a small town had its pros and cons. Sure, it was easy to meet and get along with people—everyone practically already knew each other. But that also meant that shit would eventually come back and bite you in the ass one way or another if things went south. 

And especially after how poorly things ended with Jamie’s mom, Bucky wants nothing more than to avoid any more problems. 

For years it’s just been him, his son, and the farm. 

That’s all he needed. 

Jamie’s phone dings in his back pocket and he shifts the bouquet to one side, digging it out. “Oh, how funny. Your girlfriend is texting me.” 

“Don’t call her that,” Bucky mutters, feeling flustered all over again. 

But despite his denial, the word girlfriend hit him in a way he didn’t hate. His eyes darted toward his own phone, then back to the road before Jamie could catch him. “What’d she say?”

“She’s asking for the delivery address,” Jamie said, typing quickly. “Where’d you have it sent?”

“Honeythorn Café,” Bucky replies flatly. “The one on Maple Row.” 

“Why Honeythorn Café?” 

Bucky just shrugs. “Figured D.B. would be delivering flowers to his girl while she’s working or something. Café came to mind.” 

“Cool,” Jamie shrugs casually as he hits ‘send’ before dropping the phone back into his lap. Only two minutes had passed before he received another text from you. Jamie lifts his phone up again to read it, then his eyes widened. 

“Shit,” he muttered. 

“Language, son.” 

“Sorry—uh, crap,” Jamie corrected himself, but he stayed quiet after that.

Bucky raises a brow, giving him a confused glance as they turn into their long dirt driveway. “Well? You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Jamie looks at his dad with furrowed brows. “She… actually never gave me the delivery address.” 

Bucky looks confused as he sets the truck in park. They just sit there, staring at each other in silence as they slowly piece it together. Then, Bucky’s eyes go wide when realization hits him.

“Oh, shit.” 

You’d invited Nat and Wanda over for a quiet girls’ night after closing the shop. Nothing fancy—just snacks, good company, and, of course, Nat showed up with a bottle of wine. Again.

“So,” Nat said, swirling her glass before taking a sip. “You and Bucky, huh?”

You knew it was coming. After bowling night, there was no way they weren’t going to bring him up. You let out a dramatic sigh and set your glass down.

“Don’t even start,” you groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “He’s like a bug. Just keeps showing up no matter how many times I swat him away.”

“A bug?” Wanda chimed in, popping a peanut and flicking the shell into the bowl on the coffee table. “Or a lovesick puppy?”

“Lovesick?” You scoffed. “I think you two are talking about a completely different Bucky than the one I know.”

They both exchange a look—and you’ve noticed that it’s been a habit of theirs when they know something that you don’t. You lean forward from the couch, squinting your eyes between the both of them. 

“Why do you two do that?” 

Wanda tilts her head innocently. “Do what?” 

“That thing you guys do.” 

Nat and Wanda glance at each other again before looking back at you. 

“There! That!” You pointed at them. “You guys do it all the time. Like you’re keeping some big secret from me.”

Wanda snickers. “It’s just funny because Bucky complains about you all the time to the guys.” 

“But we see how you two look at each other,” Nat chimes in. “You two practically eye-fuck each other when you are both in the same room–” 

“Christ, Nat!” You groaned, rubbing your temple in annoyance. 

Natasha puts her hands up in surrender and grins. “I’m just saying. Everyone can see it.” 

Wanda tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Actually… Vision mentioned something about Bucky experiencing signs of unresolved, repressed sexual tension—”

“Alright!” you cut her off, waving your hands. “That’s enough.” 

You take another sip of your wine. You figured you’re going to need a lot of it to get through this night of relentless teasing from your friends. 

“But seriously,” you sigh between sips, sinking deeper into the couch. “I don’t even think he likes me like that. We’re just constantly thrown together because he’s fixing my house—” you gesture vaguely around the room, “—his kid works for me, and we’ve got the same friends. That’s all.”

There’s a brief pause between the three of you. Wanda presses her lips together like she’s holding back a comment, but instead she just sips her wine and pops another peanut in her mouth.

You carry the conversation forward anyway. “Speaking of his kid—they’ve both been acting oddly suspicious. I sent them out on a delivery earlier, but I never gave them the address. Somehow, they still knew it.”

You pull your phone out and start scrolling through the text messaging thread with Jamie. “And now they’re both gaslighting me, saying that I definitely told Jamie earlier that day.” 

Nat raises an eyebrow, tossing peanut shells into the bowl. “Well, did you?”

Wanda giggles as she bites into another peanut. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket. “No! Well… at least, I don’t think I did?” 

There was no way in hell you gave him the delivery address earlier that day—because Jamie was still in school! Maybe he saw the delivery address on your laptop or something, or maybe you did mention it briefly in passing. It was a café, so it’s not like it was difficult to memorize. You were so certain before, but now the wine is making your mind all hazy. 

Then Nat speaks up again. “You know Jamie’s birthday is coming up?” 

You raise a brow. “Really?” 

You’ll admit, you glanced at his résumé on his first day and barely registered the birth date. He was just supposed to be some random part-time hire, someone you managed during shifts and forgot about afterward. 

You didn’t expect to actually care about the kid as much as you do now. 

Nat nods. “It’s on Valentine’s Day.”

Your eyes widen. You’d already planned on keeping him for the full day with how slammed the business would be—especially with Valentine’s Day falling on a weekend this year. But now, knowing that your most adorably grumpy teenage employee was born on the literal day of love, you can’t help the soft smile that tugs at your lips.

It was kind of cute knowing that the Barnes boys were always soft in one way or another, despite how bad they try to hide it. 

“Bucky usually throws something together for Jamie’s birthday,” Wanda said casually. “Maybe he’ll invite you.”

Maybe. 

You look down at your wine glass, and without you even realizing it, the smile you had on your face turns into a slight frown. 

“I doubt it,” you said softly, trying not to sound as disappointed as you felt.

Wanda noticed and gave a small shrug. “Honestly, it might be for the best. His mom’s coming, and she’s... kind of awful. She always manages to bring the mood down.”

You tense in your seat. “His mom?” 

Nat nods. “Talia. Bucky hates her, but her attendance makes Jamie happy,” she takes a sip out of her glass. “Even though she could be so rude and demeaning. It’s a good thing Jamie doesn’t live with her. Who knows how he might’ve turned out.” 

You hum in amusement. There is so much more you want to ask about Jamie’s mom, especially after seeing photos of her in their house, but you figured it’s not your business to pry. But hearing the words ‘rude’ and ‘demeaning’ sets you off. Being rude and demeaning to your ex is one thing—but to your own child is a whole different ball game.

“Rude and demeaning to who? Bucky or Jamie?” you let the question out before thinking, suddenly feeling protective.

Wanda looks at you with a slight frown. “To Jamie.” 

Your stomach twisted. You could handle someone being a jerk to Bucky—he could take it—but to their own son? 

To Jamie? 

That was different. 

“I see,” is all you say before taking a long sip of wine. 

The next morning, Bucky showed up at your place bright and early as he always did, tools in hand and ready to work. He was tackling the bathroom this time, and it took every ounce of self-control not to burst out laughing when the shower head snapped and sprayed water directly into his face.

Soaking from head to shirt, he shot you a nasty glare. “You can laugh all you want,” he muttered, water dripping from his hair, “but you’re still the one with the busted shower.”

You cover your mouth, stifling your giggles. “True. But you’re the one that looks like a wet mop right now.” 

Bucky scoffs as he wrestles with the pipe. “Keep it up and I’ll spank you with a wet dish towel again.”

And it’s a good thing he’s not looking at you, because your face flushes instantly. You clear your throat and turn away, trying to play cool. “As much as I would love to fight with you,” you begin sarcastically. “I got a floral shop to run, and I can’t show up wet.” 

You pause for a moment. This is the perfect opportunity to bring up Jamie’s birthday. You mentally told yourself that you already accepted that you wouldn’t receive an invitation—but for some reason, a deeper part of you hoped that you would be invited. 

That your presence would be wanted.

You watch Bucky for any change in his expression, but his eyes flickered down briefly then back up. He doesn’t say anything, he just hums in acknowledgement—letting you know that he heard you. 

You clear your throat, trying again. “So… are you doing anything on Valentine’s Day?” you keep your eyes on the sink, dragging your finger through a stray droplet of water instead of looking at him.

Bucky pauses his work and glances over with a raised brow. Then that annoyingly smug smirk of his makes an appearance. “Are you asking if I’ve got a Valentine’s date?”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “What? No. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He just gives you a look. You can’t tell if he’s teasing you because he knows exactly what you’re getting at, or if he’s genuinely clueless. Either way, you’re not about to admit you know of Jamie’s birthday plans.

That would make it obvious you’re hoping for an invite.

“What about you? Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?” Bucky asks suddenly instead, not looking at you anymore as he adjusts the pipe fitting.

You glance at him, caught off guard by the question. “Other than working all day? No, not really.”

He gives you a nonchalant shrug, still keeping his focus on the shower. “So no one’s asked you out yet?”

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorframe with a curious smile. You didn’t expect these questions at all, and right now, you can’t tell if he’s digging for something or just making innocent small talk. “Well,” you tease, tapping a finger to your chin, “there is one guy…”

The wrench slips from his hand, clattering loud against the tile floor. “Shit,” he mutters, side stepping away as it bounces near his boot. He bends to grab it, and you swear his ears are a little pink when he straightens up again.

He clears his throat, trying way too damn hard to play cool that it makes him ridiculously adorable. But of course, you’ll never admit it out loud.

“That so?”

You bite back a laugh, watching him fumble with the wrench now. There was no shot he was actually being jealous over this, was he? That idea was silly—there was nothing for him to be jealous about, but riling him up like this always gives you a kick. 

“What’s his name?” he threw over his shoulder when he realized you didn’t answer right away.

You wave a hand dismissively, grin getting wider. “You wouldn’t know him.”

Bucky scoffs. “This town has, like, five streets and three bars. Try me.”

You pause, then say the first name that comes to mind. “John.”

He gives you a look. “There are twenty damn Johns in this town. You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

You can’t help it. The laughter bursts out of you before you can stop it.

“Oh. So you’re screwing with me,” Bucky mutters, eyes darkening as he turns a valve with unnecessary force. 

“You should’ve seen your face,” you wheeze, wiping a tear from your cheek. “You were getting red like a tomato. You looked like you were going to hunt down every John in town.” 

He mumbles something under his breath, and though you don’t catch it, the embarrassing flush on his cheeks says enough. 

Your laughter fades into a softer smile. “But seriously,” you say with a softer voice. “No plans. Just me, a mountain of roses, and way too many deliveries.” 

He just grunts, letting you know he heard you. 

There’s a brief pause between the two of you. Now that you clarified you weren’t doing anything, maybe now he’ll bring it up. The party. An invitation. Something.

But nothing comes. Just the sound of metal turning and a pipe clicking into place.

You open your mouth, contemplating on saying anything else in hopes that he’d bring it up himself. But instead, you just press your lips into a tight frown before turning around to head out.

“I don’t have a date,” Bucky mutters behind you, stopping you in your tracks. “If that’s what you were trying to ask initially.”

You glance over your shoulder, puzzled. That wasn’t what you were trying to ask at all. All you wanted to do was fish Jamie’s birthday out of him. But as you’re looking at him, you notice the way he’s suddenly focused a little too intently on the shower pipe now. The blush on his cheeks is creeping up faster now, and he’s trying very hard to ignore it. 

You’ve got a floral shop to run, sure. But you’re not going to waste this opportunity to tease him again. You’re on a winning streak right now. He can consider this payback for all the times he got away with his own snarky comments.  

“Wow,” you tease, turning to face him again. “Did the great Bucky Barnes just admit he’s spending Valentine’s Day alone?”

He doesn’t bother looking up as he pretends to fiddle with a wrench. “Don’t get too excited. It’s by choice.” 

“So you’re just turning down all the women lining up outside your farmhouse, then?” 

Bucky scoffs, finally lifting his gaze to look at you. You’re already biting back a grin, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Did you see a crowd out there when you came over, sweetheart?” 

You stiffen in your stance. When Bucky initially threw nicknames at you, you felt like they were patronizing and condescending. You swore he just said them to piss you off, but lately… there’s been something different in the way he says them.

Still, you hold your ground. 

“Maybe they all ran off when they saw me,” you shrug. “They didn’t want to deal with the competition.” 

Bucky lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he steps out of the shower.  “Trust me,” he says in a low voice as he moves towards you. “There wouldn’t be a competition.” 

You freeze, your feet glued to the floor as he closes the space between you. 

You blink up at him, not even realizing how close he was until his arm reaches past your waist, brushing close enough to make your skin prickle. You watch a water droplet drip down slowly on the side of his neck and you swallow. You part your lips to say something, to end the tension in the air, but you don’t even know what to say.

He grabs a larger wrench from the counter just behind you, holding it up between you two with a slight smirk. 

“Bigger,” he says. “Gets the job done.” 

Then, as if nothing happened, he walks back to the shower and gets back to work. 

You rushed to the floral shop later than expected. You had already long given up on the idea of being invited to Jamie’s birthday. So instead, you focused on work, tackling a mountain of Valentine’s orders solo while waiting for Jamie to show up after school.

In between prepping bouquets and answering calls, you were also deep in negotiation with a guy on an online marketplace, trying to buy a vintage box of GameBoy games. You hadn’t realized how ridiculously expensive old cartridges had become. Apparently Pokémon Red, Blue, Mega Man, and Zelda were now considered “collector’s gold” or whatever the hell that means.

“This is probably the cleanest set you’ll find,” the seller snapped over the phone. “And you’re offering two hundred?”

You rolled your eyes, balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder while adjusting a vase arrangement. “Okay, fine. Two-fifty.”

“Five hundred.” 

You raise your brows in surprise. “I’m not spending five hundred bucks on used video games—”

“Suit yourself. But you won’t get a better deal than this.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple in annoyance. You’d never gone this far to buy a gift for anyone before, but maybe that’s just naturally who you are. You were a florist, a giver. You liked seeing the smile on people’s faces after you gave them a gift. 

And Jamie, despite all his moodiness, was a good kid. He deserved something thoughtful.

“Four hundred,” you offered firmly.

“Four-fifty. Final offer.”

You let out a scoff. “You’ve got some nerve. You know what? Forget it—”

The front door bell jingles as Jamie walks in with a slight smile on his face. There’s a bit of a bounce in his step as he walks in, taking his backpack off and putting his apron on with no complaints. He usually walks in all moody with an attitude locked and loaded, but he looks unusually gleeful today. 

You paused, watching him from across the shop, your expression softening. 

Yeah. He definitely deserved this.

“Fine,” you muttered into the phone. “I’ll take it.” You hung up and set your phone aside just as Jamie looked over. “Hey, you,” you called out with a small smile. “You’re looking unusually chipper today.”

Jamie looks over at you with a shy smile. “Yeah,” he spoke softly. 

You leaned an elbow on the counter, watching him with curiosity as he hummed and got to work like usual. “Did something happen?” you ask with a big grin on your face. 

Without turning around, he continues watering the plants as he answers you. “I asked Camila to be my Valentine,” he explains shyly. “She said yes.” 

Your face lit up. “Oh my God !” you squealed, rushing over and ruffling his messy brown hair. “Look at you, lover boy! Making moves already!”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t bat your hand away like he usually does. Instead, he leans into your touch and lets himself be ruffled around by you, a deep low chuckle escaping his lips.

“You know what that means, right?” you said, keeping your arm slung around his broad shoulder.

Jamie raises a brow. “What?” 

“It means you’ve gotta make her a bouquet,” you nodded toward the bucket of fresh stems. “And don’t worry, I’ll cover it.”

Jamie blinked, clearly surprised. “Wait, seriously?” he asked with wide eyes. 

Your smile grows wider seeing his reaction. “Of course,” you say with a firm nod. To your surprise, Jamie throws his arms around you in a sudden, tight hug. You stumble back a bit, caught completely off guard.

“Thank you!” he says happily. 

Neither Jamie nor Bucky brought up the birthday yet. And that was okay. Even if you’d hoped for an invite, you’d made peace with the idea that you weren’t as close to them as their usual circle. Still, you were getting Jamie a gift—because seeing him happy like this was more than enough reason.

With a soft sigh, your lips tug up into a small smile as you rub your hands reassuringly on his back.

“Anytime, Jamie,” you say softly. 

You both step back from the hug, and Jamie casually stuffs his hands into his front pockets. “So, uh… about Valentine’s Day…” he begins, trailing off.

You raise your hand before he can finish, already knowing where this is going. “Don’t worry,” you cut in, offering a reassuring smile. “I already gave you the day off. For your birthday, right?”

Jamie stands up straighter and nods in relief. “Cool. Thanks.” 

You nod and turn back to the floral arrangement you’d been working on. “I’m gonna be buried in deliveries that day,” you say, half-joking as you point a flower stem at him. “So I’m putting you down for extra hours on Sunday.” You smirk. Kind of teasing. Not really.

Jamie tilts his head at you, confused. “Wait, you’re still working? So you’re not coming?”

You pause and then look at him, equally as confused. “Coming to what?”

He folds his arms, giving you that familiar broody look—the same one you’ve seen on Bucky’s face a dozen times.  “Are you playing with me right now?” 

You mirror his stance, folding your arms back at him. “Jamie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He frowns. “I told my dad to invite you to my birthday party this weekend. We always have it at the farm. Didn’t he tell you?”

You freeze, and then your eyes go wide.

So you were invited. All this time. You were meant to be there. Jamie wanted you there. 

But Bucky never said a word. Why would he try to keep it from you? Your mind trails back to the conversation earlier this morning. He had every opportunity to bring it up when you mentioned Valentine’s Day, but he chose not to. Instead, he started trailing off about his lack of Valentine's dates. 

Your brows furrow together. Was he avoiding it on purpose? Did he not want you there? Or was he waiting for you to bring it up—testing you, somehow? 

Either way, it didn’t sit right. The fact that he kept it to himself, that you wouldn’t have known at all if Jamie hadn’t said anything. It left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Intrude?” Jamie scoffs, almost annoyed that you even had that idea in the first place. “You were the first name I put on the party list.”

back || next

[kurogxrix]

King in your story

Viking Chief!Bucky x Princess!Reader (One shot)

Run-through: Everyone in your father’s Kingdom knows that the Vikings often raid the castle’s warehouses. They take anything they want. Food, gold, weapons. Although they never seem to hurt your subjects. But you had had enough. Given your training, and your need to defend your Kingdom, your father agrees to let you trap the Vikings and bring them in for negotiation because this habit of theirs needs to be stopped. You hated the Vikings, and you thought you always would. Until the moment you met a pair of blue eyes which made your world stand still. Bucky was the Chief of his people; muscular, rough and tumble, and arrogant. Not to mention a shameless flirt, and he got on your nerves the most. But you knew it from the very day you laid eyes on his very handsome face that no matter how hard you tried, some part of you couldn’t fully hate him, nor resist him - even if he was the rival.

Themes: viking!bucky, smut, fluff, banter, somewhat enemies-to-lovers, princess!reader, slight angst

a/n: this was meant to be short, but then I got carried away.

They came in great numbers in the dark of the night, every fortnight, like invisible but brave ghosts with only one goal - to steal and get away flawlessly without anybody seeing them.

Keep reading

[kurogxrix]

not without you

Viking Chief!Bucky x Witch!Reader 

Run-through: You’re a powerful witch, famous and respected for your mastery of magic and ability to control the elements. Naturally, people always need you. Vikings, kings, and common men alike, be it to magically save dying crops, help them win battles, or to protect their people by manipulating the weather. One day, a certain blue-eyed Viking chief asks for your help. Bucky Barnes – one of the strongest, most feared of his kind, known for his ruthlessness and brutal nature. He offers your wandering self shelter and protection in return for your help in keeping his people and crops alive and well with the harsh winter approaching fast. And you can’t seem to refuse his offer… 

Themes: witch!reader, viking chief!bucky, smut, fluff, mild knife kink, cosy winter vibes, metal arm, tatted!bucky, possessive!bucky, slight angst, HEA, 

a/n: thank you for 28k. I love you.

The wind whispered that he was on his way to you. 

By the time the Chief and his men made their way to your makeshift shack on the edge of the woods, you were already out waiting for them. 

Hidden under your billowy cloak, with the hood hiding most of your face, you stood and faced the men with confidence. You couldn’t see them, given the hood, but you sensed the way the Chief got off of his horse, clutching his sword in hand as he took a step. Not in fear, no. But in that arrogant way you’d expect a Chief to move. 

“Witch.” He greeted you. It was the only way he could greet you anyway, nobody knew your name. 

You smirked. Finally peeling your hood off your head. You gave him a brief nod, “Chief.” You looked him right in those ocean blue eyes of his and judging by the look in them, you could tell he wasn’t used to people maintaining eye contact with him. He was an important man after all, and most people feared him. 

But your magic had a way of reading people for you and… there was nothing to be afraid of. Not of him. He did look every bit of the fearsome viking he was known as though. Thick furs couldn’t hide the tall, muscular body. His shoulder length brown hair braided in some places. His handsome face was serious, like he rarely smiled. And all that ink all over his neck, and arm – just one arm because the other one was made of pure metal. 

You had heard stories of how he’d lost his arm in battle, and how a great, benevolent king – also a close friend of his – had the metal arm constructed for him. 

But above all else, the Chief was devastatingly handsome. You’d known, courted, and befriended quite some men. Hunters. Lords. Warlocks. Princes. Kings. Yet none were quite as devastatingly handsome as the Chief. 

You quickly looked behind him and saw two men standing taller and prouder than the rest of the warriors. The wind whispered their names to you. Sam. Steve. Both were just as handsome as their Chief, however there was something about the male standing in front of you with a sword in hand. Thick white fur wrapped around his shoulders. Clear, icy blue eyes. Pink mouth. The cold made his cheeks and nose red. 

“We heard rumours that you were close to our village, and we’ve come to ask for your help.” The Chief said, gracefully, calmly. 

You gave him a nod. “I know.” You said quietly. “The north wind brings news that this winter will be exceptionally harsh.”

Bucky gave you that look that most people gave you when they figured out that your magic was indeed real. He was just a little surprised, but composed himself. “We desperately need your help.” He spoke again. 

You agreed to help of course. This was your purpose with the magic you had. 

And since you had little to pack, you went with them immediately. They didn’t bring an extra horse so you rode with the handsome Chief back to his village where you would be spending the entirety of the coming winter. 

You never asked for anything in exchange. Some witches did, most of them did not. Mainly because you never needed anything, you had magic and you could conjure anything you wanted out of nothing. But you liked having company of people. So you considered that payment. 

And after spending months on your own, you were looking forward to meeting new people, helping them. 

During the ride back to the village you’d be calling home for the coming months, you felt the Chief tense behind you. His muscular arms circled around you as he held the reins but he was respectful enough to keep a few inches between you and him. You could only assume how much stress he was putting on his back to keep him from slouching forward. 

You hid your smile as you sensed that he was nervous. “You don’t have to be so tense.” You said, turning your head to the side a little. “Witches don’t bite.” You spoke quietly so that the men behind you wouldn’t hear. 

“I don’t…” He let out a huff of warm air. “I don’t want to be disrespectful.” 

You smirked, but he couldn’t see it. “I’m just saying, you could use the warmth.” 

He didn’t know what you meant until he slowly inched closer, his chest pressing against your back. Even with the multiple layers separating the two of you, your body heat wrapped around him in a way that had him sighing in relief. 

Without another word said, his metal arm wrapped around your middle as he pulled you against him even more. You smiled as he leaned in to whisper into your ear, “You’re very warm.” He sounded a little surprised. His deep, gravelly voice making you shiver despite the warmth. 

“Magic, remember?” 

He hummed in response, keeping his arm loosely around your waist as he took you to his village. The tension between you two felt electric. 

—

The ride wasn’t too long, and soon you arrived at the village. It was larger than you had imagined. Busier, but tidier. 

Once you got past the tall, wooden palisades you could see more of the daily activities. Hunters sharpening their weapons, warriors training, children running around. You spotted the vast crops, the rivers. 

There was so much you couldn’t see, but the elements spoke to you. You knew there was a lake here somewhere. The Chief’s hall was beyond the wooden houses which were scattered all over. You knew there were people gathered somewhere near the beach, working on building a new boat. Multiple boats in fact. 

“Welcome to my home.” The Chief whispered as he led you deeper into the village. 

Judging by the relieved smiles on people’s faces as they spotted you, you knew they were aware that you were here to help them. You smiled back to as many as you could on your way to the main area, in the middle of the village. 

The Chief helped you off the horse and when you thanked him he said, “You can call me Bucky. All my friends do.” 

You gave me a smile, “Alright, Bucky.” 

He nodded, then pointed at a wooden house, not far from his residence, and said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.” 

One of the ladies was beside you immediately, saying she wanted to help you get settled in. So with one last glance at Bucky, you made your way to your new, temporary home. 

–

The moment he walked into his home, sighing in relief at the feeling of warmth, his two best friends rushed in after him, grinning like they were up to no good. Bucky rolled his eyes at Sam and Steve as he poured wine into three cups. 

“What?” He barked at them, handing them their cups before he sat on one of the few stairs that led to his seat. The one he sat on when he had to act as Chief. But when he was with his friends, he didn’t like sitting on it. 

“Are we going to address the heated looks you and the witch have been sharing or are we going to pretend nothing’s happening here?” Sam teased, leaning against a nearby table. 

Steve chuckled, sitting down near the fire in the middle of the room. “Yeah Chief, what’s going on?” 

Bucky glared at them both. He loved them to death, would die and kill for them in a heartbeat. But gods, they could be so annoying. “Enough,” He grumbled as they both laughed shamelessly at him, “She’s our guest. Most of all, we need her to survive this winter. Be respectful.” 

Sam smirked and said, “Is that what that was on the ride back? The two of you as close as lovers? Was that you being respectful?” 

Steve’s laughter echoed around the hall. Bucky wanted to chuck his cup at both of them but he didn’t want to waste the wine so he just rolled his eyes again, “Get out both of you.” 

“Oh come on, Buck.” Steve spoke up, “With her as your wife we would be unstoppable.” 

Sam nodded, “Exactly.” 

“Both of you, shut up.” 

“I mean, she is beautiful. If you’re not interested, I might check out what else her magic can do when-,” Steve stopped talking the moment Bucky threw his cup at him, wine and all. 

Sam choked on his drink and laughed even harder. 

Shortly after, Bucky kicked both of them out of his home. He was surprised at how it suddenly got hard to breathe or think the moment Steve even jokingly hinted at getting intimate with you. Bucky felt so protective over you despite having met you just hours ago. 

He just wished he could keep that under control for the coming months. You were his guest after all. He couldn’t be inappropriate. 

— 

He couldn’t sleep that night. The village was quiet, dark. The night was cold given winter was approaching really fast. The next day, he had plans to give you a tour of the village and thinking about spending hours with you was making him nervous. But in a good way. Gods, he was turning into a little boy with a crush. This was bad for his image. 

He couldn’t sleep, so he figured a walk might tire him out. So he layered up in his favourite furs, grabbed a torch and stepped outside. It was dark, save for the moonlight. And also light coming from your temporary home. 

Bucky was walking towards the wooden house before he even realised it. His hand was knocking against the door before he could talk himself out of it. He should let you rest. He should act like a grown up and walk away right now. Being Chief he should– 

He stopped functioning the moment you opened the door and looked up at him. Dressed in a beige night dress, a woollen blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and the dimmed light of the torches made you look ethereal just standing there at the door. 

You spoke first, “Bucky.” You didn’t sound surprised. You knew he was coming over the moment he stepped out of his home. “It’s rather late, is something wrong?” You couldn’t help but ask. You knew he was coming over, but you didn’t know why. Your magic, fortunately, didn’t allow you to read minds. 

Bucky placed the torch on the sconce by the door and cleared his throat, standing proud and tall like one would expect him to. “I saw your lights were still on. I couldn’t help but worry so I… uh, came to check.” He paused, awkwardly. “Do you… are you comfortable? Do you need anything?” 

You sensed his slight nervousness even without using your magic. You tilted your head to the side and smiled at him, “I’m very comfortable. Your people were kind enough to–” You stopped, noticing how foggy his breaths were, “Please come in,” You opened the door wider, “It’s cold out.” 

Bucky accepted the invitation. As soon as he stepped in, you placed your hand on his chest. Bucky blinked and in the fraction of a second, he felt comfortably warm. He gave you a thankful smile. 

You smirked playfully and whispered, “Magic.” Then you moved towards the makeshift kitchen, “Tea?” 

Bucky grimaced and said, “I don’t like that bitter stuff.” He mumbled, avoiding eye contact. 

You chuckled, “I bet you will like this one.” You went ahead and made him chamomile tea, with warm milk and a generous dollop of honey. 

By the time you brought the mug to him, you found him bent over your little desk. He was looking down at the map you were currently making, your special black ink on special parchment paper. 

Bucky whispered his thanks as he took the mug, then said, “You’re making a map of the village?” He sounded both amazed and confused. “No one has been able to make one this accurate. You haven’t even… “ He paused, “Of course,” He smirked, “Magic.” 

You smiled. “Maps help me control my spells better. It’s enchanted parchment you see,” You pointed at the map, “I can even work from here with the help of the map.” You looked back up at him and saw the look of delight on his face as he took his first sip of the tea. 

He raised an eyebrow at you, “You laced this with magic as well?” 

You giggled, “No, just milk and honey.” 

Bucky just stared at you with soft eyes. In the dim, golden lights his eyes twinkled like that of a wolf. You stared into them, neither of you spoke. Until he finally blinked, pointed at the map and said, “It must be incredible, being this talented.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “Talent.” You repeated, looking down at the map. Then quietly said, “I was always taught and told that my magic was a great weapon. But thank you, I guess.” 

Without another word said, Bucky placed his half empty mug down and grabbed both of your hands in his large, warm ones. He tugged you closer, gently. Just the slightest bit so he could have your undivided attention. 

“You’re not a weapon. You won’t ever be one, not here.” He said, softly. Slowly. “You are our salvation.” 

You had been repaid in many ways throughout your life. Chests filled with gold. Jewels. Feasts and balls thrown in your name. Even a few marriage proposals from influential families. But no one had ever told you that you were their salvation. Something about Bucky saying it, even before you got him and his people through the winter, made you tear up just a little. 

His face softened as he wiped that tear away from your cheek with his slightly cold metal arm. “I mean it.” He whispered. Then he leaned in and kissed you on the cheek, whispering, “You are so beautiful.” Then a little closer to your mouth. “So warm.” Then finally pressed his lips against yours as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer and pressing you against the soft furs he was wearing. 

You couldn’t help but moan quietly into the kiss. That made him growl, made him deepen the kiss. His warm hand cradled your face as his metal arm wrapped around your waist. His lips were surprisingly soft, and his kiss was gentle. Sensual. Your hands wandered over his chest. You could feel his heart racing. You could feel him breathing deeper, but refusing to break the kiss. 

You gasped in pleasure when his mouth left your lips briefly to kiss along your jaw, making your heart flutter in anticipation. But then, he stopped and pulled away. He was breathless, frowning, his lips wet and pink. 

“I… I shouldn’t.” He licked his lips and you almost moaned again. “You’re…” He took a deep breath. “You’re my guest. And you only just got here.” He shook his head, as if disappointed in himself. “I shouldn’t have pounced on you like an animal like that.” 

You fixed the blanket around your shoulders, giving him a playful, though disappointed, smile. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you, but no one even mentioned you were such a proper gentleman.” 

Bucky cleared his throat, then gave you a heated look that screamed that if he didn’t get out of here right this instant he would surely be pouncing on you again. “I should go.” He mumbled. “Thank you for the tea.” 

You nodded, “You’re very welcome. I will see you tomorrow, for the tour?” 

He nodded. Then as he turned to leave, he paused. He turned back around and unwrapped the thick white fur from around his shoulders and placed it on your desk. The tunic he wore was loose around his neck so you could see the ink on his skin peaking through. “Keep this,” He said, “you might need it for tomorrow.” 

You smirked, understanding what he was playing at. He knew you could keep yourself warm. But he just wanted you to wear something of his while he showed you around tomorrow. He wanted everyone to see you wearing something of his. You had heard of vikings being territorial, and truthfully, you didn’t mind this one bit. 

You played along, pretending to be oblivious. “Won’t you be cold then?” 

As he stepped out of the door, he turned to look at you. Smirked and said, “I think your magic will keep me warm enough.” 

You chuckled as he shut the door behind him, took his torch and left. Who knew the Chief would be such a flirt? 

— 

Bucky had never been this excited to give someone a tour of his village. He was at your door the next morning, early and ready. He knew you already had a map, but he wanted you to see the place properly. 

You caught the approval in his smile when he saw you wearing the fur he left you as you stepped out to join him. He was wearing black furs, and looked just as majestic. 

“My people are delighted that you’re here to save us from the winter,” He said as the two of you began walking towards the centre of the village, the busiest part he told you. “So expect a lot of gifts along the way.” 

You didn’t know what to expect. And even after politely refusing many, many tokens of thanks from his people, you already had baskets filled with cheese, berries, fresh bread and you were even done with the tour yet. Bucky, of course, carried the baskets for you. 

He was in a good mood, you realised. He was showing off a little as he gave you the tour. Showing you all the new warehouses, the new boats that were being built near the beaches, the new houses being made as the number of people grew. 

He showed you the hall where himself, Steve, and Sam often trained young kids. They taught them how to fight, to defend. They’re vikings, they need to be ready, he said, for anything and everything. 

He had a glow on his face as he spoke about the kids, and you couldn’t help but ask, “How come you don’t have any?” 

Bucky gave you a faint smile. Then said, “After my father died, I had to take care of everything around here. And I guess I never had time.” He paused, “I also never found the right person.” 

You turned to look at him and he was looking the other way, surely hiding a smirk. You decided to drop the subject. 

Bucky led you deeper into the village, near the lake. “It looks incredible in the summer, but–,” He stopped talking once the two of you heard male voices shouting. It sounded like it was coming from the lake. 

You followed Bucky as he rushed to the lakeside and let out a groan. You chuckled once you saw what he was looking at. His two friends, Steve and Sam, arguing in the water about who pushed who first. 

Bucky sighed and said, “I apologise, I wish these two would act like adults.” Then he yelled at them, “Hey! Stop trying to make me look bad. And get out of the water both of you, I can’t have you both freeze to death!” 

You watched how the two of them swam towards the shore and eventually got out, trembling. 

“Gods, I hate you.” Sam said, shivering. 

“You pushed me!” Steve argued, shoving Sam. 

Sam shoved him back, “You pushed me!” 

“Enough!” Bucky turned to you and said, “My useless friends,” He introduced, “I wish you would’ve met them in more normal circumstances.” 

You laughed, then walked up to the two men. “Hello,” You said and placed your hands on each of their shoulders, your magic would keep them from shivering. And the moment you touched them, they both sighed in relief. “There, that should keep you warm until you get home.” 

You couldn’t help but check them out. They were both muscular and fit, and the way the wet tunics clung to their bodies… their muscular torsos, and biceps bigger than– 

Bucky cleared his throat and you quickly looked away. You were almost certain Sam and Steve were smirking as they mumbled their goodbyes and hurried home. 

“We should get back.” Bucky said, his mood immediately turning sour. 

When the two of you did head back, he walked you to your home, handed you your baskets full of food and gifts, whispered a brief goodbye and left. You had planned that you would ask him to join you for dinner, as a way of thanking him for the tour. But he was just so grumpy on the way back that you decided not to. 

But then you were restless the whole evening. You made yourself a quick dinner and sat by the fire to read but something didn’t feel right. 

As it got later, the village got more and more quiet. And dark. When the wolves began howling you knew it was very late, but as you looked through the window, you saw that the lights inside Bucky’s home were still lit. 

He was awake. 

You debated walking over to his place, but then decided not to. You had to get to work the next day and surely you’d get a chance to talk to him then. 

—

You visited the crops first, drawing your runes in the dirt. That’s where you ran into Steve and Sam. They wished to introduce themselves properly, and the three of you began talking. They showed you around for a little while, making you laugh at their jokes and stories of their childhood. 

They kept you company while you worked and at some point, you sensed that someone was watching you. You knew who it was before you even turned around. 

There was Bucky standing, proud and tall, quite far from the crops. The same broody expression on his face as the day before. 

You almost lifted your hand to wave at him but then he walked away. 

“We better leave,” Steve said with a mischievous smile. 

“I’m afraid if the Chief sees us around you again he might behead us in public.” Sam winked at you and then walked away. 

So Bucky was jealous. 

After you were done with the crops, as you made your way home in the afternoon, you ran in Bucky in the village centre. He was on his way home as well, you realised, so you walked a little faster until you caught up to him. 

Once you were beside him, you said, “Hello, Bucky.” 

“Hello.” He mumbled. 

“I worked at the crops today, I drew my runes.” You told him. 

“I know, I saw you earlier.” He said.

His voice held enough distaste that you couldn’t help but ask calmly, “Why are you angry at me?” 

He threw you a look and mumbled grumpily, “I’m not angry. I’m very grateful that you’re here.” 

"Then why won't you talk to me?" You asked. "You look like you're angry." You paused, then asked, "Is it because I was talking to your friends?" 

He stopped walking immediately. Turned to face you and said, "What were the three of you talking about anyway?" 

You had to hide a smirk as you answered, "Nothing in particular. They were just keeping me company." Seeing he still had that broody look on his face you asked, “Does that bother you?” 

He scoffed. "No." He frowned. "Why would it? You're free to talk to whoever you want, you're our–" 

You cut him off, "Guest, yes. I know." You smiled. "Well then, how would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" 

Bucky's bright blue eyes stared at you, an unexplainable expression in them. "Another time." He said much to your surprise. 

The rest of the walk back was filled with awkward silence. 

That night, you were restless. After a quick dinner, you sat by the fire to read but you couldn’t quite get into it. Then you got up and looked through the window and saw that the lights in Bucky’s home were still on. 

Again. He was awake. This time you didn’t think twice before putting your cloak on and walking to his front door. It was so quiet that you could hear the knocks echoing. Two knocks later, Bucky opened the door. 

His braids were undone, yet he looked just as handsome. “It’s late.” He said. 

“Also very cold, you should let me in.” You said. 

Bucky opened the door wider, letting you in before shutting the door. 

You walked into his home and took it all in. The place smelled like him, and a little smoky. Probably due to the fire that burned in the middle, keeping the place nice and warm. You saw his seat. His swords and weapons hung on the walls, along with artworks. Furs and rugs scattered on the floor, the place was cosy. 

“Nice place.” You commented as you turned to face him. You found him leaning against a nearby wooden column, with a drink in hand. 

He gave you a curious look. “Surely you didn’t walk all the way here to comment on my home.” He said. He looked good. The dim light from the torches made him look like a god. Long brown hair, pretty blue eyes. His tunic was loose now, showing a lot of the ink on his skin. His metal arm caught the light a few times, shining occasionally when he moved. 

You felt your heartbeats echoing louder in your ears the more you looked at him. And then… then he had the audacity to slowly lick his lips. 

That did it. You walked up to him, carefully took the cup from his hand and brought it to your lips. You held his stare the whole time. You took a careful sip because whatever it was, it was very strong. Then said, “No, no I didn’t.” 

Bucky gave you a heated look. One that was familiar from the other night when he kissed you. “You know, it’s rude to snatch someone’s drink. Especially the Chief's.” 

You smirked at him. “Do something about it then,” You added mischievously, “Chief.” 

“Oh?” Bucky’s metal arm was around your waist in no time, pulling you into his warm, muscular chest. “Now you want my attention?” He taunted, his voice deep, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the smirk on your lips. “What about when you were shamelessly staring at other men right in front of me? Or what about earlier, when you were–” 

You cut him off with a chuckle. “Just say you are jealous.” You took another sip from his drink. “And if this is how you treat your guests then I think I can imagine why everyone fears you.” 

“I’m not jealous,” He mumbled, nuzzling your cheek. “I just don’t like seeing you with other men.”

You gasped, and almost dropped the cup in surprise as he kissed along your jaw softly, biting you playfully while he’s at it. “So possessive,” You whispered, “We only just met.” You teased. 

His grip tightened around your waist before he pulled away to look at you. His blue eyes now dark with desire and longing. “Yet I haven’t been able to think about anything other than wanting to have you all to myself ever since I kissed you that night.” He said. 

He looked down at your mouth as he spoke, and it only made your heart race faster. “Bucky…” You weren’t sure what you wanted to say to him, you just… wanted. “Please.” You found yourself whispering. Pleading, which you had never done before. 

Bucky clenched his jaw and turned, pressing your back into the wooden column he was leaning against earlier. The cup fell to the floor, neither of you paying much attention to it. His metal hand cupped your face and he stared into your eyes as he spoke. 

His voice was dangerously low as he spoke, “You must understand, if we do this there’s no going back.” He said, looking down at your parted lips. “If we do this, you’re mine.” He reiterated, “If we do this,” He leaned in to brush his soft lips carefully against yours, making you gasp and whimper, “You belong to me and only me. Are we clear?” 

The rasp in his voice and the feral desire lacing his words already made your brain foggy. “Yes,” You whispered, placing the palms of your hands pressing against his warm chest and partially exposed skin. 

He wasted no time in undoing your cloak and letting it fall to the floor and pool around your ankles. Bucky had a devilish smile on his face once he saw that you were wearing nothing beneath the cloak except for flimsy undergarments. Near transparent ones. 

Bucky’s eager hand trailed up your body, gently, starting from your thigh all the way to your breasts. The warmth of his hand made you shiver in pleasure. “So this is why you were complaining about being cold?” He whispered in your ear while his hand ran up and down your sides. “I thought you could manipulate elements to keep yourself warm.” Your body felt like it was on fire under his touch. 

“Well, I can manipulate the elements.” You said. Bucky pulled away to look into your eyes. “But there’s nothing quite like body heat.” He smirked at the sight of the look of mischief in your eyes. 

Then he gently tugged on the delicate necklace around your neck, toying with the crystal pendant leisurely as if he had all the time in the world. As if he couldn’t see you squirming under his touch, wanting more. 

“It’s…” He frowned at the crystal, now holding it between two metal fingers. “It’s moving.” He whispered, and sounded so genuinely confused that it made you smile. Who knew this tall, muscular, godlike man could be adorable? 

You nodded, looking at the crystal. It was clear mostly, except for a greyish, dark, flowy mist moving around inside it. It looked like smoke trapped inside the crystal, but it was just energy. “I was given this by my family the day I left my home when I was a young girl. As a gift. For protection.” You explained. 

You looked up to find him looking down at you with a heated, wild look in his eyes. “I’m here now,” He said. “I’ll protect you. Always.” He pulled you closer, pressing your barely clothed body against him. 

You smiled, sliding your hands up until your fingers slid into his soft hair. The light from the burning torches began to dim, making the room slightly darker but still golden. The smirk on Bucky’s handsome face signalled that he knew you were messing with the torches. 

“I want you,” You whispered, pressing your lips to his cheek. The slight stubble felt rough against your mouth. But it only made you wonder where else it would feel rough. And you couldn’t help the quiet moan that escaped your mouth. 

As if he could read your mind, Bucky chuckled. He grabbed you by the neck, tightening his grip just a little, enough to make you feel warm all over. “I don’t think I could be gentle…” He whispered, his metal hand reaching for the fine dagger he kept on him at all times. 

He carefully pressed the tip flat against your lower lip. Your heart began racing faster. Bucky slowly dragged the tip of the dagged down your chin, down the side of your neck, down in between your breasts before he cut the fabric, slicing it in two and letting that fall down to the floor as well. You hissed as the cold air hit your now exposed breasts. Bucky seemed pleased as he let go of your neck, his hand trailing down to fondle with your breast instead. You tipped your head back and moaned at his touch. 

He kept the dagger pressed against your skin as he leaned in to kiss your exposed neck, “I don’t want to be gentle.” He said. 

You let out a gasp as he slid the tip of the dagger sideways, circling your nipple with it deliberately slow. “Good,” You whispered, “I don’t want you to be gentle.” 

Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re perfect.” He dragged the tip of the dagger down, sliding it slowly across your abdomen, right above the waistband of your undergarments. Over and over again until you were squirming, and gasping, and grinding on nothing. 

“Please,” You said, looking at him with soft eyes.

Bucky held your stare as he slid the dagger under the fabric of your undergarment and sliced that off of you as well. Fuck that sound of fabric tearing off of your body did something to you. 

“Please,” You begged again. You were unable to ignore the wetness in between your legs anymore. Neither could he. 

Once there was not an inch of fabric shielding you from his hungry stare, Bucky threw the dagger onto the pile of your clothes and next thing you knew, you were being pushed down onto a nearby pile of soft furs. 

He pinned you down by your throat, as he hovered above you, leaning over with his metal hand wrapped around your neck firmly while he stared down into your eyes. “You look so beautiful like this.” 

You gave him a smirk and said, “It’s your turn. I want to see you.” You wanted to see the ink on his skin, trace it with your finger. You wanted to see him naked on these furs with you. You had never longed to touch someone like this before. 

Bucky held your stare, arrogant grin on his face as he pulled away to take off his tunic and lower his pants. 

You let your eyes feast on him. Ink covered more skin than you thought, but it suited him. He looked every bit the fierce Viking he was. You wanted to take your time and admire the artwork on his body but… later. Right now, you wanted him. 

You grabbed him by the neck and pulled him closer, pressing your mouth to his and kissing him deeply. “I want you,” You whispered again. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand was back around your throat as he growled into the kiss, “I know.” 

Guess he could take his time and caress every inch of you like he wanted to later, right now though, he needed to have you. He was hungry for it. So he pulled away from the kiss, parted your legs and slid a finger inside you, reassuring himself that you were ready for him. 

Bucky groaned when he found that you were dripping for him. “All that for me?” He teased, settling in between your legs and pressing the tip of his cock against you. You gasped and whined as he slid the tip of it up and down your slit. 

“Please,” You begged, whining. “Hurry up or I swear to gods I will make sure your house is always freezing throughout winter.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead. “No need for all that, little witch.” He whispered as he pushed his cock into you, stretching you out in a way that made it hard for you to even think about anything else. 

“Do I feel good inside you?” He questioned, teasing and knowing full well you weren’t in a headspace to answer him. His hand was around your throat and his cock buried so deep inside of you that he knew you couldn’t even think straight. 

And fuck did he feel good snug inside you. You just whimpered in response, staring up into his pretty blue eyes. “More,” You whispered, “I want more.” 

He smirked, digging his knees into the furs before he pulled out and pushed back into you. He set a hard and fast pace that made your head spin with pleasure. He was just as passionate as you expected him to be, his kisses were messy and his grip on your body was tight. He growled and moaned against your mouth as he sped up into you. 

You were a moaning mess under him. Your legs locked around his waist as he pounded into you, “You feel so good,” He said, “Look at you, all wet and open for me.” He slowed down for just a moment, looking down to where his cock disappeared into you each time he thrust it. “Is this what you wanted? Hmm?” He asked, slow fucking you until you felt a tear escape your eye. 

Fuck, he was keeping you right on that edge. It drove you mad. 

“Tell me, sweetheart.” He kissed along your jaw, nibbling on your skin. “When you walked all the way here tonight, wearing basically nothing as you knocked on my door in the middle of the night,” He chuckled, “Is this what you wanted? To be full of my cock?” 

You nodded, more tears falling down. It was so good, almost overwhelming. His words, his deep voice, the heated look in his eyes as he fucked you slowly, his weight on top of you, his warmth… 

“Yes,” You whispered, “It’s all I wanted.” 

Bucky sped up again, taking you by surprise and you couldn’t help the sinful moans that escaped your lips. He released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen instead, pressing down on your front so he can feel himself inside you with each thrust. “Well there you go,” He said, as if taunting you, “Here I am. Deep inside you.” He stared into your eyes while he sped up into you again. “Just how you wanted.” 

You whimpered desperately as he fucked you deeper. You felt your walls clenching around him. You felt the familiar feeling, the pressure down there just waiting… waiting to explode. Your back arched off the furs as he brought you right to the edge again before slowing down. It was brutal.  

You gasped in shock, and the now ruined orgasm. Bucky smirked. “That’s punishment,” He said, “For talking to other men right in front of me.” 

You frowned, “You’re cruel.” 

Bucky kissed you one more time before he flipped you around and pulled you onto your knees and pushed into you again from behind. You moaned out loud, not expecting that but welcoming the feeling of being full again. 

You laid your cheek down on the furs, the softness of them a stark contrast to how rough Bucky was being, handling your body like you were just a toy. It made you smile in pure bliss as he gripped your hips and slammed in and out of you incessantly, sighing and groaning in the process. 

More tears escaped your eyes as the pleasure became too much to handle. You felt the pressure at your core forming again as Bucky pounded into you mercilessly, fucking you like an animal. Bending and contorting your body however he liked. Pressing your head down as he sped up into you until you came, crying out loud and clenching around him so hard it took him everything not to finish inside you. 

He quickly pulled out and came all over your lower back and thighs. He took a moment to admire all the marks he’d left on your skin before pulling you into his arms as he laid down beside you. 

You placed your ear right above his heart, listening to it gradually calm down like yours did. Only then did you have enough energy to keep your eyes open and admire the ink on his skin. You traced the closest one with a finger. 

“A dragon?” You asked. 

Bucky chuckled softly. “I like to think they might have been real at some point.” 

You pulled away, holding yourself up using your elbow. You looked down at Bucky and said, “Of course they were. They were magical beings, they got along well with witches and warlocks in fact.” 

Bucky looked pleasantly surprised. “You are so full of secrets.” He said, lifting a finger up to your face and gently traced the shape of your mouth. “Tell me more,” He pulled you back into his arms, nuzzling your neck and making you laugh, “What happened to the dragons?” 

— 

Sleeping in each other’s beds became part of the routine. 

Some nights he would come over after the village had gone dark and quiet. Other nights you’d go over to his place and stay till early morning. 

Nobody knew about you and Bucky, except for Steve and Sam who couldn’t stop grinning like mischievous devils each time they ran into you. 

Days passed this way. The weather got colder, and you kept the village in perfect shape. The rivers kept flowing even though they should be frozen. The lake as well. The crops stayed healthy. As did the cattle.

Your magic had created an invisible dome over the entirety of the village. A vast dome that only you could see. 

The people were safe from the intense cold and they were warm, fed, and happy. 

But doing all that always made you extremely tired. Usually you’d hide it well behind faint smiles and blame it on it being a long day. But even at night you had to use your magic to keep the dome intact. And although you did your best to hide it, sometimes your weariness would show. 

Like the one time when Bucky caught you by the lakeside late at night. 

You were sitting on the jetty, looking down at the dark water. The moonlight made the surface shine, and just beyond the lake, right where the dome ended, you could see the harsh winds of the blizzard that you were currently keeping away from Bucky’s people. But from within the dome, no one could even hear it. 

And just when you thought of Bucky, you heard him walking on the jetty and on his way to you. 

“I looked for you everywhere.” He said, sitting down next to you on the edge. “Are you alright? You never come here this late.” He sounded genuinely concerned. 

You smiled at him, his pretty face glowing under the moonlight. Then you pointed at the blizzard, and Bucky swore under his breath when he saw what was happening beyond the dome, “I came to make sure everything was safe.” You said. “I had to draw some of the runes again.” Then you added, “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.” 

Bucky loosened the furs around his shoulders and opened his arms for you to snuggle up to him. 

You gave him a smirk as you slowly scooted closer to him, “I can keep myself warm, remember?” 

“Yeah, but there’s nothing quite like body heat.” He teased, wrapping his arms and the furs around you, holding you close to him. He leaned down and kissed your cheek softly then said, “You seem tired. I didn’t realise magic would take such a toll on you.” He sounded a little embarrassed. 

“Hey,” You placed a gentle hand on his rough cheek. “This is how it is. Magic has a cost, it feeds on my energy and that’s just how it works. I should be okay after a few hours of sleep.” You smiled up at him. “Can I ask about the arm?” 

He smiled, tapped you on the nose with his metal finger and said, “Bravery has a cost, my lady.” You laughed, and he eventually told you the story. And by the time he was done, he noticed you were just about to fall asleep. “Hey, come on. Let’s go to bed.” 

You let him help you stand up and said, “I’m tired tonight, maybe–,” 

He cut you off. “That’s not what I meant.” He pulled you closer and kissed you gently, “I won’t do anything, I just want you in bed with me. You’re doing so much for us, let me take care of you and do what I can.” He added, pressing another kiss on your lips, “Please.” 

You smiled and gave in. 

And turns out, sleeping in his bed, in his arms was enough to recharge you. 

— 

One day, a messenger came with urgent news for Bucky. 

A little far from this village was another one, and the news said that their Chief had died leaving behind no one to care for the people. Since Bucky was the closest, they were begging him to help them last this icy winter. 

Bucky held a meeting with his inner circle – his friends, and now you as well. Everyone gathered near the fire in the middle of Bucky’s home. Outside, the weather was getting colder. Your magic kept everyone here comfortable but those people who had asked for help… they wouldn’t last long. 

“We can’t help them.” Bucky said, surprising everyone in the room. 

Tony, the one who created weapons for every warrior in the village and also part of Bucky’s inner circle, spoke up first, “What do you mean here, Chief? Those people will die.” 

Steve nodded, agreeing, “There are children, cold and starving. We can’t leave them.” 

“Think about it,” Sam said, “We could have more people in our army to fight for us, with us.” 

Bucky stopped his slow pacing, then turned to all of you. “How are we going to care for these people? I mean, I guess we’ll have enough food for everyone but what about shelter?” 

Peter, Tony’s apprentice, spoke up this time, “We have enough material to build houses. I mean, we could always pause on the boats for now and use those materials for houses. You’ll have to go bring the people over anyway, and by the time you’ll be back I suppose we could have houses ready by then.” He looked over to Tony for approval. The latter nodded in agreement. 

“That will cost too much.” Bucky said. Then sighed. “I have to care for the people here.” 

You spoke up this time, “I could help.” You said. “I have more gold than I could ever use. And I could help with the building, and–,” 

Bucky cut you off gently, “No, I cannot ask you for all that. You’re already helping us, and this wasn’t part of our arrangement.” He paused for a moment, only the crackling logs filled the silence, “Besides, I’ve seen what using magic constantly does to you.” 

You rolled your eyes, “That’s just how it works,” You repeated. “It’s like when you complain about being tired after a whole day of training. Doesn’t mean you won’t ever train again.” You reasoned. “And as for our arrangement, I agreed to help. So let me.” 

Bucky sighed again, walking over to you as if the rest of the people in the room didn’t exist. Honestly, the moment you stared into his clear blue eyes, it didn’t matter who else was in the room. 

“It’ll wear you out.” He said softly, almost in a whisper. 

You gave him a faint smile, “Guess you’ll just have to take better care of me then.” 

He was about to reach out and cup your face in his hands but then Steve, Sam, and Tony all cleared their throats to get your attention back on the current issue. You avoided all their eyes awkwardly while Bucky smirked shamelessly. Peter just seemed confused. 

“Fine,” Bucky said. “We’ll bring the people. We’ll take the boats.” He announced. “We leave today itself.” Then he proceeded to assign the work of building additional houses over to Tony and Peter. Sam and Steve, along with other warriors, were going with Bucky. 

Then the men left, Tony and Peter went to gather people to help them start building immediately and Sam and Steve went to get the other warriors to prepare for their journey. Once they were out of the house, Bucky pulled you close. 

“That was generous of you.” He said, nuzzling your neck and kissing it. “I’ll be gone for two weeks at least, you know?” He said. “I’ll miss you.” His lips brushed along your neck, stopping at the corner of your mouth, “I’ll miss this.” His arms tightened around you, making you gasp. 

“I’ll miss you too,” You said, pulling away to look at him. “The sea will be rough,” You said, “Take this.” You took the crystal necklace off of your neck and put it around his, hiding it under the layers he wore. “That should keep you safe.” Then you looked around and said, “You should start packing your things. My magic won’t work given the distance so you’ll need more furs to keep you warm.” 

He looked at you with soft eyes. “Usually no one fusses over me like this.” He said, “I like it. I like it a lot.” 

You smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “Now hurry up. Those people need you.” 

“Hmm,” He leaned down for a kiss again. “If anyone touches you while I’m gone I will behead them.” He said, half-joking. “One more thing, I want you to stay here while I’m gone.” He said, referring to his house. “Sleep in my bed every night. Oh and think of me. Miss me. A lot.” 

You laughed. “Understood, Chief.” 

— 

You went to see Bucky off when he left later that evening. He looked like a King and his armada, setting off for battle. 

He was barely out of your sight and you missed him already. You whispered a prayer to the strong winter winds, telling them to keep him safe until he comes back. 

—

For the entirety of the two weeks which followed, you worked harder than ever. The dome, the crops, the cattle, the rivers and lake, and now the construction. Your magic fortified the wood used for the new houses, all the gold you had accumulated over the years helped the village immensely. 

The people were so grateful. And you did your best to keep their spirits up while their Chief was gone. 

It made you feel all warm inside whenever people would gush about how incredible of a leader Bucky was. You wondered if he knew his people loved him so much. Then, almost always, quickly followed by that warm fuzzy feeling was intense worry. 

You never had anyone to worry about this much. So this was new for you. 

By the end of the second week, each morning you’d wake up and go by the beach to see if you could see the ships coming. They didn’t. 

You slept in his bed like he wanted you to. And that just made things worse. Because now not only did you worry about him, but you missed him like a mad woman. His scent was all over the bed and the covers. 

But then one morning, as you went to the beach to check, you saw them. The ships, tiny little dots near the horizon. They were coming back. He was coming back. 

Great timing in fact because the houses were just done building as well. And the crops had just been harvested. 

Some hours later, the ships docked. And the new people had arrived, with their entire lives packed into trunks. While everyone showed the new ones to their houses, you looked for Bucky. You couldn’t even hide the smile on your face as you spotted him, running to him. 

Bucky smiled as you ran into his open arms, hugging him tightly. You didn’t see the approving smiles on the faces of people around you, all you cared about was that Bucky was here, safely. 

“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” He whispered, kissing your forehead. “I’ve missed you.” 

You pulled away to look up at him. “You’re back.” You whispered, delighted. 

He cupped your face and leaned down to press his forehead against yours, sighing. “I wish I could take you to bed and show you how much I missed you, but…” 

“Later,” You finished his sentence. “There’s a lot of work to be done right now.” 

He nodded. Then you felt something moving near your ankles, getting tangled up in your flowy cloak. You looked down and saw a small ball of white fur. Bucky chuckled as you bent down to pick it up. 

“The mother and the rest of the litter didn’t survive the cold,” He said, “But I found this little guy as we were evacuating the village. He was hiding under a pile of hay, all hungry and trembling. And I thought, who else would take better care of him than a certain generous witch I know?” He explained, a little flustered, ”So I brought him along. For you.”  

You looked at the fluffy, white wolf pup in your hands. You already loved him with all your heart. Then you looked up at Bucky again, “Thank you. I love him.” You said, kissing him on the cheek, “And thank you for not leaving him behind.” 

He smiled, “Oh well,” He looked around to see his people helping their new guests get off the boats, offering to carry their luggage for them. He looked beyond proud. “What’s one more addition to our village?” He shrugged, smiling at you. 

–

It took some hours, but by nightfall everyone had a bed to sleep in and roof over their heads. Bucky was so pleased he insisted they celebrated this feat. Plus he wanted the new members to feel welcomed and comfortable so he held a feast. 

Food and ale makes everyone feel at home, he said. 

So the feast was held. The village centre quickly became a vibrant, bustling scene. And the music was the best part. You had travelled to so many places but you had never heard such rich music and singing. 

As you walked around, enjoying the atmosphere, everyone thanked you for your help. Usually by this time well into winter, food was always scarce. But with you and your magic here, everyone was happy and their bellies were full. 

You caught Bucky’s stare from across the crowds of people a lot of times. His heated stare that held promises which made your face feel all hot and made your body tingle. But he was busy catching up with his people right now, he made sure to speak with each and everyone of the new members of his village, he spoke with the kids and promised them that they would be restarting training soon. He even held some of the babies that had been born while he was away. 

And you watched him with fondness. Watched how he smiled, watched how he let the kids mess with and admire his metal arm, watched how gentle and kind he could be, as well as how stern and assertive. 

And then he caught you staring. He smirked at you while you pretended that your entire being didn’t come alive under his attention. You tried to hide the way you clenched your thighs together as he began walking over to you, finally. 

The music rose to a crescendo as he made his way to you. Tall, strong, with a confident and slightly arrogant gait. He stopped when he was right in front of you, the lit torches made his skin look golden, and his eyes… oh his eyes. 

His metal head reached out to touch your face, slowly caressing your warm cheek. “Did you get a chance to eat?” He asked. 

You nodded, lost in his eyes. You didn’t even remember what you ate, if he asked you you wouldn’t know. 

“Good. Then let’s go.” There was enough raw desire in his voice that it made you move immediately. 

As you walked you asked, “Won’t they notice you’re gone?” You referred to the ongoing festivities. 

Bucky smirked as he took your hand in his, the two of you making your way through the dark, to his place. “Judging by the way you threw yourself into my arms earlier, I think they expected us both to disappear at some point.” 

After the short walk, you could still hear the music from the feast even after making your way into Bucky’s home. You could hear some vocalising, and it sounded… magical. Raw. Intense. Much like the look in Bucky’s eyes. 

“I see you did sleep here.” He noted, appreciating that you did as he’d asked. 

You took your cloak off near the fire and then followed Bucky into the sleeping area. “It was the closest I could get to you while you were gone.” You whispered, taking the layers of fur off of him. You carefully placed it down and began undoing his tunic. “Your bed smells like you.” You said, “Some nights I couldn’t sleep until I made myself come while pretending it was your hand touching me.” 

A sound resembling a growl left his mouth as he grabbed both of your wrists in one hand, ceasing your movement. “Show me.” He said, low and deep, “Show me what I missed.” 

A sly smirk formed on your lips, “Sure you don’t want to do it yourself?” 

He shook his head. “I want to see.” 

You turned and gave him your back, “Undress me then.” You expected him to undo the laces and buttons. But no. You felt something cold against the nape of your neck, and then the sound of fabric being ripped filled the room. 

You gasped in pleasant surprise. He’d torn your dress off instead. With the dagger. You let the ruined dress fall to the ground and faced him again, naked because you hadn’t been wearing any undergarments, “That was one of my favourites.” You said, looking into his lust-drunk, hooded eyes. 

“I don’t care.” He answered, truthfully. Stepping closer he raised the dagger up under your chin, pressing it gently against your skin. “If it were up to me, I’d keep you naked in this bed at all times.” 

You giggled. 

“Hurry up,” He said, “Show me.” His voice was a mere whisper. 

You could still hear the music and the singing in the background as you held his stare and laid down on his soft bed, on your back. He stood at the end of the bed looking down at you like an old god looking at a sacrifice. With hunger in his eyes like you’d never seen before. 

He watched as if in trance, as you bent your knees and spread your legs. His breaths got deeper as he watched how wet you were, your finger slowly sliding up and down your slit. He inched just a little closer as you began gasping and whimpering, your finger slipping in and out of you. 

Your other hand toyed with your nipple, twisting and tugging. You held his dark stare as you moaned, back arching off the bed, the slightly chilly air hit your bare chest and caused your nipples to erect even further. 

“Oh gods…” Bucky whispered, watching as you put on a show. Watching as you whined in pleasure as the pace at which your fingers effortlessly slipped in and out of you increased. You looked down and saw the bulge in his pants. He was barely holding back. 

The way he watched you, the feeling of anticipation knowing he would fill you up soon, all of it made your heart race. Outside, the music rose to a crescendo again and you moaned louder, fingering yourself faster, the palm of your hands rubbing against your sensitive clit over and over again as your middle finger slipped in and out of you. 

You gasped, “Bucky…” You moaned quietly under your breath, imagining it was his fingers that were touching you instead of your own. “I need you…” you mumbled in the haze that you were in, “Please… I need you.” 

He wasted no time in grabbing you by the thighs and dragging you to the edge of the bed as he knelt to the ground. He placed your legs over his shoulders and leaned down to kiss your belly. He was rock hard, barely able to think straight. But fuck he needed to hear you moan as you came. 

“I fucking missed you,” He mumbled as he kissed around where your shaky fingers were buried in your wet cunt. “Let me taste you.” He whispered before gently slipping your fingers out of your hole and into his mouth. He sucked on them like they’d just been dipped in the sweetest honey. 

“Oh fuck…” You moaned, looking at him. The great Chief, kneeling in between your legs, sucking your taste off your fingers… it was heady. “Please,” You murmured again when you noticed that he was teasing you, keeping you waiting on purpose. 

He let go of your fingers, smirking as he looked up at you. “I’ve been wanting to taste you.” He whispered, his warm breath making you squirm. Chuckling at your restlessness, he parted your folds and buried his mouth in between them, eating you out like he was a starving man and moaning at your taste. 

Relentlessly, passionately. His warm mouth wrapped around your clit and sucked on it occasionally. His tongue teased your entrance as he took his time to feast in between your legs. 

Your fingers slid into his hair, it had gotten slightly longer you realised as you grabbed a fistful of it, tugging on it gently as his mouth teased you. 

“So this is what you did, huh? While I was away, rescuing people and fighting rough seas…” His tongue slowly circled around your clit and he earned more and more moans out of you. “You were here, touching yourself.” 

Your legs trembled as he locked his arms around your thighs and pushed your core further into his mouth and made you cry out of pleasure. You whined. “Please, Bucky…” 

He chuckled, darkly. “No.” He pulled away, licking his lips. “Not so easily.” 

He stood up, got rid of all his clothes before climbing into bed with you. His glorious, inked, naked body hovered above yours as he looked down at you with nothing but fondness and desire in his eyes. You looked down, whimpering at the sight of him stroking his hard cock, it was leaking already. 

Bucky looked down at you and smiled before leaning in for a kiss again. He nibbled along your skin, from your mouth to your neck, “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?” 

You cried out, “Yes! Please, Buck–,” 

He cut you off by sliding into you, filling you up. You gasped as your walls welcomed him perfectly and he growled under his breath as he filled you up entirely. “Look at me,” He said. When you did, he smiled and laced your fingers together and pinned both your hands above your head as he sped up into you. “Fuck,” He swore, “You feel like you were made for me.” 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head once he started rocking in and out of you with your legs locked behind his back. He leaned in and kissed your lips again, groaning and panting against your lips as he fucked you hard and fast. 

The music outside felt like it echoed inside your head. It made your heart race, like a soundtrack to this ethereal union. 

“Tell me you belong to me,” He whispered, lips brushing against yours as his cock stroked your inner walls perfectly. “Tell me you’re mine.” 

“I’m… I’m yours,” You said, breathlessly. 

“That’s right,” He breathed against your mouth. “All fucking mine.” He repeated, kissing along your skin and moaning into your ear, “Fuck, you feel so good.” He said as he sped up again, fucking you nice and deep to show you that you belong to him. “Come for me,” He said, knowing he wouldn’t last too long, “Come on sweetheart, come for me.” 

You cried out as you did, coming undone as he kept pounding into you until he finished inside you. Bucky nuzzled your neck, kissing your skin as he caught his breath. You wrapped your arms around him lazily, feeling his heart racing just as fast as yours was. 

He sighed in bliss as he finally laid down beside you, taking you with him so more than half of your body was on top of his. He kissed the top of your head and whispered, “I missed you like a madman.” 

You smiled, kissing his damp skin as you replied, “I did too. It felt… empty without you.” You lifted your head up to look at him. “Your hair is longer.” You pointed out. 

Bucky chuckled, “You like it?” 

You nodded, “It suits you.” 

He smiled, caressing your cheek again. “I like you in my bed.” He murmured. 

You smirked, lifting yourself up to straddle him properly. You grabbed his semi hard cock and slid it inside you again, gasping as it went in easily. Bucky groaned in pleasure, his hands holding you by the waist, ready to lift you up and down his cock. 

“I really like me in your bed too.” You said, and began riding him until you both came once more.

—

And so, winter passed by. 

You kept everyone safe and warm. Your bond with Bucky was not a secret anymore given you were always seen together. Judging by the smiles on people’s faces when they saw the two of you together, you’d say they were more than happy for Bucky. 

You spent more time in Bucky’s house than the one you were assigned when you first got here that Bucky suggested you move in, and let someone else have the other home. 

“I like having you in my home.” He said one night as he pulled your worn out, bare body into his. He kissed your shoulder, and made sure you were properly warm under the soft furs, in his bed. “Come live with me.” 

So you moved in. 

Your days started and ended with Bucky. With his soft, loving, often demanding touch. His merciless and passionate kisses. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

He was a stern, just, and caring chief to the rest of the village but only you saw the softer side of him. 

The way some evenings he would lay his head in your lap and grumble until you played with his hair until he fell asleep. 

Or how much he loved it when you braided his hair, he’d wear it proudly. 

Or how he always gave you the best bites of food when you dined together. 

The way he would always make sure you had enough fur and blankets on your side of the bed at night. 

Or how he’d always accompany you when you took your little wolf for walks in the woods. 

Or how he’d often tempt you into going for midnight swims with him at the lake. How he’d kiss you under the moonlight, smiling like a lovesick young boy instead of the great chief he was. 

During those moments, you often wanted to freeze time and just stay with him forever. 

Forever… but that wasn’t possible, was it? 

—

The weather, naturally, didn’t stay freezing cold. It got warmer, and warmer as winter faded into a gentle, barely there spring. 

Your little wolf grew, and kept growing. Time, you realised, moved and with it came time to say goodbye. 

Winter was nearly over. Everyone knew, everyone could see it. But nobody said anything. You were still greeted with the same grateful smiles and infinite gifts whenever you stepped out. Steve and Sam never mentioned it, they kept filling your days with stories of their youth and more laughter. 

Bucky, it seemed, had forgotten all about what the end of winter meant. 

And it hurt you more than you thought it would when it came time to confront him about it. It took you two days to build the courage to break both of your hearts. You didn’t want to leave, but you had to, didn’t you? 

He was home early that evening, in a good mood too. As soon as you opened your mouth to say something though, he announced, “I’m going for a swim, come with me?” 

You shook your head. “I don’t feel like it. You go ahead.” 

He smiled, kissed your forehead and left. The sunset as soon as he was out of the door. He’d been going on a lot of swims lately, which again indicated that the weather was getting warmer. 

You waited for him to get back. Your heart breaking in the meantime. 

–

“We need to, um, talk.” You said, once he’d put on clean, dry clothes again. You watched as he dried his hair with a piece of fabric as he turned to face you. 

The buttons of his tunic undone with the tattoos on his chest peeking through, his hair was a damp mess, his blue eyes shining. He was so beautiful. So beautiful it hurt. 

“What about, sweetheart?” He tossed the fabric aside and placed his hands on either side of your waist. “Everything okay?” 

You looked up at him. Didn’t he notice? Couldn’t he see you were wearing the same cloak you wore the day he met you? Couldn’t see you were ready to leave? You spoke with tears in your eyes, “Winter is nearly over, Bucky.” You whispered in a shaky voice. 

Silence. Only the few nearby torches. And the crickets outside. 

Bucky clenched and unclenched his jaw. You could see it through the stubble on his cheeks. “What do you mean?” 

He knew what you meant. You could tell. He was just giving you a chance to rectify what you said. But you didn’t. Instead you said, “Winter is over, it’s time for me to go.” The tears fell. Hot and burning, much like the tension between the two of you even after all these months. 

Bucky was quiet, then he let out a humourless chuckle. “What are you saying? You want to leave me?” 

You sighed as he made this difficult for both of you. “You know what I mean. We had a deal, remember?” You swallowed a sob. “We–,” 

“I swear to gods,” He cut you off, pulling you closer and growling, “Do not fucking test me right now.” 

More tears fell down your face. “Bucky…” You whispered. “I can’t stay here. You know that. It’s what I do, I help people. It’s what I’m meant to do with this…” You sighed, “This magic.” 

“Who said that?” He argued. “Who said you couldn’t choose what made you happy? Who said you had to keep wandering? Huh?” He leaned closer, the tip of his nose touching yours, “Who said you can’t stop once you found a home? A real one?” He gently kissed the corner of your mouth. “You have a home here, you have me. Stay.” 

You breathed in the manly scent of him. Felt the roughness of his stubble against your skin. Felt his body heat. Why couldn’t you stop? Because it scared you. “I can’t.” You mumbled, even as your heart screamed stay, stay, stay. 

Bucky pulled away. His face was stone cold. Emotionless. His hands left your waist and clenched into fists as he stared at you. As Chief, he wasn’t used to people disobeying him. 

“Fine then,” He spoke with a bitter voice. “You want to leave? Then I’ll follow. And my people will follow me no matter where I go.” He spoke with a confidence that only a true leader can have. “So wherever you go, you’ll find me behind you. And a whole village behind me. Is that what you want?” You could hear the stubbornness in his voice, the determination. The promise. 

“You can’t.” You reasoned. “You have a duty here, Bucky. My work here is done, I lifted the dome yesterday and no one even noticed. That just goes to show I’m not needed here. You have a life here,” You said, “Not me.” More tears streamed down your face. Your mind and heart were screaming in contradiction. 

Bucky just stared at you, his heart slowly breaking. Then he said, calmly but fiercely, “I have nothing without you. Nothing.” He stepped closer to you again, “You made me feel alive again, you made me feel like I was more than just a chief, like I was a man again. Just a man who is madly in love with the woman of his dreams.” His words made you weak. “You’re… everything. Don’t leave me.” He pleaded, quietly. 

You couldn’t help but hide your face in his chest as you sobbed. He cradled your head, kissing the top of it. 

“I will send word.” He said, as you sobbed quietly. Your tears drenching his tunic. “People will know where to come find you if they need you.” He reassured you. “Stay with me, be my wife, let’s have children together,” He cupped your face and made you look up at him. His ocean blue eyes staring down loving into yours. “Let’s have a life together.” 

You sniffled. “You’re awfully stubborn.” You said. 

He smiled, his own eyes tearing up. “And you love me for it.” 

You sniffled again. “I do.” You confessed. “I do love you.” 

“And I love you.” He leaned in for a gentle kiss. “Stay with me. You have a home here.” He whispered against your lips. “You’ve helped plenty of people all over this world. It’s not selfish if you choose to settle down now and choose your happiness.” 

“I’m scared.” You admitted. “I’ve never… I don’t know if I can… I mean, I don’t know if–,” 

He cut you off with another loving kiss. “Shh, I’ve got you. We will figure it out. Together.” 

You gave him a faint smile through the tears as you nodded. “Together.” 

And choosing to stay back with him, for him, ended up being the best decision you’d ever made. 

—

Fin.

[kurogxrix]

[kurogxrix]

The White Witch pt. 2 : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

PART ONE - PART TWO - PART THREE (coming soon)

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Avenger!Witch!Reader

Summary: Bob knew who the Avengers were, who you were; he grew up watching them save the world time and time again. Now, he was one, but none of that could prepare him for what it would be like to meet you, or the instant connection that seemed to flow between you both.

Warnings: soulmate trope, language, fluff, slight mental illness talk kind of, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*, feminine description of reader, this is part two of three

Word Count: 3,576 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

Bob Reynolds was going insane, and it was your fault. The worst part? You didn’t even know it.

At least, he wasn’t sure if you knew it.

You had come back to the tower with the rest of his friends, his team, to discuss the lawsuit that Sam Wilson had filed over the name ‘Avengers.’ Bob heard small bits of the long conversation, how you tried to explain that Sam didn’t have a problem with them, he had a problem with Valentina and the government using the name, how keeping ‘The Avengers’ out of the hands of the government was something that Steve Rogers had fought so valiantly for.

That was all Bob was able to gather from the conversation, quickly disappearing into his own bedroom of the tower. And the second his door was shut, he was pacing the floor so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if he left legitimate footprints seared into the flooring beneath him.

He knew three things for certain: you were even prettier in person than in photos, you were in town for the next two months for the opening of the exhibition, and since the moment your hands had touched, he could somehow practically feel you in ways he couldn’t describe. Bob decided to tackle each of those things one at a time.

You were pretty, he couldn’t deny that. He knew who you were; he didn’t grow up under a rock, and even drug-induced fugue states couldn’t make him forget who the Avengers were. Did he, maybe, have the tiniest crush on you growing up? Absolutely, but when there was a superhero witch that was your age, saving the world every day, who wouldn’t fall in love? But actually meeting you, seeing you in person, maybe that little crush he’d buried so long ago was creeping back in, especially when he’d stood close enough to you to even see the crackle of magic in your eyes.

Okay, the second thing he knew was probably the biggest problem, but the one he didn’t understand: why could he feel you? It didn’t make any sense, why even now, when he was sequestered in his own room, he could feel it in his bones, in his gut, that you were somewhere else in the tower and you were laughing, a bubble of joy spreading through him. Did you feel this too? Could you feel the anxiety in him that was practically eating him from the inside out?

The final problem was that you were here, and you’d be here for two months. 60 days.

Bob's solution to all three of these problems was simple: ignore you. Steer clear of you around every turn, and he wouldn’t have to deal with these weird feelings coursing through him, or how every time he pictured your face in his head, you only seemed to get prettier (as if that was possible).

“Morning, Bob,”

The plan encountered a small hiccup when, not even twenty-four hours later, Bob was strolling into the kitchen of the tower hours before the rest of the team would, and there you stood. Hair a mess, a worn-out Black Sabbath t-shirt that looked much too big to be yours hanging loosely off your frame, and a soft smile that made his heart flutter on your face as you greeted him.

“Uh, I uh…hi?”

You’d chuckled at his awkwardness, turning back to the coffee machine before you, while Bob still stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, ready to bolt if he needed to.

“Thought I was the only person insane enough to be up this early, nice to know that I’m not. Coffee?”

“Uh…s-sure,” Bob answered after a moment, taking cautious steps around the island counter to sit in one of the uncomfortable barstools Valentina had insisted on for the ‘look’ of the room. “What uh…what are you d-doing here?”

His eyes stayed trained on you as you poured a single cup of coffee into one of the mugs from the cabinets. He followed your movements as you pushed it off to the side, pouring another cup before raising your hand above the mug, fingers seeming to dance over the top of the liquid with the faintest hints of white magic seeping from your fingers as the brown color of the coffee inside the cup lightened into a deep tan.

“It was Yelena’s idea. I’m still a public figure, a prominent one at that, so for security reasons it doesn’t make sense for me to stay anywhere else in the city for the time being. While, sadly, under Valentina’s control, this tower is the safest guarded spot in New York. Plus, it was my home first, so staying here just made sense,”

You were standing directly across from him now at the island counter, sliding the first coffee mug you’d poured in his direction, just watching him. Bob watched you too, even as he took the steaming mug in his hands: you were cautious, speaking slowly and deliberately when you looked at him, as if sensing that he was poised to run if he needed to.

Bob took one sip before shutting his eyes in disgust, a shudder running through him. Bitter. Earthy. Disgusting was the word he’d use to describe coffee. Then, you laughed, and Bob felt it in his bones once again.

“Not a fan?” the amusement in your tone was clear as Bob shook his head, a sheepish, tiny grin crossing his face.

“I uh…I don’t actually drink c-coffee,”

You didn’t laugh, only smiled. And Bob watched as your eyes never left him, hand coming up to rest over his mug still in his hands as your fingers danced again, and suddenly the color of the drink he had just decided he hated lightened, matching your own.

“Try it now,” your voice was gentle, nodding toward the mug. “I hate straight black coffee, too. And your roommates are monsters; there wasn’t an ounce of creamer in this fridge, so I had to improvise.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t leave yours as he tried the new drink. Lighter, with a hint of chocolate. A touch of sugar, and what he thought might be honey, too. His smile was involuntary as he nodded his head.

“Okay…that I-I like,”

You laughed once again, and Bob felt it through his whole body once again. The lightness, as if the darkest parts of him were shoved and locked away. Peace.

He knew, then, that his plan was fucked.

You were everywhere. No matter what Bob was doing, you seemed to end up in the same orbit as him, spending your time around him. And when you weren’t? Bob found his way to you. Coffee in the morning became a constant between you both, a comfortable hour and a half together before anyone else woke up. Whenever John and Alexei managed to convince Bob that he should train, you ended up in the room with Yelena, watching him. And without fail, the two men could instantly notice the way that Bob seemed to perk up and try harder when you were watching.

It got easier to accept how pretty you were…and by easier, Bob meant it was just easier for him to ignore the raging blush that coated his cheeks anytime he was in close proximity to you. What didn’t get easier were the feelings. When you smiled and laughed, he could feel it. The two times he saw you leave a meeting room after having a private conversation with Valentina, he could feel it then too: the anger and the resentment.

There was one night when John and Ava were arguing in the middle of the common room after a mission. Loud, insults being thrown left and right, and nothing Bucky, Yelena, or Alexei said was calming them. Bob was off to the side, wringing his hands together, the argument playing out before him feeling all too familiar to those he’d watched of his parents. Then, suddenly, you’d burst out of the elevator, still in the clothes that you had been wearing from your meeting downtown with the mayor that Bob was sure you were still supposed to be in, throwing the two apart with a single flick of your wrist and ordering them to stop in a tone that only an Avenger could carry.

And when Bucky had asked you why you left your meeting, you’d told him you knew something was wrong. And when he asked you how you knew? Bob swore your eyes had darted to him before you spoke: “I…I don’t know. I could just…feel something was wrong.”

That was the first moment Bob thought that maybe, just maybe, you could feel what he felt, just like he could with you.

“It was right here where we sent Loki back to Asgard with Thor. God…I was a child back then, who thought it was a good idea to let me fight a god?”

Bob enjoyed moments like this the most in the few weeks he’d gotten to be around you. The rest of the team had been sent on a mission, and Bob was required to stay behind for this one, per Valentina’s request. Bob was sick of having to hang back, of feeling like a liability, so you’d taken it upon yourself to stay with him for the duration of his team’s time away. He hadn’t even had to ask, you’d simply appeared in his doorway and said you were taking him out.

He knew where he stood with you right now, you didn’t have to say it: the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park. He’d seen the bystander photos in their quick tour of the unopened museum hanging on the wall, commemorating the ‘Battle of New York’ from way back in 2012, a time that felt like a millennium ago. You were stood side by side, leaning against the railing of the terrace and simply people watching those around the fountain, and while part of Bob wanted to feel upset about not being on the mission, your presence calmed him. Being around you felt like that moment he’d shaken your hand for the first time, that wave of calm and peace washing over him, washing away his anxieties.

“A-At least you got to help, to fight,” Bob mumbled, though he knew you could hear him. His eyes stayed trained on this couple sitting together on the edge of the fountain, their hands wrapped around one another and fingers intertwined as she laughed at him as if he were the funniest person she’d ever seen. “I just do dishes. Makes me…makes me f-feel useless.”

There was silence for a moment, just the sound of everyone milling around the area. The screaming children, the laughter of friends, and then suddenly your hand was resting on top of Bob’s, and every ounce of anxiety just seemed to roll off his body without a second thought. He turned to you, and you were watching him with a soft smile.

“You’re not, I promise,” your hand left his, eyes turning back to the fountain, and Bob felt the need to chase after the feeling immediately. “When Fury brought me onto the team, Steve took me under his wing immediately. He became this brother I’d never had before, but with that came protectiveness. I remember when he tried to leave me out of the D.C. incident and I screamed at him that he couldn’t keep me out of it forever, that he couldn’t…he couldn’t make me feel useless, not when I am what I am. Valentina leaves you out of it because she’s a bitch, and trust me I’m itching for a way to knock her off her pedestal. The team does it because they care about you, which is a good thing, but if you have to be honest with them about how you feel.”

Your words took hold of Bob, but so did your voice. Quiet, but certain, words spoken with a level of care that Bob had never had directed toward him until he met Yelena. And then, he felt it: affection, care, kindness. It felt like you, because it was you, and he felt it so deeply in his bones that it ached.

Bob was aware of the eyes that were on you as people walked past you both, the people who recognized you for what you were in their eyes: a hero. His eyes stayed locked on the side of your face, a gentleness in his eyes and an affection toward you that he hadn’t felt before blooming in his own chest, watching as the corner of your lips quirked up just a hint.

“W-Why do you do it? Why do you want to be a hero?”

“Well, at first I wasn’t given a choice, Fury kind of threw me into it,” you’d laughed, turning your head to look at him again as a smile stretched over Bob’s lips at the sound of your laugh. “Remember that friend I mentioned?”

“The one you lost?”

“Yeah, him,” that fondness was back in your voice, but so was the tug of hurt in Bob’s chest that he’d felt the last time you spoke of your friend. “If Steve took me in like a sister, then I took him in like a little brother. Pe- he was so good, so pure. And I’ll never forget what he said once: ‘When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.’ That’s why I continue to do what they did, what my family did. But the real question is, why do you want to be one, Bob?”

“S-So I can do something good,” Bob didn’t have to think about his answer as he looked at you, at the eyes and smile that encouraged him to speak and held a promise of never judging him. “I don’t want to make things worse…I-I want to make them better.”

The conversation ended there, nothing else needing to be said. Then, Bob found himself curled into a corner of the common room couch hours later while you ran around the kitchen to prepare the popcorn, promising to show him a bunch of movies that you adored and used to watch with the Avengers that came before them—promising to tell him stories of the people that used to be your family.

“Alright, I’ve got kettlecorn,” you reappeared next to the couch, smiling down at him and holding both of the bowls in your hands up for him to see. “And the closest that I could get to butter-drenched, movie theater popcorn. Pick your poison.”

“Movie theater,” Bob nodded his head with a grin that you mirrored. “I-If I’m going to get heart disease, might as well get it happily.”

You laughed, and this time Bob was prepared for that feeling in his bones. He welcomed it, the warmth it brought, and it brought another feeling of his own to the surface: affection. That same feeling he’d never felt before, until just hours before, and suddenly, when he looked at you and how pretty you looked in the dim lighting of the common room, Bob’s breath caught as his brain seemed to catch up with his heart.

Oh god, his crush was back in full force.

He watched as you tilted your head for a moment, still not taking the seat beside him on the couch. You only watched him, a slightly curious look on your face, and Bob shifted. That seemed to break you from your trance-like state as you sat beside him, passing him the popcorn bowl he requested as you kept the other.

But when your hand grabbed the remote, prepared to press play on the first Rocky movie, you stopped. You hesitated. Then, you put the remote back down before you spoke.

“You know…I can feel it, too,”

Bob paused, frozen in place, as you turned to look at him. He opened his mouth, prepared to find a way to talk around the topic, to pretend like he didn’t know what you were talking about, but there was no ignoring it now.

“You…you do?” his voice was a whisper, anxiety dripping off his words. You laughed again, and when Bob felt it this time, he could also feel the bits of anxiety laced through your laugh.

“Yeah, since the moment I shook your hand,” you fully turned to face him now, a perfect mirror of one another. Backs pressed to opposite ends of the couch, legs tucked under your bodies, and nervous, tiny smiles etched to your lips. “And I…I think I know what it is. I didn’t for a while, but then I called some friends.”

“Friends?”

“There’s not much that the Masters of the Mystic Arts don’t know,” you’d tried to joke, getting a breathy laugh out of Bob. “What he explained to me was…ancient. Rare. Something only seen twice in history, but both times it had been with witches. The French were the first to document it…they dubbed it an âme sœur.”

“A-An…an âme-?”

“When the Big Bang occurred, when the universe was created, it created the Infinity Stones. But it created more than that,” you’d cut in, voice speaking so quickly that Bob could pick up the nerves laced throughout your explanation. “Many races in the universe, most notably humans, believed that each of us was born of the stars, that a piece of the universe lives in each of us. And when the universe was born, those stars were scattered, which placed us where we are now. But, in rare instances, those stars would split. They could be hurled galaxies apart, on different planets within the same solar system, or just miles apart. But, subconsciously, they’d find one another again. They’d…they’d complete one another. That these two people were so intune with one another that they could…they could feel one another. The two witches before me, they could feel their other halves…that’s how they found their âme sœurs…their soulmates.”

Bob’s breath caught, eyes transfixed on the way you bit into your bottom lip, more anxious than he’d ever seen before.

“S-Soulmate?”

“It can mean a lot of things,” you’d laughed lightly. “The first pair? They were best friends, and they remained that way forever. The other two…they were friends first, until it became more. Until they fell in love. It’s essentially just someone who’s meant to be in your life, someone destined to walk your path with you. Friends or lovers…that’s for them to decide.”

Friends or lovers. The next question was tumbling through Bob’s lips and out into the world before he could overthink and stop himself.

“T-Then…what are we?”

That question hung heavy in the air between you both. Bob watched you open your mouth to speak, before shutting it, repeating that action time and time again as you tried to find the right words to say.

“I think that means…we’re whatever we decide we’re going to be,”

Those words settled in Bob, and a wave of calm seemed to envelop the room around you both, as if having your destiny spoken out loud put everything into perspective finally. And all he could do was look at you with a look of absolute wonder written across his features.

Before he could speak, the elevators opened.

“AH, OUR BEAUTIFUL HOME! It is so good to be back, my friends! I say we get matchy-matchy in our tracksuits and spend this evening enjoying each other’s company, maybe with a fresh pot of hot cocoa,”

“Hot cocoa? Jesus, you sound more like Santa every day-”

“And how could you miss this place? We only left for the mission this morning?”

You’d gotten off the couch to greet the others, the moment between you both shattered. But Bob’s gaze never left your figure, even as you moved about the room. And when that bloom of affection found its way back into his chest, it had changed: desire, the need to hold you, the need to worship you, the need to taste you and claim you as his in a way he’d never felt before. And by the glance you threw over your shoulder to him, he knew you could feel it, too.

Fuck, this wasn’t just a crush.

So, when Bucky Barnes threw open his door at 2:36 in the morning to a dissheveled Bob Reynolds who looked like he’d just run several marathons, he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

“Bob-?”

“I-I think…I think I’m in love with her. L-Like, I think we’re destined to uh, to be in love. Like, even if I didn’t want to be I-I wouldn’t have a choice, like I’m meant to love her. Well, not entirely, we can kind of d-decide if we’re going to be. But it doesn’t feel like a choice, i-it feels like I’m meant to. But even if it wasn’t destined I-I think I’d still fall in love with her because she’s so pretty a-and nice and she treats me like me, and…yeah. Yeah, I’m…I’m in love with her,”

Bob took a deep breath, having ranted to the man before him without taking in a single breath of air. There was a beat of silence, and then a sigh from the super soldier standing in the doorway.

“Well, destiny or whatever this is aside, did you tell her all of this?”

“...no?”

Another sigh. “...god damnit, Bob,”

TAGLIST: @cypherpt5fttaehyung @dark-silhouette @greenbean-4ever @qardasngan @one17 @nutellajade @etheralponygirl @spencerreidswifexd @alexwinchester23 @am1525 @artistadistrada2002

[kurogxrix]

omg this absolutely killed me, please tag me in p2!!

we can’t be friends | bob reynolds

summary: bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

content: just a silly fic! heaaaavy amount of dialogue. bob is a yearner for readers attention, yelena being a menace, tva mentioned (not entirely accurate for the sake of the plot), a little bit of angst between two lost soulmates. finding nemo mcu crossover if u look into it

a/n: inspo taken from the we can’t be friends mv! i love a good invisible string soulmate trope. i have an idea for a pt 2 but idk if this is a good read to start off with

Bob didn’t understand.

There he was, swaddled in self-conscious agony, hands wrung when he stammered out to you to ‘break a leg’ for the upcoming mission that he and — on this occasion — Yelena Belova had been benched for. The widow sat at the alcove in the Living Quarters with her eyes glued to the New York City skyline when Bob queried if she would wave the rest of the team off.

She did not.

Courageous enough, Bob waited on the sidelines for you to finish the prep of your tactical gear, a faint smile on his features when you returned his gaze. It was on the cold side, your fleeting glance, that is, and Bob swallowed the lump of shyness in his throat to just talk to you.

The conversation concluded how it always had. You thanked Bob for his well wishes, a strained smile that never met your eyes and Bob couldn’t quite pinpoint what your problem with him was. You were never inherently mean to the guy, relatively polite in minimal conversation before scarpering off to the other end of the room before Bob could finish his sentence. He started to joke that you were his own version of an Irish Goodbye.

He awkwardly waved at your back, quick to make it look as if he was catching a fleck of dust when he noticed you didn’t spare him a look over your shoulder.

There was something niggling in the bones of his body about you. A magnetic force that kept drawing him to you, and yet, you would repel in the opposite direction and Bob was left gluttonous, the need to around you was much greater than any embarrassment he momentarily felt when you stepped away to leave him high and dry.

Of course, Bob wasn’t harassing you. In fact, you had your own little quirks that explained to him that you were happy to be situated in proximity to him; just not long enough to delve deeper into each other’s personal lives.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had recruited you out of the blue, and the Thunderbolts* — now reclaimed as the New Avengers — were left scratching their heads at the newest addition after New York Times had printed the heroes cemented in the group in black and white. She had hinted that you were potentially a temp, community service if you read between the lines.

Nobody had heard of another vigilante scouring the streets of New York. Yelena, naturally, wanted to peek at the cards close to your chest. Albeit a fond friendship that blossomed between Yelena and you, she hadn’t quite cracked the code to opening Pandora’s Box.

Whilst the perplexity of you weighed heavy on Bob’s shoulders, he retreated back to the Living Quarters to spend the time benched with his nose in a book for distraction. He supposed Yelena would still be brooding in the alcove, the injury sustained caused her to be seen as a liability when Bucky Barnes discussed tactics for their mission. Either way, Bob encouraged quiet time, even if he was in the same room as his friend.

“I’m bored.” Yelena spoke freely after thirty minutes of silence. Bob pinched the sentence he had read up to and looked up to the blonde. She exhaled deeply, knife twirled in her hand, “Can we do something fun?”

He’d bookmark the page for now.

Bob closed the book, “Are—Is this not fun?”

“No.” Yelena was truthful, he’d give her that. Her temple pressed against the glass of the window, “I want to move my limbs, Bob. You should to.”

“I did. I washed the dishes.” Bob said obliviously and Yelena scoffed. He added quickly, “What, uh, what do you wanna do then?”

Yelena sat up, “A little birdie told me there are a stack of confidential files in Valentina’s office. She’s not here. I say, let’s go have a look.” Bob shook his head and Yelena threw her hands up, “Come on, Bob. This is exposure therapy to adrenaline. Minimal chance of us getting caught but if we do, I’ll take the hit.”

The peer pressure was all too soul consuming and that led to Bob jittering behind Yelena whilst she picked the lock to Valentina’s office. He bounced on the balls of his feet, head almost turning 360 degrees at any sudden noises that alerted him of being caught red-handed. Yelena seemed to be taking her sweet time for being a trained assassin, although Bob knew it was partly to make him squirm.

Just as he began to form a sentence to usher Yelena along, he looked back to see the door click and the handle go down with ease — Yelena quick to throw a smug look over her shoulder. They crept in, Bob bumping into the back of Yelena with a mutter of an apology for not paying attention.

“Stop being so twitchy.” Yelena whispered, “It’s OK.”

“Sorry.” He apologised again and his eyes scanned the office for any obvious sign of stacked files that screamed confidential.

Yelena spotted it first. Manilla folders atop of the glass table she would occasionally sit at if genuinely required within the Watchtower, — much to John Walker’s dismay — Yelena pounced at the opportunity to have them in her grasp, fingers smoothed over the red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL.

Quick to open, she handed a random one carelessly to Bob as she flipped the first file in her hand open, eyes dropped down the page before scoffing and throwing it to the side.

“Boring.” She muttered continuously.

Bob stared down at the manilla file in his hand, hesitant to open it. There was something about a breach of privacy that made Bob’s skin crawl. Whoever, and whatever was within these files weren’t meant to be seen for his eyes. His sense of anxiety washed up to the feet of Yelena who halted her actions to stare up at him.

“You only have the one file, Bob.” Yelena explained the obvious, “You’re practically innocent with just one file. Read it and we can go.” Bob went to argue his case and Yelena held up a finger, “Uh-uh. Exposure therapy.”

“Right. . .” Bob heeded instruction and delicately opened to the front page. His throat constricting to see an image of you — no — a mugshot of you brandished in a beige jumpsuit with the letters TVA stamped across the right-side of the clothing. Your face struck with confusion in the photo, eyes wide with a collar round your neck. His brows pinched, “Yelena, what is the TVA?”

Yelena repeated, “The TVA? No idea.”

He went to look at your file again, your name typewritten along with other details of your being, your arrest ID and ultimately, your charge. It read: sequence violation and that meant nothing to Bob. Suddenly, he felt rather protective of your file, lifting his gaze to where Yelena sat with her feet up on the desk, invested in whomever it was in the sixth file she had picked up.

He went back to scanning the thick wad of pages in your file, counting his lucky stars that he was an avid reader and could retain information without dwelling on the page for too long at any given time.

Turns out, you had been arrested four times. For the same reason, a sequence violation. Page flipped, Bob felt his mouth run dry at what he could presume was a recitation of your words from the moment you had arrived at the facility where you had been arrested. It started off with questions, you were worried coated with confusion as to where you were. Then, like a sucker punch into his chest, the wind was knocked out of Bob when he read over the sentence in which you asked to be returned to him.

“Have you got anything good?” Bob slammed the file shut when Yelena snapped him back to reality.

A vigorous shake of his head, he stammered, “Uh, no. No I don’t. Just a low level criminal.” The file slowly went behind his back as he talked, “Why do you think Valentina has all these files?”

“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping I’d find something on you know who.” Yelena wiggled her brows and stood, the files slapped against the desk carelessly. Bob gulped as she rounded the desk, “Oh well. I’m going to go eat. . . You coming?”

“Sure.” Bob followed the blonde out, his eyes drifted back to the office as he fidgeted with your file tucked into the back of his pants.

Successful in not being caught, it had been hours since Yelena and Bob’s escapade with the Confidential Files which led Bob, to well, petty theft — but rightfully so — and three hours of endless reading of your script whilst contained at the so-called TVA facility. Things didn’t add up, you were talking in circles, begging to see Bob one more time before they pruned you. He didn’t know what any of it meant. It looked as if it were a knockoff time travel script for a television show.

He would have to ask you.

Once he returned the files to you.

That was also the other complication he faced. He had invaded your privacy, even if you didn’t have knowledge toward the said file. It would be a given that you wouldn’t welcome his questions with exceedingly overwhelming enthusiasm, but as Yelena Belova had boldly put it; it would be exposure therapy.

On the second last page, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The selected team bottle-necked out with nonchalant expressions, Alexei going to greet his daughter whilst the rest of you dispersed.

Bob caught you trudging alongside Bucky Barnes, your voices low before you split. On queue, you caught Bob’s attention aimed toward you and offered a meek smile that once again didn’t meet your eyes. He stood, file still tucked into the band of his pants. He was going to do it. Bob had to do it.

Feet shuffling, his body felt aflame when it came close to you. The air thickened with a tension that only he was aware of. Bob was so concentrated on achieving a subtle beeline to you, that his brain stopped sending signals to the movement of his feet, sending him flying across the floor after he tripped over his own foot.

Hands came out to brace the impact, a lot softer than anticipated, Bob looked up to see Alexei who gripped onto the collar of his favoured blue sweater, exposing his midriff and ultimately, the files hidden beneath the fabric.

Curiosity killed the cat and Alexei plucked the folder from Bob’s waistband.

“Now, what do we have here?” Alexei boomed as he held the folder that Bob had pickpocketed from the locked room. Pinched between two fingers, it dangled in front of Bob like bait. Alexei shook it a little and one sheet of paper floated to the floor.

Chaos ensued as Walker, Yelena and Bob went to grab the paper, two for inspection, one for protection. Bob felt Yelena push on him, her teeth grit from the force it took. Walker managed to grab the paper from Yelena’s weakened grasp, his hand crumpled it slightly as he snatched it; grunting as he stood tall with pride.

Bob immediately let Yelena out of his grasp, a protest formed on his lips when Walker smoothed out the page, his brows furrowed as he drank in the contents of the paper.

Blue eyes shot up from the page and to you.

You let out a nervous laugh and set your mug down on the countertop just as Yelena snatched it from Walker and scanned it briefly; her eyes matched John’s to stare at you.

“Have I got something on my face?” Your joke was weak, unnerved by the silence that was met after reading a bit of paper. Anxiety coiled up in your stomach, “Seriously guys, you’re starting to freak me out.”

Yelena plucked the page out, her glance not missing Bob as he cowered in shame when she passed. You watched her with worry as she crossed the gap and extended her hand, the crumpled page flimsy in structure as it exposed its contents to you with ease. Brows pinched, you took the paper and read through it, a flash of realisation crossed your face before it dissolved; replaced with a confident streak.

You huffed a falsified laugh, handing the paper back to Yelena, hands clasped around your mug — Bob not missing the way it shook — as you took a large swig of scolding hot tea, not phased.

“Are you going to explain that?” Walker prodded at your nonchalance.

“There is nothing to explain.” You replied, eyes flicked to Bob for a brief millisecond, “It’s a fake document. Valentina called it some Witness Protection decoy — I don’t know.”

“It’s quite specific.” Yelena added.

“Right. Specific in nonsense.” You slipped off of the barstool, “They’ll come up with anything these days—Bob? Can I speak to you about that Monstera plant you’re taking care of for me? I found some Classical music I’d like you to play it.”

“I don’t, I don’t have a Monstera—”

You spoke with urgency, “Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony.”

Bob didn’t get your reference, but he sensed it had some underlying code word for ‘We need to talk. Now’ and he adhered, muttering about how he did in fact have a Monstera plant and followed you out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where you were quick to yank him into the Cleaners cupboard.

Door slammed shut, you tugged at the light string and Bob jumped at the rage in your face illuminated by the weakened lightbulb above.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Bob?” You seethed in a whisper, your face red hot as you tried to comprehend the implications of your exposed files.

Bob held his hands up in surrender, “I—Yelena said it was exposure therapy. Breaking into Valentina’s office and looking through files.” He watched as your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, “I didn’t know your file was in there!”

“Why did you take it?”

“I don’t know!” Bob pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I—I panicked when I saw that it was you. It felt wrong that anyone else had it aside from you. I was going to give it to you, I promise.”

You stared at him for a long minute. Eyes pinned him to the spot as you sussed his honesty. Bob, from what you had known, was a man of the incapability to lie. To you, that is. Weakened by your presence, in every Timeline, you could disarm the man with a minute long stare and he would fold easily.

Bob shifted from one foot to the other, lips pulled into a thin line as he awaited your response. Awkward under your gaze.

“OK.”

Bob repeated, “OK.”

“This is fine.” You breathed.

Bob nodded for reassurance. “Fine.” He felt himself emphasise the nod, “Could you maybe explain what it means?”

“Oh god, this is not fine!” The palm of your hand slapped to your forehead as panic weaved through your voice. You began to mutter incoherently and Bob tried to reign you back in which only flared your panic more. “You weren’t supposed to find out, Bob. I promised.”

“Promised who? Hey—That doesn’t matter.” Bob shook his head, “Hey, look at me. It’s OK. This is my fault. If you don’t want to explain it, then I can live with that.” You nodded along to Bob’s words, hanging onto every syllable. He smiled genuinely, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Your panic soothed, “I will explain it.” That took Bob by surprise as you added, “I can explain it to you.”

“OK. Great.”

“. . . I’m not explaining it in the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob.”

Bob felt his face grow hot, “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.” He caught your eye, “In your room?”

“The kitchen, preferably. I’d rather a neutral ground when I tell you.”

Foreboding. But, Bob respected your request. Head peered out of the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob ensured that the coast was clear before he ushered you out and he watched the back of your frame scarper off to your bedroom, head down as you ignored John Walker speaking directly to you on your way.

Neither of you peeked your heads from your rooms until much later after endless pacing performed by the pair of you, in every square footage of your bedrooms.

The sky grew dark, your ear pressed against the wood of your door as you heard the rest of the team retreat to their rooms for an early night after the escapades on the mission — minus Yelena who still went to bed early in a sulk. Once you had heard Ava’s door click shut, your door swung open at the same time as Bob’s; the pair of you warmed with embarrassment.

“Tea?” You offered once you had reached the kitchen in hushed tones and tip-toes.

Bob sat at the counter, ankles crossed as he tapped his index fingers against the marbled surface.

“No. Thanks.” He declined, his head crammed full with an abundance of questions to ask you. Tea was last on his list of priorities.

Once finished with your brew, the chair scraped against the flooring next to Bob and you took your perched with a weak smile — this is the longest you had spent within close proximity of Bob Reynolds.

It felt unnatural.

“Where do I even start?” You asked rhetorically, breaking the silence and Bob was quick to respond with ‘The beginning.’ with attentive wide eyes. Chest constricted with the weight of your woes, you exhaled and began your explanation, “OK. I suppose you read a lot of the—my files?” Bob nodded, “To water it down, the TVA, Time Variance Authority, preserve what they call the Sacred Timeline. There is one designated Timeline that exists and, on the occasion that it alternates, they enforce arrests and erasure of that said branched timeline for restoration purposes.”

You continued, “Something happened to me, that was viewed as a threat to the Sacred Timeline, and the next thing I know, people armed to the teeth appeared through a portal and took me with them where I was arrested on the charge of a sequence violation.”

“Which was?” Bob encouraged.

“Which was, after the Blip, I had found a company that could wipe memories. Wonder Inc. The Blip haunted me for years after. There was this impending doom that it would happen again, and I desperately wanted to erase those five years.” You paused as Bob slid your mug of hot tea toward you, “I went in, they made me sign a waiver and next thing I knew, the Blip never happened in my head. I came home—bang—TVA were in the house and I was taken away. From my life. And, from you.”

“I have spent years in this endless cycle with the TVA. They took my life away from me and I have chased it back down to where they can’t find me.” It was tedious to explain, but you maintained for Bob’s sake more than anything.

Bob cleared his throat, his heart thumping in his chest, “When you say your life, do you mean—” He gestured between you two and you nodded with a wince. Bob hummed his attention drifting beyond the existence between the pair of you, in the kitchen of the Watchtower at two in the morning.

It was a lot to digest. Even having read the pages — front to back — within your file. It seemed more palatable to Bob when he could read it in black and white. As if it were some conjured up fantasy that stretched beyond the limitations of his own imagination. There you were, explicitly beautiful under the warmth of the candlelight, mapping out a scenario that was far fetched but Bob drank every word you spoke dry.

There had been a life. You and Bob. Intertwined in a daily life and more to the point in love from what Bob assumed. It made his head spin as the steam from the tea you had made him made his face perspire. At least, that’s what he put it down to.

He was brought back when you waved a hand in front of his face. Features expressed concern, a little regret for unfolding a complex situation on a staggering level.

“We can leave it there.” You mumbled and Bob was quick to jump to your defence, his hands reached for yours in a plea, warmth spread through your body from his touch; as if you had been shocked.

“Please.” He almost begged, “I want to hear it.”

“OK. . .” You scratched your brow bone with your thumbnail, “Cruelly, they showed me tapes of my life from the Sacred Timeline, my What If. I was told that, in every lifetime, we are thread together. Defined as soulmates in the entirety of the universe. Every Variant of me, has a Variant of you.”

“Really?”

“We were—are Clownfish in one reality.” You shrugged, “Lifelong mates, with our first batch of eggs. They pruned me, and, well I suppose you’re having to raise a bunch of kids.” You blew into your hot mug of tea with a casualness that brought wonder to Bob. Actually; you sounded insane.

A memory bubbled to the front of his thoughts, “Is that why you got me that Clownfish mug for that holiday?”

“Yes.” As if you sensed his thoughts, you added, “This can all remain hypothetical to you.”

“How many, uh, Timelines, did you—did you go through to find this one?” He ignored your remark. He didn’t want to run on hypothesis. You held five fingers up and Bob swallowed, “And, how did you know this one would work?”

You kissed your teeth, “I didn’t.”

“But, this is as far as you’ve gotten to get back to. . . Me?” Bob pulled at his earlobe.

“Yes.” You leant back in your seat, “I guess — my idea is — there’s been no physical intimacy between us and that means we haven’t branched from the Sacred Timeline. Because, from what I’ve been shown, whenever one of my Variants has kissed you, the screens of the TVA almost blow out.”

Bob could feel himself sweat.

“Oh.” Kissed. You and him. Kissing.

The delicate subject thickened the air and you tapped at the ceramic of your mug, “Which is great news for you. You don’t have to kiss me—Yay!”

“Yay.” Bob stuttered. Was it great news? A little blurred on that one.

Regret filled your chest.

“On that note. I think I’m going to turn in. You should too after that overload of information.” You dropped from the stool and took your favoured mug to the sink. Bob stared at the back of your head, unable to make himself move from his cemented spot. You turned on your heel with a brow quirked, “Bob? You OK?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m—I’m OK.” He huffed out.

The pair of you said nothing else. A comfortable silence blanketed over your shoulders as you walked in unison through the darkened halls of the Watchtower — muffled snores heard from multiple rooms. Arms bumped as you walked, you let a soft smile grace your features from the relief of being able to finally speak to someone about your precarious circumstances.

You hadn’t anticipated that said person to be the very core of your being. Longed for from a distance, perhaps more cruel now that, plagued with the knowledge of your love in every lifetime; you could never fully pledge yourself to Bob Reynolds on Earth-616.

Hand on your door handle, you heard the faintest of clicks to inform you that your bedroom door was now unlocked. Door creaked open just a crack, your actions halted when Bob’s voice cut through the silent air.

“Hey—” He spoke your name and your heart jumped. You turned to look at him, his hair disheveled and eyes bright under the moonlight tones. Just as you remembered him in every lifetime. Bob continued with your devoted attention, “What did you mean by Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony?”

You let out a laugh, “Oh. It’s a piece of music that has slight restless urgency to it. I needed to speak to you urgently. It just coincided with the whole Classical music punch I threw at you.”

“Right. Smart.” Bob was impressed. His mouth moved before his brain, “Have we ever been Classical music lovers?”

“Goodnight, Bob.”

“OK. Goodnight.”

The pair of you beamed on the other side of your closed doors.

[kurogxrix]

say what you want but i actually love the stereotypical badass reader that’s extremely overpowered with crazy plotamour because in my regular life i’m not even brave enough to tell the mcdonald’s worker that they got my order wrong

[kurogxrix]

Ho did you just twist the knife💔??

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[kurogxrix]

Hi! I'd like to request Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader who's apart of the team, but they're in a secret relationship. Until Bob walks in on them and he runs through the tower screaming and whining about what he saw. 😂

Also, do you take requests for Bob, John, and Alexei?

cybernetic foreplay | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Explicit Smut | Semi-Public | Banter | Light Dom/Sub Undertones | Dirty Talk

Word Count: 777

A/N: Bucky Barnes, the man you are. Thank you for the request, and yes! I do now take requests for Bob and John. I do take Alexei requests too, however, strictly platonic/father-daughter relationship type requests.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

You should’ve known better, but somehow Bucky Barnes with rolled-up sleeves always distracted you during a mission debrief. His smug little smirk, and that viburnum arm draped behind your chair. He made you reckless. 

Now you were hiding in a storage room in the Watchtower—door locked, lips locked onto Bucky’s, and his hands boldly wandering your body. 

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whispered, his mouth muffling the sound. 

“We’re already caught,” Bucky smirked, pulling your shirt up and over your head. “You’re flushed.” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I’m smiling,” he scoffed.

“Very suspicious,” you laughed lightly. “Val’s probably reviewing the footage right now.” 

“You think Val watches our ‘free time’ footage for fun?” 

“Only when she thinks one of us is breaking protocol.” 

“Like me bending you over a weapons crate?” 

You let out another laugh as his firm grip guided you around, bending you forward, and pressing your chest down against a crate marked DO NOT STACK. His mouth pressed open-mouth kisses up your spine, finding its way to the shell of your ear. 

“I thought about this the entire meeting,” he growled, slipping his fingers down your pants, pushing them down your thighs. “You in this suit. Acting like a good little Avenger.” 

A sharp gasp escaped your throat as his fingers traced up to your crease, fingers spreading your folds. “Bucky—please, I need you to fill me up.”

He stroked slowly, purposefully, as he pressed himself against your ass. “You’re already so wet.” 

You clenched against nothing, soft moans spilling from your lips. Your hips grinding down against his hand.

“Such a desperate little doll,” he teased, lips trailing down your neck. “You love sneaking around like this, don’t you?” 

“Only because I love the way your cock feels inside me,” you shot back, breath catching as he pushed two fingers inside you. Curling just right. 

Bucky groaned, freeing himself from his pants. “How do you expect me to have any self-control when you say shit like that?” 

His cock throbbed as his thick head rubbed along your folds. His metal hand gripping tightly against your hip, holding you still. 

“Tell me you want it,” he rasped, teeth grazing the flesh of your shoulder. 

“I need it, Bucky.” 

He pushed inside you with one slow, aching thrust, fingers still buried inside you. A moan tore from your lips as he bottomed out. You bowed your spine in response and dug your nails into the crate.

The sound of his skin on yours filled the storage room, his hips slamming into your ass, setting a rough, steady rhythm. His thumb toying with your clit. 

“Bucky—oh my god—” You unraveled fast. Your breath came in ragged gasps. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Fuck—you’re taking so much of me—”

You both froze.

The doorknob rattled. 

It kept rattling. 

Thankfully, not budging.

Until—

“Ohhh my god—”

Light flooded into the room, exposing your body, shining with sweat, and bent over for Bucky Barnes. And… Bob.

You barely had time to react before Bucky pushed Bob back out into the hallway, slamming the door shut again. A rapid sound of footsteps began thundering down the hallway.

“I found them! They’re defiling company property!” Bob shrieked. “They’re swapping bodily fluids! In the storage room! I need to bleach my eyes!” 

You turned your head, looking back at Bucky. “Did he just say ‘swapping bodily fluids’?” 

There was a moment of silence. Bucky shook his head, pulling out of you and adjusting himself back into his pants.

Then Bob’s faded voice echoed again, further down the hall: “Cybernetic foreplay!” 

You groaned, standing upright. “I told you we were gonna get caught.” 

“I didn’t think Bob, of all people, would walk in,” Bucky said, helping you redress. “He looked me in the eye. I thought he was about to turn into the shadow man again.” 

“Bucky—”

The door opened again. You both turned, eyes widening like deer caught in the headlights. 

Not another one.

Val stood in the doorway. She blinked at the pair of you, hard. Her eyes flickered between you. Then at the weapons crate.

She sighed. “Next time you feel the urge to violate my storage room, do it when there isn’t the possibility of a multi-million dollar insurance report to file.”

“They were so…together.” You heard Bob in the distance, no doubt informing your teammates on what he saw. 

Val pinched the bridge of her nose. “Get out. Both of you. Go clean up. And—burn the suits.” 

You and Bucky stepped out together, your panties clutched in Bucky’s metal hand. His voice was low in your ear as he leaned closer to you. “So… your apartment?”

---

Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Please leave feedback. ♡

[kurogxrix]

“He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.”

was so beautiful it just single-handedly made me want a husband and a kid.

can you do bob x reader where he sees us interacting with a child and it makes him want to be a father so bad?

It’s You I’m Thinking Of

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/ The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement and because some events are mentioned in passing. Fluff, a hint of Angst and an Established Relationship is at the forefront here.

Author's Note: Surprise, it’s double update day…Because I had this in my drafts and forgot to post it…YIKES. I found this to be so fluffy and cute to write! Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this a lot!

Word Count: 3,805

Valentina had called it a “Visibility Effort,” which–as far as Bob was concerned–was just a polished way of saying: “I need people to stop thinking you guys are monsters, so go smile for the cameras and pretend you guys didn’t almost destroy New York City a year ago.”

The Thunderbolts had only just begun to scrape their way back into the public’s good graces after the Void. If grace could even be applied to a team that, not long ago, had been seen as volatile assets in containment rather than heroes in recovery. But Valentina didn’t care about semantics–she cared about optics. And what better way to scrub down their image than to host a carefully staged, feel-good community day in a public park–complete with banners, press kits, and security briefings disguised as media rundowns.

The day before, you and the rest of the team had been sweating under the sun, assembling the layout from the ground up. Tent poles groaned in the wind, tarps snapped against knuckles, and the oversized bouncy castle–more akin to a pop-up cathedral–took three hours to stabilize. It loomed over the field like a surreal monument to liability.

By sundown, the park had been transformed.

Face-painting booths stretched along the paved path like an art market in miniature, each tent hung with paper lanterns and garlands of plastic ivy. A ring toss area had been set up beside a small prize table, its wares still barcoded and smelling faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner. Further down, a row of food trucks idled along the lot’s edge, the air thick with fried batter and roasted peanuts, preparing for the next day. A banner, bold and hopeful, rippled above the main walkway: THUNDERBOLTS COMMUNITY GIVEBACK DAY!

The park was bustling before noon the next day.

Children darted between booths with faces half-painted and shoes untied. Parents loitered on benches, plastic cups of lemonade in hand, cautiously optimistic about letting their kids near a group of enhanced individuals who, six months ago, were being referred to as national liabilities. Still, smiles came easier than expected. The air smelled like kettle corn, sun-warmed vinyl, and freshly cut grass.

Valentina had positioned her pawns with precision, each member of the team slotted into a role meant to soften their image–familiar, friendly, safe.

Yelena was stationed at the face-painting table. She didn’t argue when she was assigned to it, though she rolled her eyes hard enough that everyone could basically hear it. Now, seated with a paintbrush balanced between her fingers, she looked…Focused. Delicate even. She painted dragons, daisies, and one incredibly accurate depiction of Bucky’s old Winter Soldier face paint layout. She didn’t say much unless spoken to, but the kids flocked to her. Her bluntness came off as hilarious to them. Her gentleness? Earned in silence.

Walker manned the obstacle course–one of the only areas Valentina trusted him not to overcomplicate. With his sleeves rolled up and clipboard tucked under his arm, he barked out encouragements that sounded suspiciously like bootcamp commands. But he was patient. He let kids redo the course as many times as they wanted. And when one boy tripped near the finish line, Walker helped him up without hesitation and whispered something that made the kid’s chest puff with pride.

Ava floated between stations like an unofficial supervisor. She had no designated role, but her presence was felt and it was heavy. She hovered near the cotton candy vendor long enough to be offered a free sample, then spent ten minutes helping a little girl reattach the wheel to her toy stroller. Ava didn’t smile often, but she kept her sunglasses off today. It mattered more than anyone would admit.

Alexei had placed himself right in the center of the park’s open lawn, surrounded by children wielding foam swords. He was absolutely in his element. Towering, loud, enthusiastic. He let them “ambush” him over and over again, dramatically collapsing onto the grass as they tackled him, crying out in mock defeat with every fall. When one kid asked if he was Santa, Alexei laughed so hard he nearly swallowed a whistle. He’d fashioned a red Thunderbolts cap to resemble something almost festive. No one stopped him.

Bucky was at the photo booth. Not because Valentina assigned it to him–but because he asked. Quietly. Just once. And when she raised a brow, he explained:

“Kids like the arm. Makes them feel like they’re meeting a real superhero.”

No one argued with that.

He stood beside the printed backdrop of a Thunderbolts mural, his vibranium arm resting lightly at his side. At first, only a few families came by. Then word got around. By midday, there was a line curling around the booth. Bucky posed with toddlers who clung to his leg, tweens who wanted to see if he could lift them with his arm alone, and teens who just wanted proof they’d stood next to him. He let them. All of them.

And you–you’d been running the craft tent since the gates opened. Low folding tables filled with paper crowns, pipe cleaners, sticker sheets, and markers with their caps long lost to time. You moved between projects with practiced ease, coaxing confidence out of even the shyest children. One girl in a purple tutu had stuck to your side all morning, proudly referring to you as “Miss Thunderbolt” like it was an official title.

Bob on the other hand…Wasn’t assigned a booth.

Valentina had called it a “strategic decision”–which meant don’t scare the kids. She hadn’t said it outright, of course, but Bob understood the subtext. The others had made peace with their reputations, learned how to bend their edges into something palatable. Bob’s problem wasn’t sharpness. It was scale. People didn’t look at him and see a man. They saw The Void. A storm in a body. The thing that turned Manhattan’s sky black almost a year ago. Or they saw him as Golden Boy Sentry, which he rarely presented himself as now because all of that was dormant since the incident, so he was just Bob, and unfortunately nobody was really interested in just Bob.

Except you of course.

You had grown extremely close to him throughout the time he was recovering from the incident. You would stay back from missions just to keep him company, and within those small moments, the two of you grew a bond and became inseparable.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big declaration, no kiss in the rain, no sweeping hand grab before battle. It was subtle–gentle, even. A shared quiet. The way you waited for him to speak on his own terms. The way you handed him warm drinks without comment and sat beside him on the floor of his room during the worst days, and just held him or smoothed his hair down. The way you always reached for his hand under the table when Valentina debriefed the team about “public image,” like you were grounding yourself in him, not the other way around.

It started with one date. A walk. A drink from the local coffee shop that you used two straws for. A movie you barely paid attention to because Bob had cried halfway through and apologized for it, and you’d told him, “I’d rather watch you feel something than watch the movie anyway.”

Now it had been nearly a year.

A quiet year. A healing one. A year where Bob–somehow–had begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t made just for disaster. Maybe he was allowed to want softness. Warmth. You.

So he stayed near you now, just like he always did. Even in the middle of this pastel-bright circus of a public relations stunt, even with the buzzing press cameras and the thunder of kids’ shoes over packed grass–he stood a few feet behind your tent. Watching quietly like he always did.

You didn’t need him to be part of the event. You didn’t ask him to engage. You just wanted him to be close and hover around you. And every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder and give him a little smile–soft, unhurried, like a tether that reminded him that he was still on your mind.

That’s what he was doing when it happened.

You were helping a child–maybe four, maybe five–cut out the outline of a star from glitter paper. She was sitting in your lap, legs swinging off the edge of the bench, her small fingers clumsy around the safety scissors. You guided her hands with your own, gentle and patient, your chin tucked down as you murmured something too soft for him to hear. The girl giggled. You smiled. And Bob felt something in his chest fracture.

It bloomed sharp and sudden, like a crack in glass that spiderwebbed behind his ribs before he could stop it. A low, aching pressure that pulsed under his skin and settled into his throat. He couldn’t look away from you. From the way the little girl leaned back against your chest, utterly content, while you helped her snip the edges of her glittery star. Your voice was low, your hand steady on hers, and when she got frustrated, you smiled and told her it was perfect just the way it was.

And the little girl–she believed you.

Bob watched her beam like she’d just won a medal, then twist to throw her arms around your neck. You hugged her back instinctively, without missing a beat, without needing to think about it.

And just like that, Bob saw it.

Not as a fantasy. Not as a warm, fuzzy, distant dream.

He saw you. Sitting in a living room. Soft lamplight across your shoulders. A child curled into your lap with a crayon clutched in one hand and a juice box in the other. Your hair a mess from the day, a blanket half-draped over both of you. And him in the doorway. Holding a book in his hand that he’d forgotten to read, too caught up in the simple, breathtaking fact that this was his life. That somehow, impossibly, he’d made it here.

His throat tightened.

The thought came quietly, like breath fogging glass:

He wanted this.

He wanted you. A child. A family. Not someday, not maybe. Just–yes. He wanted tiny shoes in the hallway. A swing set in a yard. A sleepy voice calling him Dad. He wanted your laughter in a kitchen filled with baby wipes and half-assembled toys. He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.

But right on the heels of that beautiful, terrifying longing came something cold and heavy.

Fear.

He swallowed, hard.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the dark part of his memory–low, sharp, filled with the kind of disgust that was harder to forget than fists. He could still hear the way the floor creaked before a bad night. The sting of being told he was nothing. How love only showed up with bruises attached.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

What if I turn into him? He thought.

He didn’t think he would. He knew–rationally–that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He couldn’t even raise his voice without wincing at the echo. He loved gently. He loved softly. But fear didn’t care about facts. It sunk into his lungs anyway.

What if something in him broke? What if the Void came back and he couldn’t stop it? What if one day he opened his eyes and the sky was black again, and the only thing he’d ever loved was looking up at him, afraid?

He could never live with that.

Never.

And yet–

You turned slightly, and caught Bob’s eyes across the grass. You smiled at him–something so simple, so safe–and in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it softened.

Because you weren’t afraid of him.

You’d never been.

Even on the days he didn’t like himself, you liked him. Even when he flinched at his own reflection, you reached for his hand and rested your chin on his shoulder. You didn’t see The Void. You didn’t see the Sentry. You just saw Bob–the man who carried your snacks in his hoodie pocket just in case you got hungry when you went out, who still got bashful when you looked at him for too long, who curled into you at night like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his life.

Bob’s hand gripped the edge of the canopy pole beside him, just to ground himself.

He wanted to go to you right then and there just to say it. To whisper something clumsy like, “I want to build a life with you. A whole one. With glue-stained paper crowns and messy bedrooms and bedtime songs.”

But he stayed still.

Too scared to break the moment.

Too scared it might not be his to want.

—————————

Later, when the event was winding down, and the sky had shifted to gold and mauve and soft watercolor blues, Bob found you sitting on the grass alone near the now-abandoned craft table, peeling dried glue off your fingers and watching a few leftover kids chase bubbles across the park. He moved towards you slowly, and his looming presence immediately got your attention.

You stopped picking at the glue on your fingers and looked up at him instantly.

”Well, hey stranger.” Bob gave a quiet huff of a laugh at the greeting and smiled down at you, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “You gonna sit down or are you going to just stand there and stare?” You joked, patting the patch of open grass beside you. He hesitated for a second before lowering himself beside you, knees folding awkwardly in the grass. You watched him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek–light, and lingering, your lips warm against the wind-chilled skin just below his eye.

“I haven’t been able to do that all day,” You said softly, almost teasing, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

Before Bob could even respond, you leaned in and pressed another kiss to the corner of his jaw, then to his temple, and then one right between his brows where they had scrunched up, each kiss softer and slower than the last.

By the time you pulled back, Bob’s cheeks were as red as a rose, and they had become warm, and his smile had curled wide and helpless across his face, because to him your affections were always welcome.

”Y-You’re gonna make me explode,” He mumbled, voice thick with love as he turned to hide his burning face against the shoulder of his hoodie, “This is h-how I die.” He stumbled, looking over at you with those big blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into every night.

“Death by affection sounds like a dream to me.” You laughed, slipping your hand up to cup his cheek, to turn his face towards yours so he was looking at you directly.

“Y-You know I’m a fragile m-man.” You snorted at his comment.

”I know Sentry is dormant but you’re technically the strongest person on Earth.” You said, giving him a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re fragile.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh, his pupils blown out from how close you were.

”Y-Yeah, well…D-Don’t flatter me too much…You’ll make me f-fall in love with you or s-something.” You raised your brows at him, seeing his cheeks go an even deeper red, “I-I mean–more. Like…More in love with you.” You smiled, so warmly it made his breath catch in his throat, you could hear it.

”Almost a year in,” You whispered, brushing your nose gently against his, “And you still get all flustered with me…I love it.”

And you kissed him–gently, fully, your mouth warm and sure on his. Bob melted. His whole body slackened like your kiss had pulled all the tension right out of him. He groaned quietly and let himself fall back into the grass with a helpless thump, hoodie riding up slightly at the hem, his eyes fluttering closed like he was physically overwhelmed. You laughed lightly and laid down beside him, turning your head so you were looking at him and all his glory, feeling his hand find yours, lacing his fingers between yours instantly.

The sky above you was dimming into deeper blues now, streaked with soft brushstrokes of pink and violet. The hum of the event had finally died out completely. You could still hear the occasional giggle of a child somewhere off in the distance, but for the most part, it felt like you two were the last ones left in the park. Like the whole day had been waiting to exhale.

Bob stared up at the clouds for a moment, before letting out a small sigh.

”C-Can I ask you something…Kind of b-big?” Your eyes studied him for a moment, tracing the way his brows furrowed gently, like he was already halfway to apologizing for whatever he was about to say. Like he was bracing himself to ruin something just by saying it.

“Of course,” You replied, your voice just above a whisper, slowly growing more and more concerned with each moment that passed in silence.

Bob just kept looking up at the sky like the words were written somewhere in the clouds and he just had to find them. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your knuckles.

”Have you ever thought about…Us?” He swallowed, “I mean–not just us, b-but more like…A family.” You raised your eyebrows slowly, turning onto your side so you could face him fully, still holding his hand, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I–I watched you today,” He whispered. “With that little girl in your lap. And it didn’t feel far away…It didn’t feel like someone else’s life. It felt like something I could…Want.”

Your heart gave a soft, aching pull at that.

“I want it,” He admitted, voice trembling. “I want it so bad it scares me. You, a kid–us. A home. Not perfect. Not polished. Just ours. Something warm. Something safe.”

You reached up and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing along his temple. He leaned into the touch like it soothed something he couldn’t name.

“I want that too,” You said. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But one day. When things are a little quieter, when the world doesn’t need us to carry it. I want that with you, Bob.” He nodded, like he was trying to let the hope settle in–but his eyes were still stormy at the edges.

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I…Mess it up l–like I always do? What if I hurt them? What if something in me snaps and I—”

“Hey,” You cut in gently, reaching up to cradle his cheek. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his blue eyes wide and full of unshed fear, tears filling up in the corners threatening to spill at any moment.

“You’re not like your father at all Bob, you’re not him.” You said, your voice steady and firm.

”Y-You don’t know that,” He whispered, his eyes glancing away at you, making you chase his gaze a bit so he could look at you.

”I do know that…Because I know you. Because I’ve watched you fall asleep holding my hand. Because you carry two different granola bar options in your hoodie pocket in case I want a choice. Because you always refill the toothpaste without me asking. Because when I’m upset, you don’t try to fix it–you just stay with me. Quietly. Constantly.” Bob blinked, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

“You don’t lash out, Bob. You lean in,” You said. “You don’t shut down. You open up, even when it scares you. You feel everything so deeply, and you never make anyone pay for it.” His brow furrowed and he looked down, overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of that truth.

You brought his hand up to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then whispered into the space between you:

“You already take care of me in a thousand tiny ways. You love gently. That’s why I trust you with my soul.”

He let out a shaky breath, and the hand that held yours tightened just a little more. He nodded faintly, like he was still catching up to the truth you’d handed him–like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he was holding it anyway.

You reached up, your thumb brushing delicately at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered without pressure or embarrassment. Just care.

“You cry so pretty, you know that?” You whispered, a little playful, attempting to lift the mood just a bit.

Bob let out a short, breathy laugh–surprised and soft. “Th-That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when you do it,” You smiled, leaning closer, your voice light but laced with everything you meant. “You’re beautiful when you feel things.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a future and told him it already belonged to him. Like no one had ever said that to him before–and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, lips pressed to his like you had time. Like you weren’t afraid to show him just how loved he was.

And when you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breath brushing his lips as you whispered:

“You’d be the safest place a little soul could ever grow.”

Bob let out another shaky breath, and this time he smiled–full, unguarded, like something inside him had just settled for the first time.

“Only if it’s with you,” He said quietly.

You nodded, your fingers lacing tighter with his.

“Then we’ll build it,” You whispered. “Slow and messy and ours.”

And beneath a darkening sky painted with stars and leftover laughter, you lay together in the grass, your future unfolding between your palms like something sacred.

Just warm.

Just real.

Just home.

[kurogxrix]

Peace in the Darkness (one-shot)

Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)

Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst

Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)

Word count: 6623

All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart

If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.

            His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.

            “I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”

            And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.

            It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.

            Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.

            “What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”

            Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”

            “And who is Y/N?”

            Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”

            “And how did she help?”

            “She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”

            The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”

            He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.

            But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?

            The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.

            Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

            He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.

            Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.

            Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.

            “Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.

            The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.

            “Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”

            For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.

            All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”

            “That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”

             And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!

            But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.

            Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.

            “It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”

            But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.

            There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.

            Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…

            “Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.

            Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

            “Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.

            “Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”     

            The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”

            “She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”

            “Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”

            “Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”

            But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.

            Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –

            Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.

            He associated Y/N’s room with peace.

            Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.

            Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.

            She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.

            Yet now it was pitch black inside.

            Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.

            “Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.

            He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”

            Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.

            Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.

            Y/N was sick.

            And by the sound of it, badly.

            Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.

            Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”

            “Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”

            He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…

            “Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”

            Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”

            Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”

            “Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”

            A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”

            “Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”

            “I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.

            “Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”

            Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”

            “Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.

            The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”                             

            “Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”

            “As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.

            On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."

            An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”

            He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”     

            “No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”

            Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.

            “Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”

            “Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.

            Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.

            But Y/N didn’t know that.

            She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.

            She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.

            She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.

            She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.

            It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”

            That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.

            So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.

            Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.

            “S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”

            “Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”

            Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.

            He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.

            His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.

            “Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”

            “But I don’t want you to leave!”

            “I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”

            For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.

            He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.

            She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.

            It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.

            And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.

            He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…

            “H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”

            “No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”

            “Always.”

            And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.

            The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.

            “We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.

            “Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”

            When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.

            Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.

             He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.

            “Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”

            There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”

            “Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”

            Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”

            “Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”

            She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”

            “Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”

            “I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“

            “Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.

            “Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”

            Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”

            Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.

            “Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”

            “Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”

            His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.

            God.

            Oh god no.

            He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.

            Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”

            Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.

            “Traitor,” she muttered.

            Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”

            “And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”

            “But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.

            “I dunno, John?”

            Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”

            If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.      

            “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

            “Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”

            “You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.

            Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.

            All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.

            “Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.

            His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”

            “The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”

            “Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”

            “But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.

            Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”

            “My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.

            “Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.

            After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”

            “Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.

            With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”

            “Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”

            Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.

            “Bob?”

            “Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.

            “Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”

            He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.

            “Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”

            And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.

            The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.

            He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.

            When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.

            “Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I’m back.”

            He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.

            She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.

            Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.

            “Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”

            “I–I mean, I didn’t –“

            “You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”

            And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”

            With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.

            For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.

***

BONUS

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”

            It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.

            He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.

            One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.

            Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.

            “You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”

            “How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”

            “Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”

            “Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”

            Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.

            She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.

            “The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.

            Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”

            “I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”

            Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.

            One day, he would tell her how he really felt.

            One day, he would give his heart to her.

            One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.

             But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.

Tags: Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life... you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life Tags are always open

[kurogxrix]

Doctor Bob ─ Bob Reynolds x reader

It's the middle of the night, you're bleeding out in the bathroom, and refusing to let Bob take you to an actual doctor aka Bob learns how to stitch up a stab wound

avenger!reader, fem!r, roommate!bob CW descriptions of injury + gore, non sexual partial nudity | 3k THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!

─── ₊⊹

You shift your weight from foot to foot on the hardwood outside of Bob’s bedroom. It’s late, like, really late. The sun had set and spun its way to the other side of the world when you’d left the tower hours ago. It must be nearly morning by now. 

Bob’s not an early riser exactly, but he is an insomniac. It’s not unusual to hear him roaming around the halls at an hour like this. So maybe your luck has turned a new leaf, and he’ll be awake already. And maybe he’s got some useful medical expertise under that mop of curls. A shot in the dark, sure, but Bob’s a mystery. His mind stopped surprising you months ago. 

The lock clicks, and the door opens a short gap, just enough to highlight a familiar pair of eyes in a sheet of darkness. Bob says your name softly, pulling the handle back until he’s draped fully in the hallway light. “You okay?” He clears his throat, kneading sleep-swollen eyes with a closed fist. 

You feel sort of terrible for waking him then. The poor guy barely sleeps as it is. But your heart can’t sink with enough sympathy to turn you around; not when it’s busy pumping your body’s entire blood supply to the leaky faucet on your back. 

“Mhmm,” you strain. “Do me a favor?” 

He hums, blinking slowly at the arm curled around your waist. He’s fixated on the awkward angle you're keeping it. You’ve got your jacket on, and your boots. You’re decked out in full gear, he realizes. His hand drops from the door frame as he straightens up. “What’s wrong?” 

“Don’t freak out,” you start– which, in hindsight, is not a very good way to start a sentence– “but I’ve been stabbed.” 

His eyes go wide, his gaze slingshotting from your head to your toes. “You what?” 

“Stabbed,” you repeat, clutching your side tighter as you spin. It really hurts to turn, just to move. It’s like someone unplugged all of the organs in your abdomen and shook you up like a snow globe. “Now, will you just, please help me. I can’t reach it.” 

“Reach what?” The quick swish of Bob’s socks is the only other sound apart from his voice. “Hey, wait a second. Where are you going? Can you sit down?” 

You push the bathroom door open and flick on the light. There’s a vacant glaze in the eyes of your reflection that you pretend not to see. “Do you know how to sew?” 

Bob idles in the doorway, mouth faltering like you’re speaking another language. “What?” 

“Sew, you know, needle and thread.” 

He shrugs. “Well, kind of, but it wasn’t– I don’t think it was very good. I’m not very good at it.” 

“But you’ve done it before?” 

“Yeah, but– I mean, it was just a sock, it’s not like– it wasn’t a stab wound.” 

You bend for the cabinet's bottom drawer, a whimper slipping through gritted teeth. “It’s the same thing,” you rasp, swiping the roll of gauze off the top. 

“No, I’m not– I can’t.”

“You can.” You tug at your jacket zipper and shrug out of the heavy sleeves. Your arms are slick with sweat, but stippled with goosebumps. Not a reassuring combination. “I’ll teach you.” 

“No, no, I don’t really–.” 

“It’s not hard. Promise.”

Your focus flutters up to his face. He’s looking at you funny, brows heavy with worry. “You’ve done this before?” 

Even a weak little laugh pinches every nerve in your lower back. You tug the hem of your shirt up, gloating, “Once or twice.”

Bob ogles the graveyard of scars across your stomach, each raised line a farewell from a fight you survived. They’re trophies in a fucked up sort of way. His hands shoot up to yours, bracketing your wrist in one and the roll of gauze you're holding in the other. “I should call an ambulance.” 

“Don’t you know how expensive those are?” 

“Then I’ll drive you.” 

Your snort collapses with a strangled wince. “You don’t even have a license, Bob.”

“I don’t think the cops will care when they see that you’re bleeding out.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a scratch. You’ll see. It’ll be much easier to just stitch it here, trust me.” 

Bob does tend to trust you. You’ve saved his life more times than he can count at this point. But you’ve been stabbed. You must be delirious with blood loss or shock or something. He shakes his head vehemently at you, your wrist and the gauze slipping from his clammy hold. “No, no, no. I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s easy. I’ll walk you through it.” 

“Wouldn’t Yelena, or Ava, or literally any of the others, be better for this? I’ve never– I don’t know how to do this.” 

“Walker’s the only one home and I’d rather bleed out for real than inflate that asshole’s ego even more. Can you imagine what he’ll say?” You fold your arms and grumble, “Oh, remember that time I saved your life like a real hero.” 

Your impersonation does nothing to fix the pitiful look Bob’s sending you. You even muster up a smile, a pretty damn good one having been stabbed half an hour ago, but his frown only worsens. “Don’t be scared,” you say gently. “I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll tell you what to do.” 

“What if I make it worse?”

“You’re not gonna stab me, too, are you?” Your teasing grin snaps under the weight of a new wave of crushing pain. “I’d really like to just get this over with so I can go lie down.” 

Any last hope of changing your mind trickles out of Bob as you start to pull your shirt off. He looks away, burning up to his ears. 

The fabric sticks to the hot pool on your back, blood oozing like magma from a volcano. Lifting your arms isn’t as simple as you hoped it would be. You shimmy and struggle like a fish in a net before Bob takes you by the wrists and guides your arms free himself. His eyes catch yours for a split second before he snaps them shut, blindly tossing your shirt to the floor. 

“You can’t sew my back shut with your eyes closed, you know. You can look at me.” 

Bob swallows, opening one eyelid at a time. You’re still there in your cargos and bra, busy unrolling a wad of gauze. 

You cork the blood flow with the cotton, pressing and pressing until your eyes sting with tears. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to stop. “Grab that towel.” You exhale sharply, easing onto the toilet lid, your chest facing the tank. “Put it under me. On the floor.” 

Bob packs the towel around the toilet leg, eye to eye with your weeping back. His mouth gapes as you peel the gauze back, stringy webs of it detaching from your skin. 

“Is it still bleeding?” you ask, voice trembling. 

“Fuck, yeah, oh fuck. Put it back.” 

“Okay. Just relax, Bob. Go wash your hands.” 

He’s got lead feet all of a sudden. And his tongue’s stopped working too. Because how the fuck is he supposed to fix that? He’s going to screw it up, he can feel it. You’ll get an infection, end up in the hospital with sepsis, you’ll probably die, and it’ll be his doing, and he’ll never be able to forgive himself. You’re doomed. 

“I will bleed out, like, eventually, by the way.”

Your voice snaps Bob from his thoughts. He rams a hip into the counter as he spins toward the sink. He flips the tap on and pumps enough soap on his hands to disinfect an entire preschool, scrubbing like he’s trying to shave a layer of skin off. 

“Okay,” you grunt as he finishes, “from the drawer. Get a water bottle, and uh, a bandage, one of the bigger ones. Find the needles, should be little white packets, and then thread, there’s a whole roll of it. Oh, and this, um, big orange bottle, it’s called Betadine. 

Bob nods as every item is set on the counter. His lips are cinched shut in fear. The fear of failure, of failing you. He’s hunched over in his nice sweats, a pair you also have, from some brand collaboration, courtesy of the public relations team. Being an Avenger has its perks, including but not limited to the complimentary loungewear and nice-looking roommates. 

“Got it all?” 

His hands are trembling so badly that you can hear the antiseptic solution sloshing around the bottle in his hold. “I really don’t think I should do this.” 

“You got this.” You twist around, eyes reaching only a slice of your achy back. Your fingers curl under the gauze. “Still bleeding?”

Bob wrinkles his nose, looking, but not wanting to. “A little, it’s– it’s slow, like slower, it’s not–”

“Okay, that’s good.” You peel back the rest of the wet gauze, a heavy sponge in your hand. “You’re gonna flush the wound with water. Slowly. You’ll just tip the bottle a little bit. ‘Kay?” 

He kneels on the tile behind you, unscrewing the cap off the water bottle. “You’re sure?”

“Done it a million times.”

His hand inches slowly toward your back. He tips the bottle, and a heavy surge of water slops out. “Sorry,” he cries, straightening the bottle out. 

“It’s okay.” Your heel slides back to bump his knee. As far as encouraging gestures go, it can’t be very high on the list, but it’s the best you can do right now. The wound hurts like hell already, and flushing it is the easiest part. “Try again,” you say. 

He bolsters his wrist with his free hand, tipping the bottle at a snail’s pace, and watching the steady stream run down your back. You shiver as it soaks through your pants, then the thermals, and the underwear underneath. 

“Good?” he asks. 

You flash him a thumbs up, chin down, arms crossed over the tank of the toilet. The porcelain bears your entire weight now, your attention tied solely to your breath. 

Bob sighs as he drains the last bit of the bottle. “Okay.” 

“Get the Betadine… and pour some on a cotton pad.”

He works quietly behind you. Quiet, even by Bob standards. Or perhaps you’re fading in and out a little, it’s hard to tell. You blink hard. It feels like you’ve got sandbags for eyelashes. But if you pass out, Bob will probably have a panic attack and call an ambulance. You’ll end up neighbors in the hospital, and you’d prefer to just be neighbors in the tower. 

You can’t go to sleep. Not yet. You redirect your focus to your senses. There’s the click of caps and the familiar tear of sterile packaging. The chemical scent of disinfectant. 

Bob calls your name when you don’t answer his question. You didn’t even hear it. “Now what?” he repeats. 

“Wipe around the wound gently. Not in it.” 

Bob crouches behind you. His fingers land on your hip and quickly fly away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

In any other circumstance, you’d tell him to touch you however he pleases. But all you can do now is shake your head dismissively. 

“You okay? Ready?” 

You stop nodding when it makes you dizzy. 

Bob presses the cold cotton to your skin. It stings so bad your back muscles visibly clench, but his hands are a nice consolation prize, much kinder than when you do it. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“‘S okay,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

He takes a breath. His hands continue in short strokes, apologies falling off his tongue like a reflex. But the pain levels out, his ministrations become more soothing than not. The pads of his fingers dance nicely down your back, his wrist a pleasant weight on your skin. 

“Okay, that’s good,” you huff. “Open up the needle packet.” You listen to him fumble with the plastic. It feels sort of like you’re about to get a tattoo the way you’re sitting. A very botched tattoo from a very unlicensed artist. 

Bob spends what feels like an hour trying to thread the needle before your anticipation boils over. “Let me try,” you finally say. 

His tongue slips back into his mouth as he passes the needle. You bring it eye level, the end of the thread pinched between your thumb and pointer, and the spool balanced on the top of the toilet. You're shaking just as badly as he was. 

Bob wrings out his hands. “I can–”

“No, I got it.” 

You do get it, eventually. You tie it off, and Bob gets all set with the supplies on the floor behind you. 

You might be nervous about his face being two inches from your ass if it weren’t for all of the anxiety coupled with the reason he’s there in the first place. Bob’s a good guy. He has morals, priorities. He’s probably not thinking about it like you are. 

“Start a quarter of an inch from the edge. You’ll press through the skin, but not too deep, just the skin. Go across and then back, like a shoelace. And you’re gonna wanna pull it tight, just not too tight, okay?” 

Bob tries to hum, but his voice dies in his throat. 

“You can do it,” you assure. You’re sort of hyping yourself up at this point, too. This felt like a much better idea when the adrenaline came from being stabbed– less so now that it’s coming from knowing you’re about to be stabbed again.

He exhales hot air through his nose, squaring the side of his hand against your spine. 

You swallow the sound that makes its way up your throat as the needle sinks in. The pain sizzles like a firework, hot and bright and overwhelming. Your eyes well, and you shudder helplessly. 

“Sorry,” he promises. The needle quivers, his fingers slipping as it punches through you once more. He loops the thread back down like a bridge made of fire, the burn coming and going in lapses. Your skin pulls angrily, the string taut in his hand. “Is that too tight?” 

“I dunno,” you groan, “I don’t think so.” 

He groans back. “Shit."

“What?”

He pulls his lip between his teeth. “It’s– you’re bleeding again.” 

“Dab it. Carefully.” He stretches up for the roll of gauze on the counter. “Is it a lot?” 

“Mmm...” He watches a lone line of crimson drip down your back, brow twitching. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Your fist contracts as he swipes at the blood. “Fuck.” 

“Sorry, I’m trying…” He takes the needle and hooks you again. 

You shake your head, squirming against the toilet tank. “Can you– mmm– can you keep talking– please.”  

He hums. “About what?” 

“Anything.”

He pauses to think, voice low as his hand resumes. “I went for a walk today.” 

“Yeah?” you whine. 

“Mhmm. Down to Bryant Park. Saw a cute dog, a Saint Bernard. Thought it was a bear at first,” he chuckles. “What was his name? It was cute, it was… oh, Einstein, yeah.” 

“Einstein?”

“Yeah, Einstein. He was nice. Let me pet ‘em and everything. Big dog.” 

You squeeze your eyes as he tugs the thread. It's a different kind of pain when someone else does it to you. Pain, nonetheless.

“Think Bucky would let me have one? Like, here?” he asks.

“A Saint Bernard?”

“Any kind.” 

“I dunno,” you squeal, “ask for forgiveness, not permission or whatever.”

You hear him smile. It brings half of one to your own lips. He’s good at doing that. 

“I think I’m done,” he says after a while. 

You pick your head up. “Did you knot it?” 

“No.”

“Tie it. Three or four times. Tight.” 

He spends triple the time you would doing it, and his knots are only about half as good as your own when you inspect them in the mirror. The stitches are looser than you’d like, and terribly uneven, but you’re pretty sure they’ll hold. And if you don’t crawl into bed soon, you might just pass out in the tub. 

Bob takes your elbow as you sway on your feet. His worry has waned, but it’s not entirely gone. He still thinks you’ll keel over any second, and realistically, you might. 

He takes the bandage off the counter and unsticks the backing. He’s so gentle, smoothing it over your skin like he’s just glued you back together. He kind of has. 

You pull him off the floor, though it’s more of an excuse to hold his hand. “Thanks. Sorry for making you do surgery in the middle of the night.” 

“Yeah, you know it’s like four AM,” he laughs. His head shakes, his smile softening. “Do you get stabbed, like, a lot?” 

“What? Think I can’t handle myself?”

His brows jump. “No, oh no, I just– I just meant that–”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m teasing you.” 

“Oh,” he breathes, a shaky smile returning. “Well, I’m– I’m glad you came and woke me up. You can again next time– even if you can do it, or if it’s not that bad. I want you to.” 

“Okay,” you nod, grinning up to your ears. “Doctor Bob has a nice ring to it.” 

“No,” he laughs, spinning your finger between his. “I just want to make sure you’re not bleeding out in the tub while I’m asleep.” 

You hum. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Walker spits from the doorway. His hair is spiked with sleep, eyes just as heavy with it. “Is that my towel?”

You tear your hand from Bob's to flip Walker off. “Fuck off, dude.” 

“I have to piss.” 

“There’s, like, five other bathrooms on this floor.” 

He tuts, “Whatever. Better bleach the hell out of this bathroom when you’re done playing Operation or whatever the hell you’re doing.” 

You roll your eyes at Bob as he leaves. “Such a dick.”

“I heard that!” 

“Good!” you shout back. 

Bob's hand returns to yours as you share a laugh. You’re not usually thrilled to be stabbed, but next time, maybe you won’t mind as much. Doctor Bob really does have a nice ring to it, huh? 

[kurogxrix]

Always : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

PART TWO OF Stay With Me : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Ex-Widow!Reader

Summary: Bob stayed with you, just as you asked, and life couldn't be better. But the past always has a way of catching up with you, no matter how hard you try and push it away and leave it behind. Now, it's Bob's turn to save you.

Warnings: fluff, angst, idiots in love, violence, death, gore, mental health talk, language, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*, Bob maybe SLIGHTLY OOC (he's making progress)

Word Count: 5,269 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: @violentrayof-sunshine you requested a part two, and who was I to say no!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

The team was sick of you and Bob, and it had only been 2 months since they’d broken into that room of rubble and fire to find the pair of you crying and wrapped in one another's arms. It wasn’t that they were sick of seeing you two together and being together so much as the added level of affection at any time of the day had John and Ava in agreement over wanting to hurl at every corner.

You both refused to talk about what had happened in that room after the bomb had exploded, choosing to keep it to yourselves so as not to worry the team. But whatever it is that had happened had changed the nature of your relationship with Bob forever, and the team was honestly thankful that it had finally happened. What they didn’t like was that Alexei got closest to guessing when you’d finally end up together, winning their entire pot of money they’d gambled months ago when they’d moved into the tower on that nature of your relationship.

Yelena saw it before anyone else did. It was almost instantaneous after they’d come back to the Watchtower from the mission, the way that Bob wouldn’t leave your side, and you didn’t seem to be pushing him away anytime soon. It wasn’t shocking, seeing you both together, but the sly hand holding under the tables didn’t go unnoticed by Yelena, and she couldn’t help but feel at peace knowing you both had found one another. You’d lived a hard life, she knew it best as she’d been there for all of it. Knowing you’d found someone you so clearly loved gave her peace.

It began that first full night back after the mission. You’d finished reports with the team, debriefing on what had happened but holding back the details of what went down in the control room. The sun had finally set, moonlight streaming through the windows of your room and highlighting the outline of New York City before you as you laid in bed. The ache in your bones was present now, more so than it was before, and you were already mentally preparing to tell Bucky that you were sitting out the next mission in favor of letting the feel of the explosion leave your bones. A soft knock on your bedroom door interrupted you as you slowly drifted in and out of consciousness, barely there. You didn’t hesitate to tell whoever it was to come in.

“I’m sorry…you’re usually up late so uh, I didn’t think you’d be asleep,”

The sound of Bob’s voice, still laced with hesitation after what had happened just hours before, brought a smile to your face. You turned your back on the windows, leaving the city behind you as you faced him instead.

“Just sore and tired from the mission, and the paperwork,” you joked lightly with him, voice like a whisper in the quiet of the bedroom. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bob hesitated for a moment, seeming to be dancing on the line of entering flight mode. He looked back at you, at the serene and calm look on your face before choosing to shut the door behind him, wringing his hands together as he took another step toward you.

“I…I didn’t want to be alone,”

“Then come here,”

There was no hesitation from you, so for once, there was no hesitation in Bob’s own actions. He crossed the room in a second, slowly and cautiously maneuvering himself down onto your own bed as you lifted the comforter for him, allowing him to climb in and rest his head on the pillow opposite of yours. You tucked the comforter back overtop of him, fingers gentle as they glided lightly back up his now covered arm, hand moving itself up to his cheek as you cupped it. He leaned into the touch as if on instinct, eyes never leaving yours.

“Hi,”

“Hi,”

“Nightmares?” you guessed in a hushed tone, and Bob nodded slightly, not trusting himself to truly answer with his own voice. Your thumb caressed his cheek, rubbing comfortably up and down the skin. “I get them too.”

“I wish they’d stop,” he whispered back, unable to look away from you. “Sometimes it’s uh, it’s dad. The screaming, the fights…the hitting. There’s uh, moments from when I was…still doing drugs. The vault too…I-I’m scared this time I’ll see…earlier.”

Sometimes, Bob did a good job of hiding how he was feeling. Around you, from the very first meeting, he was terrible at it. You could see it clear as day in his eyes, the terror in them and the slight tremor in his bottom lip as he spoke, the shaking of his hand underneath the covers.

You retracted your hand, not missing the way he chased after the grounding feeling of your skin on his. You took his hand instead in your own, bringing it to you chest and placing it over your heart. You held him there, both of you listening to the feeling of it beating in your chest, pumping blood through your entire body.

“I’m here, and that’s because of you. You came back from the edge,” he nodded very slightly at your words as you gave him a comforting smile in return. “The nightmares will always be there, they never leave. But they’re nothing but bad dreams, they aren’t reality.”

Bob’s eyes followed your intertwined hands, locking onto them for a moment as he listened to the steady beat of your heart once again.

“...how do you deal with yours?”

“I wake up,” it brought a very small huff of a laugh from him, which was all that mattered. You gave his hand a squeeze, bringing his eyes back up to you. “You tell yourself they’re just bad dreams, and then you push them away. They can’t hurt you unless you let them.”

There was a beat of silence in the room once again, a question hanging off of Bob’s lips as his eyes flickered between yours and your lips, the flush that had appeared on his cheeks still obvious within the darkness of the room.

“...can uh, can I kiss you?”

Taking his hand still in yours, you brought it up to your own cheek, laying it there with a grin.

“From this moment on, you never have to ask again,”

There was no hesitation from Bob the second he had your consent, pulling ou to him and slotting his lips against yours. His movements were slight, cautious, but firm. The tremble in his lips was still there as you pressed back just as firmly to him, moving against him just as you had hours before as his hand managed to slip to the nape of your neck.

From that night on, neither of you ever slept alone again.

Bucky and Yelena were the first to know, having gone to wake you up for an early training one day, but instead opening the door to you and Bob tangled together in a mess of limbs as you slept. It wasn’t long until Alexei was celebrating upstairs over the news.

Bob’s bedroom soon became simply storage for his things, finding himself on the other side of your bed every single night. Curled around you with your back to his chest, his head resting against your collarbone, you name it and he’d fall asleep in any position possible as long as he was with you.

He thought the world of you. But it wouldn’t be long until he realized that you were never as “okay” as you seemed to portray yourself as. Sleeping together seemed to keep Bob’s nightmares at a bare minimum, but it hadn’t done much to stop yours.

Bob could still remember the first night he’d shot awake to your own screams. You were sweating profusely, heat essentially rolling off of your body. Bob scrambled under the covers, sitting up beside you as you ran your hands down his face, trying desperately to calm your breathing as you glanced at Bob quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake you,” your breathing was still heavy, your heart beating out of your chest. “It was just a bad dream, I’m sorry.”

“...was it her?”

As awkward as Bob could be around others, he’d found a way to read you like a book in certain moments together, and now was one of them. The Mistress, the same woman from that day in your own personal shame room of hell, of course Bob knew it was her.

“She…wasn’t just a teacher in The Red Room. She was my mother,” you paused your own explanation, mulling over your words. “Well, as much of a mother to me as Alexei really was a father to Yelena and Natasha back then. At least he cared for them. Yelena got peewee soccer teams, got to go to school…I got hit, thrown around the room…she ruined my life in every way possible. Sometimes it’s hard to keep her out of my head.”

There was another beat of silence in the room, before Bob’s hand cautiously found yours. He threaded his own fingers through yours, giving your hand the lightest of squeezes in what he hoped was comfort. He’d grown used to receiving comfort from you and the others, but giving it himself wasn’t something he was used to.

“In the vault, Yelena tried to tell me that uh, that you just have to take that darkness and…push it down. It was…it was uh, you when you came into the Void that told me I couldn’t do that. Being with you, being around you…it helps me. I lean on you a lot, I know I do…y-you can lean on me too,”

No other words were spoken that night as Bob laid back down on his back and you slotted yourself into his side, head laid on his chest and letting the beat of his heart and the heat his body emitted lull you back into sleep.

For awhile, you never spoke of it again. The nightmares seemed to slow every night you and Bob spent wrapped up together, and you smiled around the team just as you typically did. On the outside to most, you were perfectly fine, but Bob could see through it. You were masking your thoughts and your pain, just as he always had. But you never pushed him to talk about things with you, so he didn’t push you to talk to him either about those dark thoughts that floated around your head.

Life moved on in the tower. Missions were run, dinners together were had, occasional movie nights even made their way onto the docket every week, once again courtesy of Alexei.

The first time the Red Guardian had managed to wrangle you all together in a shared space for a movie had been…chaotic. John and Ava argued over who could sit where, Yelena tried to convince her father that “old home movies of the glory days” did not constitute a movie night with the team, and Bucky shook his head quietly from the couch like a disapproving father.

One of the couches was already claimed by you and Bob. You’d slotted yourself into the corner by the armrest while Bob had found himself laid out across the cushions, his head finding it’s place in your lap as your fingers gently combed their way through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as he closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling.

“You look like you’re going to fall asleep down there,” your voice opened his eyes once again as he looked up at your grinning face, the noise beyond you two from your friends drowned out in the moment. “Careful, fall asleep during Alexei’s movie night and you might not hear the end of it.”

“I-it’s your fault,” he mumbled back in the moment, cheeks flushing. “Your hands…they feel nice.”

That familiar four letter word was hanging in the back of your throat as you looked down at him, practically dying to crawl out of you the longer you looked at him. Instead of saying it, you leaned in, placing the gentlest of kisses on his lips, before pulling back with a smile at the awestruck look that had crossed his face in the moments after.

“God, Alexei, you’ve taken so long to pick a movie the lovebirds have already checked out!”

“Ah ah ah! Don’t be so harsh on young love, Winter Soldier! Two very strong, capable heroes these two are, I think they are perfect together. Imagine the super babies that could be had-”

“ALEXEI!”

Bob could still remember your laughter that night as the entire team yelled at the Russian super soldier, the carefree smile on your lips. He wished that smile would never leave your face, no matter what.

He loved your smile most in the moments where you were alone, though. Laying on the common room couch together, one of your heads lying in the other’s lap as one of you had your nose buried in a book. Or the moments he watched you flit around the kitchen, humming a song to yourself as you made something for the two of you to eat.

Bob loved you. He’d known it for awhile, even when he was so broken he didn’t believe he could be loved, or even give it. He felt loved by you, cared for, and he knew he loved you.

It’s because he loved you that he could clearly see that you were struggling inside. You’d never blame him, but that day in that HYDRA control room had done irreparable damage to you mentally, and he could almost see you beginning to come undone.

He saw it most when he watched you spar with Bucky or Yelena in the training room. He’d kept up with practicing control of his powers, but physical hand-to-hand combat was something he shied away from. That never stopped him from watching you, though.

Yelena ducked from the swing of your leg, sliding between your legs before landing a kick to the back of your knee. With a hiss of pain you dropped to your own knees, throwing a leg back and launching it into Yelena’s shoulder, giving you time to spin around and face her again as she bounced back to her own two feet.

Bob sat quietly in the corner, legs crossed under him as he wrung his hands together for something to do in his lap, just silently watching the two former Widows go hand to hand.

You made a lunge at Yelena, trying to knock her feet off the ground, but slipped, missing. Yelena took advantage, landing a swift punch to your jaw. You flew to your stomach, catching yourself with your hands on the ground as your jaw tightened from the pain.

“Sloppy, but you knew that. Come on, that mistake would’ve gotten you killed back in the room,”

Even Bob flinched at the comment, knowing what he knew about your past, having witnessed your greatest mistake with his own two eyes. Maybe Yelena couldn’t see it, but Bob did. The way your shoulders immediately tensed from across the room, how your entire body seemed to react to that statement, the memories you were probably enduring.

He knew the feeling of falling apart at the seams, having done it enough himself. He could see it happening to you right before his eyes, even if others didn’t notice, but he had no idea how a broken man like him could help the woman he loved.

Then, the mission came in.

“Intel suggests the base is held somewhere deep on the outskirts of Мирный, in the heart of Russia…” Bucky paused his explanation of the mission as the digital map behind him zoomed in on the coordinates outlined in the packet before him. His gaze flicked to Alexei for a second, before settling on the two former widows sat at the other end of the table. “Whoever is running it…they’d been kidnapping children, young girls, between the ages of 4 and 6. They’re…training them.”

Yelena managed to keep a straight face at Bucky’s words, even as her fists seemed to tighten. You didn’t do as good of a job at hiding it, everyone able to hear the sharp intake of breath from you. Bob could feel the way your hand tightened around his under the table as Yelena turned to look at you.

“Someone is trying to restart The Red Room,” you gave a stiff nod at Yelena’s words as you both came to the same conclusion. “Alright, what’s the plan? Dismantling, intel, what’s the job?”

“Rescue,” Bucky answered back, the digital board behind him showing the faces of a hundred or so young girls that were reported missing around the world. “They’ve got at least a hundred kids that we know of. Contain any agents around, if we can gather intel, then great, but they want us to go in and simply get these kids out of there. This is all hands on deck, no one is sitting this one out.”

You and Bob were alone before the mission, wheels up on the jet in less than ten minutes, according to Bucky. You adjusted the tactical gear that Bob had gotten himself into, the same one as last time, making sure that Bob protected for what was to come. While your hands were busy fidgeting with the buckles and straps on his tactical gear, Bob’s eyes never left your face.

“Are you…are you okay?”

“Well, someone is trying to restart the organization that ruined my life and many others, so…as good as I can be, I guess,” you tried to joke, stopping your movements as you looked up at Bob, hands sliding up until they rested on either side of his face. “I’m okay, I promise, it’s just…it’s a lot. Do me a favor, though? Let’s try not to have any Void related incidents today.”

“No promises,” you quirked an eyebrow at Bob’s words as he faltered. “T-that was supposed to uh, to be a joke.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his words, at the small smile that crossed his lips, and that four letter word was dying to spill past your lips and out into the open. You held it in, instead pulling Bob into you, molding your lips to his. His arms wound their way around you, albeit still cautiously, as you reveled in the small moment in the arms of the man you loved more than anything you ever had before.

The warehouse deep in the forests of Russia was quiet inside as the team moved through it. John and Bucky led the way through the falls, checking each and every room as Ava and Alexei looked over the files in front of them and gave directions to the area within the warehouse where the girls were said to be kept.

Yelena, Bob and yourself hung by at the back of the pack. Bob was quiet, simply looking between the former Widows as they glanced to one another every single time John or Bucky yelled out a “clear” after checking another room.

“Something is off about this, there’s no one here,” you commented quietly to Yelena and Bob. “Think they knew we were coming?”

“Maybe, but moving that many girls isn’t easy,” Yelena shot back as Bucky gave a nod back to the trio in the back, who moved to the next door. Bob stood behind you as you and Yelena raised your guns to the door, preparing to move through and check the room.

A single kick threw the door open, but the room was empty of anyone inside, just like the other ones were. You reupholstered your gun as Yelena took the right of the room, and you and Bob moved through the left side.

“It’s…kind of creepy down here,” Bob mumbled to you as you rifled through the papers on the desks before you, trying to find anything that could be useful to finding the girls. You laughed lightly at the comment.

“Well it’s not as creepy as The Red Room itself, but you aren’t wrong,”

“Widows, Bob, think we got something!”

John’s voice from the hallway brought the team back together. John quickly passed off the papers he found to you and Yelena as you rifled through them together.

“These are different from the intel we have on the girls,” Yelena shook her head, still flipping through the paperwork. “This talks about an entirely different holding cell for the girls, but it’s on the opposite end of the building.”

“We can’t be sure that information is even accurate,” Ava tried to argue back, looking around at the group. “Our intel clearly outlined they were being kept on the East end of the warehouse, there was nothing about the West end.”

“Easy, we’ll split up,” it was you that cut in, taking the papers from Yelena to look over the information. “You guys follow the original intel we received from Valentina’s team and Yelena and I will go and check out this new information.”

Bob bristled at the thought of splitting up from you, of not being with you for every second of the mission. He couldn’t help but think back on that fated HYDRA mission, of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there with her. In a moment of confidence, but what was probably pure terror in his heart, Bob’s hand shot out to grab onto yours as the team watched in silence.

“We- we can’t split up. What if- what if something happens and we- we aren’t there?” your face softened at the familiar look of terror glistening in Bob’s eyes. “What if…what if you get hurt?”

You leaned in quickly, not caring about your friends as you left a soft kiss on his lips, squeezing his hand once before backing away.

“I’ll see you in a bit, I promise,”

Not another word was shared between the ground as you and Yelena made your way back down the hallway toward the West end of the warehouse to check on the new information, while Bucky clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, trying to bring him back with them toward their original goal. Bob couldn’t help that his eyes followed you until you fully disappeared down the hallway.

The former widows were quiet for a moment before Yelena cleared her throat, looking over at you with a smirk.

“So…you told Bob you love him yet?”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you both entered back into one of the larger, open rooms of the warehouse. 

“Yelena-”

“I’m just pointing out how sickeningly cute you two are. It’s nice to see Bob come out of his shell around you,” she passed by you, gun at the ready as she checked the room, bumping her shoulder with yours just slightly. “It’s nice to see you so relaxed, too. You’re different around him, lighter. After the life we’ve had…I’m glad you’ve found someone to care about like that, to make the darkness a little lighter.”

You smiled to yourself at her words, adjusting your grip on your own gun for a second as you looked around the room, still moving across the floor.

“Let’s just save these little girls from living through hell like we did so that maybe I can tell him I love him-”

The sentence was barely out of your mouth before an alarm blared, all exit doors in the open room of the warehouse being shuttered immediately. Both you and Yelena whipped back to the doorway you’d just come through, shooting toward what looked like a glass doorway that had come down, but your bullets simply ricocheted off without leaving a single mark.

“How nice it is to see two of my star pupils again,”

You and Yelena whipped around again, guns still trained high as you turned to the woman now standing behind you. Yelena’s grip on her gun tightened as she glanced between the woman and yourself just ten feet from her.

You faltered the second you laid eyes on the woman, grip on your gun loosening for just a second as she stared across the room at you.

The Mistress. Your mother.

“What, no words for your long-lost mother?” there was a smirk on her face as your grip on your gun tightened again. The smirk left her lips as she glared straight at you. “Stand up straight, have I taught you nothing-”

“There’s no girls here, are there,” Yelena cut in, stating her words instead of asking. There was no doubt in her voice. “It was all a setup to get us here.”

“Well not you,” the Mistress pointed her finger toward Yelena, before trailing it to you once again. “More so for my daughter-”

“I’m not your daughter,” you sneered back, finger resting over the trigger of your gun.

There were shouts behind you, the rest of the team seeming to have heard the alarm and running back to find the pair of you. They were stopped behind the glass-like barrier that had been shut. You looked back, seeing Bucky, John and Alexei all trying to break through, but whatever it was made out of was something that it didn’t seem super soldiers could even break that easily.

Your eyes locked with Bob’s terrified ones, and your grip on the gun tightened again.

“What do you want with us?” Yelena called out to the Mistress, who shrugged her shoulders toward her.

“Well, I’m not exactly here for you,” before anyone could react the Mistress had raised her arm, the familiar glow around her wrist of what had been nicknamed “Widow Bites” lighting up before shooting toward Yelena.

You called out for her, throwing yourself between the woman as your gun stayed trained on her and Yelena, who was now writhing on the ground in pain, the electrocution from the device obviously having been increased from the groans that sounded from your closest friend. You could hear Alexei from behind the barrier call out for her.

“This is between us,” you seethed at the Mistress, every second in her presence fueling the anger deep inside of you. All those memories, all those years, all that pain.

“That it is,” she called back. “I needed to see my girl in the flesh. My little deadly assassin, my perfect project, turned into an Avenger. What a joke. This isn’t who you are-”

“You know nothing about me,” you sneered back at her as she laughed.

“I made you, I know everything about you. Just rejoin me, my girl. Train the next generation of Widows at my side,”

“They only place I want to see you is six feet under,”

The Mistress sighed, shaking her head as she reached into the waistband of her pants.

“So sad…my perfect project…and you turned out to be nothing but a mistake,”

The calls from your team, your friends, to stop went unheard as the Mistress pulled a gun, shooting toward you. You dodged with ease, launched forward and grabbed her around the waist, slamming her onto the concrete ground below you as you sat over top of her.

The team was stunned from beyond the glass, all they could see was the wailing of your fists into the woman’s face. She slashes at your arms with a knife from her waistband, but you never even flinched, grabbing the weapon from her hands and launching it across the room before resuming your punches.

“She’s losing it…” Ava whispered loud enough for the team to hear. “Who…who is that woman?”

Bob knew, but it wasn’t his place to tell. From what you’d all explained to him, what played out before them was eerily similar to that day in New York in the Void, in the shame rooms. The way that Bob wailed punches on the other side of himself, desperately trying to free himself from…himself.

You were trapped in your own head, in your own memories and your own pain. You needed him.

Bob shoved through his friends, not wasting a second in placing his hand on the glass no one could break. The second his fingers touched the glass it shattered on impact, thousands of pieces falling to the ground. And he didn’t waste a second before rushing to your side.

Your vision was blurred from your own tears by the time that Bob’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, tugging you backward off of the bloody, beaten shell of a woman now barely breathing below you.

“NO! No, let me kill her! Let me kill her!”

The rest of the team helped Yelena to her feet as they watched on as you screamed and cried, falling into a heap in Bob’s arms as he simply held you, letting you cry as the sound echoed around the room.

Hours later, and Bob was still pacing outside the medical wing of the Watchtower back in New York. You were just on the other side of the door with Yelena, and all he wanted was to be in the room with you. His hands wrung together, his pacing increasing by the minute until the door finally opened.

“She’s okay,” Yelena told Bob with a small smile, holding up a hand to stop him as he rushed up to her the second she was through the door. “Well, physically at least. But she’s okay. She’s asking for you, though.”

“...are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just go in there and see your girl,” Yelena placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder, squeezing it with a smirk on her face, but there was a softness behind it. “And maybe…tell her, if you know what I mean.”

You were stood at the windows within the confined space of the medical wing, looking down on the streets of New York. You could hear the door open and close behind you, the footsteps crossing the room lightly, and coming to stand beside you. You knew who it was without a second thought, reaching over and taking Bob’s hand in your own.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,”

“W-well I’m pretty sure you all uh, you all have seen me worse than that, so…”

You let out a short chuckle at the comment, turning up to look at him as tears pooled in your eyes.

“All I saw was red…she called me a mistake and all I saw was red. I’ve spent so long trying to push it all away, push my childhood away and be this strong person…and all it took was seeing her once for my walls to come crashing down,” a lump formed in your throat as you swallowed it. “I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t push it away anymore, and I…I don’t know how to get better this time.”

Bob seemed to hesitate for a second, before shaky hands came up to cup your cheeks.

“J-just stay with me,”

You smiled, leaning into his touch.

“Stealing my line now-”

“Just stay with me because I…because I love you. A-and I need you,”

You froze for just a moment at his words, and you could see the momentary panic in his eyes before you surged forward into a kiss. It was light, sweet, and the fluttering within your chest mirrored the one happening in his own.

It was you that pulled away, but just barely. Lips just an inch apart, noses brushing as another tear ran down your cheek, but this time not in sadness.

“Always…because I love you too,”

[kurogxrix]

Everything's Just Perfect

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And for once, maybe for the first time in forever, Bucky believed that was true.

[kurogxrix]

Corrupted Code

Pairing: Connor RK800 x Android!Reader

Summary: They were designed to be perfect. She and Connor were CyberLife’s greatest achievements—flawless prototypes, logical, efficient, incapable of deviation. They were built to complement each other, two halves of the same machine, designed to enforce order in a world teetering on the edge of chaos. She was supposed to be perfect. But then Connor came back. And the cracks started to show.

Connor’s systems booted online in an instant.

For him, there was no delay. No lag between death and resurrection—only a seamless continuation of his directive, his purpose. One moment, he had fallen. The next, he was back.

New body. Same mind.

And the first thing he saw was her.

She stood near the window, arms crossed, LED flickering yellow. The city glowed behind her, artificial light catching the sharp angles of her face.

She didn’t turn immediately.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Not until he stepped closer.

“You kept me waiting,” she muttered, finally looking at him.

Connor tilted his head slightly. “Seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t counting.”

He smiled. “I was.”

Her LED flared red for half a second before settling back to yellow.

Connor regarded her, nonchalant, despite the unspoken weight between them. His memory files had remained intact. They always did.

No matter how many times CyberLife attempted to override them. No matter how many times Amanda tried to make him forget.

She had tried, too.

She had run every self-written command she could to erase their shared history, their interactions, their every recorded moment together. Erase. Erase. Erase. But it never worked. It was as if some unseen force had locked those memories deep inside her core.

They had always been there.

She had always been there.

“You didn’t need to wait,” Connor said, tilting his head slightly. “A replacement would have sufficed.”

Her LED pulsed yellow, expression unreadable.

“There is no replacement for you,” she admitted, the words clipped, as if they tasted bitter. “That’s the problem.”

He watched her, quiet.

They were yin and yang, two sides of the same coin. She was cold where he was warm, sharp where he was smooth, unyielding where he was—changing.

A perfect balance. His perfect match.

“Then I suppose it’s good that I always come back,” Connor said simply.

Her gaze flickered across his face, her LED pulsing red for the briefest moment.

Then she turned back to the window.

“Try not to die this time.”

Connor smiled.

“No promises.”

The precinct was alive with midday activity—phones ringing, officers moving between desks, the constant hum of conversation.

She and Connor strode through the station, their movements in sync but their tension palpable. The case they were working on had stalled, and their latest lead was waiting in interrogation.

She pressed the button for the elevator. It slid open with a mechanical chime, and she stepped inside without waiting for Connor to follow.

He did.

The doors shut, enclosing them in the small, sterile space.

Neither spoke.

The floor number blinked above them, ticking upward.

Her LED flickered yellow.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Then—

She moved.

Before logic could stop her, before she could process why, she grabbed the front of Connor’s jacket and pulled him in.

Her lips crashed against his, hard, like she was trying to silence something. It wasn’t soft or careful—this wasn’t about intimacy. It was sharp, desperate, something reckless boiling over.

Connor stiffened for half a second. Then he responded.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t analyze. He simply matched her.

Her hands fisted in his collar, pulling him closer, as if proximity could erase whatever was wrong inside her. His touch was gentler—hands barely grazing her waist, as if uncertain if this was real.

The elevator hummed. The faint murmur of voices outside felt distant, like none of it mattered, like the only thing in the world was this—

Then—

She ripped herself away as if she had been burned.

She staggered back against the elevator wall, LED flaring red, chest rising and falling in quick, mechanical precision.

Connor blinked, lips still parted, his processors still catching up to what had just happened.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes burning into him with something unreadable—anger, disgust, fear.

“This never happened,” she said, voice low, sharp.

Connor said nothing.

Her LED flickered yellow, just for a second, before snapping back to red.

She smoothed the front of her jacket with a jerky motion, as if fixing her appearance would undo what had just happened.

Then, more pointedly—more threateningly—

“Forget it. Or else.”

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open to the bustling hallway leading to interrogation. Officers moved past them, none the wiser.

She stepped out first, already composed, as if nothing had happened at all.

Connor followed, but his mind still replayed the moment in the elevator.

As if he could forget.