#MCU fic

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Judex, Judicum, Infantem - Chapter 2

(Eventual)Reader x Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

previous chapter | next chapter | series masterlist | my masterlist

summary: You try to put Frank behind you and fall into bed with Matt. Unfortunately, now you also have to tell him the news that you're pregnant.

warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio) AFAB Reader. No use of Y/N. Mention of pregnancy. Pet names. Angst.

wc: 4,185

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks!*

Still a few weeks earlier

You rubbed the palms of your hands into your achey eyes as the words on your computer screen blurred again. After what went down between you and Frank a few days prior, you were having more trouble than normal focusing on tasks at work. The sparse amounts of sleep you’d gotten over the past few nights wasn’t doing you any favors either. Between bouts of crying over the “breakup” (If one could even call it that. You and Frank weren’t together) plus the way your brain kept drifting to replay every conversation you’d ever had with Frank over and over again in your head; you’d found it hard to get a restful night of sleep. Despite how your eyes burned and your body ached when you laid down in your bed each night, you just couldn’t get into a deep slumber.

It also didn’t help that your neck still had a crick in in from sleeping on the floor mattress at Frank’s shitty hideout. Or it was from having your spine twisted oddly as he railed you into bliss and oblivion? Or both?

Frank was clearly never going to come around and you knew moving on would be best, but wallowing in your own self pity was a maschochistic habit you just couldn’t seem to get out of. Also, if you accepted his feelings about the two of you and moved on, then you’d have to let go of the small glimmer of hope that just maybe you could be enough for him to finally want to move on with his life and love someone else. You weren’t sure you were ready to do that.

��Huh, I didn’t know they sold White Diamonds to anyone under the age of seventy.” A smooth voice cut through the buzzing in your brain, turning your attention away from staring at your computer.

“Murdock!” You exclaimed at the handsome figure leaning against the door frame to your office.

All too happy to see a familiar and friendly face to distract you from all the work you weren’t getting done, you gave him a look up and down as he stood before you. His navy suit was tailored perfectly to his lean figure and you couldn’t help but smile at how he adjusted the red-framed glasses on his face.

“I know you have a bloodhound nose there Mr. Murdock, but even I’m impressed you can identify the specific perfume I tried from a client gift basket yesterday.”

You rose from your chair to greet him with a hug. The way his taught, muscular frame enveloped you sent a jolt of butterflies through your stomach and you wondered if he could tell how his handsome charm flustered you every time you met. The clean scent of his cologne cut through the stale air of your office as you breathed him in. The wool of his suit was soft as you ran your hand down his arm and pulled away a bit.

“Mr. Murdock, really? Wow, okay. We’re going formal today? If I’d have known, I’d have worn my tux.”

Matt always seemed to always know just what to say to get you giggling.

“I figured I’d keep the illusion of professionalism at work. I mean, I could call you another name; starts with a D and rhymes with Shmare Shmevil”

Matt gripped at your elbow and spun you into your office, trapping you between his body and the wall.

Ow, that hurt your shoulders. That was definitely from when Frank had you—

“Watch it.” he chided with a lick of his lips.

His breath was warm against your face as he let out a dry chuckle at your surprised demeanor. He tilted his chin, searching for an answer from you.

“Sorry, Matty. Couldn’t help myself.” you giggled as he loosened his grip on you and took a step back, straightening his tie.

“Besides, even with out the alter ego and the super sniffer, only someone who is regularly intimate with women of that age range would recognize an Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Didn’t know you were into much older women.”

“Sweetheart, who I sleep with is none of your business.” Matt chuckled at your retort. “Besides, that kind of talk isn’t what I’d call keeping it professional.”

“Right, right. So what brings you in today?”

“Colleen emailed me. Said you had some new contracts that needed a look-through?”

The non-profit you worked for couldn’t afford to have a full-time lawyer on staff to review contracts and relied on pro-bono services to make sure everything stayed above board. Matt and your boss, Colleen, were buddies in college. Despite the fact he was a defense attorney and not involved in contract or non-profit law, she regularly roped him in to helping with the legal side of things.

“Right, I’ve got some of them pulled up on my computer right now if you have the time.”

“Always have time for you, old lady perfume and all.”

“Okay, now you’re just being rude!” you chided him

You held out your arm and led Matt to the conference room across the hall, letting him set up as you ran back into your office and grabbed your laptop. You had to take a deep breath before returning. Always flirty and confident, you were never bored when Matt was around that was for sure. But with your heart still pulling for Frank, it felt wrong to let yourself have even the little attention you knew Matt gave to nearly every woman he encountered. But still, you smiled thinking of spending the afternoon with Matt, even if it was just to review boring contract language. Maybe you were looking for any glimmer of hope that a man could actually desire you and not just push you away like Frank had.

“What’s this new clause in the contracts ‘public image addendum’?” Matt asked, listening to the details of the file via his screen reader

“You been following the news lately?”

“Yeah.”

“So you heard about the CEO of Caffeination Collective?”

“Yeah, but what’s a local coffee chain boss embezzling have to do with —”

“Well, Caffeination Collective signed a contract to be the main sponsor of our next gala three days before he got arrested. We tried to drop them, obviously, but they’re arguing we need to honor all the sponsorship placements of our contract despite the fact that they’ve shuttered all their locations and it looks like they won’t be back in business any time soon. Colleen thinks we should add a clause to all future contracts that if anyone we do business with does anything bad for PR, we can drop them.”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s a great idea.”

“She asked if you could review the language to make sure we’re covered going forward.”

Matt nodded.

“You know Caffeination Collective is headquartered in Hell’s Kitchen, right?” you added, spinning back in forth in your chair as you nursed your third coffee of the day

“Yeah, so?”

“Corrupt CEO disenfranchising employees and laundering money? Thought the Devil would have got to him before the cops.”

Matt adjusted his tie once more and grimaced at the mention of his alter ego, a pained look apparent in his eyes even as they hid behind crimson frames.

“Yeah well, I’ve been trying to lay low lately.”

“Since when have you ever laid low?”

“I have a lot of reasons to right now.”

“Hmm, sounds interesting. Shame you’re here to talk boring legal files, I’d love to hear more about it.”

Matt rubbed at the grey in his stubble and a crinkle appeared at the skin around his glasses as he smiled at you, hint of whatever troubled him at the moment washing away.

“Maybe if this doesn’t take too long, we could discuss it over dinner.”

“You’re incorrigible, Murdock.”

“And serious.”

“I don’t date lawyers. And I especially don’t date vigilantes.”

“You’re lying.”

Technically you weren’t. Frank was the only other vigilante you knew personally. While you’d just slept together the one time and had an odd ‘friendship’ before that, you had technically never dated him.

“Quit listening to my heartbeat.” you chided, tossing a paperclip towards Matt’s head, which he easily dodged

He chuckled.

“Come on. What is it? What’s the hold up?”

“I’m just too busy to get involved with anyone right now.”

“Oh, don’t give me busy.”

The air in the room suddenly felt warm as you mulled it over. You and Matt had always had great chemistry and the only excuse you really had was how desperately your heart was still hanging on to Frank.

“You deserve someone who can give you better.”

You knew you needed to move on. Frank made it clear he didn’t want to be a part of your life anymore after the two of you had crossed the line from whatever you had been to more.

And what better way to try than with Matt? Always handsome and suave and kind and funny. You knew the two men shared history and had complicated feelings towards one another, though you weren’t super clear on the specifics. You did not want to inform Matt of this situation and open that can of worms.

Fuck it.

“Fine, Murdock. Let’s get through these contracts and you can take me to dinner.”

Dinner turned into several rounds of drinks, which turned into a leisurely stroll back to your apartment. The restaurant he took you to was a cute French spot in Hell’s Kitchen, matching your love of cool and sophisticated with out being stuffy.You knew Matt was a flirt but were shocked with how easily the two of you connected. The whole evening felt natural, how care free and easy it was to just be yourself with him. In fact, you were having such a pleasant time with Matt, you hadn’t thought of Frank the whole evening.

“I honestly can’t believe the judge didn’t throw me out.” Matt concluded his story, a smile splitting across his face as he spoke

You let out a hearty laugh into the chilly night air as the two of you ambled down the quiet sidewalk through your neighborhood towards your apartment building. Matt’s hand was gentle as it held yours, letting you set the pace as he kept in step beside you.

“You always get away with the most asinine stunts in court. Only you Matty, would do something that would get any other lawyer a mistrial and instead win the case. And to play the whole blind card too in your defense? Classic. They let you get away with that?”

“Yeah, usually, actually.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the only reason you get juries and judges on your side.” your sarcastic tone had him shaking his head and grinning “It has nothing to do with how hot you are.”

Matt stopped, letting go of your had and facing you with a raise to his eyebrows as he leaned against his cane.

“You think I’m hot?” he asked, playfully feigning ignorance

You shook your head as you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

“Of course I think you’re hot.” you replied “You know I do, even without all your stupid senses; that by the way, you still need to explain to me how that all works.”

You gestured towards his face and were met with a chuckle. The carefree way he tilted his head, taking in everything he could about you as you stood before him made you feel unshielded.

“Next time.” he said, voice low and thick

“Next time?”

“Yeah. I mean, tonight was great. I want to do this again, if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah. Matt, I really did have a great time. It’s just…” you trailed off

“Who is he?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on sweetheart, you’ve been holding something back all night.”

“I have not—”

“Don’t lie.”

“Fine.” you contested with a sigh “There was someone. Recently. But he broke my heart. And told me to move on. And I’m trying.”

It was the first thought you’d given to Frank in hours; how kind his eyes were when he spoke to you, how the low gravel of his voice resonated through every nerve in your body when he muttered your name, how soft and gentle his hands were despite all the violence they inflicted. Then you thought of the conversation you’d had when you last spoke, how he just wasn’t ready for the love you wanted to give and how it just seemed so easy for him to walk away.

As Matt stood before you, earnest and flirty in a way that always wooed you into giddiness, you too thought of how similar the two men were. All the traits that made you fall for Frank, present in Matt, with just a little more of that “has his shit together” factor.

“But?” Matt inquired

“But as handsome and charming and electric as you are, I’m still hung up. And I’m sorry that’s not fair to you Matt. I shouldn’t have agreed to —”

“No it’s fine, look I had a great time tonight. I always do when I’m with you. We can put a pin in this, call it a night and not let hard feelings get in the way.”

“No, that’s not fair. To either of us. I shouldn’t let this chemistry between us fade out because of...” you paused, shaking your head and trying to find the right words “You and me, this could be a really good thing.”

“It could be.” Matt agreed “Plus, wouldn’t hurt in helping you win the break up?”

“Who said I want to ‘win the break up?’” you said, giving Matt a playful smack on his arm, which cause him to jolt and fein injury with a smile “It wasn’t even really a breakup, it’s way more complicated than that.”

“Hey, just another thing for us to get into next time.”

“You keep saying next time.”

“I do.”

“You really want to be a rebound?”

“I mean, I don’t have to be. We could just take this slower until you’re ready. See where it goes?”

Winning the breakup. What a childish concept. Still, knowing Matt and Frank had some kind of rapport with each other and getting just a little bit of revenge by getting with someone Frank was acquainted with felt like an enticing idea. Why not make things a little complicated and messy for Frank if word ever got back to him and give him a little taste of his own emotional medicine? Plus, as he had proven all evening, Matt always made you feel special anyway, so there was no harm in letting yourself have a little fun.

Fine.

“Or you could take me upstairs and fuck me until I forget about him.” you spoke, unwavering voice cutting through the background noise of sirens and traffic and every other noise you knew he worked so hard to tune out

You swore you could hear Matt’s heartbeat pounding from his chest and you didn’t even have his abilities. He tried to conceal his nerves behind a faint giggle as he contemplated your offer, searching for any indicator from you that you were joking. Whatever he sensed from you told him you were serious, as his nostrils flared and his hand to tightened around his cane. He licked at his lips and shook his head as he opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed words were lost on him at the moment.

Matt Murdock flustered. You never thought you’d see the day.

Was it so wrong to egg him on when he clearly wasn’t opposed to the idea? You decided not, rocking your feet forward and meeting your lips with his. You kept the kiss soft and gentle until his hand slid up your jaw, pulling you in more. Heat ignited in your bones as he kissed you back, trying to swallow down the low moan that was building in the back of your throat.

It took all his will power to pull away, even just a fraction of an inch to speak.

“Yeah, upstairs.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Now

The door to Matt’s office was cracked open just a little and you could see his silhouette sitting at his desk through the frosted glass. You hoped he couldn’t hear the shaky breath you released as you approached the door, still unsettled on exactly how you wanted this conversation to go. The dampness of your palms was enough to leave a residue on the brass door knob as you softly turned it to enter.

Matt was kind. Matt was a good person. Matt would handle this well.

“Matthew?”

He cocked his head as you pushed the door open, a smile spreading across his face as he heard your voice. The air felt stifling and hot as the setting sun cast the room in shades of orange. Matt looked like he’d been carved by gods in the tangerine glow; perfect forearms flexing slightly as he waited for you to enter the room, shown off beautifully thanks to his rolled-up sleeves. He had at some point in the day loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt just enough so that a small bit of chest hair poked through. The glimmer of the fading day reflected in the red glasses that sat on his face. His looking so delicious was how you got into this mess in the first place.

“Visiting me at work? We’re crossing into some serious territory here.” he jested, rising from his seat to lean over his desk and greet you with a soft kiss on your forehead “Unless this is Colleen just sending you over with more contracts.”

You glanced down at the grey carpet beneath you, chewing on your cheek as you ran over the words in your head you’d been rehearsing all the way over here. Tugging at your sleeve, you finally looked up to face him. The kind way his eyes crinkled as he smiled at you would usually put you at ease on any other day, but under the circumstances it only made you more nervous to speak.

“No no, this is a personal visit.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. It was late enough in the day that both Matt’s office and the city outside were in a lull of quietness, making you feel extra exposed to the way you could tell Matt was observing you. Scanning every element of your body for some kind of hint to where this conversation was going and you were certain the vibes were not great.

“Is everything okay?”

You let out a sigh as you sank in the chair opposite him, tapping your fingers on the wooden surface of his desk in front of you.

“Look, I know we both said we weren’t really in a place for anything serious and this would just be fun between the two of us, no strings attached but…”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried to continue without crumbling into a sobbing puddle. Matt licked at his lips as he waited to hear what you had to say and you were certain he could still taste the saltiness in the air from when you had wiped away your tears earlier. Squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to center yourself, you shook your head, let out a large exhale, then spoke.

“Matt, I’m pregnant.”

It came out as almost a whisper, strained from the tightness of your throat and how heavy it felt to say out loud. The tick of his jaw was the only indicator you had that he’d even heard you, as he stood there with his hands on his hips. He didn’t need to listen to your heartbeat to know you weren’t lying.

Never one to leave a moment of silence to linger, you couldn’t resist the bubbling up of all the hundreds of thoughts and you’d be having since taking the test. The carefully constructed phrases you’d rehearsed for this moment in your head were now lost to a cluster of intangible thoughts as you began to ramble.

“I’m so sorry, I thought I was being so careful. I mean I was. I was taking my pill on time every day and everything. At least, I think I was. You don’t have to say anything or do anything. I’m going to take care of everything myself. Unless you want to, I mean be involved or whatever. And I know this isn’t what either of us wants right now but I just never thought I’d ever have kids, like it wasn’t even on my radar and—”

Matt held out a hand, cutting you off. You sat there blinking, unsure what to do as you watched him pace around in a circle, large hand rubbing at the back of his head. His silence was troubling to you and it seemed each moment spent without knowing what he was thinking was taking an eternity. Was he angry? Or just in shock? Was he going to ask you to leave, never to speak to you again? Was he going to break your heart just as Frank had? Was this a big enough complication that made you worth discarding by someone you cared for again?

After what seemed like minutes, he rested his forearms against the back of his chair, turning his attention fully to you.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay.” he reassured. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“Matt, you don’t have to—”

His hand came up again.

“Do you know what you want to do? Because whatever you decide, I’m right there beside you.”

“Matt, you don’t have to. I mean we’re not exactly at that stage of this relationshi—”

With a scoff, he shook his head and smiled. “No, sweetheart. I’m serious. Talk to me.”

He finally pulled out the chair from under him, sitting across from you and clearly ready to listen. You let out another sigh, resting your elbow on the desk and propping your head in it as you slowly spun the chair back and forth, even more antsy to how he’d react to what you were about to say.

“I want to keep it. I never thought I’d be a mom. Never thought I’d get the opportunity. But it took me all of five minutes after I took the test to calm down and I just knew.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he listened to you ramble more.

“But Matt,” you continued “Please don’t feel obligated to do anything. I don’t want you to feel stuck or like you have to—”

This time he cut you off by reaching across the desk, taking the hand that was not supporting your head as it danced nervously across the desk in his.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I said I was beside you and I mean it. No matter what.”

“Are you sure, because —”

“I want this. Us. Together.”

“Together?”

Your heart clenched at the certainty in his voice. Matt’s eagerness to be with you, to make this work, had all the alarm bells going off in your head. This was not how things usually went for you; life, relationships, opportunities. No one had ever been this clearly all in for you without some form of repayment expected and you were just waiting for the catch of it all to come crashing down and break your heart. But then you remembered the other shoe that was about to drop and ruin this moment was the secret you still kept from him.

“Or,” Matt sensed your hesitation and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “We still don’t have to put a label on this. We can get you through the pregnancy and co-parent and just see what happens.”

“That… yeah that might be best. But um, Matt there’s one more thing.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up over his red glasses as he tilted his head toward you.

“There’s a chance you’re not the father.”

You swore you saw Matt’s heart break into a million pieces as his face dropped and he sat back a little, letting go of your hand.

“Right…” he replied, looking more and more sullen by the second “We didn’t— I mean we never labeled this. You said you didn’t want to.”

“I’m so sorry Matt. But we agreed to keep things casual and if it makes you feel better, I only slept with him one time after you and I started—”

Matt nodded warily.

“Is it just one other guy or—"

“Matthew!”

“You can’t blame me for being curious!”

“It’s just one other guy.”

“Okay. It’s the one that you told me about, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you told him yet?”

“No.”

Matt rubbed at his chin, letting out a sigh.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.”

“No. I want this. Even if its not mine. Even if I have to co-parent with whatever other— I’m sure sweetheart.”

“You might want to rethink that”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I haven’t told you who else the father might be and you’re not gonna like who it is.”

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[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: no memes this chapter i ltrly just wanted to get one out but they will return next chapter trust. please ignore formatting errors and typos. I literally edited this whole thing and formatted it on my phone and it lagged and glitched the entire way.

Previous part || Series masterlist

The morning, though loud and annoying, has a particular ease to it.

There’s ridiculously hot coffee. Scraping forks and crunch from burnt pancakes. Multiple conversations layered over the sound of Bruce’s ridiculously long voicemail playing on speaker.

“--just checking in. Hope you’re still alive. If not, well, I guess you won’t call back. Anyway, Steve, if you get this, tell Bucky-”

Bucky rejects the phone sliding across the table towards him without even looking at it. “I’m not listening to that. Last time spent fifteen minutes before telling me that his shorts were in my laundry load.”

Nat hides a small, amused smile behind her coffee mug.

Clint finishes what might have once been a waffle, but has now been smothered into an unidentifiable state.

Bucky is exactly where he always is, at the end of the table, hoodie sleeves shoved up, coffee in one hand, headphones on with no music playing, just so that he has an excuse to not talk.

Someone’s already taken a bite of his toast and he’s been glaring about it ever since.

Until you walk in. Half-dressed for the day already, jacket thrown over your shoulder, keys spinning on your finger.

He looks up when you walk in, taking his headphone off one ear and giving you a curt nod when you wave at him. It takes him too long to realise his lip is curled up in the corner.

And that someone’s taken his toast.

“You going somewhere?” Sam asks, barely looking up from his Kindle.

It’s offhanded, like he only just registered the way you’re dressed.

“Yeah. I’m leaving.”

The table pauses. Your face doesn’t betray any emotion but Bucky registers your jaw tightening in the most miniscule manner. Like you’re waiting for a challenge, anxious energy vibrating from you, but standing your ground nonetheless.

Steve flips the page of his newspaper. “Eat something before you go.”

“If you’re coming back late, leftovers will be in the microwave,” Nat says, reaching for more marmalade.

Sam's finger swipes across the screen. “Text if you need anything."

Your shoulders loosen a little.

Bucky reaches for another slice of toast, hiding a smile behind the chipped coffee mug that Clint got him from some garage sale in Lithuania? Maldives? Somewhere.

“A'ight,” you say, stealing the newpiece of toast off Bucky’s plate, ignoring his complaints, and taking a bite.

Eventually, Steve asks, “Where you headed, anyway?”

You chew for a second before grinning around your mouthful.

“Bigfoot.”

Another collective pause follows.

Sam exhales. “I don’t want to ask, but I feel like I have to.”

You finish chewing. “Haunted reality competition. Going to Washington to look for Bigfoot. Loch Ness. You know. The classics.”

Nat hums. “Loch Ness is in Scotland.”

You shrug unaffectedly. “Then I guess we’re only finding half the legends.”

“Can I come?” Clint pipes up. “I have exper–”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Last time you did one of these, I had to read an article titled ‘Avengers Caught in Paranormal Disaster?’”

Clint hums. “Disaster is a strong word.”

Sam throws a look at him. “You fell through a wall.”

Clint shrugs. “Weak wall.”

“You fell twice.”

“Weak architecture.”

You grin, finishing the toast, before squeezing Bucky’s shoulder. “You coming?”

Bucky reaches for the third piece of godforsaken toasf. “My bag’s in the car.”

“See you there.” You grab your jacket and walk out the door.

The second you’re gone, the entire table turns to Bucky, eerily in sync.

He immediately puts the headphone back on his exposed ear and doesn’t even glance up, even though his face starts burning immediately because he knows. He fucking knows what’s about to happen.

“What,” he bites.

Steve shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

Sam leans back, stretching his arms. “Man, you’re not even pretending anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He desperately swallows down his coffee to get out of there as swift as possible.

“Dude. You had your bag packed before you were even asked.”

Bucky shrugs, completely unbothered. “Usually I don’t get asked.”

Nat finally speaks, slow, knowing. “Yeah, you made it pretty clear you don’t need to be.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You loser.”

Bucky grabs a piece of bacon and makes an ungraceful exit like the superstar that he is.

Someone steals his stupid toast for the third time.

_________

The road stretches out ahead, empty and winding.

The kind of road that doesn’t feel fully real. Just an endless stretch of trees and sky, the occasional fading sign pointing toward a town no one’s heard of.

The car hums steady beneath you, the windows cracked just enough to let in the cool air.

The radio is low, playing some random playlist, but mostly, the background noise is Bucky’s occasional exhale at the nonsense you're spewing and the smooth glide of the tires on the road.

You’re driving, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other resting near the console. Bucky is in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one knee braced against the door.

He looks comfortable.

That only means it's time to ruin it.

“I looked up the competition details again.”

Bucky hums, shifting slightly. “And?”

“Wanna guess what the prize is?”

“Please don’t say money. That would make this worse.”

You glance at him, amused. “Why would money make it worse?”

“Because then I’d have to think about the fact that you’re technically employed by cryptid clout chasers.”

"That's not how it works." You snort, shifting gears. “It’s not money.”

“Then what?”

You pause, letting the anticipation build before saying,

“A trophy.”

“A trophy,” he repeats, flat.

You nod, grin widening. “And not just any trophy. A gold-plated bust of Bigfoot’s head.”

“I hope we lose.”

“You’re gonna love it when we win.”

Bucky gives you a look. “What does winning even mean in a Bigfoot competition?”

You shrug. “You have to submit video evidence. Best sighting wins.”

Bucky shakes his head. “What does second place get?”

“A silver-plated bust of Bigfoot’s head.”

He pauses. “…And third?”

You grin.

“Bronze Bigfoot.”

“Fourth place it is, then."

"As if. We're gonna dominate, baby."

The miles slip by, unnoticed.

At some point, you tilt your head toward him. “How’s Alpine?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “She’s started ripping up my curtains again.”

You nod like this is completely reasonable. “What did you do to her?”

“I’ve done fuckin’ nothing. I got her a bed. I got her some stupid toys. I even made a dumb scratch post. She just won't let up. What’s her fuckin problem?”

“You know she’s doing this to fuck with you, right? She thinks it’s funny that you get mad but then get her new things every week.”

“Yeah, and she told you all this herself, yes?”

“It’s not like we talk about you. We talk about other things, you just come up occasionally.”

“I don’t care about the opinions of some fuckin’ cat.”

“Witch cat.”

“Whatever.”

Bucky shifts, rolling his window down slightly, letting the air move through the car.

At some point, he tilts his head slightly, studying you.

You’re focused on the road, fingers tapping absently against the wheel in time with the music.

The sun filters through the windshield, casting soft light against your face.

Bucky doesn’t look away immediately.

The road stretches on.

_______

The road narrows into a dirt path, the wheels crunching against gravel as you pull up to what can only be described as a God-abandoned nightmare.

The campground cabins sit at the edge of the woods, weathered, slightly crooked, and looking like it has at least five different species living in the walls.

Front porches are warped, the railing missing entire sections, and the windows look more decorative than functional.

Bucky stares out the windshield.

“I want you to understand something,” he says.

You hum, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Yeah?”

“This is worse than any warzone I've been in.”

You snort. “You’ll be fine.”

Bucky just looks back at the cabin and immediately rolls his window back up.

You swing the car door open, stepping onto the gravel, stretching from the long drive. The air is cool, crisp, smelling of trees and damp earth.

Across the clearing, you can see the other teams arriving, unpacking gear, setting up equipment.

There’s a mix of energy. Some people look like actual professionals with camera rigs and audio setups, the other half look like they googled ‘how to catch Bigfoot’ once and immediately packed a bag. You were a healthy middle. This made you better than them in many ways.

Bucky watches a guy in a bright orange jacket gesturing wildly at his partner.

“I’m telling you, we should’ve brought the infrared–”

“We couldn’t afford the infrared, Jason–”

“To win, we must invest-”

“There are people worse than us,” he points out. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

You grin, nudging the trunk open. “Wait till you see the matching team uniforms I got us.”

“I would literally rather die.”

You grab your bag, “Well, you can't right now, because we’re gonna have to socialize.”

Bucky, grabbing the bag from you instead and slinging it over his shoulder, pauses mid-step.

You gesture at the other teams. “We should at least know who we’re up against. Plus, I wanna see who looks the most insane. That’s how we weed out our biggest competition.”

Bucky does not bother saying otherwise, “I’m not doing any talking.”

You grin, pleased at the complete breakdown of his will to your wishes.

“Come on, babygirl,” you say, patting his arm. “Let’s go meet the competition.”

Bucky scans the area.

A guy in a tie-dye hoodie and cargo shorts is holding a homemade electromagnetic sensor, waving it over the ground. To his left, a woman in head-to-toe camo is assembling what looks like a makeshift crossbow.

And then, the competition makes itself known.

A guy in a bright orange jacket and an unnecessarily dramatic scarf saunters over, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

You immediately recognize him as the guy who was arguing earlier about infrared cameras.

He stops a few feet away, surveying you both.

“New team?” he asks, voice way too serious.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “No, we’re just tourists.”

Orange Jacket ignores him, turning to you. “What’s your strategy?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For winning.”

You glance at Bucky. “Do we have a strategy?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sex appeal. I thought you wanted me to take my shirt off."

Orange Jacket does not blink. “Unconventional.”

You nod. “We like to push the envelope.”

Orange Jacket finally sticks out a hand. “Jason.”

You shake it. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

Jason gestures vaguely to the chaotic scene behind him. “We’re one of the top teams here. We’ve been finalists for three years running.

“Wow,” Bucky says. “That’s… impressive.”

Jason squints. “You don’t sound impressed.”

“Oh, no, I am.” Bucky says flatly. “I’m very impressed.”

Jason stares at him. “This is a sport.”

Bucky presses his lips together.

You butt in before Bucky has an aneurysm, “Well, Jason, I wish you the best of luck.”

Jason nods solemnly. “You’ll need it more.”

And then he disappears back into the crowd.

Bucky watches him go, then glances at you. “I hate him.”

You hum. “It’s important to have a nemesis.”

Bucky exhales, shaking his head. “You already took that spot months ago.”

“I think that’s so sexy and romantic. It’s a shame we aren’t making out angrily right now against that tree.”

Bucky stares. You stare at him.

“Which tree?” he asks finally.

“Bitch, why is that your question? Do you have a preference? All trees here–”

Before he can respond with something equally stupid, another group approaches. A trio of women, all wearing flannel, all looking wildly competent.

The one in front nods at you. “You guys here for fun or for real?”

You grin. “Why not both?”

She nods. “Alright, respect.”

Bucky glances at them, mildly suspicious. “What’s your deal?”

“Expedition research group,” she says. “We do deep-dive investigations into folklore and cryptids.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re real scientists?”

One of them smirks. "About as real as it can get.

You pipe in immediately, “So, which one of you has the best Bigfoot sighting story?”

The woman gestures toward her friend, a tall redhead who looks like she could fight God and win.

“She saw something in Oregon once.”

The redhead nods sagely. “Could’ve been a bear. Could’ve been Bigfoot.”

You nod. “Incredible.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his face, muttering, “This is so dumb.”

You grin. “Nah. This is a sport.”

"I guess you guys met Jason," the redhead says. "He can get crazy about these things, so I'd watch out for him. Last time they used signal jammers to make sure people got no cell service so they couldn't go too far."

"Thanks for the heads up," you tell them, glancing at Bucky.

Loud microphone feedback drags your attention away. The organizers stand on a makeshift platform, which is really just the porch of one of the only standing cabins.

A short, stocky guy in a trucker hat steps forward, raising a megaphone.

“Alright, folks!” he yells, voice gravel-thick, deeply unbothered, like he’s done this a thousand times. “Listen up. Time for the official rundown.”

The teams gather around, some paying full attention, others already looking like they’re plotting ways to cheat.

“First off, let’s get the obvious out of the way. This is a competition. So you sign the waiver, you take responsibility for your dumbass decisions.”

There’s a general murmur of understanding.

“Second,” he continues, “this year’s challenge is focused on evidence collection. The goal isn’t just to make contact. It’s to prove you did. That means photos, audio, video, footprints, fur, whatever you can get your hands on. The more convincing, the better.”

Someone from the back shouts, “What about physical capture?”

The organizer blinks, before slowly and deliberately saying, “I dare you.”

You grin. “Alright Bucky, that’s our goal.”

Bucky shrugs. "Sure, what the hell."

“Now, because we don’t want you guys running wild all over Washington state, we’ve set specific boundaries for the hunt.”

He gestures to a giant, laminated map behind him.

“The active zone is roughly thirty square miles of forest. You go outside the zone? You’re disqualified. You get lost outside the zone? That’s not our problem.”

You whisper, “That sounds like a threat.”

“Sounds like a promise," he whispers back.

The guy continues.

“We’re running this for two nights. You report back both mornings with your findings. At the end, our panel of cryptid experts will review the evidence and determine the winner.”

Bucky makes a face. “Cryptid experts?”

Jason, your new nemesis, nods sagely from a few feet away.

“This is a sport,” he mouths.

“Last thing. No physical interference. No touching other teams’ equipment, no blocking their shots, no hiding their evidence. Anything else?”

A girl near the front raises a hand. “What’s the actual prize?”

The guy puffs his chest out. “Pride. Glory.”

Silence.

He deflates. “Trophy and a gift card for 100 dollars.”

“Hell yeah.”

The guy claps his hands once. “Alright, that’s it. You’ve got the rules. You’ve got the map. Now get to work.”

And just like that, teams scatter like they’re already three steps ahead.

“The game is afoot,” you say.

“The game is a bigfoot,” Bucky murmurs distractedly before horror dawns on him. “What the fuck have you turned me into?”

“My boyfriend soon, I hope.”

Bucky ignores your last comment because he’s already dug himself a hole. “What’s the actual strategy here?”

“Step one: Figure out how we’re gonna trick these judges into thinking we actually found something.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “And step two?”

You pat his shoulder. “Step two is your job.”

“No.”

“Step three: we pick the tree you want to makeout against.”

“Stop.”

The sun is starting to dip, streaking the sky with hazy orange and purple as you and Bucky haul your stuff inside before you start hunting.

The cabin is a structural crime against humanity, to put it kindly.

The floorboards creak threateningly with every step. The walls smell like something died in them a long time ago and no one bothered to check where.

The single lightbulb overhead flickers like it’s debating whether or not to give up completely.

Bucky steps inside, looks around once. “I am going to die here.”

You kick your bag further inside. “That’s the spirit.”

The room is barely furnished, just a rickety wooden table, two mismatched chairs, and a couch.

There’s a wood-burning stove in the corner and a door that leads to what technically counts as a bedroom.

Bucky steps forward, pressing down on the floor with his boot. The wood groans.

Bucky shakes his head, grumbling as he sets his bag down. “I was in Europe last week. I stayed in a five-star hotel.”

You grin. “And now you’re here. With me. Your life is so good.”

A sharp rustling outside makes you both pause.

You glance toward the window, which is so murky and scratched that it’s basically useless.

Bucky doesn’t move. “If that’s Jason trying to sabotage us, I’m going to throw him into the woods.”

You perk up. “Ooh, good idea. Do it on camera so I can get extra footage. I'm gonna use it as B-Roll."

Bucky levels a look at you.

You grin.

_______

The forest is quiet.

The beam of your flashlight cuts through the dark, swinging between thick trunks and scattered leaves.

Bucky walks beside you, hood pulled up because it's fucking cold, hands in his pockets.

The air is cool, the damp smell of earth settling in your lungs.

Bucky breaks first.

“You know,” he says, voice even, “I looked up Bigfoot sightings in the car.”

You glance at him, delighted. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He adjusts his sleeve. “Some guy saw it in a Walmart parking lot. Someone else swore on his life that he saw Bigfoot at a pool party.”

“A pool party?”

Bucky shrugs. “That’s what he said.”

You squint. “Was he, like, invited? Or did he just show up?”

"Donno. I clicked out of the tab immediately."

You’re about to comment when your boot caches on a branch, making you stumble.

Bucky catches your arm without thinking, steadying you before you can fully trip.

“You good?”

You grin. “Didn’t know you cared.”

Bucky lets go immediately.

You keep walking, slower this time.

Eventually, you swing your flashlight up, watching the glow disappear into the trees. “Okay, serious question.”

“Doubt it.”

You ignore him. “Dumbest thing you’ve ever done on a mission?”

“Define dumb.”

“Up to interpretation.”

Bucky hums, considering.

“2015. Northern Italy. Steve and I were supposed to take out this arms deal happening in a vineyard.”

“A vineyard?”

“Yeah. Nice place. Good wine.”

You snort. “I love that that’s your takeaway.”

Bucky ignores you. “Anyway. Intel said it was going down in one of the cellars. Supposed to be a small, controlled environment, easy to manage. But the problem was, we didn’t have the exact location. Just a general area.”

You nod along. “Okay.”

“So Steve tells me to ‘blend in’ while he scouts the outside.”

“Did you?”

Bucky shakes his head, staring at the trees. “Listen. I was tired. I hadn’t slept. So instead of being a normal human being and just waiting, I signed up for a vineyard tour.”

You snort.

“Like, the full thing. Tastings, cheese pairings, little booklet of wine notes. The whole experience.”

“Did Steve–”

“Found me forty minutes later, mid-tour, holding a glass of Merlot.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No, but I forgot what we came there to do.”

“Did it work?”

Bucky gestures vaguely. “The deal was in the cellar. I was right.”

“Oh, so the Merlot gave you divine clarity.”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, grinning.

Bucky watches you for a second, fingers tapping absently against his flashlight.

You don’t notice.

You’re too busy grinning at any vaguely strange movement in the woods, too busy leaning into the moment like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The wind shifts, the leaves rustling softly above you.

The moment sits there, warm and settled.

Bucky clears his throat. “Your turn.”

“Huh?”

“Dumbest thing you’ve done on a mission.”

"Oh, that’s easy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You swing your flashlight back toward the trees, stepping over a fallen log.

“i once spent three hours stuck in a vent because I refused to admit that my plan was bad.”

“Three hours?”

“Okay, so Leviathan training programme. Supposed to be simple. Get in, get the intel, get out.” You swing your flashlight up. “And I had a perfect route planned. Minimal exposure, minimal risk.”

Bucky hums, skeptical. “And where did the vent come in?”

You sigh. “See, that’s where things got complicated.”

Bucky snorts. “Right.”

You adjust your grip on the flashlight. “Turns out, the hallway I thought would be empty very much was not. So I had two options.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Normal options or your options?

“Oh, definitely my options.” You hold up a finger. “Option One: Hide. Wait it out. Find a new route.”

“Sounds reasonable, so I assume you didn’t do that.”

“Option Two: Take the vent system.”

“You looked at a basic tactical problem and decided that the correct solution was to crawl through the air ducts like a goddamn rat?”

“Yes. Anyway,” you continue, unbothered, “I thought it was a genius idea. Until I got stuck. Like, wedged. Completely immobile.”

“Tell me you had backup.”

“Absolutely not. And I obviously couldn’t radio in, because that would’ve been embarrassing. So I spent three hours slowly wiggling backward. Eventually went the wrong way, fell through the vent because turns out, the movies are wrong about how strong they are. Fell into a room with a bunch of agents that were following me around because turns out, vents are also not quiet.”

His laugh is soft, unguarded, a sound you don’t hear often.

You grin. “Anyway, I told them I was from security and that they failed a ventilation breach test.”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” like he can’t believe you’re a real person.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You ever get stuck in a vent?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

And then your foot catches on something that shouldn’t be there.

The ground drops out beneath you.

For half a second, you’re weightless.

Then a sharp yank reminds you you're not.

You stumble, body jerking backward as Bucky’s hand locks around your arm, hauling you back onto solid ground.

If you weren't so focused on that fact that you almost face planted, you would have noticed that Bucky's arms were both around your shoulders, holding you steady. Turns out his metal arm ran warm.

There’s a dull, heavy thud as the dirt fully collapses in front of you, revealing a man-made pit.

“What the fuck?”

Your flashlight beam dips into the hole. It’s deep enough to trap someone, but not deep enough to kill. The bottom is just dirt, loose leaves, and some broken branches.

“Okay,” you say, lowering your voice. “So, on a scale from ‘this is fine’ to ‘mild concern,’ where are we sitting right now?”

Bucky remains expressionless. “I’m going back to the cabin.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Yes. None of this is worth it.”

“No, but–” you gesture wildly, “we’re onto something.”

“You fell into a hole. Real something we're onto here.”

You glare. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

Bucky shoves a hand through his hair, calming the mild racing of his heart in panic. “It is stupid.”

“Okay,” you say, “new plan.”

Bucky doesn’t look at you. “Is the new plan ‘go back to the cabin’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can stay here, but– oh,” he cuts himself off when your words register. “We’re going back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you said so.”

His eye twitches. “We can’t go back now.”

“You literally just said–”

“Yeah, but you almost fell into a hole. We’re just gonna give up?”

You stare at him. “You’re so confusing sometimes. Can you pick a side?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“And you’ll follow?”

“Conditionally.”

You pat his cheek. “I can work with that.”

____

The cabin is dimly lit, the lantern on the table casting long shadows against the walls.

Outside, the wind has picked up, making the old wood creak and groan like it’s reconsidering its existence.

You’re still ranting.

Bucky, on the other hand, is stretched out on the couch from hell, arm tucked behind his head, looking half-asleep while you pace near the table.

“We could tamper with their equipment. Maybe not destroy it, just… compromise its integrity.”

Bucky cracks an eye open. “That’s literally destroying it.”

“Semantics.” You wave a hand. “Or we mess with their food. Make them sick so they have to drop out.”

“Jesus, no.”

You snap your fingers. “We burn down the cabins.”

“Go to sleep. Stick with the ‘stealing their flashlight plan’.”

You ignore that completely.

“They want to play dirty?” You cross your arms. “We’ll bury them.”

“You almost got buried an hour ago.”

You glare, throwing yourself into the rickety chair by the table.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I did. At 12AM. I’m no longer taking anything seriously at 3AM,” Bucky mutters, shifting to get comfortable. “Go to bed.”

You peek up. “You’re taking the couch?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to.”

Bucky sighs, voice gruff, low. “I’m taking the couch.”

You frown. “It’s like, the worst couch in the world.”

“Not the worst.”

“It literally is.”

Bucky doesn’t argue but he doesn’t move, either.

You sigh heavily, leaning back. “Where’s the washroom?”

“Outside.”

You blink. “Outside?”

A devious smile curls at the corner of his lip. “Yeah.”

You sit up. “Like– where outside?”

Bucky tilts his head toward the door. “Outhouse.”

A long pause follows before,

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.”

You exhale through your nose, standing abruptly.

“Okay.” You gesture vaguely toward the door. “I’m gonna go suffer through the outhouse now. And then I’ll eat barley for breakfast and die from the plague.”

Bucky snickers, drifting off.

“You sure you don’t want the bed? We can share, if you don’t mind.”

He hums. “What makes you think I mind?”

“Well, you’re sleeping on the birthplace of hepatitis instead of sharing a bed with me.”

“I’m being gentlemanly.”

“Oh, is this a courtship now?”

“Depends. You got a prized cow?”

“I got a witch cat and soon, a gold bust of Bigfoot.”

“Insufficient.”

“I can get Wanda to make me a cow.”

“Goodnight.”

"Did you pick that tree out yet? I saw s real good looking one right outside our cabin if you--"

"Good night."

______

The morning rolls in slow, mist curling between the trees, the cold settling into the damp wood of the barely functional cabin.

You wake up to the sound of Bucky moving around, the floor groaning beneath his weight.

You blink, squinting at the weak light filtering through the window.

“What time is it?” you mumble.

Bucky, dressed to the nines in his black hoodie and black pants, shrugs. “Dunno. Afternoon.”

You groan, rubbing your face. “You’re one of those people who wakes up before their alarm, huh?”

Bucky grabs his hoodie off the chair. “I wake up before your alarm.”

“Did you sleep at all?” You question. "I heard you tossing around all night."

He stifles a yawn. “Someone kept scratching against the door every half an hour.”

“What, like a ding dong ditch? That's so fucking lame.”

“People take this shit way too seriously,” he grumbles. “We missed breakfast, by the way.”

You swing your legs over the bed, stretching. “You making food?”

Bucky scoffs. “One spark and this place burns to the ground.”

“We’re stealing from another team, then.”

“Yeah.”

____

The campsite is already alive, teams hunched over maps, adjusting equipment, eating protein bars like they’re rationed war supplies.

You survey the scene, arms crossed, still mildly bitter about last night.

Bucky is too droopy-eyed to care. He could frankly lie down on the ground and go to sleep right now.

Jason’s team is hyper-focused, planning some over-complicated strategy.

Meanwhile, the scientist trio is sitting in a loose circle, drinking coffee, looking completely, utterly relaxed.

Your eyes land on their camera setup.

A good camera. A professional rig.

And a shovel. With dirt on it.

With the tenacity of a circus acrobat, you immediately jump to conclusions.

You nudge Bucky.

He glances at you, mid-bite of a protein bar he definitely didn’t pay for.

You tilt your head slightly toward the table. “It wasn’t Jason.”

Bucky’s eyes track the direction of your stare.

"Having a shovel doesn't mean it was them."

"you see anyone else here with shovels? Look at them. They're mocking us by displaying it out in the open right now."

"Sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart." He yawns, before he stops midway.

You, however, don't seem to notice the sleep-ridden comment that slipped out from him, for which he is grateful. He also decides that he and delirious self is too dangerous to be around you now.

“Do we kill them?” you ask.

"Bit much.”

You huff. “Sabotage them?”

Bucky nods.

You cross your arms, watching them laugh, completely unbothered, completely unaware that they’ve just become your worst enemies.

You plaster on a smile.

“Alright.” You turn to Bucky. “I got a plan. Let's go, partner.”

Bucky makes no effort to finish his protein bar faster, still fixated on where the fuck the term of endearment came from and why it slipped out instinctually.

Most of the teams are already mobilizing, gearing up for another thrilling day of hiking miles and miles through rough terrain in search of a cryptid that does not exist.

You’re currently devising the most elaborate sabotage plan imaginable.

You’re sitting on a tree stump near the cabin, arms crossed, staring daggers at the flannel trio.

Bucky, meanwhile, is standing beside you, now with a paper coffee cup he's attained from somewhere. The coffee is shit. It does not help.

After you spend 10 minutes explaining the most elaborate set of diagrams and graphs, you tilt your head toward him.

“So that's the plan.”

“Right,” he says, with all the confidence for someone who has no idea what you've been talking about.

“So how do you wanna do this?”

Bucky grunts. “Do what.”

You gesture vaguely toward the trio. “Ruining their lives.”

Bucky sips his coffee. “I’m going take a nap.”

You blink. “They ruined our first night!”

“I think they did us a favor.”

Your jaw drops.

Bucky doesn’t even react.

Just downs the last of his coffee, tosses the mug onto the cabin’s front step, and turns toward the door.

You watch him go, completely baffled. “It’s broad daylight!”

Bucky waves a hand lazily. “Give me like two hours. I'll help with whatever once I'm up.”

You watch as he steps inside, not even bothering to close the door properly.

Bucky hopes the couch swallows him whole.

Sweetheart.

Jesus Christ.

______

The day drags on, teams disappearing into the forest, hiking miles into nothingness in search of a creature that absolutely does not exist.

At some point, the sun dips low, the sky turning a hazy orange.

Bucky wakes up slowly, the kind of waking that comes with a vague sense of disorientation, the heavy quiet of the cabin settling thick around him.

His brain catches up in pieces.

The weight of the blanket over him, which he definitely didn’t get for himself.

The smell of coffee sitting on the table nearby.

The lantern glow, still softly flickering, meaning someone had kept it on.

He watches it for a second, expression unreadable.

He pushes up with a groan, stretching his arms overhead, rolling his neck to get rid of the stiffness.

And then he notices.

You’re not here.

Your notebook is still open on the table, full of chaotic, barely legible scribbling. A pen tossed carelessly on top.

Bucky exhales deeply, rubbing his hand over his jaw, waking up properly now.

Just sits there for a moment, drinking the coffee you left for him, letting his mind catch up.

Because, realistically you’re fine.

You’re probably running whatever dumbass sabotage plan you spent all day coming up with.

…But.

Bucky sighs, pushing himself fully upright.

Because he should check anyway.

Because it’s late.

Bucky sets the mug down, running a hand over his face.

Then, with a deep breath, a stretch, and the slow realization that he is awake now and might as well do something about it—

He grabs his jacket, pulls on his boots, and heads outside.

Bucky steps off the porch, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms, shaking the last bit of sleep off.

The air is cold and crisp, the night quiet in a way that doesn’t quite sit right.

It’s fine.

He’s just gonna find you, help you finish whatever stupid idea you'd schemed up, and then leave.

So he steps toward the trees.

And then–

The ground fucking disappears.

One second he’s walking, fully in control of his life.

The next, he’s airborne.

There’s a brief moment of pure, existential realization.

Suddenly, he is fully submerged.

In cold, thick, swampy-ass water.

Bucky does not move for a second.

Just lets the absolute, soul-deep exhaustion settle into his bones.

"Fucking fine."

It’s dark as shit, his flashlight is gone, and the air smells absolutely rancid.

Something slithers nearby, slow and slick, like something large shifting just beneath the surface.

Bucky tilts his head back, and shuts his eyes. Because of course.

Of course, this is happening.

Of course, he has fallen through something stupid and landed in something worse.

Of course, the literal universe itself has decided that he, a former assassin, a man who has survived war, torture, cosmic-level threats, should now be stuck in some godforsaken backwoods swamp.

He drags himself toward solid land, every step sucking in the mud, his metal hand slipping against the slick earth.

He grunts, pulls, mutters a long string of curses in Russian, and finally hauls himself up onto the dirt, flopping onto his back for just a second, staring at the sky in pure, exhausted disbelief.

He is so fucking done.

He does not investigate.

He does not waste a single second thinking about who might have set this up or why.

He does not care.

What he does care about is getting this shit off of him.

So he hauls himself to his feet, shakes off as much filth as possible, and marches toward the fucking outhouse.

This is a tomorrow problem.

This is actually a never problem because he will close his eyes, go back to sleep, and this will have never fucking happened.

_____

Bucky wakes up slower than usual.

His body aches in a way that suggests something terrible happened last night, which considering that was truly one with mother earth the previous night -- seems about right.

He shifts slightly, blinking blearily at the dim light filtering through the window.

You’re not here.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe you’re asleep somewhere.

Maybe you’re still out enacting whatever plan you spent all night putting together.

Maybe he should just go back to sleep.

And honestly, he almost does.

Right up until he hears the distant sound of a megaphone crackling to life.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Right.

The results.

Bucky does not care.

He already knows how this goes.

Jason’s team was way too serious, had way too much expensive gear, probably faked some great “evidence” and would be lording their victory over everyone else for the rest of the day.

Which meant if he stayed inside, he wouldn’t have to witness it.

Which meant if he stayed inside, it wasn’t his problem.

Which meant—

Another muffled announcement crackles out, the sound of cheering picking up outside.

Bucky exhales sharply, shoving himself upright.

Fine.

Fine.

By the time Bucky gets there, the entire camp is already gathered.

Some teams look hopeful, some look indifferent, and some already look like they’re preparing to deliver a victory speech.

You are standing front and center, arms crossed, a distinct glimmer in your eyes.

Bucky slows his pace, scanning the situation, suspicion already curling in his chest.

You look far too relaxed.

Bucky narrows his eyes.

The head organizer steps up to the front of the group, clearing his throat, holding a clipboard.

“Alright, folks,” he calls, voice carrying easily over the restless crowd. “After reviewing all the evidence from the last two nights-”

Bucky tunes most of it out.

Jason’s team had the money, the experience, the fake confidence that made up for their lack of real skill.

And you– well.

You had plans.

But those never worked.

“--so, after careful consideration, this year’s winners are…”

A pause.

Bucky doesn’t even brace for it.

But then the announcer shouts your name.

And his.

Bucky blinks.

The camp erupts.

Someone shouts. Someone cheers. Someone yells ‘What the fuck?!’ loud enough to make birds scatter.

Bucky does not react.

Because his brain is not computing this information.

Then, very slowly, very carefully, he turns to look at you.

And that’s when it hits him.

You’re not surprised.

You knew.

You knew before they said it.

Oh.

Oh, no.

And then you whirl around, absolutely beaming, throwing your arms up.

“We fucking won, baby!”

Bucky does not blink.

He does not react.

Because he is too busy trying to figure out how exactly this happened.

Jason, however, is reacting for both of them.

“That’s bullshit!” Jason yells, shoving forward, gesturing wildly. “We had the best evidence! We had thermal imaging! We had–”

The organizer raises a hand. “The judges took into account clarity, legitimacy, and most of all–”

He gestures broadly. “Entertainment value.”

Jason splutters. “You’re saying they won because it was funny?!”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

Oh, you look way too smug right now.

Jason is still yelling about credibility and journalistic integrity, but Bucky is no longer listening.

He just stares at you.

For a long time.

Long enough for Jason’s yelling to start fading into background noise.

You are grinning like an idiot.

Against his better judgment, against every single instinct in his body telling him to turn around and go–

“…How,” he asks, voice even, slow, “did we win?”

You beam.

_____

The screen flickers, adjusting to low-light, night-vision mode.

The forest appears, eerily still.

Then a loud crash.

A thud.

The camera shakes slightly as the sound of splashing, struggling, muffled cursing filters through the speakers.

And then something emerges from the darkness.

Something large. Moving, dripping with swamp water, stumbling onto solid ground, slow and unsteady, illuminated in the grainy green light.

Bucky leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

The figure in the video shakes itself off, turns toward the camera, posture stiff, silhouette looming.

A perfect, pristine, unmistakable image of

Him.

Bucky stares.

Just watches himself hoodie-clad and soaked, disoriented, looking every bit like a goddamn swamp monster crawl out of the hole in full, crystal-clear night-vision.

The Bucky on screen glances up toward the camera, features still in shadow.

“Oh my god. I’m actually recording right now," you whisper excitedly in the background.

Bucky, very slowly, very carefully says, “That’s me.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No,” you say. “I just saw Bigfoot. And I recorded.”

Bucky’s brain stops working.

“Did you fucking dig that pit?”

You raise a hand, defensive. “That was for Bigfoot.”

You pause.

“…Or the other team. Whoever fell in first.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling. “And you submitted this.”

“Correct.”

“And this won.”

“Oh yeah. They loved it.”

Bucky leans back against the couch, glass eyed.

He does not respond.

______

The car rumbles along the road, the last of the wilderness fading into the distance, replaced by stretching highways and the creeping return of civilization.

Bucky is driving, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh.

You’re leaning against the window, legs folded up on the seat, a half-empty gas station cup in your hands.

And a gold bust in the backseat of the car with a seatbelt on.

Neither of you have spoken since you shoved your bags in the trunk and peeled out of camp before Jason could start asking questions.

“I still don’t know how you set that up.*

You don’t even pretend to play dumb. “The pit?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“Well,” you say, “I had time.”

Bucky snorts.

A small silence follows.

“I fell into a fucking swamp," he says.

“I know.”

“I was in there for a full minute.”

“I know.”

The radio hums softly, a song playing too low to make out.

"I think we did very well. We have a real career in bigfoot hunting if we wanted."

"I'm good, thanks."

Outside, the highway stretches ahead, endless and open.

You shift slightly, getting more comfortable.

“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t doing this?”

Bucky glances at you.

You’re still staring out the window, watching the world blur past.

He turns back to the road, humming low in his throat. “Sometimes.”

You tilt your head, watching him now.

“And?”

Bucky exhales through his nose.

Then shrugs, like he hasn’t thought about it much, like he’s thought about it too much.

“I don’t know.”

You nod, thoughtful.

A beat goes by before you ask–

“You ever think about opening a winery?”

Bucky groans.

You laugh.

And just like that, the drive continues.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to those who comment and tell me what u think– i love u. ur the sole reason i haven’t abandoned this lil fic. thank u for everything mwah <333333

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[cosmicwavelengths]

staring problem

pairing: avenger! bucky barnes x physical therapist! reader summary: you’ve been working with sam, joaquin, and bucky for the past few months, and you couldn’t help but notice how bucky just… stares. (based off of dialogue from the falcon and the winter soldier: “does he always just stare like that?” “you get used to it.” and “you’re doing the staring thing again.” + more)

a/n: hello and welcome to my first one shot! i saw captain america: brave new world last week and it was tremendous! i went back and watched the falcon and the winter soldier and it inspired me to write this fic. i've been pretty excited to share this, so i hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs are always appreciated forehead kiss

comments/tags: ca:bnw (spoilers!), fluff, bucky barnes is a 106 year old grumpy ass, bucky has a staring problem (quite severely), physical therapist/trainer f! reader, sam wilson, joaquin torres, bucky doesn’t hate joaquin here but he has a youthful energy that old man barnes finds mildly exhausting (sometimes), there’s technically a girthy age gap between bucky and reader (probably 60-80 years) but bucky can’t help that so we will collectively ignore it, strangers-to-lovers except bucky is just Confused, no y/n use

cw: mentions of alcohol (drinking, reader getting drunk), sebastian stan’s intense glare (swoon), kissing, language (bucky has a potty mouth)

wc: 3.9k | masterlist | ao3 ────୨ৎ────

In his 106 or so years, you were the first person who Bucky Barnes met that genuinely perplexed  him. And he couldn’t exactly put his finger on why.

During his over-extended life, he prided himself on his ability to read people and understand their intentions almost immediately. Maybe he’s a cynic, but he finds it to be much easier to organize the recurring figures of his life into different areas of his mind. Of course, there’s the rare individual that Bucky genuinely likes, such as Sam. And with others he tolerates, like Joaquín. But you? He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. And if Bucky was being honest with himself, it scares him.

Considering he already knows almost everything about you, it’s almost frustrating how little Bucky truly knows you. Sure, Joaquín sat you all down as a group to discuss their new physical therapist. Similar to Joaquín in age, graduated from college not too long ago,, has significant experience with working with service men. You’ve been working with them for nearly six months already, and Bucky has yet to properly assess where you sit in his brain.

Whenever you entered the room -- any room, you had a certain energy. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself, but you seem to have this natural ability to alter the space around you in some way. Your teeth and eyes seemed to sparkle, the way they open up so wide to greet him and the others at the beginning of each training session.

“Does he always just stare like that?” you inquire quietly, leaning over to Sam as you create a hamstring out of a roll of kinesiology tape. You subtly nudge your arm in the general direction where Bucky stood next to the weight rack.

Sam chuckles, “You get used to it.” You shrug in response, putting your head down and continuing to wrap the tape around his calf. “He might be a bionic staring machine, but he’s been through a lot. It’s just how he is, I wouldn’t take it personally,” he smiles down at you. Making a quick glance in his direction, Bucky continues to stare pointedly, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. Intimidating. You suppose any regular person would be skeeved out under such intense pressure, but it makes you rather demure. Even though you’re looking in his direction, he continues to look at you with his intense eyes. You’d think that most people would stop after being noticed, especially since you’ve caught him staring at you more than twice, but he continues with his piercing gaze anyways. 

Since Sam had decided to rebuild the Avengers, you had been brought in as their physical therapist. If you were honest, you weren’t exactly sure why superheroes of all people needed physical therapy, with what cutting edge technology and medicine they have at their disposal, but it pays well and you can’t complain about that in this economy.. Since starting, you’ve already become relatively close with Sam and Joaquín. But Bucky…

…Well, judging by the way he’s practically staring through you, you’d be safe in assuming that he hates you or something. You’ve not really had a chance to have a full fledged conversation with him. You helped him stretch, applied kinesio tape when asked. Within your first few days here, you surmised that he was just a private person. But, you’ve seen the quick smiles he flashed at Sam and the occasional short conversation with Joaquín. You normally don’t take these things too personally, but the people pleaser side of you tends to rear its ugly head. Aside from that, there was something about Bucky that made you want him to like you at least a little bit. You’ve tried your best to be friendly to him during your brief interactions, but he didn’t seem to have much of an interest in conversing with you past exchanging pleasantries. Even though it hurts a little, it’s just how some of these jobs go, after all, you can’t expect to be friends with all your clients. But his nearly constant staring at you is… menacing.

“I just don’t think he’s taken to me that well,” you breathe, finishing the wrap on his quad and cutting away the excess tape with scissors. “He doesn’t seem to like talking to me… or like me, at all.”

“It’s not you,” Sam reassures gently. “Give him some time to open up.”

--

“Y’know, you probably scare her with how much you stare at her like that.”

Bucky re-racked the weights with much more force than he wanted, causing the weights to make a heavy clunk sound against the metal, making her and Sam’s heads snap over in their direction. Shit.

Bucky looks at Joaquín and frowns. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, you have something of a staring problem,” says Joaquín. “Do you know that? It’s important to us that you know that. You have zero tact.”

Bucky grumbles under his breath in response, turning back to the weight rack to select a heavier dumbbell. “At least say something to her when we go out later? You can tell it bothers her,” Joaquín offers with a smile. Bucky steps back from the rack, preparing for his next set. “Stay out of my business, Torres.”

“This seems like a very unnatural problem for someone like you to have. Maybe we should call Wakanda, tell them that our cyborg puppet has stopped working and is in urgent need of recalibration.”

“Fuck off.”

--

The bar is loud. Far too loud for Bucky’s taste as he enters the establishment with Sam. Had it been up to him, he would have picked his usual quiet spot near his apartment. But, it is her six month anniversary of working with the guys, and Bucky wasn’t going to miss a chance to drink for free on Sam’s tab. Bucky stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, scanning the many faces around the room. Keep an eye out for any potential threats…

“Well?” Sam asks, turning to Bucky and breaking him out of his concentration. Bucky’s jaw tightens, “Don’t you and Torres know better than to be in my business?” he says, crabbily. Sam shrugs his shoulders, hands out in defense. “Hey! I just want you to be happy, man. Just think about what Torres said, maybe?” He steps back from Bucky with a smile, clapping his hand against Bucky’s shoulder before approaching Joaquín at the bar. And there you are, sitting next to Joaquín, shining like the stars and moon… yet unsteady. Your warm expression grows upon seeing Sam, pulling him into a tight hug. What the hell, sure, Bucky ponders briefly before stalking up to the only open space in the bar and ordering a beer.

“Sam!” you answer excitedly, throwing your arms around him in a warm hug. He reciprocates in kind, saying a quick greeting during the embrace. “Wo-oah there!” Sam teases, “Has Joaquín here been filling you up with drinks here?” He gestures to the glassware that you and Joaquín collected, lightly crowding the bar surface.

“Hey, look, it’s a cheat night for all of us, and more importantly, her six month work anniversary!” Joaquín reminds Sam with a laugh. “Yes, tonight is all about me, guys,” you tease, smiling lazily at them. You generally don’t make it a habit to engage with clients outside of the gym, but Sam and Joaquín had truly welcomed you to the team with open arms these last few months. It was truly kind of Sam to pick up the tab tonight, and you’d feel rude refusing.

You settle back into your barstool as Sam and Joaquín begin a conversation. You scan the many faces around the U-shaped bar until you notice Bucky standing there, waiting on his drink. He’s of average height, about six feet tall or so, yet he stands out among the others around him. He wears his infamous scowl as he toys with his leather gloves. You took care in noticing how the light of the bar catches his upper cheek bone and the top of his jawline by his ear. His brooding blue eyes as they scan the area round him. So intimidating… yet..

He glances up at you quickly, incidentally locking eyes with you across the bar. Your eyes grow wide, feeling smaller than you’ve ever felt before. It’s almost eerie the way he studies you, as if he is trying to memorize every atom and particle of your facial structure. You almost freeze under his watch, sobering up a little as you sit up straighter. Properly. You cast out your usual friendly gestures, an invitation -- a small smile and a shy wave of your finger tips. Maybe it’s your alcohol-muddled brain playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn that the corner of his lips turned ever so slightly upwards.

It felt like time stopped when Bucky noticed you. The small wisps of your hair caught by the lowlights above the bar, reaching to the bow of the lips that once held a grin. Your wide eyes holding a sparkle of light. How he can see the way your skin flushes due to your alcohol consumption. Bucky finds it adorable the way you lightly smile at him, waving your hand gently. He sees the way you’re a bit wobbly, having to lean against the bar to keep things steady. He couldn’t help but be amused. His attention is torn away by the bartender setting down the beer bottle in front of him. Bucky fishes for cash in his pocket, setting it in the man’s hand and finally approaching the group.

He stuffs his beer-less hand deep into his jacket pocket as he stops next to Sam. He claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder in greeting, Bucky acknowledges him with a slight nod of his head. “Bucky!” Sam exclaims, gesturing to the group. “Welcome. We were wondering when you’d show up!” Bucky looks at him with a tired expression. “Lost track of time at the gym,” he mumbles. “Likely story,” Joaquín laughs, before being cut short by Bucky nudging him sharply with his flesh elbow, using a bit more force than necessary.

--

Minutes pass. Then an hour. Two hours. Rounds of drinks later, you all lapse into steady conversation telling lively stories of the past, previous jobs, missions, interactions with other superheroes. You and Joaquín chortle together loudly at Sam’s seemingly endless stream of stories and jokes, while Bucky resigns himself to polite nods as he sips on his beer. The initial lively crowd of the bar had died down to the regular crowd, who’d delegated themselves to chatting amongst themselves, playing darts and shooting pool.

Several vodka cranberries in, your face and hands feel oddly numb, and the room spins more than usual. Shame on you for thinking you can match Joaquín drink for drink. Sam and Joaquín throw back the last of their drinks before heading off to the pool tables. Bucky stares off at them as they apply blue chalk to the tips of their cue sticks, ready to begin a match.

Turning towards Bucky, you prop yourself up against the bar, cheek in hand. You attempt to mock the way he stares at you, to make him feel how you’ve felt all these months.

“So,” you hiccup, interrupting yourself with a shy giggle. “What’s your deal?” You mockingly raise an eyebrow. “What’s your damage, Bucky? What is it about me you don’t like?” It slips out so easily. You should be embarrassed, but you’re far too gone.

Bucky sits up straight, giving you an unsure glance. That’s new. “I’m not sure what you--.”

“And you’re doing that staring thing again, that thing you do with me,” you comment, words slurring slightly as you gesturing unsteadily in Sam and Joaquín’s direction. “When you look at me like that, I can’t tell if ‘ya like or hate me!”

“Y’know, maybe I’m a people pleaser or sumthin’, but I-I really want you to like me, I think,” you sigh. Shrugging comically, you throw back the rest of your drink sitting on the bar. Leaning over, you clap your hand over his large gloved one. Bucky freezes, suddenly being hyper aware of what you’re doing and how small your hand feels compared to his. “And y’know what else? I don’t even mind when you stare at me like that. It’s almost as hot as it is intimidating.”

Bucky was warm -- not from the alcohol. He knows he can’t really get drunk anymore due to the serum, but he still feels the sweat from his palms against the smooth leather interior of his padded globes. And again, he states. Wide eyed at the flushness that cascaded down her cheeks to her collar bones. She fully lost herself in a fit of uncontrollable giggles, leaning against the bar again, not even knowing what you’re doing to him.

He wants to look everywhere all at once, eyes darting. Your bright, round lips stained with cranberry juice and the remnants of your lip gloss. The small beads of sweat by your temples and the crown of your hair. Your smooth thighs, sparkling in certain spots from the cold  of your glass. Bucky was truly rendered speechless. Not that he usually speaks much. Not that he was able to get much of a word in with you beforehand. But this time, he feels truly stumped. So, naturally, he did what any former brainwashed assassin turned semi-normal guy would do. With every ounce of charisma and bravado that a man like him could gather, he took one last look at her and drank the last bit of his beer. “Excuse me,” he said with a voice he was unfamiliar with, and turned around to walk out of the bar. And kept walking. All the way home.

--

Sleep is elusive to Bucky, who had spent the previous night drifting in and out of light sleep. He usually takes this as a sign to get an early start of the day, maybe go for a long run or walk outside.

He rises, making his way to the bathroom.. Squeezing out toothpaste, Bucky couldn’t help but reflect upon the event of the previous night. The sound of your gleeful, drunken laugh. How the warmth radiated off of your body. He can just barely recall the ghostly weight of your hand on the back of his. Even through his thick gloves, you may as well have burned him.

As Bucky splashes water on his face, he concludes that maybe a run wasn’t what he needed. The subway station was right outside of the bar on East Houston Street, yet he elected to walk two hours back home to his apartment in Brooklyn instead. He’d hoped that walking over the Manhattan Bridge in the middle of the night would turn out to be somewhat therapeutic, yet he was still unable to shake the memory of you at the bar. 

Letting out a deep breath, he takes a moment to sit on the couch and put his boots on. Standing, he shrugs on his leather jacket and reaches for the gloves in his pocket. Gloves you touched, he recalls, feeling uncharacteristically giddy about it. Heading out the door, he hopes that this early morning workout will help him clear his head.

--

It is far too early to wake up today, especially after having a night out like that. You awake with a raging headache, an unsettled stomach, and an aggressive thought of what the fuck did you do. As you lie there, gazing at your slowly spinning ceiling fan, you start to feel each and every one of the drinks. Groaning, you sit up, clutching your stomach in an attempt to settle yourself and you are quickly reminded of the conversation you had with Bucky. At that, you shoot up far quicker than you should, running to the toilet to rid yourself of the contents of your stomach and regrets from last night. Sigh.

You couldn’t believe that you had said that, feeling waves of embarrassment. You normally wouldn’t push yourself that far with the drinks, much less with the boundaries of a client. Grimacing, you reach up to the counter, feeling for a towel to wipe your face of sweat and residual make-up. Turning on the faucet, you cup water into your hands to drink and splash your face with cold water. Approaching your closet, you preemptively mourn one of the best jobs you’ve ever had. Every fiber of your being begs you to return to bed and wallow in self pity, but you think it’s best that you get to the gym early for a quick workout. Sweat out the hangover, you think bitterly. Your head lightly pounds when you make a sudden movement. Bringing your hand to your forehead, you realize this is going to be one long day.

Entering the compound, you hear the sound of a treadmill running and rhythmic steps in accompaniment. It would be good to see Sam or Joaquín, figuring that one of them decided to work off the alcohol consumed last night. But since you are, evidently, not God’s favorite, running on the treadmill is someone you’d rather avoid right now. And there’s Bucky Barnes, shirtless and sweating as he jogs on the machine. Your eyes follow his dog tags dangling from his neck, bouncing rhythmically against his skin. He heaves gently, hair flopping with each step. 

Even though you stopped in your tracks, he had already felt your presence and began slowing down. Bucky steps off the treadmill, collecting his water and patting his forehead with a small towel he brought. You figure it’s best to just talk and not dance around the topic. He didn’t seem like the type to beat around the bush. You breathe shakily before approaching him.

“Hi, Bucky,” you say, tone laced with nerves.. “Look, about last night—”

“Hey, it’s fine.” he interjects accidentally, cutting you off. He raises a gentle hand of reassurance. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

Your shoulders relax a bit, knowing that there was maybe a small chance that he wouldn’t tell Sam or Joaquín about your interaction. “Thank you, it’s just that I rarely go out with clients like that, nor do I drink that heavily.” You shift lightly on your feet, fumbling with your water bottle. “I didn’t mean to be unprofessional or cross any boundaries. I just hope that we could maybe move past this, pretend like it didn’t happen?” Smiling, you look up at the taller man, eyes filled with hope. He himself shifts on his feet, “Oh, I didn’t realize we were just clients to you.” You look down with embarrassment, searching for a response. “Uh, I didn’t mean any offense—”

“I’m just teasin’, sweetheart,” the nickname rolling smoothly off his tongue with a smile. A smile. “Did you really mean what you said, though? About me staring?” Drunk words are sober thoughts, he recalls to himself, having learned the phrase from Torres. You flush, suddenly taking interest in the top of your water bottle rather than the man in front of you. Him speaking with you, much less jokingly is more than foreign territory for you. “I-I mean,” you sputter out, self consciousness taking charge. “I wouldn’t mind being friends with you, of course, I try my best to be friendly with the people I work with.” He takes a step closer. “Now, you and I both know that that’s not the part we are talking about.” Your breath hitches. You take in how you feel crowded by him. He’s not exactly within your personal space. Yet.

“Really, I’m the one that should be apologizing.” Bucky says, loosening up. With a sigh, he starts: “I’m sorry to have kept you at arms length all this time. It’s rather difficult for ‘someone like me,’” he dramatically emphasizes with air quotes, “to ‘nurture friendships.’” So says my therapist, he thinks with an internal eye roll. “What’s wrong with me isn’t your fault. I’m just old and cynical.” He pats the outside of your arm in reassurance. You smile, feeling the spot grow warm under his touch. “For the record, I don’t exactly mind that you called me hot, either,” he casually notes. “It’s certainly better than the other reactions I tend to get.” You didn’t think it was possible to blush harder, feeling the warmth creep down your chest. Fuck, you were hoping he wouldn’t mention that part specifically, but you can roll with it. “Well, I do pride myself on being honest, I guess,” you chuckle nervously trying to play it off as cool.

“Y’know, since I had met you, I had been so confused on what to think of you. In all my life, I had never met anyone that was able to do that to me.” His voice darkens. “Care to clue me in as to why?” You feel stuck again, just how you felt last night when he was staring you down at the bar. You attempt to nervously mutter out a response, which instead leaves your mouth gaping open. He closes in on your space, you can feel his body heat radiating off of him. He glances down at your curved lips, light pink and glistening, then back into your doe eyes. “Please, sweetheart, it drives me crazy when you look at me like that,” he uses the nickname again, making your mind spin and your knees a bit weak. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

His eyes drop to your lips again as you stand there, stupefied. His eyes drift downwards to your lips and you almost feel like crumbling under the sudden pressure. He closes in again, sneaking his hands around your waist to pull you in closer. You’re both suspended in silence for a beat, and you think your heart would stop until he continues. “I don’t mean to make things weird, but maybe I like the way you fluster when I look at you.  I’ve been alive for a long, long time, and you’re the first person I’ve met that’s made me feel this way.”

Before you were aware of his movements, he closed the distance. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the softness of Bucky’s lips, moving slowly and calculating over your own. His grip tightens on your waist, and you feel how the tips of his fingers press into your skin, making your mind go white. You press your body closer to him, breathing heavily as you press your lips against his. He pulls away when he feels your knees buckle gently, chuckling. “Careful, doll. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” You shake your head in an effort to come to and give him a response. “N-no, It’s fine, you didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.” 

“Good,” he replies, voice darkening. He laughs again, causing you to giggle with him and lean in again.

“You do have a staring problem, though,” Sam chides through the speaker of Red Wing. Thecombat drone floats into your line of sight, hovering menacingly over Bucky’s shoulder. You jump back away from Bucky as if you were burned, feeling embarrassed. Bucky sighs exasperatedly, leaning against the treadmill and shaking his head. “By the way, thanks for finally taking our advice! I have all of that on camera, you know that, right?”

Bucky rolls his eyes with a huff. “Get out of my face, Sam, or I’ll break it.”

[darealsaltysam]

hey tumblr. you should read my xmen fic. the second chapter just came out. this image tells you all you need to know about the plot. thanks <3

[thinkinonsense]

Sweet Temptations.

logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: fingering, oral (f receiving), innocence kink, inexperienced reader, darkish!logan

a/n: hi! sorry i've been gone so long! i have plenty of stuff in the works but for now here's this. i'm working on making a mini-series of dark!logan x inexperienced!reader so i hope everyone enjoys! <3

to think, logan almost went out to the bar tonight. almost left to find a one night stand or come home and fuck his hand. tonight could've had so many different outcomes but luckily, he ended up with the best one.

there's a light knock on his bedroom door. he knew it had to have been you since everyone was on a field trip a couple hours away for the night. logan obviously wasn't interested in going and you were busy working on an experiment in the laboratory.

in all reality, logan just wanted an excuse to stay here alone with you overnight. ever since he joined the x-men and met you down in the lab in that cute white coat and pretty smile, he's had a crush on you.

"hi, logan." you smile softly when he opens his door.

"hey, dollface. you need something?" he asks, leaning against his door frame and eyeing that short little nightgown of yours.

"can we talk?"

"sure."

the two of you walk into logan's room and sit on the end of his bed. you sit up on your knees, facing him. he can tell that something is on your mind but you're unsure on if you should confide in him or not.

"is everything alright?" he asks, growing concerned.

you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

"whatcha wanna talk about then, sweets?"

logan's large hand rubs your knee softly, almost coaxing the words out of you.

"would you do me a big favor?" you ask, avoiding his hazel gaze.

"of course."

there's slight hesitation. you were afraid of logan's reaction to your request. after a deep breath, you remind yourself that it's just logan. the same logan who trains with you every morning, the same logan who plays with your hair when he's bord, the same logan who praises you for all your hard work in the laboratory. there was nothing to be afraid of.

"c-can you take my virginity?"

the question almost killed logan. he thought he had died and gone to heaven. you finally look at him with a twinkle in your eyes and he feels the need to adjust the tent growing in his pants.

"where'd this idea come from, sweetheart?"

"well, i was seeing a guy a while ago who acted really weird when i told him i was still a virgin then when i told storm and jean, they told me that if i'm ready to do it, than it should be with someone i trust." you explain so innocently to him. "i just figured since you've always been so gentle with me and i trust you, i was kinda hoping you wouldn't mind."

never in his wildest dreams could logan have imagined this happening. you sitting pretty on his bed, practically begging him to take your virginity. god, logan couldn't even remember the last time he was with a virgin. must've been decades ago.

"that's real sweet, dollface. 'f course i'll do it." he says, watching your smile grow with excitement. "first i need to know what you've already done."

"i've kissed while sitting in someone's lap, given a hickey twice... maybe three times? some nights i'll rub myself against one of my pillows."

even though he knew the answer, he had to ask, "ever fingered yourself?"

"no." you shake your head, almost making logan moan at just the thought of being the first person to do that to you.

"want to try it?"

"s-sure but i thought we were gonna–"

"we will." logan assures. "need to get you loosened up first if you want me to fit inside of you."

a small gasp exists your lips, making him chuckle. logan leans in, testing the waters to see how you kiss. he's a bit shocked by how you pull him closer to deepen it. you moan into his mouth while your hands roam his hair. he sits you in his lap and lets you grind yourself on top of him, showing him what you know.

"let's see if you're nice and wet for me." logan hums, lifting up your nightgown and feeling the wet spot over your underwear. "very good, dollface."

without thinking, you let out a tiny moan next to his ear because of his praise. he can't help but pull your head from its hiding spot in his neck to look at you.

"you like when i tell you how good you're being for me?" he ask, watching your face contort as your hips keep moving. one of his hands rests on your waist, stopping you from moving. "c'mon, you can tell me."

"mhm..." you nod. "love when you praise me."

suddenly, your back is pressed flat against his sheets as he kisses all down your body. leaving little marks here and there until he reaches the waist band of your pretty pink underwear.

"did you wear these just for me, princess?" he asks, placing a kiss right over the cotton covering your button.

"y-you said i looked p-pretty in pink."

as the words stumble out of your mouth, logan feels a warmth spread across his heart. a couple months ago, you were wearing a new pink dress and as logan passed you by, he mentioned how pretty you looked in the color. it meant a lot to you.

"you still do." he says. "can i take these off of you, baby?"

you nod, lifting your hips a little to help him. logan tosses the pink cotton somewhere behind him. lifting up the nightgown to your tummy, eyes glued to the spot in between your legs.

"didn't think you could get any prettier." logan mumbles to himself.

his intense gaze made you feel a bit vulnerable, trying to close your legs but his large hands stop you.

"don't hide from me, princess." he says, capturing your attention. " 'm gonna make you feel good."

logan carefully drags his thumb through your slit, collecting the arousal and circling it around your button. the feather like touch sends your head back and whimpers to fall from your lips. gently, logan pushes his middle finger past your velvet walls, groaning once you clench around him.

"atta girl, princess." he smirks watching you swallow up his finger. "takin' it so good."

logan watches in awe as your head fall back and the arch in your back. slowly he inches his face closer and licks a thick stripe up your fold before sucking softly on your button. you feel logan muffle 'fuck' against you, only resulting in more arousal to spill out of you.

"o-oh, logan." you moan, hips chasing his tongue feverishly.

since this was your first time, logan went easy on you, not making you work for your orgasm. he feels your cunt clench down on his one finger as it hits deep inside of you until you are seeing stars. with logan's other free hand, he paws at your tit and rolls it in his palm.

"need m-more!" you whimper with glossy eyes and lips. "p-please, lo."

in an attempt to give you what you want, logan struggles to hit another finger inside of you. he wasn't sure what he did to deserve this type of heaven but god, was he thankful for it.

"i can't, sweetheart." he groans, kissing your hip bone as he speeds up the finger inside of you. "you're too tight for two of my fingers. there's no way i'll be able to fit inside of you tonight."

before you could whine in protest, this indescribable wave of euphoria washes over you. smooth silky legs wrap tightly around logan's head. thighs covers his ears, blocking out the sweet sounds you were making. logan goes back to sloppily making out with your cunt until you weakly pull him off and drag him up to your lips, tasting your own release on his tongue.

"thanks, lo." you smile in a daze at him.

"anytime." he says. "i think you'll need another lesson soon though if you want to take all of me. do you want that, princess?"

he could feel your heart rate increase eagerly. you blush intensely and avoid his gaze as you nod.

"alright." he chuckles darkly. "but first, you gotta show me how you get off on your pillow."

[queen-of-the-avengers]

An Enigma

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.4k

Warnings: angst, blood, threat of violence, unwanted touching, harassment

Summary: You and Bucky are in an arranged marriage set up by both your parents. It’s a way to keep the peace between your two families. You thought Bucky didn’t care for you, but when someone from your past comes back into your life, Bucky makes it known that all he ever thinks about is you.

Square Filled: au: no powers (2024) for @buckybarnesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

You step into the kitchen but keep to the wall in intimidation. Your husband is standing there with his back to you. He’s shirtless with only a pair of slacks on. You’re not sure what is more hot. Him being shirtless or dressed in a three-piece suit. He has his phone to his ear so you don’t dare interrupt him, scared of what he might do or say to you. It’s not that you’re scared he’ll beat you, it’s just that he’s always so stoic and rarely shows his emotions.

There’s something you want to ask him but you’re scared of what he’ll do when you ask it. He’s your husband for god sake. Just go up to him and ask him! Your inner personality isn’t as scared of him as you are. You wouldn’t be this way if you had married him out of love. No, this marriage was arranged by yours and his parents. You were forced to be his wife, so you’re not even sure he loves you much less likes you.

Still, your marriage meant a truce between your family and his, but that doesn’t mean he stopped hating your family.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in and say something?”

You snap out of your own thoughts and look at Bucky who is now facing you. His shirtless back is almost as delicious as his shirtless front, but you’re too nervous to appreciate the sight in front of you.

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

Bucky looks you up and down, studying your behavior and body language. You’re jumpy, your hands are sweaty and shaky, and you can barely meet his eyes for more than five seconds.

“Why do you look so scared?” He smirks. “I won’t bite.”

“My dad called.” His smirk is lost. “He’s having a family dinner next week. He wants both of us there.”

“I see.”

“I’d be really happy if you came. He won’t try anything, I promise. They’ll be on their best behavior.”

“Okay,” Bucky says after a moment.

“Wait, really?”

“You’re my wife. If my father-in-law is asking for dinner, then so be it.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you. It’s next Friday.” You take out your phone. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

You turn to leave but Bucky’s voice stops you. “One move.”

“What?”

“If he tries one move, my knife will be lodged in his throat.”

Your eyes widen but you hear the threat loud and clear. You nod and scurry off before he can make any more conditions. Your father is part of one of the biggest crime families New York has ever seen. He has power in every single corner of his jurisdiction. No one can do anything without him knowing about it. Bucky’s family is the other family that has ties to mafia dealings, making them just as powerful as your family.

Both families split New York in half, but they’re constantly fighting over drugs, property, clubs, money, etc. If it can be used to manipulate and exert power over people, both your families are greedy for the taking, especially if those businesses live on the border of both jurisdictions.

One day, your father met with Bucky’s father about a truce, something they both will want to agree to. This was when your mother was pregnant with you, but he loves to tell the story so you feel like you were practically there. If you were to marry Bucky, then both families would be able to come to agreement on those petty fights.

A truce would be made. The cost? Your freedom. Any children that you may will bear will be part of the biggest crime family this country has ever seen.

When you were old enough, you met Bucky through a family dinner. He came off as stoic, cold, and calculating. He didn’t let anything get under his skin. Then, his nieces and nephews joined the party and he became a different person. His hard resolve started melting, giving you a show of who the real Bucky was. It’s different when he’s in front of business partners and your family, but you have a good idea of who the real Bucky is.

He’s a mystery, something you’re desperate to solve.

To prepare for the dinner, you decide to go to the gym and hopefully shed a few pounds. You’ve always loved doing cardio, so the treadmill became your best friend. You go so often that the front desk lady knows you by name.

“Welcome, Y/N. Have a good workout.”

“Thank you, Betty. I will.”

You walk over to the treadmill and start with a walk to get your blood pumping. You put your headphones in and listen to your favorite podcast. You listen to all sorts of things when you work out but lately, it’s been about the podcasts. You’re an hour into your workout when someone touches your shoulder. You take out your headphones and look back to see someone you never thought you’d see again.

“Vince. What are you doing here?”

“It’s a gym. I’m working out.”

You look him over and notice he’s not sweaty or red. If he’s been here as long as you have, he hasn’t been working out.

“Right. I’ll let you get back to it.”

You’re about to put your headphones back in when he steps onto the treadmill next to yours. He leans over and rests his elbows on your handlebars, and you immediately stop your machine. It’s a good time to call it a day.

“I came over here to say hi.”

“I should get going.”

You step off the treadmill and walk over to the cleaning station to grab some paper towels when you feel him standing behind you. You used to feel so safe with him but that all changed when your father discovered a hole in your wall that came from his room which was right next door. He was your bodyguard, supposed to protect you from creeps, and ended up being one. He was truly a pervert.

The only reason why your father didn’t kill him was because you didn’t want to deal with it. You convinced him to just fire him, so he did. Now he’s back but you’re not sure why. Your father made it very clear that if he tried to come near you again, he would do more than fire him. You turn and find him standing closer than he should be.

“What do you want, Vince?”

“Just to talk. I’ve become better. I’ve worked on myself. I’m ready to go back to work.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to be your bodyguard again.”

“Like hell, that’s going to happen. You shouldn’t even be here. This isn’t even your gym. Just go home.” You step around him to clean your machine but he grabs your upper hard harder than normal. “Ow, you’re hurting me.”

“Oh, sweetie, you have no idea what pain is. I’ll do more than hurt you if you don’t give me my job back. I’m a good bodyguard. I kept all the creeps away from you.”

“Yeah, except for you. Let me go.”

He does but he doesn’t move away from you. You have sensitive skin so you know you’ll have bruises on your arm from his grip.

“Don’t be so shocked if one day you find me inside your house. I know you don’t have a bodyguard now.”

You don’t need one. You have Bucky. He’s very possessive and protective over you. You’re not sure what he’s going to do when he finds out about this, but you can imagine it’s not going to be kind. Crew cleaning your machine. You drop your supplies and rush out of the gym in a panic. During the ride home, you think of ways to lie to Bucky. He’s going to take one look at your face and know something is wrong.

You’re a terrible liar, but you can’t think of anything because you’re too scared. Scared to the point of tears. Maybe if you sneak inside and run to your room, you’ll be able to calm yourself down enough to come up with a convincing lie.

You park in the garage and rush inside knowing Bucky has cameras and sensors for when someone enters the garage. You’re about to book it up the stairs when you run smack into Bucky’s chest.

“Where’s the fire?” He sees the panicked look in your eyes and immediately becomes on alert. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just an intense workout. I’m going to take a shower.”

You go to leave but Bucky grabs your arm in the same place as Vince did. You wince and he lets you go immediately thinking he hurt you. His eyes narrow on the bruises Vince let, and the fire in his eyes tells you he’s not going to believe anything but the truth.

“What. Happened.”

You have no choice but to tell him the truth before you get in trouble for lying.

“Before you, I had a bodyguard. He was caught spying on me through a hole he created in my bedroom. He was fired and my father made it clear never to bother me again. Well, he was at the gym. He… threatened me… saying I shouldn’t be surprised if I find him in this house because I don’t have a bodyguard now. He… wants his job back.”

“Okay.”

Bucky moves around you to go to the garage but you jump in front of him and put your hands on his chest. He looks calm but you know he is fucking pissed. It’s taking all of your strength to keep him from entering the garage.

“Bucky, stop.”

“If you think I won’t pick you up and move you out of the way, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Bucky, please. I will bring this up to my father tomorrow at dinner. Please let my family handle this. He worked for my dad. He should deal with it.”

Bucky looks down and he sees the desperation in your eyes. It doesn't do shit to calm him down but he backs away knowing this is what you want.

“Fine.”

Bucky retreats to his office for the rest of the day. Before you know it, Friday has come and you’re walking up the steps to your father’s mansion. You’ve been dreading this moment since the gym but you know you have to tell your father about this. Bucky was supposed to ride with you but you hadn’t seen him all day.

“Oh, sweetheart! I’m glad you’re here!” your mother says when you walk into the house.

“Hi, mom.” She pulls you in for a crushing hug. “You just saw me last week.”

“I know, but it feels like a lifetime. Where is Bucky?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he’ll be here. He said he would.” Your father walks in and you smile when you see him. “Daddy!”

“Princess,” he smiles.

You bounce over to him and hug him tightly. He’s a very tall and muscular man but he has always been gentle with you. You’re his princess. You’re his only daughter, so he takes your health and well-being very seriously. You have six brothers but he’s not the same with them as he’s with you. They’re just as scary as your father. You’re not sure why you ever needed a bodyguard when you had six living at home with you.

You join your family in the dining room and greet your brothers. The family butler brings out the food until there is a plate in front of everyone. You look beside you at the empty chair and wonder where Bucky is. He’s supposed to be here. He said he would. If he had to work, he would have told you.

“So, Y/N, when am I getting grandbabies?”

“Mom!”

“I’m not getting any younger over here.”

“You have grandbabies. Tony and Luke both have children. Gio has one on the way.”

“None from you, though.”

“Okay, well, when I get pregnant, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Where is Bucky?” Stefan asks, shoveling food into his mouth as he speaks.

“Stefan!” your mother scolds. “Don’t eat like an animal.”

“Sorry, mom,” he says with his mouth full.

“I don’t know. He said he’d be here. He’s probably caught up with work.”

Once your brothers are finished with their meals, they eagerly go for seconds. The dining room is filled with chatter about people’s plans, kids, and trips they have coming up. You never talk about work while you’re eating. That’s reserved for after dinner and always over a glass of top-shelf whiskey.

Suddenly, all chatter ceases when someone walks into the dining room. Bucky. Only he’s covered in blood. Blood stains his nice suit and spatters his smooth skin, but he acts as if he has nothing on him. His hands are clean though. He sits next to you and accepts the food the butler brings. He takes a bite of the meat and moans at how good it is.

“Is it taken care of?” your father asks.

“Yes, sir.”

Chatter returns as normal as if Bucky isn’t covered in fucking blood. Even your brothers don’t seem to care that blood is now on the table. Your mother doesn’t care that blood is getting on her nice white dining chair. You lean closer to him and grab your napkin. You grab his chin and start wiping the blood from his cheek.

“What the hell is the matter with you? Where were you? Why are you covered in blood? Whose is it?”

“Vince.”

Now everything makes sense. He must have called your father to tell him what you told him who then told your mother who then told your brothers.

“I told you I’d handle it.”

“He touched what’s mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“He touched my wife.”

You throw the napkin down knowing it’s useless. “Last I checked, Bucky, you don’t own me.”

“No, you but own me.” Your eyes widen in surprise. “I’d do it again and again to protect you.” He grabs your chin with his clean hand and kisses you. He pulls away from you and wipes away the drop of blood he got on your skin. “Eat.”

It takes you several seconds to wrap your brain around what just fucking happened. You grab your fork and take a bite slowly. Maybe there is some warmth to that cold heart.

x

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[dance-is-life27]

Satisfaction

Fratboy!Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary: After spending the night before with Joaquin Torres your mind drifts during the middle of a party. It's just your luck that Joaquin catches you in the act.

Warnings: 18+, smut, very little plot, Joaquin is probably ooc (sorry the concept was really hot and I couldn't get it out of my brain), thigh riding, public sex, previous penetration, wet daydreams?, Joaquin being fully aware of how hot he is and being a whore about it, Female Reader

A/n: Shout out to @fanboyswhore9 for beta reading and hyping me up, I need more experienced smut writers who understand Joaquin better than me to get hopping on the fratboy!Joaquin train 🙏🏾🙏🏾

Reblogs are more appreciated than likes!

“That’s it, there you go, baby.” You whine as Joaquin’s voice resounds in your ear. He hums against your shoulder as you bounce on his cock faster, his grip on your waist presses him closer to you and the gap between your back and his chest diminishes. The aching of your knees goes unnoticed as your bed creaks below you and the pleasure builds within you. 

You moan, “Jay!” The nickname falls from your lips as your head begins to spin. You can feel yourself getting closer with each thrust that he gives you.

“Fuck,” Joaquin curses, a groan leaving his mouth when you clench down on him, “You gonna cum for me, cariño?” You can’t help but nod in response, the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin increases. You feel like you're about to explode when Joaquin reaches a hand down to rub at your clit and the pleasure just keeps building. 

You’re jolted back to reality when your friend calls your name. The rest of the party resumes instantaneously as you’re taken out of your daydream. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” You ask, feeling sheepish as your thighs clench together. 

Your friend rolls their eyes, “Oh, forget it. Where did your mind go?” They ask instead and you clear your throat before you force yourself to shrug. 

“Oh, y’know,” You trail off, hoping that it'll be the end of the conversation but in doing so your eyes inadvertently drift towards the man responsible for your current predicament. 

Joaquin Torres sits there, leaning back into his seat as he takes a long sip of whatever concoction he’s got inside his cup. His smirk hides behind his cup as he stares at you, his eyes filled with a knowing look that sends a shiver down your spine. As if his brown eyes can pierce through your body and see straight into your brain as the memories of last night resurface involuntarily. 

You manage to break eye contact first, a wave of heat rushing through you as you stand, “I’m gonna get something to drink.” You tell your friend who by now has stopped paying attention to you entirely. 

The buzz of the party fills your ears as you walk by people talking and laughing, the music adding a lively undercurrent to an already lively party. Making your way through a crowded home you finally find yourself in the kitchen. It's not empty by any means but compared to the rest of the party at least in here you have the room to stretch and breathe a little. You grab a cold bottle of water and take solace in the relative quiet for a minute, of course that solace gets interrupted pretty quickly when Joaquin walks in. He readjusts the backwards cap on his head when he spots you and makes a beeline to where you’re leaning against a counter. 

“So this is where you’ve wandered off to,” Joaquin grins as he places his cup on the counter behind you, “We’re starting to miss you out there.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes, “Oh please, I’m sure you’re fine.” 

Joaquin places a hand over his heart in mock hurt, “Ouch, there’s that bite. Where has she been all night? Hmm?” 

You turn your head instead of answering, letting the background noise of the party fill the space between you two. Ignoring Joaquin used to always be the number one way to get him to leave you alone but then again that was before you let him into your bed and allowed yourself to indulge in the one thing you promised to steer clear from. 

“You, uh, didn’t answer the question from earlier.” Joaquin points out as he shifts to lean against the counter next to you so that the both of you are standing shoulder to shoulder. The gap in the space between you both feels both far too close and a million miles apart. “What was on your mind?” 

Your jaw clenches involuntarily before you take a swig of your water, the coolness gives you a refreshing moment before you answer, “Why do you care?” 

Out of the corner of your eye you see Joaquin shrug, “I’m curious.” 

“Curiosity killed the cat.” You reply simply, feeling hyper aware of Joaquin as he stares into the side of your face, the intensity of his gaze rattling something in your bones and it’s not even direct eye contact. You’re afraid of what might happen if you do turn your head to look at him.

“And we both know,” Joaquin leans into you, getting as close as he can to whisper in your ear even though you know that it’s not necessary, “that satisfaction brought it back.” 

His voice leaves goosebumps against your skin as his close proximity to you reminds you of the last time he was this close. His affect on you is frankly as annoying as his flirting. 

“Once again, why do you care?”

“Because I know what someone looks like when they're thinking about my cock,” the vulgarity of his words shocks you more than they should and you find yourself turning your head to look at him, “and I'd be happy to help if you want me to.” 

You find yourself spluttering as Joaquin smirks at you, “There are plenty of other women here who will help you get your dick wet, why are you bothering me?” 

“I don't want them.” His answer is infuriatingly simple, it shouldn't have the effect on you that it does. It shouldn’t make you flush at the thought of Joaquin Torres being yours and only yours, and yet. You find yourself squirming as Joaquin shifts to box you in against the counter, “C'mon, let me give you what you want tonight. Promise I'll make it worth your while.” 

You weigh your options underneath the intensity of Joaquin’s gaze, your thighs clenching together once again as you feel like you're suffocating being this close in his orbit. 

It doesn’t take much longer for you to make your decision and you find yourself wading through a sea of people with Joaquin in tow towards the nearest bathroom. 

“You can’t seriously be about to fuck me in here, are you?” You question as soon as the door is shut and locked. 

Joaquin laughs before he crowds you against the sink counter, “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His brown eyes shine in mischievous delight as he stares at you, “No, no, this is just to hold the both of us over until the drive back to mine.” 

“Joaquin-” You start but your sentence and your train of thought gets interrupted when Joaquin slots one of his thighs in between yours. A gasp escapes your lips, your head tilting backwards automatically against the pressure Joaquin puts on your clit. 

He hums as he leans in to leave kisses down your jawline, each kiss sets your nerves alight as you start to rock against his thigh. A shudder wracks through you as you fight a moan from escaping your lips too soon. 

“God, look at you.” Joaquin whispers as he pulls back, “C’mon, I wanna watch you fall apart on my thigh.” You grind down harder as you cling to Joaquin’s jacket, bundling it up in your hands using it as some way to ground you to this plane of existence as the pleasure shoots up from your core. Joaquin kisses you then, his hands coming up to cradle the sides of your face. It’s so easy to get lost in the feel of Joaquin Torres that you’re not even consciously aware of the fact that you started moving faster as his kiss leaves you breathless. 

“There you fucking go, baby.” The timbre of Joaquin’s voice sends a shiver down your spine and now you can’t help the moan that leaves your mouth. “That’s it.” 

The counter digs into your lower back as your hips buck up repeatedly, you’re only aware of the pain because you can feel the cabinets shake every time you move. You moan when Joaquin slides a teasing hand down your back and puts a barrier between you and the counter. His palm presses against you in a way that makes you ache for more of his touch. 

“Gonna-, Joaquin!” You whine as you pull him closer to you, pressing your face into his chest, the scent of his cologne nearly overwhelms you as the tension within you threatens to snap. He smells like the earth, as rich and solid as the ground beneath you. It leaves you aching as just the scent of Joaquin threatens to consume you entirely. 

Joaquin presses a gentle kiss to your temple, it's far sweeter than anything the both of you have ever done together so far. You find your hips slowing at the sudden tenderness and Joaquin’s brown, near black now, eyes find yours in an instant. 

“What’s the matter, cariño?” 

“I-” You pant, trying to will your mind to speak proper words, “Don’t wanna cum yet.” The reply falls from your lips as your hands shift to clutch at Joaquin’s waist. 

Joaquin gives you that smirk that you’ve become far too familiar with within the past 24 hours, his hand on your hip urges you to restart your pace, “The sooner you cum on my thigh, the sooner we can get out of here so I can fuck you properly.” 

The moan you let out makes you grateful that the party still rages on outside the door, leaving the rest of the attendees blissfully unaware of what’s going on. The bucking of your hips causes friction so pleasurable that it leaves you near delirious as you get closer to orgasm. “I’m gonna-” The words fall from your lips but you can’t bring yourself to complete the sentence as everything feels like it’s too much. 

“I know, come for me.” Joaquin demands, his words so simple and yet they work because you find yourself coming not a moment later. You bury your face into Joaquin to try and muffle the sounds spilling from your throat as you cling to him through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

“You okay?” Joaquin asks you as your high slows and your breathing evens out. 

You nod as Joaquin steps back but his hands don’t leave your body while you try to recenter yourself. His touch is gentle and comforting despite what the both of you just did. 

“I’m ready to leave now.” You speak as Joaquin takes a look over you before he nods. 

He fixes his pants as he removes himself from you entirely, “Okay, let’s go.” 

[petertingle-yipyip]

MISS POSSESSIVE - JOAQUIN TORRES

Pairing: Joaquin x Reader // Word Count: 2,061

Summary: So what if you were a little possessive? No one got hurt. (fun fact: the biting story is a true story)

Your relationship with Joaquin was no secret.

You two didn’t necessarily shove it down everyone’s throats, but you didn’t hide anything either. You arrived at most trainings together, sat next to and against each other, went to lunch together, left together. The only time you were really apart was when he went on a mission with Sam and you went with your recon team.

You noticed the new set of eyes in the training center one day. You were doing your planned solidcore routine while Joaquin did weights on the other side of the center.

You saw her when you took a break between exercises. You sat flat on the machine’s pad and breathed deeply, glancing around the relatively empty center. You and Joaquin were there, as part of your usual schedule, along with Nat and Yelena sparring in the far corner. Kate was doing some yoga routine with the blonde that was actively staring at Joaquin, who was oblivious as he began a set of lat pulldowns.

You stared at your boyfriend for a moment as well. Admittedly, the blonde had a fair excuse to stare, and she was new. Or you hadn’t met her at least. Maybe she didn’t know.

You pushed a headphone aside, ready to snap at her, when Kate smacked her friend’s arm. You could barely hear her say to pay attention and that he was taken. Kate met your eyes a moment later and she offered you a thumbs up with a nod, a not-so-subtle confirmation that she had your back.

You smiled at her as you chuckled. Replacing your headphones, you went back to suffering through solidcore.

Later that week, in a more packed training center, Joaquin’s newest fan was watching him again. You two were jogging the track and conversating, and he decided to show off and jog backwards. You caught the woman over his shoulder and you fixed a glare in her direction. Her eyes met yours and she changed from basically undressing Joaquin in her head to daring you to stop her.

“Hello?” He waved a hand in front of your face and your attention slid back to him. “What was that?” He was smirking slightly.

“Nothing.” You shrugged. “You’re gonna fall.”

“I’m not gonna fall.”

“You’re gonna fall.”

“I’m not gon-“ He began before nearly tripping over his own feet.

His arms flailed slightly and you caught him, which caused you to stumble with him. You couldn’t help the laugh as he righted and you two resumed your easy pace.

“Don’t tell Sam.” He said quickly.

“I already saw!” Sam called from the other side of the track.

Joaquin groaned in embarrassment and you nudged him slightly with your elbow. He frowned dramatically at you and you giggled before jerking your chin, daring him to keep up as you increased your stride.

By the end of that week, his watcher had built up some courage.

You were at the cubbies near the door, rifling through your bag for your sparring gloves. Joaquin was leaning against the wall near the cubbies, casually mentioning how he had his already and you were putting your session behind. You mocked him quietly as you dumped the contents of your bag on the floor.

“You set me up.” You blamed him.

“Me?” He laughed. “I’d never do such a thing.”

“Yes you would, because you know I can kick your ass.”

He sighed dramatically and knelt beside you to help you look. You filtered through your scattered items while he checked the zippered pockets. He was the one to find them, which only added on to his guilt in your mind, and you shoved everything back away.

He offered you his hand to get up and you made a show of your reluctance as you took it. He laughed, pulled you to his chest, and kept you close with an arm over your shoulders.

She wasn’t there when you two began your session. You would’ve felt those baby blue eyes following. By the time you were taking a break, she was there, lingering at the edge of the sparring area. She pretended to be focused on her own workout  when Joaquin glanced in her direction but she didn’t hide her blatant stare when you looked at her.

You didn’t give a warning before storming over. You knelt to be at her level and she propped herself up on her elbows. She opened her mouth but you cut her off.

“Funny how you think I don’t notice the way you undress him with your eyes almost everyday.” You said flatly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She rolled her eyes.

“Look at the floor. Or the ceiling. Or anyone else in this place. Just keep your eyes off him.” You forced a smile that was anything but friendly. “Got it?”

“I’m so scared.” She said sarcastically, craning her neck to see around you.

“Listen. I can only be nice about this for so long. Some fights you’re not gonna win. And him?” You nodded towards him once. “No way.”

“May the best woman win then.” She shrugged and returned to her sit ups.

You kicked her braced feet away before heading back to Joaquin, earning a muttered “bitch” as you left. His brows furrowed but you waved him off. With a new anger in your veins, you knew you’d hit someone you shouldn’t soon, which made the next portion of your sparring more intense than necessary.

You were both covered in sweat by the time you were done. You had also both removed your shirts by then. Your muscles were burning with the effort and you assumed Joaquin’s were too, but by the way he was talking your ear off you wouldn’t have guessed.

“You’re pretty chatty.” You teased with a grin.

“You wouldn’t let me get a word in over there!” He sounded offended as he threw a hand towards the sparring area. “Anytime I tried to talk, you pounced.”

“I pounced?” You laughed. “What am I, a cat?”

“A feral one.” He muttered and you smacked his arm before you both laughed. “Definitely feral.”

“If I was feral, I’d bite.”

“You do!”

“I do not!”

“Didn’t you bite a kid in second grade?”

You whirled to face him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You know good and well that I had a good reason!” You defended.

His hands went up in surrender but the grin was still plastered on his face.

“I felt threatened.”

“And biting was the only answer?” He tried and failed to keep his laughter contained.

“Yes! I was playing my own game, he tried to make me the prisoner in his war game with some other kid. You don’t put your arm-“

“Around someone’s neck and not expect to get bit.” He finished and you glared lightly at him. “At least you didn’t get suspended.”

“I cried in the principal’s office because I was scared of getting in trouble.” You deadpanned. “I don’t think I ever apologized to the kid, though.”

“And you still went on that field trip.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “I’m so disappointed in you, Y/N/N.”

“Oh no, whatever will I do now?” You dramatically put your hands to your heart.

“Just don’t bite me.” He shrugged, which earned another smack to his arm.

“I left my water. Grab my bag?” You began backing away towards the sparring corner.

“Yeah.” He nodded and went towards your cubby.

As you were grabbing your bottle, Kate and Yelena were stepping into the square. Kate waved enthusiastically at you and Yelena held a fist towards you. You bumped your own against hers and smiled towards Kate.

“How’s it going?” You asked. “Feeling stronger?”

“Today’s the day.” Kate nodded firmly.

“Ha!” Yelena responded loudly and you turned. “You think you’ll beat me?”

“Okay, you say that like it’s a joke.” Kate frowned.

“Was it not?” Yelena laughed. “C’mon, Kate Bishop.”

“Why do you still do that? Stop saying my name like that!” Kate urgently whispered.

“I don’t know, Lena. She might.” You added. You gave Kate a once over glance and then nodded slightly. “Yeah, I think she actually has biceps now.”

“See?” Kate threw an arm towards you. “Wait a second.” She furrowed her brows.

“Staying to find out?” Yelena asked, bouncing side to side on the balls of her feet.

“No, Joaquin and I are gonna try to catch a movie.” You nodded towards where you left your boyfriend. “Just came back for my water.”

“Oh!” Kate announced. “That reminds me…”

“You’re stalling.” Yelena complained.

“It’s important!” Kate insisted then turned to you again. “Sorry about before. I tried to tell her.”

“The new girl?”

She nodded, almost looking embarrassed, but you shrugged.

“I told her today in the nicest way I could to back off.” You waved a dismissive hand.

“What if she didn’t get the memo?” Yelena asked, focusing on something over your shoulder.

“Oh shit…” Kate looked at the same thing behind you.

“What are you two-“ You mumbled and turned to see for yourself. “Oh.”

You crossed your arms and watched for a moment. Joaquin was sitting on the floor with the new girl kneeling beside him. They were involved in some sort of conversation and you were just glad he had put his shirt back on. She exaggerated a laugh and he was confused for a second. Apparently, what he said hadn’t been that funny.

“I think you should start planning your friend’s funeral, Kate Bishop.” Yelena said flatly as the blonde reached out and put her hand on Joaquin’s forearm.

“No, it’s…” You began.

You knew Joaquin. You knew his mannerisms and body language better than anyone. He didn’t care to be talking to this girl, not in the way she was trying to talk to him. He had his phone in one hand and judging by the way he kept looking down at it, he would’ve rather been scrolling than talking to her.

“You’re better than me.” Kate offered. “Two warnings and she still acts like that? Friend or not, I’d slap the hell outta her.” She laughed slightly.

Her other hand landed on his forearm and her other moved to his upper arm. Your brows rose and as if that expression sent a signal, Joaquin looked over towards you with wide eyes.

“Pray for her.” Kate said simply as you took long strides to get back to Joaquin.

He stood as you got closer and she bounced up beside him. She stepped closer, one of her hands on his shoulder and the other reached for his hand.

“Ready to go?” You made a point of only speaking to and looking at Joaquin.

“Yeah.” He sighed in relief and shifted to get away from her touch. “We leave now, we’ll have enough time to shower first.”

“Did you get the tickets already?”

“I thought you were going to stick around and spot me.” The blonde pouted.

“I’ve got ‘em.” Joaquin answered. “And your bag, m’lady.” He bowed slightly as he offered you your bag.

You laughed slightly and slung the strap over your shoulder.

“But Joaquin!” She cried, grabbing his hand with both of hers. He immediately pulled away and she pursed her bottom lip in another pout.

“He already said he’s busy.” You snapped. “Go see if Kate or Yel have time to babysit.”

“I didn’t realize you were his mommy.” She said sarcastically.

You turned to face her fully but Joaquin pulled on your bag to force you back a step. He tapped his knuckles against your thigh and you shifted your weight closer to him.

“Seriously.” You threatened. “Get your hands off my man.”

“Scared?”

“I’m gonna kill her.” You ground your teeth and looked to Joaquin.

Quickly, he put his arm around your shoulders and guided you out the doors. She called after him but you lifted your hand to give her the middle finger. After a string of curses were directed at you, Joaquin closed his hand over yours with a laugh.

“Told you.” Joaquin said proudly as he opened the passenger door for you.

“Told me what?” You raised a brow.

“Feral.” He grinned.

You opened your mouth to argue then closed it. Maybe he was right, at least where he was concerned.

Feral. Possessive. Protective. Same thing, right?

[agreeewrites]

Agreee's Library

Emoji Key: SFW 🤍 | NSFW 🤎 | Angst 🖤 | Fluff 🩶

feat. Wizarding World, MCU, Stranger Things, The Walking Dead & more!

Wizarding World

George Weasley

A Weekend At The Weasley's 🤎🩶

The No-Dating Rule 🤎🩶

A Christmas Gift 🖤🤍

'A Madness Most Discreet' Series (part 1, part two, part three) 🤎🖤

Easy to Love (Valentine's Special) 🖤🤎🩶

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1000 stitches 🤍🖤

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'Hit Me Where It Hurts The Most' Series (part one, part two, part three, part four) 🤎🖤

The Black Dog and His Bluebird 🤎🖤🩶

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What's My Name? 🤎🖤

1000 secret kisses 🤎🩶

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I Wanna Be Yours 🤎🖤🩶

Baby I'm Yours 🤎🖤🩶

James Potter

Work For It 🤎

I Hate It Here 🤍🩶

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Harry Potter

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what is it like being married to Rabastan Lestrange? 🤎🩶

what is it like dating Fred Weasley and Cedric Diggory? 🤎🩶

MCU

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I Can Do It With A Broken Heart 🤎🖤

working late 🤎

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Christmas Karaoke 🤎🩶

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safe with me 🤍🖤

The Tortured Fangirl's Department Series

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart (Steve Rogers x assassin!reader) 🤎🖤

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (Paul Lahote x human!reader) [part one, part two] 🤎🖤

How Did It End? (Gale Dekarios x fem!Tav) 🖤🤍

I Hate It Here (James Potter x animagus!reader) 🤍🩶

Misc.

Thanksgiving In Baldur's Gate (Gale Dekarios x Tav) 🩶🤍

Published Work

The Raith Brothers Trilogy

Memento Amore

Memento te Aurum

Memento Sentire - Coming Soon!

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[angelremnants]

Stuck With You | S. Wilson

summary : The last thing you wanted was to be trapped in a room with a person you didn't know, much less be forced to team up with them. But thanks to your best friend's meddling, you now find yourself headed for a peculiar blind date, paired with someone who’s anything but a stranger. You swore you’d moved on. He said it was for the best. But maybe you were never meant to let each other go.

pairing : Sam Wilson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), second chance romance, friends to lovers to kind of enemies to lovers?, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, forced proximity, angry/heated makeout, heavy feels and yearning, fluff and humor, truthfully two idiots in love, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 14.2k

author's notes : To celebrate the rise of our brand new Captain America and Valentine's Day, I wrote this little piece to pour out my appreciation for Sam Wilson who is, imo, an insanely underrated character.

This is also my entry for the wondrous @elixirfromthestars 's Cinema Writing Challenge, which I stumbled upon mid-writing this one-shot and found that I was going in a direction that could've fit this in a fun way. I referenced the "Why didn't you write me?" scene from The Notebook though in a lax manner, so I hope to have still respected the general guidelines.. This is my first time participating in a writing challenge, so please bear with me :')

Happy Valentine's Day, my loves. Know that even if you're as alone as I am, your existence is greatly valued in this world. <3

(ao3 version)

⠀

Driving back to Delacroix was nothing short of a pleasant experience—just you, one hand on the wheel and the other idly hanging out the window with fingers slicing through the warm morning air. It was one of the few times you enjoyed driving, which is why you insisted on not having your chauffeur be the one to take you to your destination, preferring the solitude of watching the road stretch ahead like a ribbon of sun-bleached asphalt, flanked by swaying marsh grass and the slow-moving waters of the bayou. The old jazz station buzzing over the speakers only further enhanced the atmosphere, with the crooning trumpet blending effortlessly into the continuous murmur of cicadas in the background.

It was early enough that the mist still clung to the marshes, curling around the gnarled roots of cypress trees like ghostly fingers. The world shimmered gold in the pale dawn light, an untouched moment as the weight of the day settled in. You could also make out in your passing spanish moss draping lazily from the branches, swaying ever so slightly as if still waking from its slumber. 

You had always loved this route. It felt like a portal to another life, one that belonged solely to a place where your name wasn’t headlined in articles, where your every move wasn’t scrutinized by strangers looking for something to pick apart. Here, you weren’t the subject of speculation or the topic of gossip columns. You weren’t “the one from the titles” or “the name in the papers.” You were simply you.

The familiarity of it all only served to bring you back to those late-night drives after absurdly long college lectures, when the stress of exams and deadlines melted away over seafood and pleasant company, the briny scent of the ocean mixing with the fried goodness of whatever had been thrown together for dinner. It reminded you of sunburned afternoons spent on the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the wooden beams, of kids that you used to babysit laughing as they chased each other barefoot across the pier. Life was indeed much nicer in the olden days.

The docks finally came into view as you veered off onto the dirt road. You could see that the morning had already settled into its rhythm—fishermen hauling in their first catches, their voices rising and falling over the water while the low rumble of boat engines punctuated the exchanges in the salty air, mingling with the occasional bark of a stray dog nosing around for scraps. Seagulls routinely circled overhead and swept low whenever someone tossed a handful of bait into the sea. The scent of fresh fish, damp wood, and the ever-present Louisiana humidity all wrapped around you, strong-filled even at this hour.

And there was poor Sarah, up to her elbows in work as always.

She stood near a stubborn crate, her brows drawn together in frustration as she struggled to pry it open. The morning suns of July had already kissed her skin a shade darker and a streak of dirt ran across her forearms, evidence of a morning repeatedly spent wrangling supplies and fixing whatever had inevitably needed mending. She also had that look—the one she always got when something should have been done yesterday.

Pulling up alongside the dock, you stepped out of your fancy car, rolling your shoulders with a slow stretch. The thick and stifling heat settled around you instantly, encasing itself around your skin like a second layer along the faintest promise of an approaching summer storm.

“Didn’t know we were wrestling furniture today,” you called out while your expensive shoes thudded lightly against the weathered planks, the wood creaking ever so slightly beneath your steps.

Sarah huffed, blowing a loose curl from her forehead as the sheen of morning sweat glistened against her sun-warmed skin. “You show up just in time to save the day, as usual.”

You smirked, pushing up your sleeves. “That’s what I do best.”

Together, you pried open the crate with a loud crack, the wood groaning in protest before finally relenting, revealing neatly packed supplies of nets, ropes and a few spare tools, all stacked with military precision. 

“I swear, whoever sealed this thing had a personal vendetta against me,” she muttered, shaking her head.

You leaned against one of the weathered wooden posts, letting the briny breeze roll over you. The dock swayed ever so slightly beneath your weight, creaking in quiet protest. Out beyond the harbor, the bay stretched wide and glittering, rippling with the soft push and pull of the current. For a moment, there was nothing but the steady lull of the water, the occasional cry of seagulls, and the distant clang of metal against wood as fishermen worked their boats. A rare pocket of peace.

At least, that was the case until Sarah spoke.

“Sam’s coming home today.”

The words landed on you like how a stone would sink to the bottom of a river. 

You kept your expression carefully neutral, inhaling through your nose before exhaling slowly. “Fantastic,” you deadpanned, flicking a piece of splintered wood off your palm.

Sarah sighed, already bracing for the reaction she knew was coming. “I know you two don’t—”

“Like each other?” you finished for her. “Get along? Want to exist in the same hemisphere?”

She shot you a flat, unimpressed look. “I was going to say see eye to eye.”

You scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”

Sarah crossed her arms, leaning back against the wooden beam beside you. The steady rise and fall of the tide lapped at the pylons below, filling the brief silence between you. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?”

You hesitated. The problem wasn’t just Sam. It was everything that had happened because of him.

And worse—the things that had happened before. But how could you explain that to your best friend, who was also his sister, that before the cameras, before all of the unwanted attention, there had been a spark?

Befriending Sarah in college had meant stepping into her world, with frequent afternoons spent at the family’s restaurant but also evenings that bled into weekends. And with this eventually came Sam, who was at the time a cheeky guy too charming for his own good and with a tendency of getting under your skin in the most enjoyable way. The kind that your mama told you not to approach too much if you didn’t want to stray away from a good line of life.

You honestly wouldn’t have paid him much attention if not for the quick-witted banter, a push-and-pull that became something of a ritual every time you would come over. He would saunter into the restaurant under the pretense of bothering his sister, but his eyes would eventually find yours first, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just before he threw out some teasing remarks in hopes of riling you up. You would roll your eyes, fire something back, and somehow, without realizing it, you had begun to orbit each other.

It had slowly bloomed in the way where summer warmth shifts into the first breath of autumn—almost imperceptible until you’re standing in the midst of it. Eye contacts that lingered just a little too long. Making even the most absurd excuses simply to accompany you through your journey of going to college. A growing familiarity that turned into late-night conversations on the dock, where the world was nothing but the hush between you. There had been something easy about it, an understanding that neither of you ever had to say out loud.

And then, one fateful night—

A kiss was added to the list.

You could still precisely recall how it had unfolded. It had been one of those thick Louisianan nights where the land was quiet except for the gentle slosh of the tide against the pylons and the occasional chirp of cicadas hidden somewhere in the dark. You and Sam sat side by side on the wooden planks with your legs dangling over the edge.

He had shown up at the restaurant after closing, claiming he had nowhere better to be. You had scoffed, knowing damn well he could’ve gone to the arcades where he usually hung with his small band of friends, but instead, he’d lingered—elbow on the counter, tossing peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth while Sarah cleaned up. When she suspiciously shooed the both of you out under the pretense of wanting to finish tidying the place in peace, you both ended up in your favorite spot and falling into conversation with the same ease you always had.

Strangely enough, that night was different.

It was felt in the way your knees brushed when he shifted closer, in the way your laughter had simmered and turned quieter, softer. It was the night where plans for the future were spoken of, and how you learned that Sam would soon leave Delacroix behind to join the Air Force while you were still figuring everything out.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet.

You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “What, and give up all the fine dining of your family’s home cooking? I don’t know if I could handle that.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because there’s nothing more to do than eating fresh seafood and watching the sunset every day.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Hey, you’re the one talking about getting out of here, Wilson. What, the dock life not glamorous enough for you?”

His grin was easy, but there was something contemplative beneath it. “I always knew I’d leave. Not ‘cause I don’t love it here, but... I want more. I wanna see what else is out there.”

Your smile faltered, just a little. You weren’t sure why the thought of Sam leaving sat uncomfortably in your chest. "You make it sound like you’re never coming back."

He turned toward you then, one leg kicking idly at the water below. "I’ll come back." His voice got fainter this time, lacking its usual teasing edge. "It’s not like I’d just disappear on you."

You arched a skeptical brow. "Awh, don’t tell me you’re going soft on me. You saying that ‘cause you mean it, or ‘cause you think I’d cry if you didn’t?"

Sam smirked. "Maybe both."

You scoffed, pushing at his arm, but he barely budged. "Please, you’d be the one crying your eyes out first."

"Uh-huh," he vaguely affirmed, unconvinced. "You could write me letters, you know."

"You gonna write back?"

"Every time."

You regained your smile at the answer, and it was when you turned to glance at him that you noticed that he was closer than before. You weren’t sure if he had leaned in or if you had, but your shoulders touched and your knees pressed together. He was close enough that you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed and caught his eyes flickering from yours to your mouth and back again.

You had felt it coming before it happened—the moment slowed, stretched, and his tentative fingers had brushed yours where your hands rested between you on the dock. He was testing out the waters, and neither of you pulled away.

Without a word, he leaned in.

It felt like a kiss engaged between adolescents discovering intimacy for the first time. He was slow in his doing, as if waiting for you to stop him, but you didn’t. You tilted into him instead, your hand resting against his jaw upon the faint scratch of stubble he had grown. His lips were warm and coaxing, stealing the breath from your lungs as he deepened the kiss while his hand curled lightly around your wrist. The world beyond the two of you fell away, drowned out by the rush of your pulse.

It was the kind of kiss that felt like the beginning of a promise. But promises, as you had learned over time, were far too easy to break.

You thought that this kiss was supposed to mean something. Evidently, it didn’t to Sam.

Months passed without a sign, not a single mail in your box or a phone call. Then years came by, and silence continued to reign like a chasm.

The first time Sam Wilson came back to Delacroix after becoming the Falcon, it wasn’t for a homecoming or a celebration—it was for Sarah’s wedding. By then, he was no longer just the annoying little brother, the immature sod who used to throw shrimp shells at you when you weren’t looking. He was an Avenger. A hero. Someone whose face people recognized, whose name carried weight.

And you? You had built a life of your own. A business. A name that had nothing to do with anyone else but yourself. 

He had changed but so had you, and whatever had been between you had withered away a bittersweet memory, more sour than sugary.

The wedding had come and gone in a whirlwind of music and laughter, of his sister glowing in a way you had never seen before, of toasts and dancing under strings of warm lights. You had somehow ended up outside, trading the muffled sounds of celebration drifting through the open doors of the reception hall for the cold silence of the outside.

You hadn’t planned to talk to him. In fact, you had spent most of the days of his visit avoiding being alone with him, dodging him and whatever it was that lingered between you both like an unfinished chapter. But he still managed to find you anyway, stepping out into the night with that same infuriating ease as if nothing had ever changed.

“Did anybody ever tell you that you scurry away like a mouse?” he jokingly prompted, hands tucked into his pockets. “For someone who’s supposed to be the maid of honor, you disappeared pretty fast.”

You didn’t look at him, instead fixing your gaze on the rippling water. “Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone.”

“Never said you did.”

Stillness settled between you, cut by the cicadas humming in the trees and the warm breeze rolling in from the bay. He was watching you. You could feel it.

“You been good?” he asked eventually, almost hesitant.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Business still going strong?”

Another nod.

Sam exhaled a soft laugh. “Damn. You always this talkative?”

Finally, you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say, Sam? That it’s good to see you? That I missed you?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“You know what? I did,” you admitted, your jaw tightening. “I missed you when you left, when you didn’t write, when you didn’t call. But then you show up years later on TV with wings on your back and a whole new life, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “Listen, I never meant to—”

The sudden burst of camera flashes cut through the dark like lightning. Movements danced from the shadows beyond the dock. Figures. A handful of people, cameras raised, lenses trained on you both.

Your blood ran cold.

The pilot turned, his expression shifting in an instant. He stepped in front of you, partially blocking their view. “Hey! Back the hell up.”

The damage was already done. Your name was already in their mouths, in their cameras, and in their notes. And by morning, the world would be talking.

You knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely. The blame didn’t belong to him—not for the cameras, the prying eyes, or the intrusion. But the continuous letdown, the unresolved past, the hollow promises left unanswered—it all boiled over.

Maybe it was the years of unspoken resentment. How he had left and never looked back, only to come home like no time had passed—like you hadn’t once meant something. Or maybe it was the fact that for one fleeting instance, the world thought you belonged to him like you selfishly wanted to back then when he had never even fought to keep you.

The fight was inevitable. Hurtful words, raised voices. Raw anger tangled with accusations you didn’t mean spilling from your mouth before you could stop it, among the ones you did. And to his credit, he gave as good as he got. You weren’t the only one harboring old wounds. You weren’t the only one who felt burned by your shared past.

By the time the shouting stopped, the damage between you was just as permanent as the damage done by the eye-catching headlines. Some words couldn’t be taken back, just as ties, once broken, could never be pieced together the same way again.

The next morning, as you predicted, the internet had been set ablaze with speculation.

The press was relentless, churning through the story like a wildfire swallowing dry earth. The Falcon and his Mystery Woman—Who is She? New Romance or Old Flame? Falcon’s Secret Love Life—Exclusive Details Inside!

It was absurd. Laughable, even. You had snorted at the first few articles, rolling your eyes at the grainy photos that painted a story far more dramatic than the truth. You and Sam barely tolerated each other. If anything, your history was a testament to mutual irritation, not some clandestine love affair.

But the laughter didn’t last because the headlines didn’t fade. Because the story didn’t die.

Because soon enough, it wasn’t just some passing tabloid gossip. It was everywhere.

Paparazzi began to linger outside your workplace, their lenses snapping up every movement as if they could capture something scandalous in the mundane act of you stepping out for coffee. Your inbox flooded with emails—some from reporters fishing for a statement, others from people you hadn’t spoken to in years, suddenly eager to "reconnect." 

Social media became a nightmare all on its own. Strangers dug through your past with eager, prying hands, dissecting old photos, analyzing every public interaction you’d ever had, and spinning theories about a relationship that had never even existed.

The worst part of your predicament was certainly work-related. Every handshake, every business meeting, and every new acquaintance suddenly all came with a question mark. Were they here for you or for the association? Were they interested in your work, in you, or just in the proximity you offered to something greater, to a man whose name counted amongst Earth’s greatest heroes?

And through it all, Sam had remained frustratingly unbothered.

"It’ll pass," he had dismissed with a shrug accompanying his words. "People move on when it comes to these kinds of things."

At most, he made sure you were surrounded by constant security and had some sort of secret service he was apart from watching over you in case malevolent spectators deemed it a good idea to bother you. While you were grateful for the protection, you had wondered if his lack of intervention to correct the situation with both words and actions wasn’t motivated by underlying factors. 

Ultimately, you had been the one left dealing with the aftermath. The one picking up the pieces and untangling the mess, sifting through the wreckage of your privacy. And that was something you could never forgive.

You slowly exhaled, massaging your temple at the exasperating memory. “Let’s just say your brother has had a knack for making my life difficult and I got tired of it.”

Sarah hummed, skeptical but wise enough not to press too hard. “He’s really not as bad as you think.”

You shot her a dry look. “Sarah.”

She held up her hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Alright, alright. I won’t push.”

Before you could say more, the sound of a door swinging open interrupted you. Then came the hurried patter of feet and the excited shout of your name before two small bodies crashed into you, all limbs and boundless energy.

You caught them both with a grin, stumbling slightly under their weight as they clung to you.

“You taking us to school today?” Cass asked, beaming up at you.

You ruffled his curls, feigning deep thought. “I don’t know... you guys gonna behave?”

AJ gasped, scandalized. “We always behave!”

Their mother snorted at the blatant lie while you laughed, nudging AJ’s shoulder. “Alright then, let’s go.”

Sarah shook her head, a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “They listen to you better than they listen to me.”

“That’s because I’m the cool auntie. Right, boys?” 

Both of them cheered in agreement, to which she rolled her eyes and shooed you toward your car. “Go before I change my mind about letting you take them.”

You steered her children toward the vehicle, their voices rising in an animated debate over which of them would get to call shotgun and put their playlist to play for the drive. But even as you settled into the driver’s seat, their excited chatter filling the space around you, your mind remained elsewhere.

Sam was coming back.

And whether you liked it or not, you were going to have to deal with him.

⠀

⠀

The restaurant was already alive with the late afternoon rush by the time you strolled in with the boys coming back from school. Orders flew in, plates stacked high and the scent of fried seafood and rich gumbo diffused in the place. The kitchen bustled with movement—Sarah barking orders, cooks shuffling between stations, the sizzle of oil, the clang of metal on metal. Fortunately, you had worked enough shifts here during college to comfortably throw yourself into the chaos and fall into the rhythm with ease, balancing trays and dodging wayward elbows like second nature.

You had expected a busy night.

What you weren’t prepared for—what you could have gone your entire life without dealing with—was walking out of the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with the one person you had been dreading.

The door swung shut behind you, the sudden quiet of the dining area making the moment feel even heavier. Sam Wilson stood near the counter, arms crossed, an easy smirk already in place as if he hadn’t just been gone for years. The sight of his tall, broad and annoyingly self-assured stature made something stubborn coil in your chest. The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the restaurant’s windows, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight curl of his lips, settling into the warm brown of his eyes with an infuriating sort of ease.

It had been years. But of course, of course, the first thing he did when he saw you was smirk and look at you the way he always did—like he was expecting a fight.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with the kind of scrutiny that made you itch to throw the nearest dish towel at his head. “They’re really letting just anyone work here now, huh?”

You scoffed, stepping behind the counter. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

“Hey, I actually own part of this place,” he shot back, leaning against the wooden bar. “What’s your excuse?”

“Sarah asked me to help,” you replied smoothly, grabbing a clean set of glasses from the shelf. “What’s yours?”

“Thought I’d check in, be a good brother and say hi,” he sassily answered. “Didn’t realize I’d be graced with your presence too.”

“Lucky you,” you deadpanned with a tight-lipped smile, brushing past him.

And to your luck, he followed you to the back, offering unhelpful commentary while you restocked supplies, then bickered with you while you both helped—or at least attempted to—his sister with the dinner rush. Arguing over everything with the soldier felt like muscle memory at this point, and it showed in the way he reached for the same things you did, your movements accidentally falling into sync. 

By the time things slowed down enough for dinner, you were already nursing a headache. It wasn’t until the pace had slowed and Sarah finally sat down with a plate of food after her kids were put to bed that the conversation turned against you.

“So,” Sarah stabbed a piece of calamari with her fork, looking at you with a glint of something announcing nothing good. “You seeing anyone yet?”

You nearly choked on your drink. Across from you, Sam let out a low chuckle.

“Oh, this should be good,” he mused, propping his chin on his hand and settling in like he was about to watch a show.

You shot him a glare before turning back to Sarah. “Not really.”

“Not really, or not at all?”

“Not. At. All.”

Sam let out a whistle, shaking his head in mock pity. “Damn. That’s rough.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “Well, it’s kind of your fault.”

The smirk fell right off his face. “My fault?”

You didn’t waver, locking eyes with him. “I don’t know if you remember, but you kind of put me on the map. You know, with that whole ‘mystery woman spotted with the Falcon’ thing?” You waved a hand vaguely. “Hard to trust people when they might secretly be fans. Or worse, spies.”

The hostess hummed in interest, taking a slow sip of her drink. “That does sound inconvenient.”

Sam scoffed. "Oh, be real, miss fancy pants. You can’t be serious.”

“But I am,” you shot back. “Because of you, I have to second-guess every new person I meet. Even for business.”

Sam shrugged, looking way too entertained. “Could be worse.”

You raised a brow. “Would you trust random people throwing themselves at you if the roles were reversed?”

He let out a sharp laugh, cocky and dismissive. “Sure, after a small background check.”

You leaned forward, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, totally. It’s so much fun when I get approached because people think I’m some tragic ex or long-lost lover of yours. Or getting bombarded with people asking if I ever hooked up with the Falcon, or if I have ‘tea’ to spill on our ‘relationship’, or if I’m ‘jealous’ that you’re off saving the world and not wasting time.” You tilted your head. “That’s just peak entertainment.”

For once, the Avenger had nothing to say.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget the weirdos who DM me saying they’d be happy to ‘fill the hole’ you supposedly left in my life.”

Sam choked on his drink, coughing violently. “What?”

“Oh yeah.” You pulled out your phone, tapped a few times, then held it out to him. “Here. Go ahead. Take a look at your legacy.”

He grabbed it hesitantly, scrolling through your inbox, his expression shifting from amused to horrified. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

Sarah smirked. “Damn, Sam. Ruined her dating life and left her with internet weirdos. That’s cold.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, fine, that’s bad.” He handed your phone back. “But still, you could’ve just—I don’t know—ignored it? De-activate your socials?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just ignore the fact that I have to Google every guy I talk to just to make sure they’re not running a secret fan account for you.”

He burst out laughing, to which you childishly responded by throwing a fry at his head.

Sarah, watching all this like it was prime-time TV, suddenly perked up. “I might have a solution.”

You groaned. “I don’t like that tone.”

“No, no, hear me out,” she insisted, grinning. “I saw this thing the other day—apparently, there’s a place in town that does blind dates in escape rooms.”

You blinked. “You saw what now?”

“It’s a fun concept,” she continued breezily. “Two people, locked in a room, working together to get out. You don’t know who you’re paired with beforehand, and it forces you to communicate.” She took another bite of her food, then added, “I think you two should try it.”

You both turned to her at the same time. “No—” “Hell no.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic. It’s literally an escape room—”

“With a blind date,” you interrupted with frantic gestures. “As in, being forced into a confined space with a random stranger and trusting them enough to help me get out.” You shook your head. “Not happening.”

Sarah gave you a pointed look. “You do realize that’s exactly what dating is, right?”

You glared. “Don’t make points right now.”

She turned her attention to Sam, who was still muttering under his breath. “And what’s your problem?”

Her brother shot her a disbelieving look. “You seriously don’t see the issue?”

“Nope.”

He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s way too risky for me to go in public and have my info given out to some company and get paired up with someone potentially crazy like her right here. Yeah, no way in hell I’m signing up for that.”

You turned back to Sarah. “Do you hear the way he talks to me? And you think I should be dating?”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m setting you up with other people. You both need a reality check.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Okay, ignoring the audacity of that statement—why an escape room? If I wanted to be locked in a room with a stranger, I’d call my internet provider.”

Sarah once again ignored your rebuttals. “It forces you to work together. Communication, problem-solving, a little trust—”

Sam let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather skydive without a parachute.”

“You literally have a parachute,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Sam said. “Which is why I don’t need to go on some experimental dating hostage situation.”

Sarah huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Let me put it this way—if you don’t go, I’ll tell Bucky you’re both too scared to put yourselves out there.”

You wanted to put up a bigger fight, if not for the very real threat of James Buchanan Barnes getting wind of this.

You had met him once, years ago, during one of Sam’s very unwelcome, very impromptu visits. You hadn’t even been expecting company that day, let alone a literal ex-assassin sitting at Sarah’s dining table like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to make matters worse, Sam had introduced you in the most obnoxious way possible.

“This is my sister’s best friend. She talks a big game but couldn’t win an argument if her life depended on it.”

And Bucky, with all the smugness of someone who absolutely enjoyed making your life difficult, had just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and smugly commented—

“Huh. Sounds familiar.”

You hadn’t even known him for five minutes, and he had already sided with Sam. Ever since, the latter had made sure to weaponize their friendship against you at every opportunity, regardless of the fast-growing amicability between his former partner and you.

And you knew that if Bucky found out about this, you would never hear the end of it. He’d be relentless. Casually dropping mentions of your lack of a partner into every conversation, even if the irony lied in him being in the same situation—though he’d probably argue that unlike him, there was a lack of trying on your part as well as the absence of an excuse as astronomical as being a well-known mass murderer with an insane past. And also probably betting money on how fast you’d walk out of the damn escape room.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

His sister’s grin only widened. “Oh, I absolutely would.”

You could already picture it—Bucky, smirking like he had all the dirt in the world on you and bringing it up at the most inopportune moments. Teasing you mercilessly every time you so much as glanced at your phone. Probably making some dumb comment like, “So, can’t find anyone to put up with you?”

Nope. Absolutely not.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “I so hate you right now.”

Sarah just smiled. “So that’s a yes?”

The Falcon groaned in desperation. “This is blackmail.”

She simply shrugged at the accusation. “I like to think of it as strong encouragement.”

"How long is it?” you finally asked, defeated.

“One hour.”

Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Sixty minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”

The restaurant’s owner shrugged, too pleased with herself to care. “Think of it this way—worst-case scenario, you get out and never see the person again.”

The pilot grumbled under his breath before sharply exhaling after a long pause. “Whatever. But when this goes horribly, I want it on record that I called it.”

“Duly noted.”

⠀

⠀

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as you gripped the wheel of your car with the force of someone actively trying not to commit murder. The drive to the escape room was supposed to be uneventful. Key words: supposed to. But Sam Wilson had never once encountered an opportunity for peace without promptly deciding to mischievously ruin it.

It started small. A shift in his seat, a glance at the dashboard, an exhale so faint you almost didn’t catch it. Then, before you knew it, his fingers were wandering, prodding at the glossy screen in the center console with an exaggerated curiosity that made your temple throb.

You gritted your teeth. "Stop touching things."

“Relax,” he drawled, ever the picture of unbothered arrogance. "I’m just exploring my environment."

“It’s not an environment, it’s my car.”

Sam clicked his tongue, grinning in a way that meant nothing good. “You got all these fancy-ass features, and you don’t even use ‘em? Shame. Really makes me question your judgment.”

“You’re about to question your life choices when I push you out onto the freeway.”

With all of your previous spouts, you should have known that issuing such a warning would only serve to encourage his childish behavior.

It started with him cranking the seat warmers up to their highest setting, slowly enough that you didn’t notice until your lower back was mysteriously drenched in sweat. He followed by playing with the ambient lighting, flipping through every color at an alarming rate until the inside of your car looked like a malfunctioning disco ball. But the worst, the absolute worst, came when he discovered your Bluetooth. 

A horrendous mix of static and Sam’s laughter blasted through your speakers as the system synced.

You gawked at him. “If you so much as—”

Before you could finish your sentence, the familiar bright and bouncy opening chords of Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus blared from the speakers, the bubbly pop song catering a stark contrast to the slow-building horror creeping up your spine.

Sam, entirely unbothered by your stricken expression, immodestly threw his feet up onto the dashboard with the air of a man settling in for a long, leisurely road trip rather than someone actively testing the limits of your patience. With the unrestrained passion of a performer standing before a sold-out stadium crowd, he threw his head back and belted at the top of his lungs, “And a Jay-Z song was on!”

You recoiled, grimacing as his voice cracked mid-note. But before responding, you reached over and smacked his legs off the dashboard, sending his sneakers thudding back to the floor. “Get your dirty feet off my dash,” you snapped.

Sam clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Oh, live a bit, woman. Damn, you really have no appreciation for the arts or my comfort?”

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you ignored his jab, leveling him instead with a flat, unimpressed stare. “This,” you slowly voiced with incredulity, “is the choice you made?”

“Hell yeah.” He nodded in affirmation, not even pausing in his off-key, wholly committed performance. “This is a certified anthem.”

“This is a cry for help.”

Sam gasped, scandalized. “You don’t like Party in the USA?”

“I do. I just don’t like you singing Party in the USA.” Without breaking your focus on the road, you lunged for his phone, yanking it from his grip with the precision of someone who had endured one too many of his antics. A dramatic click later, and blissful silence fell over the cabin.

Your passenger, however, was anything but deterred. He cackled, shoulders shaking, entirely too smug.

You inhaled deeply, willing the tension in your fingers to ease before you left permanent indentations on the wheel. “I swear to God, Wilson—”

“Hey,” he cut in, still grinning like a man with no fear of consequences. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve switched it to romance audiobooks.”

“I will crash this car.”

The silence was short-lived. Like a cocky thief in the night, Sam moved with the precision of a soldier and the recklessness of a man who knew exactly how to test your limits. One second, the phone was in your grasp, victory assured. The next, it was snatched away with infuriating ease.

You barely had time to register the offense before the speakers flared back to life, the cabin suddenly swelling with the smooth, honeyed tones of a song that hit far too close to home.

"I see the crystal raindrops fall…"

Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing in slow, dawning realization. The Falcon, unbothered and wholly self-satisfied, leaned back against the seat with his arms folded behind his head as if he hadn't just detonated a nostalgia bomb between you. The smooth timbre of Grover Wshington Jr.’s voice accompagnied the melodious instrumental of Just the Two of Us, the saxophone bringing more than just nostalgia of a classic.

You knew exactly what he was doing. You remembered the easy rhythm of laughter between verses as you'd vaguely engage in a clumsy waltz, tripping over both feet and lyrics and pretending it was intentional. You remembered Sam’s off-key falsetto and your equally disastrous harmonies, along with the unshakable euphoria and certainty that no matter where life took you, you’d always end up in the same place.

But life had a way of rewriting certainties—the choices that wedged themselves between you was certainly proof of it. And yet, despite everything that happened, that song still had its hooks in you.

Sam, ever the instigator, drummed his fingers against the dashboard, slow and patient, like a fisherman waiting for the line to tug. When you didn’t react, he turned his head and elbowed you in your arm. “C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I do remember.”

“Then sing.”

You scoffed, pretending it didn’t get to you. “Pass.”

His grin sharpened. “Boo, loser. What, so you can’t sing anymore? That’s crazy. Didn’t know losing your ability to sing was part of getting old and bitter—”

Your glare should have scorched him and wiped that insufferable smirk right off his face, but he only leaned in, fully basking in his role as an unrepentant menace.

"We can make it if we try…" He sang it pointedly, nudging you again with his elbow like an annoying kid brother. You swatted him away without sparing a glance. He did it again. And again. Until finally—

You exhaled sharply, grip slackening. “I hate you.”

But as the chorus approached, the words left your lips before you could stop them.

"Just the two of us…"

It was barely a whisper at first, something fragile and unintentional. But Sam caught it immediately and grinned just as quickly, victorious, before singing louder.

You rolled your eyes, but the fight was already lost.

“That’s my girl,” he cheered on, and before you could roll your eyes, he threw his head back and belted out the next line with all the fanciness of a Broadway performer.

By the next verse, you were both loudly singing off-key. He purposely overstated his notes, while you botched entire lines just to tease him. Laughter flowed freely between lines, busting through the barricades you'd both painstakingly established.  Sam, ever the dramatist, went full concert mode, wiggling his shoulders like an overenthusiastic backup dancer and pretending to hold a microphone as he crooned into his fist.

“No,” you moaned in exasperation between bursts of laughter as he hit an ungodly note. “That was—oh my God, Sam, stop—that is a crime against music.”

He only doubled down, adding unnecessary falsetto flourishes and pointing dramatically out the window as if serenading the passing trees. The harmonies were an absolute disaster. The timing was questionable at best. But for those few minutes, it didn’t matter. It was just you and Sam, the car, and the open road, voices colliding in the space between you.

It shouldn't have felt so natural, to slip into something that had been tearing around the edges for years. But for a brief while, it did—which was perilous, like plunging into still waters.

No matter how lighthearted it appeared, you were smart enough to understand that the political choice in this song was not only to reminisce about one of your favorite memories, but also to convey a hidden message, as the song still had meaning in its lines. “We can make it if we try”. It was a promise, one you had scarcely believed in with your whole heart before you had to learn to live without him. 

By the time the final note of the song was hit, the magic was broken. You cleared your throat and adjusted your grip on the wheel. You mumbled, "Still sing like a damn goat," since it was easier than admitting anything else.

Sam snorted. "You still talk big for someone who sounds like a dying cat."

Quietness regained its rightful place, this time more charged than before with the shadow of something lost between you. He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts—or just avoid whatever was about to spill out.

“Look, about everything that happened...” He hesitated, voice trailing off, before he tried again. “I didn’t mean—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “It’s fine,” you muttered, trying to keep the ache from spilling over. “Honestly, I should’ve expected it. You’re always going to be tied up in something bigger than us. I get it now. I should’ve known better.”

The pilot didn’t respond right away but you still made out the sound of him breathing down his nose, betraying the turmoil that was spiralling in his mind. “I just—I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring what happened. I—”

“No.” The word came out before you could stop it, hard and final. Your lips twisted into a smile, but it was bitter, hollow. “You don’t need to apologize anymore. It’s not necessary. I mean, the Air Force is a big thing. And now with the whole Avengers thing…” Your breath hitched slightly. “You had big priorities. It’s understandable.”

The words left a bitter taste on your tongue, every syllable a shard of resentment you had tried for so long to swallow. “It’s okay. You don’t need to make up some excuse.”

Sam’s expression flickered, his features shifting subtly as he processed your words, but he didn’t respond. His silence felt like another slap in the face, the unspoken weight of his guilt settling over the car.

"It just hurt," you continued, the words uncontrollably tumbling out of your mouth, as if you couldn’t hold them back any longer. "You said you’d make time. That we could figure it out." Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on, your chest tight with the pressure of everything you’d been carrying. "But then... it was like I was just some side story to your life. I had to deal with everything on my own. You didn’t just leave me, Sam. You left me hanging in front of the entire world, like I was an afterthought."

You could see him flinching and opening his mouth to speak, but the reply stayed stuck somewhere behind his teeth for awhile. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” he finally admitted, his voice tight with frustration, lips pressed into a thin line. “You have to know that.” 

You let out a dry laugh, bitter and edged with years of pent-up anger. "No," you spat, shaking your head. "I don’t know that. I really don’t. And now you want to apologize? You think a few words will make it go away?" You turned to him then with glaring eyes, the dam inside you breaking wide open. “But I guess I should’ve known better, right? You’ve always got more important things on your plate than me. And I was just dumb enough to think I could be part of it." You let out a shaky breath. "That’s on me, not you.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenched so tightly against his knees that you could see the tendons in his hands strain. "That’s not fair," he rasped.

“No,” you bit out with the bitter burn of years of disappointment. “What’s not fair is pretending everything’s okay now, like you didn’t leave me in the dust. You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to forget how much it hurt when you left me behind.”

Sam growled, his gaze snapping to yours with an intensity that could’ve burned brighter than the sunlight reflecting on the windshield. “I didn’t mean to do that. It wasn’t like that. If you’d just let me explain—”

But you were already shaking your head, a bitter laugh slipping out as you cut him off. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this again."

The rest of the drive stretched on in silence, bouncing on the precarious mix of unsaid words and the sharp sting of old wounds reopening. By the time you pulled into the parking lot of the escape room, your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, your body wound tight with the tension of everything you’d let out during the ride.

You almost yanked the car into park with more force than necessary, the engine’s rumbling metaphorically serving as a harsh reminder of how you were both still reeling from your slight altercation.

The door slammed shut behind you, but neither of you made a move to walk toward the entrance. The space between you felt wider than the parking lot itself. You weren’t sure what else to say, if there was even anything left to say. 

“You should go inside first,” you finally said, your eyes staying firmly on the building in front of you. “I still need to arrange a few things in the car.” You were making a conscious decision to create some distance, to not go beyond what you could navigate through the dangerous waves of this confrontation. “Good luck with your date… or, uh, escape game.” You gave a small, tight smile, though it felt more like a bitter farewell than any kind of encouragement.

Sam silently hesitated, his eyes searching yours, like he was about to say something—but the words never formed. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave a short nod. "You too. Good luck with... whatever it is you're gonna do, too."

Without another word, he turned his back to you and walked toward the entrance with stiff shoulders. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he left you alone, marking said distance you were so adamant on implementing once and for all.

You didn’t watch him go. You couldn’t. Instead, you opened your door with a soft creak, the cool night air rushing in as you slid back into the driver’s seat. It felt like a strange kind of closure, the door clicking shut behind you as if you were signing the definite end of a chapter, even if nothing really felt settled. With a shaky hand, you wiped the stray tears that had fallen down your cheeks, quickly brushing them away like they never happened, like you could pretend they weren’t there.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. There was still the night ahead, the escape game to focus on, even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it.

⠀

⠀

The artificial chill of the air conditioning wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, abruptly differing from the lingering warmth of dusk. The area smelled somewhat floral, though not in a pleasant way—more like a half-hearted attempt to conceal the antiseptic, even clinical ambiance. The welcome space looked sleek and modern, with clean lines and soft, ambient lighting, but something seemed odd.

A trio of employees stood behind the clean counter, their demeanor courteous but impersonal. Their uniforms were clean, their smiles practiced, and their eyes assessing—not in a way that made you feel welcome, but rather processed.

"Just need you to sign a few things," one of them said, sliding a clipboard toward you with the kind of ease that suggested they had done this a hundred times before. Maybe a thousand.

You picked up the pen and skimmed the pages, your brows knitting together. Waiver. Consent form. Limited liability in the case of mild distress.

Everything screamed shady.

Even though you knew they conducted a comprehensive background check on their clients' criminal records—you knew because you boldly inquired beforehand—your gut twisted with disquiet, a silent warning you had long since learned not to ignore. But you forced yourself to exhale, suppressing the mounting doubt. Sarah planned this, and she wouldn't throw you into an underground horror movie scenario, right?

Still, the blindfold part? That was peculiar, to say the least.

“Standard procedure,” the staff member assured you in a smooth and clearly rehearsed tone. That didn’t make you feel any better.

But you weren’t about to back out now. Soundly sighing, you allowed them to tie the fabric securely over your eyes, and in an instant, the world went black.

A friendly but firm hand took you down what appeared to be a long corridor. Each step heightened the sense of disorientation, the absence of sight accentuating everything else—hushed murmurs in the distance, the continuous flaps of an air vent above, the dull pressure of the floor under you. Then a pause. The air became colder. A door opened, and you were gently guided inside.

The door shut behind you, and the person beside you vanished.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at the sides. The lack of vision made everything feel too much—the faint shuffle of your own feet as you shifted nervously, the way your breathing seemed louder than it should, the slight press of your pulse on your temples. How long were they going to leave you here?

The weight of the silence stretched, and so did the edges of your nerves. Finally, the door creaked open again. Your spine became rigid. Footsteps, slow and measured. The door clicked closed once more.

Someone was here.

You exhaled, forcing an easy tone into your voice despite the unease creeping up your spine. "So, uh… I guess this is the part where we introduce ourselves? Hi, I’m—"

A strange, loaded silence tightened around you like a noose, twisting in your stomach. Were they simply joking with you? Or was there something else going on here?

Your patience, already thin after the day's events, had fully frayed. Screw this. Against your better judgment, you reached up and ripped the blindfold off, blinking rapidly as your eyes acclimated to the room's dull, amber hue.

And there, across from you, stood Sam. A solitary rose danced between his fingers, whirling aimlessly, as if he had all the time in the world. His attitude was unreadable—calm and poised, but his eyes held something you couldn't quite identify.

"Oh, hell no."

Sam let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing his temple like the sheer force of his fingers could press back the headache forming there. “Unbelievable,” he sneered, shaking his head. “I should’ve known Sarah was up to something when she kept dodging my questions.”

You let out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face as the reality of the situation settled over you like an unbearable weight. “This is what I get for trusting Sarah with this. Honestly, I’d rather deal with Bucky’s endless teasing right now than… this.”

The veteran arched a brow, folding his arms. “To be fair, you did let her set you up on a blind date with a stranger.”

You leveled him with a look. “Yeah, and so did you!” You threw up your hands. “And we came here together. Did she seriously think we wouldn’t notice?”

He exhaled sharply, his expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Guess she figured we’d be too busy arguing to put the pieces together.”

You scoffed. “Well, congrats to her, then. She got exactly what she wanted.”

Determined to put an end to this ridiculous setup, you turned toward the door, grasped the handle, and gave it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. Your pulse ticked higher. You tried again, more forcefully this time, but the door remained stubbornly locked.

Behind you, Sam sighed, the sound far too entertained for your liking. “Still locked?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Obviously.”

Before he could toss out another quip, the overhead speakers crackled to life, the static buzzing through the dimly lit room before a saccharine, overly cheerful voice filled the space.

"Welcome, lovebirds, to the Valentine’s Day Escape Challenge!"

Your entire body went rigid. Sam, standing just a few feet away, had stilled completely, his eyes narrowing like he was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

"Over the next hour, you and your partner will work together to solve puzzles, uncover secrets, and—most importantly—ignite a spark between you!"

Your eye twitched. "The what?"

The Falcon was still staring up at the speaker, but you could feel the sheer amount of unspoken profanity radiating off of him.

"You have sixty minutes! And remember... teamwork makes the dream work!"

A mechanical clunk sounded somewhere in the room, and a timer flickered to life on the far wall, its neon numbers casting an ominous glow.

59:59. 59:58. 59:57.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, forcing down the overwhelming urge to scream, then turned to Sam. He met your stare, equally exasperated, equally resigned.

The room was an assault of saccharine love-themed aesthetics, as if Eros himself had suffered a violent, glitter-drenched demise. Heart-shaped garlands draped along the walls in looping chains, glowing pink fairy lights casting a hazy, dreamlike blush over every velvet-draped surface. A gilded vanity stood against one wall, its mirror smeared with cryptic riddles in waxy, crimson lipstick. The simulated fireplace screen let out crackled sounds, its flames flickering just a little too artificially, a cheap illusion of warmth in a space meant to seduce.

At the center of it all sat a small, round table, dressed in pristine white linen, set for two. A single wax-sealed envelope rested atop the china, like the final invitation to some grand, elaborate joke.

Sam let out a low whistle, slow and unimpressed as he took in the spectacle. “It’s like Cupid threw up in here.”

You crossed your arms, exhaling through your nose. “More like a discount wedding venue.”

“Either way, I already hate it.”

“Great. Common ground.” You stepped forward, plucking the envelope off the table, breaking the seal with a sharp tear. “Means we’ll get through this faster.”

Inside, a delicate pink card gleamed under the low lighting, its cursive gold lettering gliding across the surface like a whispered dare:

"To escape, one must first unlock the heart. Find the key, answer truthfully, and embrace the game."

You flipped the card over, your frown deepening. Blank.

“Well, that’s unhelpful.”

Sam leaned in over your shoulder, the warmth of his unwelcome presence creeping at your back. “Sounds like a load of nonsense.”

“Sounds like we need to find a key.” You tossed the card aside and swept your gaze across the room. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He followed at an infuriatingly lazy pace, hands tucked in his pockets. “You always this impatient on dates?”

You shot him a glare. “You always this obnoxious?”

“‘That a rhetorical question?”

You huffed, stepping toward the vanity. Its antique gold frame was chipped, and its once-opulent beauty weathered down to something just shy of decadent. Trinkets littered the surface—heart-shaped perfume bottles, a pearl necklace draped over a porcelain hand sculpture, and a plush teddy bear wearing a satin bow tie.

You picked up the bear, giving it a shake. Something rattled inside. Without hesitation, you grabbed the bow and pulled at it, to which the Avenger let out a sharp breath. “At least pretend to have some finesse. Poor guy.”

You turned, leveling him with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I politely ask the stuffed animal for the key?”

His smirk was all teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

With an exaggerated tug, the bow finally tore away, revealing a tiny brass key stitched into the lining. Triumphant, you held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the candlelight. “Hah. Suck it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded toward the oversized keyhole carved into the farthest door. “Moment of truth.”

The lock clicked smoothly, the door groaning as it swung inward to reveal the next part of your prison—a room bathed in deep red velvet, dimly lit by flickering candle sconces. A loveseat sat at its heart, a small pedestal beside it, where a single glass dome encased a perfect red rose.

You exhaled sharply. “Great. More romantic fuckery.”

Sam rolled his shoulders, his stance widening. “Starting to think this whole thing is just an excuse for people to make out in a locked room.”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh, trust me, you’re really killing the mood.”

Your attention shifted to the plaque beneath the rose. The words, engraved in curling script, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine: "A promise once spoken, never fulfilled, lingers in the heart forever." You took a step back, exhaling a little too precipitously. “Alright. Where’s the next clue?”

Sam didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the plaque before flickering back to you. “That bother you?”

“Nope,” you said too quickly. “Just wanna get out of here.”

He studied you, and for once, he wasn’t all for the laughs. “You’re lying straight to my face.”

You stiffened. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” His voice was laced with the same exasperation you remembered from years ago—when things were different. When things were good. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see it?”

You pivoted angrily towards him. “See what, Sam? I told you everything already. You want to talk about how years later, when you came back, I was the one whose name got dragged through the dirt because some paparazzi decided I made a convenient headline?”

His jaw ticked. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“Well you barely did a damn thing to stop it, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, so that was my fault?” His voice rose, heat sparking in his eyes. “I was trying to keep you out of that mess! You think I had any control over what the media did?”

“Maybe not.” Your breath came hard now, uneven. “But you had control over what you did. And you chose to stay silent.”

The room’s candlelight flickered violently, shadows dancing along the walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on you, encaging you in this intolerable and toxic chasm of tug-of-war fight. Sam’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked like he wanted to grab something—grab you, maybe, or stop himself from doing exactly that.

“Say it,” he finally murmured, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since I walked back here.” His gaze burned into yours. “Go ahead. Get it out.”

The pathetic words escaped before you could stop them.

“You lied to me and I hate you for it.”

Sam flinched, but you pressed on, voice breaking on the edges. “You promised I wouldn’t just be some forgotten thing in your past. And you never even tried.”

His nostrils flared. “You think I didn’t want to?”

“Oh, please.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You were fine. You left, became a hero, and forgot all about me until you came back wearing a fucking jetpack.”

“You were never something I could forget.”

You felt something crack in your chest. “You don’t get to say that now, Sam,” you whispered.

He stepped closer. Then again. You barely realized you were moving too, until the air between you collapsed, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the tension a live wire sparking between your ribs. 

"Then look me in the eye," Sam rasped, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. "Look at me and tell me I’m lying and this doesn’t mean anything anymore. Tell me you don’t feel it—say the words, and I’ll walk away. But say them like you mean them." 

Your throat worked, but no words came. Because as much as you wanted to deny the allegations, you did feel it. The frustration, the anger. And beneath it all—the wanting, the aching. The bone-deep longing for something neither of you had the courage to claim when it mattered.

In an unfurling of sudden movement, his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but before he could react, you were on him, fisting the front of his shirt and crashing your mouth against his, engaging in a battle more than a kiss. It was akin to a wildfire—scorching, desperate, all teeth and heat, the culmination of every regret and every second wasted.

The pilot groaned into it, his hands flying to your waist, strong and sure as he hauled you against him. A sharp gasp left you at the feeling of his body flush with yours, but he didn’t give you room to think or to breathe. He spun you, pressing you back against the wall, his mouth relentless against yours, moving with a punishing, consuming intent—like he wanted to devour you whole.

Your fingers twisted further into his meticulous white shirt, attempting to pull him impossibly closer than you already were. He swallowed the sound that escaped you, deepening the kiss like a starved man, like he needed this, needed you, needed to make up for all the time lost.

His lips dragged over your jaw, hot breath ghosting against your skin.

"Still mad?" he murmured against your lips, voice thick with want, teasing even now, even like this.

Your teeth sank into his bottom lip, seizing it and savoring how his breath hitched at your doing, the way his fingers flexed against your waist. "Furious."

Sam’s breath stuttered against your lips, a ragged sound caught between a groan and something dangerously close to surrender. His fingers curled into your waist, holding you like he needed to anchor himself, like if he let go, you’d slip through his grasp and take the last shred of his self-control with you.

The kiss burned, devouring, each second unraveling the years of restraint neither of you wanted to acknowledge anymore. You felt the tension in the way he pressed against you, in the way his hands slid beneath your shirt, palms searing against your skin. Your nails raked down his back, dragging over hard covered muscle, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fists as if you could pull him deeper into you, as if there was any space left between you to close.

"Tell me to stop," Sam gasped through the clashing of your mouths, the words nearly lost to the breathlessness between you. His request went ignored as his lips traced a slow, punishing path down your jaw, his breath hot against your throat as his hands wandered, gripping, relearning, claiming back what was once his for a brief instance. 

You tilted your head, granting him more access, shivering as he took it without hesitation, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Your fingers roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the solid weight of him beneath your touch. It wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed skin, heat, the press of him without barriers.

Your hands found the first button of his shirt, fumbling in your urgency. One button slipped free, then another, the fabric parting under your fingers.

Until the door slammed open.

You barely had time to gasp before Sam reacted on instinct. In a blur of movement, he thrusted you behind him, body braced like a shield between you and whoever had just interrupted.

A pair of employees stood in the doorway, frozen like deer in headlights. One clutched a clipboard, the other a maintenance checklist, both staring like they had just walked in on a crime scene.

A heavy silence stretched between all of you.

"Uh…" The clipboard guy cleared his throat, his voice weak, almost apologetic. "This… isn't a private room."

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly dangling by a thread. His chest still heaved with unspent frustration and the lingering burn of what had been seconds away from happening. He ran a slow hand down his face before fixing them with a dark, pointed look.

"Clearly," he said flatly.

The maintenance guy swallowed hard. "We—we knocked. Three times."

Clipboard guy shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting everywhere but at you and Sam. "Look, we know you signed up for it and all, but this is too much—you can’t stay here. We have to ask you to leave. Immediately."

The Avenger stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he looked them up and down. The movement was subtle, but the effect was instant. Clipboard guy flinched. Maintenance guy tensed, suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"You saw nothing," he declared lowly. "And whatever you think you saw? No you didn’t." His gaze flicked downward, locking onto the phone peeking out of the employee’s pocket.

The guy scrambled to pull it out, hands shaking as he unlocked the screen. "N-Nothing there! See?" He turned it around in a panic.

Sam barely glanced at it before nodding, satisfied. "Good. Smart choice."

You bit your lip, caught between laughter and mortification as Sam slid an arm around your waist, steering you toward the exit with purposeful ease.

"Now," he continued, voice laced with something smug as he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, "if you’ll excuse us, we have somewhere else to be."

His grip on your hip tightened as he led you outside, your pulse hammering in response, the rest of the world fading as the need he had ignited moments ago roared back to life with a vengeance.

⠀

⠀

The ride back to the restaurant was enveloped in a heavy silence—not the brittle awkwardness of unspoken apologies nor the tenseness of imminent confrontation, but a solemn, almost sacred quietude laden with things neither of you yet dared to name.

You kept your eyes fixed on the road, though the lingering warmth of Sam’s hand on your waist remained—a memory of intimacy that had evaporated the instant you stepped out of that room. The echo of what had nearly transpired clung to your skin like a phantom caress, simmering just beneath the surface, an unacknowledged secret shared between you.

When you finally reached the restaurant, the usual mix of clamors of conversation and the tinkling of glasses felt jarringly discordant against the subdued cadence of your thoughts. You both hesitated at the entrance, lingering in the threshold. After a long pause, Sam sighed deeply, his hand drifting to his jaw as if to smooth away the remnants of the night’s turbulence. “Go wait for me,” he ordered you, “at our spot.”

That command stopped you in your tracks.

Our spot.

It had been years since either of you had dared to approach it, much less mention it aloud. The old corner by the water hidden from the prying lights of the city, where you had once spent long, languid nights nursing cheap beer, debating everything and nothing, and watching the world settle into quiet dreams. Back when neither of you had been bold enough to risk shattering that fragile haven.

You searched his face, but his eyes were fixed beyond you, as if he were still uncertain whether the words should have been spoken at all. Still, you nodded.

The dock greeted you like a cherished relic from a bygone era. Weathered wooden planks stretched over dark, rippling water, the faint, distant glow of the city shimmering in its reflection. The air was crisp and invigorating, hinting at the encroaching chill of night and making you wish you had remembered to bring a jacket.

You sank onto the edge of the dock, letting your feet dangle freely above the water, your fingers twisting together in quiet contemplation. Time slipped by in muted anticipation until, at last, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind you. Then, as if conjured by the very night, a presence settled beside you.

Without a word, Sam pressed a cold bottle on your forehead that burned as it met your skin, making you almost jump out of your place before you took the flask of whiskey—and set another beside him. He then unfurled a thick, timeworn blanket, draping it over both of you with a fluid, almost reverent motion.

The warmth of the blanket combined with the closeness of his body seeped into you instantly, chasing away the chill of the night. For a long moment, you simply sat there, the dock creaking softly beneath your weight, the gentle lapping of water against old wood composing a quiet symphony for your shared solitude.

You sighed, rolling the bottle between your palms. “So..”

One simple word laden with the totality of everything left unsaid, a distillation of years of longing, regret and the raw, unspoken truth of your intertwined past.

You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on the blanket as though holding it could tether you both to this moment. This was it—the precipice upon which you both now stood. There was no turning away, no hiding behind silence any longer. 

“So,” Sam repeated, his voice tinged with playful mischief as he copied your idle toying with the cold bottle in his hand, “that was… something, wasn’t it?” 

“Ugh, don’t say something cliché like that. But yeah, that was definitely something for the books, I guess.” You managed a shaky smile, your words emerging in a hesitant cadence. There was a lightness in your tone—a mirth that felt like a delicate mask over the swirling emotions that both terrified and enthralled you.

The Falcon grinned, arching an eyebrow. “You know, if it weren’t for how noisy Sarah is, we might have savored it in peace.”

You chuckled softly, the sound both amused and rueful. “She practically narrated our every move. You know she loves her piece of drama.”

“Exactly,” he agreed in a playful tone yet laced with something deeper—a hint of regret, perhaps. “I think she made sure we were loud enough for at least the entire escape room to hear.”

You shook your head, still smiling despite the vulnerability threading through your laughter. “I guess sometimes a little noise is inevitable. I mean, if everything were hushed, we’d never have the chance to remember just how messy and magnificent it all was.”

Sam’s eyes softened as he took a slow sip from the bottle, the amber liquid catching the light. “Sounds like the perfect way to put it,” he murmured absent-mindedly. Your fingers moved on to fidget with the edge of the blanket draped around you, and Sam’s gaze frequently wandered to your flushed face, as if silently pleading for some unspoken reassurance.

“Ask me,” he suddenly requested, his voice both gentle and edged with a trace of desperation, as though he believed that the right question might finally untangle the knots of regret and longing that had haunted you both for so long. “Ask me the question you’ve been holding back.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat echoing with years of missed chances and unspoken words. In a trembling rush of emotion, you blurted out, “What—uh, did you like it?” Your voice quavered, carrying the weight of the moment like a fragile plea.

Sam’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of relief and sorrow as he slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied, his tone soft yet resolute. “I mean—yes, but that’s not what I meant.” He paused, carefully choosing his words as if every syllable carried the gravity of the past. “Ask me the one you’ve wanted to ask for so long.”

A delicate tremor passed through you, and your breath caught in your throat. After a long, painful silence, you whispered, “Why didn’t you write me?” 

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the dock, as if the night itself awaited his answer. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly extracted a tightly knotted bundle of papers. Unraveling the thread with careful fingers, he revealed a stack of letters, yellowed with time and crinkled at the edges.

“I did write you letters,” he softly admitted, his gaze fixed on the fragile pages as if they contained his very soul. “That’s what I wanted to tell you for so long. Three hundred and sixty-five of them… one for every day.” His voice trembled with both pride and regret. “But you have to understand—the Air Force policy was tight as fuck. I couldn’t send them, and once I realized that, I… I knew you’d resent me for not keeping in touch.”

He paused, running a hand over the neatly stacked pages. “This whole thing took a toll on me—physically, mentally. I was drowning in obligations and fear, and eventually, I stopped writing because I thought maybe it was the only way to spare you from more pain.” His eyes darkened as he continued, voice barely a murmur now. “And as for the paparazzi… I thought that by not speaking, by keeping my distance, I’d protect you. If I wasn’t seen with you, they’d assume there was no connection—no real relationship worth prying into.”

A single tear glinted in the corner of your eye as you absorbed his words, each one a quiet confession, a secret revealed in the darkness. The letters lay between you like relics of a lost time—a testament to love, duty, and the unbearable cost of silence.

Your fingers trembled as they hovered above the fragile stack of letters, each page heavy with the weight of stolen years and unspoken regrets. The unsent words pressed against your chest as though they carried every moment lost between you, every silent apology and longing unfulfilled. You swallowed hard, the night air thick with an unspoken tremor that danced at the edge of every exhale.

“Tell me about them,” you professed, your voice scarcely more than a whisper carried on the breeze.

The pilot exhaled sharply, his thumb absently caressing the frayed edges of one of the letters as if it were a relic of his former self. “You really want to know?” he asked, his tone tentative, laced with both caution and the burden of truth.

You nodded, your silence affirming that, despite your uncertainty, you needed to hear every word.

For a long moment, Sam’s eyes remained fixed on the ink-smudged pages, the ghostly script of his past gazing back at him in silent testimony. “One of the first letters was angry,” he began, a wry, self-deprecating chuckle trembling at the edge of his words. “Not angry at you. Never at you. I was furious at the situation. I remember that first night in my bunk, where all I could think was how I’d have to let you down. I thought I should’ve fought harder, found a way to make it work. So I wrote it all down and thought that I would probably be out soon enough to give you them in person.”

His fingers tightened around the bundle, as if the letters themselves could anchor him to a past he both cherished and loathed. “I started writing about the small, absurd things—like how the coffee on base was godawful, the jibes from the guys when I apparently mumbled your name in my sleep—which I did not, to make things clear. I even wrote about an old couple I saw on television one day and how it reminded me of when you joked that we’d be arguing over directions even when we were eighty.” His tone faltered, growing quieter, more solemn. “And then there were the letters where I just… missed you. God, I missed you so much.”

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his grip on the letters slackened, as though holding them was too painful. “And it got harder. Days turned into months, and I convinced myself that you’d moved on—that I had no right to cling onto us. But even then, I never stopped wanting you.”

He turned his gaze to you then, the glow of unsent confessions and quiet grief shining in his eyes. “And it shouldn’t matter anymore because it’s over. Or at least, that’s what I should believe. But it does. It always has.”

The wind whispered softly around you, stirring the fragile pages in his hand and carrying away echoes of moments lost to time. Your heart clenched, caught between the relief of knowing and the heartbreak of what might have been.

In one sudden, desperate motion, he reached for you. His fingers brushed your jaw lightly at first, then cradled your face with a tenderness that belied the cool night air. His thumbs, warm and steady, traced gentle arcs over your cheekbones—anchoring you both to this moment, to the years lost and the yearning that had bridged every mile of distance between you.

His eyes, dark and unwavering, burned into yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. “Hear me out, please,” he murmured, his voice low and insistent, as though the very thought of you slipping away again was unbearable. “I was a coward. I should’ve done better than that but I let fear, and everything else, win. I told myself I was protecting you, that I was doing what was best. But all I did was make it worse. I made you think I didn’t care when the truth is... I never stopped.”

Your lips parted in a silent gasp, but Sam did not wait for you to speak. His grip on your face tightened, firm enough to keep you tethered to him without causing pain.

“I love you.”

The words fell between you like fragile glass shards, the shatter of the barriers of years resonating with their fall. “Yeah, fuck this corny shit. I have loved you every single damn day since the moment I let you go. I know it’s selfish to say it now, after everything, but I just need you to know that I love you. And I’m so goddamn sorry that I ever made you doubt that.”

A shudder ran through you, and your hands clutched his wrists as if they were the only lifeline in your storm of emotions. Every syllable struck like a slow-burning flame, peeling back layers of anger, heartbreak, and longing until all that remained was the undeniable truth—him, you, and a love that refused to fade.

“Sam—” you began, but your voice cracked, the word lost to the tumult of your feelings.

It didn’t matter anyway, because before you could speak another word, he kissed you with the same fervor from earlier, as if he were a man finally allowed to feast upon the love that had sustained him in torturous silence. His lips met yours with a desperate ardour that sent shivers racing down your spine, his hands roaming to trace the soft curve of your neck and leading you to melt into the perfect fit of his embrace.

The world around you—the creaking dock, the ghostly remnants of past regrets—faded into insignificance. All that remained was the kiss, deepening with every heartbeat, as if he were trying to reclaim every lost day, every stolen hour of absence. And you, with equal fervor and need, returned his kiss. Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, as if in that embrace you could mend the ruptures of time itself.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads pressed together in the cool night air. “Please, tell me that wasn’t a mistake.”

Your fingers trailed slowly down his chest, grasping the fabric as if to hold onto the fragile promise of the moment. “No,” you whispered back, your voice tender and resolute. “This time it wasn’t.”

A slow grin spread across Sam’s face, and relief flooded his features like the first rays of the morning sun after a long, storm-ridden night. He swept you into his arms, lifting you clear off the ground to bring you closer, almost sitting on his lap. The world tilted delightfully as a rich, unburdened laughter bubbled from his chest in a way you hadn’t heard in a while, full of joy and the promise of new beginnings.

“You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind,” he crooned against your hair in a husky blend of disbelief and something infinitely tender, a softness that belied the wildness of the moment.

A breathy laugh escaped you as your hands instinctively clinging to his broad shoulders as if anchoring you both to the present. “You’re acting like I just solved every world crisis,” you teased, even as your heart pounded in its rhythmic cadence.

“Nah,” he replied, his thumb traced reverently along your jaw, as though memorizing every curve and line of your face. “Just mine.” 

A quiet ache formed in your chest at the way he looked at you, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, as if he were etching every detail of you into memory in case the universe ever dared be cruel again.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and with a voice steadier than you felt, you whispered, “I love you too, Sam.”

For a heartbeat, his lips parted as if to utter more, but before the words could spill, a familiar voice shattered the reverie.

“Hey, lovebirds! Dinner’s ready!” Sarah called from the restaurant’s back porch, her tone playful as she leaned against the doorway with crossed arms and a knowing smirk that practically screamed, took you long enough.

Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Jesus, can I have one moment—just one?” he protested.

Laughing, you grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the warm glow of the restaurant. “Come on, loverboy, before she comes out here and drags us inside herself.”

The golden light of the restaurant melted away the coolness of the night, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. As you walked back to the shack, a spark of mischief danced at the edges of your lips. You shot Sam a sidelong glance, the playful glimmer in your eyes challenging him.

“Wait a second…” you drawled, narrowing your eyes and tilting your head. “Did you—did you quote The Notebook in your big, dramatic profession of love?”

For a moment, his grip on your hand tightened, and he faltered, pigment further coloring his cheeks. “What?” he managed, his tone caught between indignation and bashful amusement.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, pressing a hand to your mouth as barely contained laughter bubbled forth. “You did! That ‘it wasn’t over’ thing—straight out of The Notebook!”

His arm looped around your shoulders, drawing you closer with a quiet, playful threat. His large palm briefly covered the back of your head as he guided you forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Say one more word about that, and I swear I will stuff you so full of oysters you won’t be able to utter a single syllable for a week.”

You snorted. “Really? That’s your big intimidation tactic?”

“Ever tried eating twenty oysters in one sitting?” he shot back, arching a brow and letting his lips twitch in a smirk. “I don’t think so. Now, go sit down and eat before I make it happen.”

Grinning, you leaned into his side, feeling the easy warmth of his arm as it draped around you. After all the lost time and shattered dreams, everything felt achingly, irrevocably right. Perhaps the years apart had only deepened the truth: the time you thought was lost might, in fact, still be yours to reclaim, as you were fated to be stuck together no matter what.

⠀

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Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

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dividers ©️ @angelremnants + @cafekitsune .

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[drdawnbreaker]

𝐀 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝 𝐈𝐜𝐞 || 𝐁.𝐁

Pairing: Winter Soldier x HydraPrisoner!Reader

Summary: Soldat, and you have been through so much in such little time. And now, you have to navigate the looming storm of snow and rising tension. Can Soldat keep you from slipping over the edge or will you just end up falling together?

Word Count: 1.49k

Warnings: Blood. Canon level violence. Non-sexual nudity. Tension. This is basically just naked cuddles by an open fire. What can i say, I'm a romantic.

Notes: I didn't expect to write something so long, but here i am, ahah. This was heavily inspired by @winterarmyy fic with Bucky, hehe. Anyhoo enjoyy. Not beta read. Yolo. Also, this is my first full fic, i guess... ahhhh. So please go easy on mee argh xx

Masterlist | Nav

Imagine You and The Winter Soldier are fleeing, running for your lives in the wet and cold night. The gravelled roads covered in a blizzard of thick snow. Your body is soaked from rain, blood, dirt, and god knows what else.

Soldat never said a word as he tracked closely in front of you, creating a path with his long, thick legs, letting you walk without much effort, unlike him who is starting to feel the burn of his muscles and the sting in his lungs. But he would never tell you, he would rather break all his bones in his body than risk any discomfort to you. Not ever again.

Soldat pushed open the heavy door with his metal shoulder, the cracking sound of snapping wood echoed in the vast silence of the lonely woods that hid more than fifty-ish gaurds from the hydra base they had just broken out from. You stumbled in behind him, your breath creating little clouds as you sighed deeply as you almost tripped into Soladts' large back.

Your thin clothes that Hydra forced you to wear while you were stuck in your cell and soldats tactical gear was soaked, stained, clinging to his skin. It was like a reminder of the struggle he went through to get you out. He had taken the brunt of the most brutal confrontations, but the scars of your escape marked both of you—physically and mentally.

As the door slammed shut with a heavy thud, a cold shiver coursed through you, making you very aware of the biting chill that seeped into your bones, rattling your body with a familiar emotion... Fear. Soldat noticed your discomfort. His steel, almost grey eyes, were shadowed with concern. “There is no power. Too risky,” he muttered, his voice low and husky. “But we need to get warm.”

Without another word, grunt, or whimper, Soldat moved like lightning towards various cupboards, tossing through cobwebs, dust, and strange bugs before finally finding an old stack of firewood. Well, most like cheap chip wood, but it'll burn enough to get you warm.

You watched him as he arranged all the wood in the fireplace, not even seemingly taking a breath until it was complete. The flicker of warmth that the flame produced would simmer you down only momentarily before another shiver ran down your body as the wet melting snow pooled against your skin from the soaked fabric.

"Here,” he called, gesturing to try beside the fire, his voice steady despite the storm outside. Yet you somehow knew that he was panicked deep inside. Worried about yours and his safety. Morely yours, but you try not to think about that. “Get closer to the fire.”

You obliged without a word, positioning yourself on your knees before the flames, but quickly realized that the heat was barely wrapping around you. The cold still seeped into your chest, gnawing at your skin. Soldat threw more wood in, but time was not a luxury you had, it seemed. No, as your eyes grew heavy and your shallow breath slowed, Soldat needed to find a solution quick before you surely died from hypothermia. He grunted through his nose as he watched you for a moment more before speaking...

“Strip,” he said, gravelled and bluntly. It made you freeze, cheeks flushing as your slowed heart began to race.

What? Is he serious? You blinked at him in shock as uneasy laughter bubbled up, tinged with embarrassment. He can't actually be serious... Right?

“Soldat, I—” you started, but then he cut you off by speeding down the hall before you could process his request. You sat there stunned and trembling. Confusion warred with the urgency of your situation, the biting cold gripped you tighter, but now a heat pooled inside you, one you always managed to keep hidden until now.

With a deep, shaky breath, you hastily stripped off your damp clothes. The chill of the room made every inch of exposed skin tighten, and you quickly slipped into your underwear. Just as you pulled the last layer away, Soldat re-entered the room, his arms holding a bunch of blankets and pillows. He dropped them carelessly on the floor, but carefully not to get any in the fire or on the wet pile of clothes you created. He began to arrange them with determination, making a makeshift bed. Almost like a nest or cocoon.

"You have to get warm." He states, letting you see the determination in his wild eyes. You hugged your arms around yourself tightly, still feeling in the heat of embarrassment, being almost bare in front of the only person in your life who ever showed care for you.

“The underwear isn’t helping,” he stated flatly, as if the gravity of the situation was the only thing at play, almost completely ignoring the circular emotions churning in the space between you and him. The tension that has been brewing since the first day your cells were side by side. Since the first time you used your abilities to sneak into his cell and hold him, let him know he wasn't alone while using your powers to soothe his torturous mind.

Your heart raced as you met his gaze. “Can you... uh c-can you close your eyes, please?”

He chuckled softly, a lightness breaking through the tension. “Alright,” he said, feigning nonchalance as he covered his eyes with his metal hand, though a ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. Something was almost foreign about a smile on the Soldats, but he had grown to have one when only you were around.

With shaking fingers, you slipped your last barrier away, letting the wet bra and panties all alongside the other wet fabric before you dived for the blankets, mortified and relieved at once, your heart hammering wildly. “Okay...I’m done,” you called, hoping to mask your vulnerability and embarrassment with the soft cupboard smelling duvet

He opened his eyes, pulling his hand away. The warmth of the fire reflected off you, a hint of satisfaction finally grazed in his expression. You shifted slightly, the blankets cocooning you with newfound warmth, but the icy sensation still danced inside your chest. You shivered again

Soldat could hear the way your body was still craving heat and as he swore under his breath as the silence stretched thick with the unspoken tension. He knew he needed to do something. So he started to strip himself of his own wet clothes, revealing the chiselled muscles and scars that told stories of his torment...of battles fought and lost. He reached for his belt, and it made you suddenly speak up with an eep in your voice.

“W-what are you doing?” You blurted out, the absurdity of the situation slamming into you like a train as he slipped off his pants, boots, and underwear until he was completely bare in front of you. You didn't mean to cast your gazs lower, but before you could even get a good look at him, he was under the blankets beside you. Skin suddenly against skin.

“I need to keep you alive,” he replied with a gruffness that softened under the weight of his intentions. He pulled you close, lifting the blanket over both of you to create more warmth.

Your body instinctively moulded against his, seeking the refuge of his body heat even though your mind was racing at the idea of being this close to the soldie while completely naked.. As his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you inhaled his scent without thought—an intoxicating mix of woodsmoke and something uniquely him. It made your heart ache and twist with butterflies. And as the storm outside raged on, you felt a surreal sense of safety wrapped in his strong embrace.

You buried your cold nose into his chest, feeling the fear, the stress, all of it melt away with every passing second. “You’ll be okay,” he murmured, fingers gently brushing through your hair as if he was soothing both of you to rest.

In that moment, there was a clarity of peace that felt sacred. It was something neither of you had felt in years, decades... It was as if the world had fallen away, problems and fears non-existent by the closeness you shared with him. A refuge built on trust forged in darkness and chaos.

Even though none of you predicted this moment, the sleepiness began to claim you both, weight of conflict fading like melting snow.

Soldat's warmth surrounded you, lulling you into a quiet dreamland. And that night, amidst the storm, with the fire crackling softly, Soldat mended the fractures within both of you if only just for a moment. And that night was the first night Soldat slept without the fear of the demons to raid his mind. No, the only thought he could think of was that he had you safe and away from the sinister grasps of hyrda. You were both finally free.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Judex, Judicum, Infantem - Chapter 1

(Eventual) Reader x Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

next chapter | series masterlist | my masterlist

gif by me

summary: Two pink lines stared back at you and began to blur in your vision as tears welled in your eyes. Shit. You think back on one of the possible encounters with Frank that could have resulted in this.

warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio) AFAB Reader. No use of Y/N. Mention of pregnancy. Unprotected P in V, Oral mention, aftercare. Pet names. Angst.

wc: 2,144

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks!*

The tile of the bathroom floor was cool against the back of your thighs as you sat there waiting. A welcome relief to how intensely it felt like your body was producing nervous sweat.

17 more seconds.

You squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled deeply, trying to calm your nerves. Your leg bounced up and down as you waited, feeling like the seconds dragging on were taking an eternity.

It was only a few days late. Okay maybe like a week. Or two. You’d lost count. But it was so unlikely.

You were just stressed, that’s all. There had to be an explanation.

Your birth control was 99% effective according to the doctor. And you had absolutely taken it every day. Right? Right. Maybe.

There couldn’t be any way.

You jolted at the sound of the timer on your phone and scrambled to silence it while also lunging for the little plastic stick balancing on the corner of the sink.

You held it with both hands in front of you.

Two pink lines stared back at you and began to blur in your vision as tears welled in your eyes.

Shit.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A few weeks earlier

The moan started in the back of your throat and died just as it escaped your lips, muffled by the scratchy fabric beneath you where your cheek was pressed into. The flesh of your rear was hiked in the air and reverberated with a slapping sound each time Frank thrust into you harshly over and over. His grasp was firm, each hand anchored to where your waist met your hips. Mindlessly pulling you back into his body in a counter to his rhythmic movements.

“Just one more sweetheart” he cooed “Just need to feel one more from you.”

Your knees ached and your hip joints were starting to lock up, but you didn’t even dream of tapping out, too lost in the bliss of Frank pulling so many orgasms out of you tonight, you’d lost count. How long you’d thought of having him in a moment like this. Felt the tension between the two of you rise and rise until the coil finally snapped. Now the two of you were like animals, freshly freed from their cages and ready to pounce on each other until you collapsed in exhaustion under the dingy florescent lights of the small office in the abandoned warehouse where he was currently squatting.

His accommodations weren't particularly comfortable — the cinder block office of an abandoned electric company facility wasn't what one would call homey. Nor was the utilitarian and practical way he had it arranged, with floor to ceiling shelves of canned food and ammunition. You also wanted to make some snappy comment about the mattress on the floor with no bed frame, covered in worn bedding matching the singular lumpy pillow your face was now buried into as he fucked you mercilessly. Would this man ever allow himself a single damn comfort? A fuzzy blanket or even a throw pillow or a mug that didn’t look like it was dug up from a time capsule from 1982?

A firm slap on your ass had you whimpering as you clutched at the sheets beneath you.

“Quit bein’ difficult baby.” he commanded

Baby.

Fuck, you shuddered at the mere sound of that word in his raspy, fucked out voice. It seemed almost unbelievable to you that you’d ever hear him call you that in this manner.

You weren’t trying to be difficult. It was just that you knew as soon as this was over, as soon as the two of you would lay there together in the afterglow, that things would change between the two of you and a conversation would need to happen. One you so desperately didn’t want because you knew where it would lead. You knew Frank would never allow himself the warm and fuzzy hallmark ending. So you held off on your orgasms as long as possible. Which wasn't easy to manage considering how psychically he was reading every ministration of your body.

Adjusting his position, his large paw of a hand came to rest on the back of your neck. Not with the pressure of a full on choke, but enough firmness to steer you as he please like the rudder of a boat. You felt the thump on the mattress as his foot anchored beside your aching leg. His new stance placed him on one knee, increasing his leverage and depth. He fucked into you as if he wasn’t just chasing your pleasure; it was as if he was trying to expel the demons of how he felt about you. Seeking with each punch of his tip against your cervix to rid himself of the guilt of whatever spark he allowed between the two of you to grow and grow until it turned into this.

The hand on your neck pulled your head upward so his other hand could reach around to press two of his thick digits between your lips, along your tongue, and down your throat.

That did it.

You groaned on his fingers as your cunt clenched around his cock. His feral roar rumbled from behind you a moment later as he spilled himself inside your still trembling walls. Just as the last of your heat’s spasms died down, you felt the comfort of his fingers leave your mouth and a trail of drool dribbled down your chin. With feather light precision, he replaced his controlling grip on your neck with his chapped lips and the bristle of his 5 o’clock shadow. He continued kissing down your spine. You let his journey guide you, lowering your body vertebrae by vertebrae until you were flat on your stomach, finally letting your muscles relax with a groan.

“Atta girl, baby.” he whispered, followed by one final kiss to the base of your lumbar.

There was that damn word again. Baby. Almost as if he…

I love you

The words wisped through your train of thought like a siren’s distant call.

Shut up, brain.

A satisfied hum escaped him as he flopped on the bed beside you. Cocky grin growing on his face, he rolled on his side and traced soft circles into the heated and sticky flesh of your arm.

“You good?” he inquired

You replied with a content mumble, watching as his soft eyes drank you in beside him.

“So good, Frankie.”

“So fuckin’ beautiful” he murmured, almost as if he didn’t even realize he was verbalizing the thought out loud.

Your heart froze up at his words. He thought you were beautiful.

I love you.

The three words you so desperately wanted to say danced on the tip of your tongue in the spaces of silence between inhales and exhales, threatening to spill out of your lips and inevitably lead to what you dreaded.

The conversation.

Frank sensed the shift, clearing his throat as he rolled onto his back and all the way into a sitting position.

“Stay put. I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You tried not to let him hear the sigh that pushed from your lungs as you rolled onto your back, a physical release of the words you knew you felt but didn’t dare say.

He returned a moment later, clad in black sweat pants that hung low on his hips, and carried a damp grey washcloth.

“Ew, do I wanna know where that’s been?” you asked as he tapped at your knee, indicating for you to open your legs

“Can you not have a fuckin’ mouth on you for once? Tryin' to take care of you.”

You shrugged and parted your legs so he could clean you up.

“If you were a little less eager earlier, you could have known exactly what my fucking mouth is good for.”

“Christ.” he mumble with a sigh and a shake of his head, meeting your eyes with a smirk on his face

You couldn’t help but grin in return, noticing the flush rising in his neck and knowing it was you that got him all flustered. It was your favorite thing to do to Frank.

Well, after tonight, your second favorite thing.

You scrunched your nose with a giggle as he ducked back down, ever the focused Marine on the mission before him.

The washcloth hit the concrete floor with a splat as he finished and tossed it aside.

No sooner had you relaxed into the comfort of the bedding beneath you, still hazy and coming down from your bliss, a soft fabric something landed on your face. The projectile carefully aimed in playful retaliation for your previous comment. You swiped it away and sat as he climbed back onto the mattress beside you.

The faded olive sweatshirt he tossed at you was clearly old; the worn Marine’s emblem on the left breast and the holes along the sleeve banding indicative of it’s history of threadbareness. Still, it smelled like Frank, all comfortable and warm and familiar. As you slipped it over your head, you realized it felt like him too.

Just as you’d gotten the garment situated just right on your body, you felt the gentle pull of his arm around you. Drawing you against his chest, he pressed a kiss into your hair. His embrace, much like his sweatshirt, was warm and comfortable.

It was still. Silent and content in the air surrounding the two of you and what had just transpired. Maybe you could be at peace with how things had just changed between the two of you.

And then at your eye level came his hand, fiddling with the gold ring he wore on a chain around his neck.

A reminder of why you couldn’t bring yourself to say the three words that had been echoing in your conscience all evening. Why if you dared speak them, you’d never hear him say them back. Even if it was what he truly felt. It would only break your heart more than he was about to.

The calmness you’d just been feeling whooshed out of you like a hot air balloon popping and deflating.

Neither of you spoke yet, but the clicking of his tongue let you know he was trying to find his words.

“Sweetheart… I…” he stumbled

“I know. I shouldn’t have…” you trailed off

“No, hey. It’s just—”

You cut him off.

“Your dead wife.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“It ain’t just that. Look,” he paused, still finding the line between expressing his feelings and not crushing you completely “the life I live, it ain’t... I mean I just can’t have someone waiting with the porch light on for me. You know?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Frank, when have you ever known me to be the type—”

“I know, I know. But, baby,”

Stop fucking calling me that.

“You’re just too damn good.”

“Oh don’t give me the ‘you’re too good for me’ spiel Frank. You’re better than that.”

“It ain’t a lie though.”

He sat upright, undoing the arm that was around you to fully face you.

The soft way he caressed your thigh and the earnest look in his eyes was almost enough to make you forgive him for whatever he was about to say.

“I had my shot you know? Had it all and I blew it. Can’t tell you how many times she begged me not to go back, but I thought I had time. Thought they’d always be there. I had to keep goin' back and back and then they got taken. Finally decided I wasn’t goin’ back and didn’t even get a day with them then they were just gone.”

You had to look away from his piercing brown eyes, or the tears would start flowing and you just couldn’t bare to let him see you cry. Not now. You’d never heard Frank speak so candidly about what happened to his family, always skirting around the topic as if he was trying not to fall into the mouth of a volcano.

“And now,” he continued “I’m just this now. I don’t know if I can go back to bein’…”

Normal. Happy. In love with someone who isn't her.

He licked at his lips as his words began to falter again, thoughts coming out choppy and all over the place.

“… and you deserve, you deserve someone who can give you that, you know?”

“I don’t want that.” you replied, finally finding some courage to meet his gaze again

“Bullshit.”

“You don’t get to decide for me what you think I should or shouldn’t want, Frank! God, you always think you’re right and it pisses me off.”

“Hey. Shhh.” he cooed, trying to pull you back into his arms again

But, you resisted.

“I should go.”

“No, no. Hey.”

His firm hand reached up, cradling your chin and turning your face to his.

“Stay? Just for tonight?”

Those goddamn brown eyes.

“Okay.” you contested

Maybe you could keep pretending this was real until the morning.

next chapter

TAG LIST: @xxdrixx @a-leg-without-fear @echo-ethe @capswife @xoxabs88xox @allmyn1ghts @laaadygisbooornex3 @ninacotte @uncertified-doc @moth-murdock @danzer8705 @endofthelinegang @buckyssugarchick @hellskitchenswhore

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, ghosts,

A/N: hai. we're into the double digits. thanks for sticking around this long!! jsyk there are like 17 parts planned to this series so

Previous part || Series masterlist

This is a dream scenario.

It’s the weekend, which means he should be out somewhere fighting off bats in a haunted cave or sitting in a dark room muttering Bloody Mary’s name fifteen times like a broken tape recorder because you insisted the first three didn’t work.

Instead, by 5 p.m., he’s in bed. With a book. There’s even a cup of coffee sitting beside him, growing cold. 

Really, he should be enjoying this. It’s rarely this quiet, and especially as the sun went down, the absence of your shenanigans, the lack of you dragging him into another bullshit horror hunt should be greatly freeing. 

But something feels wrong.

Because something went wrong in his childhood, and then something very definitely went wrong in his adulthood, Bucky feels uneasy with the peace.

He turns a page. At least, he thinks he does. He’s not sure he’s actually read a single word. Gun to his head, he would not be able to tell you the plot.

By 6 p.m., his eyes have zeroed in more on the door than the actual book in his hands.

His phone is on full volume, waiting for a notification. He made sure his floor access was open. His windows are not blacked out. He has even left his door cracked open slightly, which feels wrong to the fundamental fibres of his being. 

Nothing.

By 6:30 p.m., his coffee is still half full and lukewarm. God, he did not like that drink. The only thing he's done is flipped through pages for the sake of feeling like he’s accomplished something.

By 6:37 p.m., he’s out the door.

His grumbling is only half-hearted, which he hates. There is something much heavier that sits in his chest. Anticipation. Worry. Fucking blergh. 

He’s never been on your floor before. He knows you share it with Nat, the way he does with Steve, but he's never actually visited it. Sure he regularly makes sure you're dropped off to your floor now , but he hasn't actually stepped foot there, no matter how much you invite him in to your bedroom.

He assumes it’s similar, just with fewer World War II relics and less The Price Is Right. 

By 6:45 p.m., he’s knocking loudly on your door.

There’s no answer.

His jaw tightens.  

He wouldn’t blame you if you had just upped and left. He just thought Maya would beat you to it, because the second the article dropped, it was like the Avengers personally made it their mission to have the next week become a shitstorm of them making headlines for the most insane things. He thinks she's on sick leave. Or she should be, at least.

Clint posted a picture from inside a JP Morgan bank vault. Nat walked straight into a national live broadcast and joined in on a debate she had no context to. 

Sam did something. Bucky wasn't sure, but he saw Maya rubbing her temples and assumed it was bad.

Then, after Steve gets in an argument online and matches donations to Planned Parenthood and ends up donating nearly 100K, Maya declared a state of emergency. 

Every single one of them was put on lockdown, all social media passwords were changed, and every future press interview was canceled.

Bucky never even got the chance to plan what his disaster would be.

But even after all that, he had heard from you. Big, congratulatory messages flooding the group chat. Dumb memes. Responses to inside jokes no one else understood.

So where the hell were you now?

He bangs his fist against the door again.

Nothing.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. He raises his metal hand, just one second away from really turning the door into a pile of splinters-

It swings open before he gets the chance.

And there you are, staring at him like he’s the crazy one. The audacity. 

“Wha– oh.” You blink at him. “Why are you trying to break into my room?”

For a moment, it is just two idiots staring at each other.

Finally, he lets out a low, “What’s wrong with you?”

You raise a brow. “Could you be more specific?”

Only then does he really look at you.

The skin under your eyes is darker than usual, your arms crossed tightly over your oversized sweatshirt. Official Avengers merch, two sizes too big and the same colour you got him because you insisted you had to have matching fits. There’s a slump in your shoulders that wasn't there before.

“No video today?” he asks gruffly.

“Nah,” you sigh. “You’re free to do whatever.”

He stares.

You stare back.

“What?” you demand.

“Is this because of the news?” he asks slowly.

“I’m just tired, Buck.” You rub at your temple, like you're already exhausted with the conversation. “Haven’t I annoyed you enough this week?”

Logically, he should be happy about this. You did annoy him. Constantly. Every day. Even off the clock.

So why the hell is he still standing outside your door?

“Don’t you have something better to do?” you ask, leaning against the doorway. “I thought you were watching True Detective with Steve.”

“Dunno where he is,” Bucky mumbles. Which is a lie, because Steve was very much in his room, waiting for him but Bucky had ghosted him to instead come be a clown outside your door. 

You squint at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shifts his weight. “Thought you were dead.”

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. “Why? ‘Cause I didn’t come knocking today?”

He doesn’t respond.

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wait. You came looking for me because you missed me?”

“I didn’t–” he starts, then immediately gives up halfway through the sentence because he already knows he’s lost.

Your grin is too smug. “You came all this way because you missed me.”

His entire body tenses. “I just came to check.”

You press your lips into a thin line, fighting back laughter. “That is so cute. Just say you’re in love with me. I’ll even kiss ya if you ask nicely.”

Bucky turns immediately on his heel. “Goodbye. You can die now.”

You laugh outright at that, and he shakes his head as he stalks back down the hall. Which is good. Which means things are back to normal. He can go find Steve and get done with the stupid fucking vampire show or whatever--

“Actually--” your voice calls out behind him. “D’you wanna come in?”

His body actually stops.  Turns back slightly, warily asking over his shoulder, “…Why?”

You shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “No pressure. I was just gonna watch old conspiracy theories and figure out whether they’re legit or just old Avengers missions. You can sit in the corner and brood or whatever it is you do.”

“I do not brood,” Bucky says, brooding. 

“Sure, buttercup.” You wave dismissively. “See you next week, then.”

Bucky stares for a second longer, then pivots.

Then pivots again.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he walks back toward your door.

Bucky doesn’t expect your room to look like his room. His room, by standards, was the second worst room in the Tower, only second to Clint’s fucking swamp dungeon. 

But he also doesn’t expect it to look like this.

It’s too empty.

A bed, a desk, a laptop. A single, half-empty mug on the nightstand.

The only thing that makes it yours is the box shoved in the corner overflowing with fan mail, little gifts, and trinkets from people. Stickers, keychains, neatly folded letters– even a framed cross-stitch that says "if we die, we die together."

Which he doesn’t remember you saying, but sounds exactly like something you would. The thought makes his chest feel weird. 

But beyond that, it looks like a room doesn’t require much time to be packed up.

Something about that sits wrong with him.

“You’ve done a lot with the place.”

“Finally get you into my bedroom, and the first thing you do is insult my interior design,” you say. You gesture at the lamp on your desk. “Look at that lamp. I got it from the same trashcan I found Alpine in. It’s got character.”

Bucky squints at the lamp. Now that you mention it, the shade is bent at a weird angle and the base is slightly burnt.

“Really livens up the space,” he tells you.

“Thanks, I try.”

You flop onto the bed, stretching your arms overhead with a sigh. 

He hesitates for a beat before finally settling onto the floor, knees pulled to his chest.

You blink. “Why the hell are you sitting on my floor?”

“I’m comfortable,” he grumbles.

“You– I have chairs.” You gesture to them. “They’re free, I swear. You do not have to do this.”

“I’m good.”

You narrow your eyes, but let it go, shifting to sit near the edge of the bed. Your knee almost bumps his shoulder.

For a moment, there’s just the hum of your laptop, the faint flicker of the TV waiting on a selection screen.

“How are ya?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

“Mighty fine. You?”

He gives you a look.

You blow out a breath, arms crossing loosely over your stomach. “I’m fine.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Your lips curve up in the corners. “We can change that. Wanna sleep with me now?”

Bucky doesn’t react. At all.

Which is worse. Because he should roll his eyes. Should scoff. Should grumble some insult under his breath.

But he doesn’t. Your smirk falters slightly.

You clear your throat. “God, you’re no fun.”

“Why’d you call off the video shoot?”

“Why must I work all the time? Why can’t I take a simple break without being interrogated?”

He just keeps looking at you. It’s that new kind you’ve noticed him doing now. The kind that lingers half a second too long, that feels heavier than it should.

You shift. Rub at the edge of your sleeve.

“It’s…” You hesitate. “Not been the best week.”

Bucky adjusts how he sits. He doesn’t doesn’t dig, only keeps his eyes trained on you. 

You take a deep breath, then force a grin. “Been watching Glee compilations till, like, 1 a.m. Pretty sure that’s the real issue.” 

Bucky makes a low, unimpressed noise. Still, he lets it go—for now.

Instead, he asks, “So what’s your plan?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“For making yourself feel better.”

That makes you pause. What’s the plan? Like he’s already factored himself in, as if whatever comes next includes him.

You open your mouth, then shut it.

“Paranormal shit.”

You weren’t even thinking about it. It just… happened, probably because he’s here and it’s the subconscious working in mysterious ways. 

But Bucky’s reaction is not what you expect.

He does not shut it down instantly. Call it nonsense. Leave the room. All of which he has done before, to varying degrees.

Instead now he looks at you like he’s used to it. Like he’s thinking about it.

Something in your stomach tightens. You beat it down with a stick. 

You grin. “Oh, you want to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “What paranormal shit?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to agree.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“You told me so with your eyes. You gave me signals.”

“You’re insane,” he mutters. "I did not give you signals."

But you suddenly perk up like it’s given you an idea. 

“What?” he demands.  

“You ever talked to ghosts?”

Kinda.

“No.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing today.”

“What?”

“Ouija time, baby,” you say, already moving towards the box in the corner. “Now I don’t have a board but fear not. I shall make one. Custom-built. And then we will auction it off for a lot of money when you fake your death.”

“Why do you already sound like you’re prepared for that?”

“Because I am.” You rummage through the box. “Let’s see. We’ll need a marker, some cardboard–”

“You got a ring we can use?” he asks with a sigh.

“No, ‘cause you haven’t put one on me yet.” 

Bucky shuts up after that. 

You grin, pulling out a shot glass and wiggling it between your fingers. “Classy, right?”

Bucky stares at it. “Has that been used before?”

“Any remnants are just a little treat for the ghosties” you reply, flopping onto the floor and immediately getting to work, drawing out letters in marker.

Bucky watches you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

This is so fucking stupid.

Still, all he does is shifts to sit properly, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you finish drawing out the board with little squiggles decorating the corner and everything. 

He doesn’t even realize how close he’s leaning until you glance at him, something teasing and careful in your gaze.

And for a second– just a second- maybe he forgets how to breathe.

Then you smirk, knocking him right out of it. 

“Alright, soldier,” you say, grinning. “You ready?”

Bucky gives you a flat look.

The room is quiet, except for the hum of the TV and the scritch-scratch as you add in finishing touches. 

You hold up the board.

It’s terrible.

The letters are uneven and the numbers are already smudged from where you’ve dragged your sleeve over them.

You sit back, admiring your work, before grabbing the shot glass and plopping it in the center.

You nod solemnly. “It’s ready. Now put your hands on the planchette.”

Bucky sighs deeply, metal fingertips touching the top of the glass.  

You clear your throat dramatically. “Spirits, if you are here, make yourselves known.”

Silence.

Bucky nods. “Guess that’s our answer–”

The shot glass suddenly shoots out.

His muscles tighten immediately. His fingers twitch like he’s ready to grab a knife out of thin fucking air.

You, however, fail miserably in hiding a grin.

Bucky’s eyes narrow immediately. “You’re pushing it.”

“I am not,” you lie.

He stares.  

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I am wasting my night on this.”

“You’re just mad that the ghosts like me more.”

Bucky does not dignify that with a response.

“Put your hands back there, boy.”

So he reluctantly places his fingers back on the shot glass.

You clear your throat again.

“Oh great and powerful spirits, what secrets do you have for us?”

Silence.

Bucky watches unamused, watching as the letters spell out in lightning fast speed:

Y - O - U - R - 

A pause.

M - O -M.

Bucky lifts his hands and leans back.

“That’s the ghosts talking, not me.”

Bucky just sits there, silent.

You wiggle your fingers dramatically over the board. “Maybe you’re the problem. Maybe the ghosts just don’t like you.”

Bucky snorts, “Right. I’m the problem here, not the fool who used a shot glass to talk to them.”

“The shot glass is genius, alcohol is an ice breaker in most social situation."

"What about this is a social situation?"

"Well it's you, me, and a couple of babes from the underworld. By definition it's a social situation, and a cool one at that."

“Why aren’t your ghosts talkng to us then?”

“Maybe they’re ageist.”

Bucky glares at you.

“You’re practically ancient. Maybe they just hate old people.”

“Maybe if I was a centuries-old spirit and the first thing I heard from the afterlife was your voice, I’d go straight back to hell.”

Your mouth falls open, before you let out an outraged scoff.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from–”

You stop mid-sentence when Bucky shifts, leaning back slightly, arms stretched behind him, his body loose and relaxed. 

There’s a stupid smile ghosting at his mouth. 

“Oh my God.” You latch onto it instantly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up just enough to expose the solid cut of his forearms, the angle of his jaw sharp against the dim glow of your terrible table lamp. 

His expression is too neutral, too blank. Like he’s waiting for you to react.

Something about it catches you off guard. It’s not intentional. It’s not even anything. But your stomach tightens anyway.

And suddenly, you’re aware of how close you’re sitting, how he feels bigger in the small space, how there’s this awful, annoying sense of recognition curling at the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

Bucky notices the way your expression shifts even if it was just for a second, his eyebrows knitting together. 

You clear your throat immediately. “Anyway. Let’s ask them something real.”

“Oh, now we’re asking real questions?”

“Spirits!” You slap your hands onto the board. “What is Bucky’s deepest, darkest secret?”

He rolls his eyes.

The shot glass has not moved in half an hour.

It’s honestly humiliating at this point.

You refuse to acknowledge this.

Bucky, however, has fully accepted it.

“So what now?” he asks, leaning back against your bed, fingers drumming idly against his knee.

You stare at the board. “Maybe it’s a slow connection.”

Bucky blinks. “Slow how?”

“Like two bars, not four?”

“You think ghosts have bad WiFi?”

“I don’t know, Bucky, I’ve never died before.”

“I have. WiFi’s not the issue.”

You shove his shoulder. 

Bucky’s stupid smirk does not fade. 

 “Can we pack this up, or are you going to keep going until your humiliation kink ends?"

"I see you've been thinking about me and kinks in--."

"Stop talking."

You narrow your eyes at him, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fascist’, but place your fingers on the shot glass.

Bucky does the same.

You inhale deeply. “Spirits, is there anything you would like to say to us?”

Silence.

“Maybe they don’t know English.”

“Sure.”

“Should we try Morse code?”

“No.”

You hum, ignoring him. “What about—”

“Hey spirits. What’s the real reason why this one’s hiding from everyone?” Bucky cuts in smoothly.

It just slips out.

He looks as surprised as you do, but he recovers way quicker. 

He keeps his eyes on the board, like maybe if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, it won’t become a big deal.

The shot glass doesn’t move. Of course. 

But you pull your hands away first.

Bucky watches, quietly, as you sit back, pressing your palms against your thighs.

“That’s a dumb question,” you mutter.

Bucky hums. “Yeah?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

A beat.

You force a grin and shove the Ouija board aside.

“Well,” you announce. “That was disappointing.”

He stretches his arms over his head, not looking at you as he says, “You’re avoiding.”

You pause mid-movement. “Avoiding what?”

“You know.”

You freeze for just half a second, then shake your head, laughing awkwardly. “I haven’t–”

“You have,” he says simply.

It’s the certainty in his voice. Like he already knows the answer, and he’s just waiting for you to say it out loud.

You sigh. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky shrugs, looking back at the board. “Not what I asked.”

A moment passes.

“It’s the name thing,” you say finally, voice flat.

“The name thing?”

“Maya’s trying to relaunch me. Or, like, reintroduce me. Whatever.” You wave a hand. “She’s planning this whole… thing. New identity, new codename, new brand. Something public-friendly.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“She’s just doing her job,” you say quickly, like you’re cutting him off before he can say anything reasonable. “I get it. I do. But it pisses me off.”

Bucky hums. “Why?”

“It’s dumb,” you mutter, kicking at a loose thread in the carpet. “I shouldn’t care this much. But now, instead of just letting me deal with it, I have to make it a thing. I have to let everyone see me deal with it. They want me to launch like I’m some new product. Like they get to decide what version of me gets to exist.”

Bucky is silent for a long second.

Not because he doesn’t get it, but because he does.

Finally, after a while, he leans back slightly, “So what do you wanna do?”

You blink. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Or you just don’t like your options?”

Your mouth presses into a thin line.

Because hes right-- it’s not that you don’t know what to do. Stay silent? People fill in the gaps themselves. Let Maya spin it? You become someone else’s project. Reject it outright? You’re the problem.

It’s not even a big deal. It’s just a name. A stupid PR campaign. But every option feels like losing. Like a trap.

You exhale. “I just don’t wanna think about it right now.”

Bucky nods. Like that answer’s good enough.

And for some reason, that makes your shoulders loosen a little.

For the first time all week, it feels like someone actually heard you.

You shift, stretching your arms dramatically. “Anyway. That’s my tragic backstory.”

Bucky exhales sharply. “More tragic things have happened to you.”

“Yeah, like some blue-eyed Avenger-boy not asking me out.”

“No.”

“Let me have my moment.”

A silence rests lightly. 

“Alright,” he mutters. “What dumb shit are we doing next?”

“I don’t know. You want pizza?”

“I meant about your situation.”

You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Nothing. It’s fine. It’s not like I have a choice, anyway.”

Well that’s not entirely true. 

It’s an idea that creeps up a little too fast. It makes him worry about how much influence you’ve actually had on him. 

Bucky hums. “You’ve got one more option.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He tilts his head, casual, almost lazy. “Yeah.”

When he finally tells you, your entire expression changes.

Slowly, deliberately, a grin spreads across your face.

“Oh,” you say, “you are evil.”

Bucky just leans back on his hands, completely at ease. “I had nothing to do with this.”

Twenty minutes later, the board is still on the floor. 

The shot glass is still doing absolutely nothing.

You and Bucky are back to arguing over whether or not ghosts have good taste in movies when your phone explodes with a call.

You barely have time to read the caller ID before--

“You released a fucking internet poll?!” Maya’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud and borderline hysterical– but not in a bad way.

Bucky immediately presses his lips together, suppressing a smirk.

You, however, grin like a criminal.

“Define released,” you say, like this is the most casual thing in the world.

“Oh, you know exactly what you did.”

“I do,” you agree easily. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Maya groans. “You put your entire name change up for a public vote.”

Bucky coughs into his hand.

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And?!” Maya lets out a breath, “They're all chaotic fucking names and the poll already has two hundred thousand votes.”

Bucky immediately stares at you.

You blink, turning to look at him dramatically. 

“Two hundred thousand?” you repeat, voice too calm.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

You grin.

“Oh, I’m so famous.”

Bucky groans, while Maya is losing her mind on the other end.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “Why are you like this.”

You shrug, flipping onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I would say I was born this way but I was created. In a test tube and everything.”

Maya scoffs.

And Bucky, for some reason, has a look on this face, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

Then, after a second, he mouths, “Have an actual conversation.”

You roll your eyes but tilt your head back toward the phone.

“Alright, fine,” you sigh. “Lemme step out. Yell at me in private.”

Maya exhales. “It’s not yelling.”

“It’s a little yelling.”

You roll onto your feet, shuffling toward the door

“Back in a sec,” you tell him.

Bucky just nods, watching as you disappear into the hallway.

And just like that he’s alone. Sitting on the floor. Next to a completely useless Ouija board.

And he doesn’t know why, but his fingers twitch.

Not because he believes in it. Not because he thinks it’ll work. 

But… just because. 

Instead, he just shakes his head, rolling his shoulders back. 

“You’re losing it, Barnes,” he mutters under his breath.

But then, without warning-

The shot glass moves.

Bucky immediately stiffens, staring at the door but you’re still having an animated conversation with Maya, fingers pressed into your forehead. 

Bucky’s gaze drags back to the board. 

He doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just watches as the glass drags itself across the board, slow and deliberate.

One letter.

Then another.

J.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

A.

His stomach twists.

Then–

M.

And the shot glass tips over. 

His heart stops.

And suddenly, he’s not in your room anymore.

He’s eight years old, sitting on the floor of a Brooklyn apartment, scribbling nonsense into a notebook while Rebecca Barnes, all of six years old, with messy braids and jelly-covered fingers, sticks a homemade label on his lunchbox.

“Becca.”

“What?”

“That’s not how you spell James.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

Bucky presses a hand against his face. “Mom—”

 He blinks.

The board is in front of him again.

The shot glass is still. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at it.

His head feels weirdly light. His chest feels too tight.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Bucky keeps still, in a way that says nothing happened.

Because if he doesn’t deal with it now, then it isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, then he doesn’t have to think about it.

You flop onto the bed, letting out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Well,” you exhale, dragging the word out. “That was a wild experience.”

Bucky registers the words, but not the meaning.

It’s like he hears you, but the sound is coming through the wrong frequency.

“Yeah?” he mutters, barely processing it.

The sound of your voice fills the space, but it doesn’t quite pull him in.

“Oh, yeah.” You roll onto your stomach, kicking your feet behind you. “First, she yelled at me. Then she was impressed, which honestly I think pissed her off more.”

Bucky nods. Because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

You’re still talking. That should ground him.

And yet his mind is somewhere else entirely.

The air feels off. Like the word JAM is still written in front of him.

“--already drafting apology emails before I even hung up.”

Bucky blinks once, twice.

He knows he should be engaged, responding, moving.

But instead, he just mutters, “Yeah.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

Bucky blinks. Finally, he fully snaps back.

His eyes flick toward you, registering you properly for the first time.

The way you’re watching him now, eyebrows raised, like you’ve been waiting for him to catch up.

He searches for the last thing you said.

Finds nothing.

Shit.

You press a hand to your chest, looking deeply entertained. “Are you ignoring me?”

Bucky scoffs. “Not right now specifically.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

Bucky opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

“Wow. Incredible.” You clap your hands together once. “I’m heartbroken. Betrayed. Ignored.”

Bucky shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah this must be what he felt like."

"Wow."

"No, no, it’s fine.” You wave a hand, mock casual. “I’ll just go die then.”

Bucky groans. “I’m back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you need to space out again, just know that I have an open window–”

Bucky balls-up the ouija board and tosses it at your head.

You shriek.

He’ll think about it later.

Whenever later is. 

The laptop screen flickers in the dim room, casting weird shadows against the wall.

You and Bucky are back on the floor, legs stretched out, backs leaning against the bed, watching one of the most ridiculous conspiracy theory videos you’ve ever seen.

The narrator speaks with the conviction of a man who has nothing to lose.

“--and that’s why I’m telling you, there’s no way the Pentagon incident was just a gas leak. Witnesses reported a mysterious figure in black who allegedly disappeared into the shadows–”

“That was Nat.”

You pause the video. “What.”

Bucky doesn’t even look away from the screen.

He gestures lazily toward the blurry figure circled in red.

“That’s her. Right before she cut the power and knocked out two guards. The whole thing took, like, a minute.”

You stare at him.

Then at the screen.

Then at him again.

“I fucking knew it.” You gesture vaguely at the screen. “I called this years ago. Everyone told me I was an idiot. ‘Oh, the footage is too blurry, you can’t even tell if it’s a person.’ Amateurs.”

“Feel validated?”

“Oh, hugely.”

He shakes his head, amused.

You squint at the screen. “What else? What’s real, what’s bullshit?”

Bucky thinks for a second.

He points to another clip.

“Alright, see this?”

A new segment starts playing, showing grainy footage of someone scaling the side of a high-security building.

The narrator’s voice kicks in again. “--but the real question is, who was this shadowy figure? And how did they evade detection when–”

“That’s me.”

You blink.

Bucky nods. “Stockholm. 2012. Whole mission went sideways, had to improvise.”

You exhale, pressing a hand over your face.

“Oh, my God.”

Bucky smirks. “Something wrong?”

“You’re telling me that a significant percentage of government cover-ups are just you and Nat running errands?”

Bucky shrugs. “I wouldn’t call them errands.”

“What would you call them, then?”

He thinks about it for a second.  

“Side quests.”

You nod slowly.

“Right,” you say. “Of course. Are the lizard people real?”

Bucky huffs a short laugh. “I’m not answering that.”

“Wow. Interesting.” You stroke your chin. “You didn’t say no.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. You grin.

The videos keep playing, but neither of you are really watching anymore.

The narrator is still droning on, something about classified operations and shadow governments, but the energy has shifted.

Your eyes feel a little heavier now.

Bucky can tell.

You’ve stopped fidgeting, stopped making comments, stopped cracking jokes at his expense.

You’re just there, leaning into his side, slowly sinking deeper into the moment.

He exhales, tilting his head back against the bed, letting himself relax, too.

The silence between you is comfortable. Easy.

And before he fully registers it, your head is in his lap.

Bucky freezes.

It happens so smoothly that for a second, he wonders if you even realize what you did.

You don’t say anything.

Just curl up slightly, tucking your arms under your head, pressing your cheek against his thigh like it’s nothing.

Like this is normal.

Bucky forces himself to breathe.

To not react too much.

To not make it something. Because it’s not.

Right.

The glow from the laptop screen flickers, illuminating the soft edges of your face.

Something in Bucky’s chest tugs.

You sigh, voice quiet, almost lazy.

“Thanks for hanging out with me,” you murmur. “I needed that.”

Bucky swallows.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles.

And then before he can think too hard about it, his fingers brush lightly over your scalp.

A small, absentminded gesture.

Barely there.

But you don’t move.

Just breathe slower. Sink deeper.

Bucky knows he’s going to regret this later. His back is already complaining, his brain is already filing this away for future analysis.

But you look too at ease to move.

So he stays right there.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to those who comment and tell me what u think-- i love u. ur the sole reason i haven't abandoned this lil fic. thank u for everything mwah <333333

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[cosmicwavelengths]

slip 'n slide

minors, DNI! - 18+ only pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: one day, you admitted to bucky that no one had ever made you squirt like that... and naturally, he took this as a challenge.

a/n: happy saturday! i was hoping to write something like this at some point. it's a bit of a quick one, but i hope you enjoy!

cw: smut (just... ridiculously smutty), bucky forces reader to squirt, pet names, pwp/pnp :3, love bites/hickeys, explicit language

wc: 1.4k | masterlist | ao3 ────୨ৎ────

“Are you serious?”

You groan out with embarrassment hiding your face in the sheets. “Don’t make me say it again…”

Bucky chuckles lightly, before reaching over and stroking your hair with his flesh hand. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.”

You shoot up dramatically, turning over to look at him. “Well, it’s not entirely their fault. I figured that I was maybe… faulty? I dunno, it’s just never happened before…” you trail off shyly, flush creeping up your neck. “It’s a ‘me problem.’”

Bucky smiles lazily at you, blue eyes displaying a hint of mischief. He brings his metal hand up, and you shudder lightly when you feel the tips of his fingers begin to trace the outside of your thigh. “Would you let me try?”

You nod at him, eyes blown and lips parted. It took you an embarrassingly short time to get worked up, feeling the fabric of your panties stain with your wetness. You rub your thighs together in an effort to stave off your arousal. “Please?”

It wasn’t long before he had you on your back mewling for him. You writhe under him, desperately trying to angle yourself up to his mouth. “Bucky… please don’t tease me,” you pout. “Your pussy is so perfect, what did I ever do to deserve you, angel?” He murmurs to himself, dragging his thumb through your folds. You keen loudly at this, hardly being able to contain yourself. “Bucky!” 

At that, he begins sucking on your clit. You moan out, your hands scrambling to tug his long locks. “Oh God, yes, Bucky!” He groans at how eager you sound, causing vibrations to travel up your core. “Please don’t stop, please!” He kisses your clit gently, before returning to eating you out like a starving man. He fucks you with his tongue, eager to taste your arousal before it comes out. He traces the tender flesh of your clit with his teeth, sending shivers up your spine. You grind uncontrollably against his tongue as it flicks up and down your slit. You couldn’t help but yank his hair roughly so hard that Bucky himself felt lightheaded. Your body shakes, back arching as you moan Bucky’s name out.

Lapping at your folds, he slides his longest fingers in. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperately chasing your release. “Fuck,” you moan out. “Please make me cum, Bucky! Can I cum, please?” He grunts out a response, still busy tracing swirls into your clit. He reaches up with his metal hand, gathering your wrists in his grip and pinning you down. His fingers hit a sensitive part of your walls, which spells your end. You can only cry his name out before you’re clamping down on him again, pleasure washing over you.

He pulls his fingers out, whistling as he watches his fingers shine with your arousal. “My, won’t you look at that. Shit, you’re so wet for me. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he sighs. “Careful not to have a heart attack, old man,” You giggle. You yelp when he swats the inside of your thigh. “Don’t brat me,” he warns, eyes flashing at you dangerously.

He rises, coming over you to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. He trails his kisses down your neck, lingering in a few spots to leave behind dark red bruises. Groaning, you grind yourself softly into his clothed crotch, his erection causing it to tent harshly. “Bucky, fuck me, please, I need it. I need you.” He moans at your wantonness. “Sure thing, don’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

He leans up, unzipping his pants and pulling out his hardened cock. He strokes himself a few times before lining up with your folds. “Ready for me, angel?” he asks, gazing into your eyes. “Yes,” you whisper into the air. “Please, Bucky, I need you inside.”

He grins, stroking your cheek softly. “You’re such a good girl.”

He presses your knees into the mattress as he works open your pussy with the head of his cock. You sucked in a harsh breath, trying to adjust to his size. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, unable to resist how tight your pussy feels around his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful f’me,” he grunts out. You whine uncontrollably as he sets a rough, short pace. “Please ruin me, Bucky.” He starts to fuck you in earnest, trading out the short strokes for long, deep ones. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, unable to take the pressure. “Fuck,” he hisses, bitting harshly into the side of your shoulder. 

You wail out, squeezing him harshly. God, you squeeze him like he had never felt before. Your cunt flutters wildly around his cock, making his head spin. You’re almost there and he can feel it.

“C’mon, I feel it coming. Let me have it, doll,” he beckons you between thrusts. “Let. Me. Have. It.” Your eyes roll into your head again as you fill the room with loud, wet sounds of your arousal. He continues to pound deeply into you, causing the headboard to slam against the wall rhythmically.

“Look me in the eyes while I fuck you. You’re doing such a good job taking my cock. I need to feel you cum, darling.”

“No! Stop, Bucky, I can’t do it! I can’t!” You choke out a sob, squirting and soaking the bed below you and his thighs with your clear liquid. Your orgasm hits you harshly, sputtering as waves of pleasure course through you. You babble mindlessly as he puts all his strength into his final thrusts. Your cunt convulses around his cock, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. Your nails scratch down his back, shoving him  over the edge aggressively, filling up your overstimulated pussy with load after load of his cum. You pant together, trying to catch your breaths. 

You stay wrapped up for a moment, reveling in the moment. Bucky holds you as your body twitches. You can feel every part of him, how his skin feels sticky with sweat under your thighs. How the scent of his cologne sticks to your nose. You throw your head back, a small smile etched into your face. Brought about by a sudden tiredness, your eyelids grow heavy.

He rolls over next to you, propping himself up on his arm. “So?” he inquires, poking your cheek softly. “How did I do?” You continue to lie there nearly motionless, still in complete bliss. “I think the state of our sheets show how well you did,” you joke, rolling over to poke his cheek back. “I still can’t believe you made me do that.” He chuckles, smiling bashfully. “Anything for my girl.”

Bucky rolls closer to you, pressing kisses over your neck where he had previously left marks. You squirm, giggling as his teeth lightly tickle your neck. He puts his teeth harder into the flesh by your collarbone, sucking in another dark, needy mark. “Careful,” you warn. “Don’t want to start anything you can’t finish.”

He brings his fingers down to your cunt again, teasing. “Who said I won’t be finishing you? Be good for me.” He slowly slides in his middle finger. You sigh into his touch, heat pooling in your lower abdomen. “Bucky?” You caution, unsure of his next move. He circles his thumb lightly over your clit, trying to be gentle due to your overstimulation. “Please, Bucky, right there!” Humming deeply, he feels how he mixes around his cum with your arousal with his fingers.

The precise robotic movements of his fingers push you closer and closer to the edge. A guttural sound pours from his lips as he feels the familiar clench of your pussy around his fingers. You sob, losing yourself in the wonderful pleasure of his fingers. He presses continuously against that soft spot inside you, forcing you to arch into his touch.

“Bucky, Bucky, Oh my God, Bucky, Please?”

One roll of his fingers, a swipe of his thumb over your swollen clit, and you’re cumming on his fingers again, shuddering and shaking in his arms. Your whiny, pathetic moans echo in the room, only to be matched by the sound of your sopping wet cunt. He helps you through the aftershocks of your orgasm before sliding his fingers out again.

Staring into your eyes, he takes his arousal-soaked fingers and puts them in his mouth. “That’s my girl.”

[rootedinrevisions]

Like You Mean It

SUMMARY: Bucky struggles with the fear of hurting the reader due to his traumatic past, hesitating to take their growing relationship to the next level. Despite his hesitations, the reader fully trusts him, encouraging him to embrace their connection and take their relationship further. One evening, in a moment of vulnerability and passion, Bucky finally allows himself to cross the line he's been so afraid of, realizing he's more in control than he thought.

PROMPT: "Touch me like you mean it."

KINK: Choking

WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT.

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

The evening was quiet, the low hum of the city outside filling the room as you sat straddling Bucky’s lap. His arms were wrapped loosely around your waist, and for a moment, you were content just to be close to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. It had been months since you’d started dating, and while things were progressing, there was still an invisible line between you–a line he seemed too afraid to cross.

You knew why. He had explained it before, the hesitance in his eyes when you brought up moving your relationship to a more physical level. Bucky’s past haunted him, and even though you reassured him time and again that you trusted him, the fear of hurting you—of losing control—kept him at a distance. 

But tonight, something felt different. The air between you was heavier, charged with something more than the comfortable silence you’d grown used to.

You leaned forward, brushing your lips softly against his, testing the waters. Bucky’s hand moved up to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. 

It was slow at first, careful. But then you felt the shift, the way his grip tightened just slightly, the way his lips moved more hungrily against yours. Your heart raced, a mixture of anticipation and desire flooding your senses.

His left arm rested against your hip, the coolness of the vibranium contrasting with the warmth of his other hand, which slid gently down your side to rest on your thigh. His touch was feather-light, tentative as if he was still holding back.

"Bucky," you murmured against his lips, your voice barely a whisper. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands resting on his chest as you searched his face for any sign of doubt. "You don’t have to be so careful with me. I trust you."

His eyes flickered with uncertainty, his jaw clenching slightly as he struggled with his fears. 

"I don’t want to hurt you," he said, his voice low, almost pained. "You don’t understand what I’m capable of. What I’ve done."

"I do understand," you replied softly, cupping his face in your hands. "I know you. I trust you. You won’t hurt me."

For a moment, he was silent, his blue eyes searching yours as if looking for the reassurance he needed. 

Then, something shifted. His expression softened, and he exhaled slowly, nodding almost imperceptibly. He reached for you again, this time with a little more confidence, his hand slipping under your shirt as his lips found yours once more.

The kiss grew more intense, his touch more certain. His fingers brushed over your skin, sending shivers down your spine, and you responded by pressing yourself closer to him, urging him on. 

“Touch me,” you whispered, your breath catching as you kissed him again, your lips barely leaving his as you spoke. “Touch me like you mean it.”

Something in him snapped at your words. His grip tightened around your waist, and in one fluid motion, he lifted you effortlessly, rising to his feet as he carried you toward the bed. 

The world around you blurred as he moved, your hands clinging to his shoulders as he lowered you gently onto the mattress. His body hovered over yours for a moment, his gaze dark and intense as he watched you.

"Buck," you breathed, reaching up to pull him down to you. “Touch me.”

His hands slid up your sides, fingers tracing every curve as his lips moved from your mouth to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You arched beneath him, your body reacting instinctively to his touch, craving more. Every kiss, every caress sent a surge of heat through you, and you couldn’t get enough of him.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you closer, and you gasped as his lips traveled lower, trailing kisses down your collarbone. 

"Is this okay?" he asked between kisses, his voice low and rough, but there was a tenderness in his tone, a quiet need for reassurance.

"It’s more than okay," you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair as you pulled him back up for another kiss.

As Bucky hovered over you, his lips lingering against yours, you could feel a shift in his energy. The hesitation that had once held him back was melting away, replaced by a quiet confidence that sent a thrill through you. 

His hands, which had been tentative just a few minutes before, now moved with purpose as they slid beneath the fabric of your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, sending shivers up your spine.

You let out a soft gasp as his lips trailed from your mouth to your neck, pressing firm, heated kisses to the sensitive skin just below your jawline. You could feel his breath against your collarbone again as his hand continued to roam, slowly pushing your shirt up. 

There was a pause, and Bucky pulled back just slightly, his eyes locking with yours as if silently asking for permission. “C-can I-”

Without hesitation, you nodded, your heart racing as you whispered, "Take me. I want to be yours in every way."

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one smooth motion, he gently pulled your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the side before his hands returned to your body, exploring every inch with a newfound confidence. His vibranium arm, which he was usually so careful with around you, now moved with the same intensity as his flesh hand, gripping your waist as his lips followed the path of his fingers, trailing hot kisses down your chest.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the edge of your bra, and you arched your back slightly, your body responding to every touch, every kiss. He looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a hunger that matched your own. 

Slowly, almost teasingly, he reached behind you to unclasp your bra, his hands steady as he pulled the fabric away, exposing more of you to him.

Bucky let out a low groan as his gaze roamed over your body, his fingers tracing along your skin before he leaned down, his mouth replacing his hands as he kissed and caressed you, his lips igniting a fire deep within you. You could feel his confidence growing with each passing second; his touches were no longer careful but full of the passion you had been craving for so long.

Your hands found their way to his chest, tugging at the fabric of his shirt as you whispered breathlessly, "Take this off."

He didn’t hesitate. With a quick motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and the defined lines of his muscles. You couldn’t help but run your hands over his skin, marveling at the strength beneath your fingertips as he leaned back down, his lips finding yours in a heated, breathless kiss.

You could feel the tension building between you, the heat rising as his hands gripped your hips, tugging at the waistband of your pants. He paused for a moment, looking into your eyes, silently asking if you were ready to take things further. You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding in anticipation.

Slowly, he peeled your pants away, his touch sending sparks of electricity through your body as he removed the last barrier between you. You could feel his breath against your skin as he took in the sight of you, his hands sliding along your thighs, up to your waist, before pulling you closer to him.

Your body pressed against his as you kissed him again, more desperately this time, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. You had waited so long for this—for him—and now that the moment had finally arrived, it felt even more intense than you had imagined.

Bucky's hands moved over your body, his touch no longer tentative but filled with passion and need. As his lips left a trail of heated kisses down your neck, you could feel the tension between you both rising, the room charged with the electricity of the moment.

Your breath quickened as his hand rested on your hip, his grip firm but controlled. There was a hunger in the way he touched you, but you could still sense the care behind every movement. You wanted more—needed more—and you trusted him completely.

You reached up, gently guiding his hand away from your hip, your fingers wrapping around his wrist as you moved it toward your throat. 

Bucky froze for a moment, his breath catching as his hand hovered just over your skin. His eyes met yours, wide with a mixture of surprise and hesitation. He knew immediately what you were asking for.

A flicker of uncertainty passed through his gaze. "Are you sure?" His voice was low, rough with desire but tinged with the same worry that always lingered when things between you started to go deeper.

You nodded slowly, your eyes never leaving his. "I trust you," you whispered, your voice soft but filled with conviction. "I want this."

Bucky hesitated, his fingers hovering near your throat, his mind racing. You could feel the tension in his body, the internal battle he fought whenever he got too close to losing control. He was terrified of hurting you, of crossing a line he couldn’t come back from. But you knew better—you knew he had more control than he gave himself credit for.

His hand shook slightly as he brought it closer to your throat, his fingers warm against your heated skin. You gave him a reassuring nod, gently squeezing his wrist to let him know it was okay. His grip tightened, but only slightly, still tentative as if testing himself, testing his ability to stay in control.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability in his words tugging at your heart.

You smiled softly, your voice steady as you reassured him. "I will."

With that, he pressed his palm against your throat, the pressure light but enough to send a surge of excitement through your body. His thumb brushed along your jawline as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. The combination of his strong hand on your throat and his mouth on yours was intoxicating, and you moaned softly into the kiss, encouraging him further.

Slowly, his confidence began to grow. His grip tightened just a little more, his touch still careful but now more deliberate, as if he was finally starting to trust himself with you. The hesitation that had once held him back began to fade, and you could feel the shift in him as he leaned into the moment, fully embracing the desire that had been building between you.

You arched beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders as his other hand roamed your body, his lips trailing down your neck to your chest. Every touch, every kiss, was filled with a deeper intensity now as if he was finally allowing himself to let go of the fear and truly give in to the moment.

Your breath hitched as he continued, his hand still at your throat, applying just enough pressure to heighten the sensations coursing through your body. You felt completely safe in his hands, trusting him with everything as you gave yourself over to him fully.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours once more, searching your face for any sign of discomfort. But all he saw was the trust and desire reflected back at him. That was all he needed.

With renewed confidence, Bucky’s lips found yours again, his hand releasing your throat as he moved lower, his touch growing bolder with every passing second. His hands explored your body, no longer hesitant, and you could feel the shift as he finally allowed himself to take what he had been holding back for so long.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as the last of his hesitation melted away, and for the first time, you felt him fully give in to his desires. 

His lips never left yours as he shifted, positioning himself over you, his body pressing into yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

He paused again, his forehead resting against yours as his breathing grew heavy. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough and low, filled with both desire and concern.

You cupped his face in your hands, looking into his eyes as you whispered, "I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything."

With that, Bucky kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands gripping your hips as he finally let himself take what he had been holding back for so long.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"I Read About You in History Books"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader]

Part Two here [Outside of History Books]

Masterlist

Summary: You've always been fascinated by history, especially by the untold stories of people forgotten in the shadow of legends. Bucky Barnes is one of those people.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, Fluff with a dash of angst, not proofread

Word Count: 1.6k words

You knew The Winter Soldier. Who didn't? Everyone knew the tales of the most feared assassin in the world. How he appears and disappears like a ghost. How he struck his victims with deadly accuracy and no one could catch him. The man behind the mask intrigued you more, though. It was almost laughable, but to you, The Winter Soldier was older news than James 'Bucky' Barnes.

Meeting Steve Rogers was incredible. It took every professional bone in your body not to jump up and down in excitement. I mean it was the Captain America. How were you not meant to be excited?

You didn't expect to become his friend, to watch his back and have him watch yours. You had been in so many fights besides him and, of course, asked him every question you could think of about his life, the war and especially Bucky Barnes.

Why do you want to know so much about him? He had asked once.

Only the Gods knew the answer.

You couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky Barnes, more than what was in the history books. There was never much about him in anything, always being overshadowed by Steve or the other Howling Commandos. You'd read every account, watched every documentary, pieced together the fragments of his life as if they were a puzzle begging to be solved.

You never expected to meet him. Never expected him to be more than a name in a book or a picture in a documentary. You thought that meeting Steve was miracle enough.

You were quite wrong.

~~~

"Mind if I join you?"

Bucky frowns. "In a stairwell?"

"Well, I usually come here to get some quiet, so yeah, in a stairwell."

Bucky's posture is stiff as he leans back against the cold concrete wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You stand a few steps below him, one hand resting on the metal railing, your head tilted to the side as you study him.

“Quiet, huh?” he asks, his voice a low rasp, still hesitant to engage.

“Yep,” you reply, popping the 'p' with a small grin. “It's one of the few places in this whole compound where no one’s either training, running missions, or asking me a million questions.”

He’s guarded, that much is clear, but there’s something else too. Something underneath the surface, a complexity you’ve always suspected is buried deep within James Buchanan Barnes. You aren’t just interested in The Winter Soldier. You want to know the man beneath that, the person history has barely bothered to document.

“So, what brings you up here?” you ask casually if your presence is the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky glances away for a moment, his jaw clenching. His eyes are distant, but not in the way that screams of danger. More like he’s... lost. "Just needed some space," he finally says.

"I understand that." You slide down onto one of the steps, resting your arms on your knees, looking up at him. "It gets overwhelming, doesn’t it? Always being around people, no room to just... think."

Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes flickering to you.

You decide to take a chance. "I swear this isn’t some weird interrogation or anything, but... I've read about you, in History books. Well, about the Howling Commandos. About you and Steve during the war."

His expression tightens, the walls going higher up than before. "You don't know me—"

"I know," you say quickly, cutting him off. "I know that what’s in those books isn’t the whole story. That’s why I want to know more."

"More?" His gaze sharpens, almost suspicious. "Why?"

You shrug. "I don’t know. Maybe because history’s never the full picture. It’s just pieces, bits of what people decide to write down. I’ve always thought there had to be more to you than just 'Steve’s best friend' or 'The Winter Soldier.' And..." you press your lips together, hesitating, but continue, “...I guess I just want to know who you really are.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, the tension between you thickening with each passing second. His blue eyes are scrutinizing you, searching for something—maybe sincerity, maybe an ulterior motive. You aren’t sure.

"You think you can figure me out?" he finally says, his tone biting, though not as cold as before.

You shake your head. "No... But I think you deserve to be known. Not just as a name in a book or a legend in a file. As, well, you."

His brow furrows, and for the first time since the conversation started, he looks truly unsettled. "What if I don't even know who that is anymore?"

The pain in his voice catches you off guard. For a moment, the Winter Soldier—the assassin, the ghost—seems to fall away, leaving only a man haunted by the weight of his past. And it breaks your heart a little.

"Then maybe I can help you figure it out," you say softly.

Bucky exhales, a sound heavy with the burden of decades he hasn’t asked to carry. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any promises, but he doesn’t leave either. Instead, he slowly lowers himself to sit a few steps above you, the silence between you shifting into something more comfortable.

"Can I be completely honest?" you ask.

"Huh? Yeah?"

"I don't come here for quiet. I lock myself in my room for that. I totally stalked you in here."

Bucky scoffs. "You're probably the nicest stalker I've encountered."

You look up at him, grinning. "Thank you!"

He raises an eyebrow at you but you swear you see a small smile grace his lips.

Maybe this is the beginning of something. Maybe not. Either way, you aren’t about to let him disappear like a ghost again.

Not if you have anything to say about it.