#Marvel Fanfic

[deliciousangelfestival]

You're the One - 2

Summary: A daughter uncovers the wild, untold story of how her parents’ marriage began—and it’s way better than any romance movie she’s ever watched.

Character: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Genre: Romance, Comedy

Words Count : 1,654

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 ,-

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“So, that’s it,” Bucky finished, leaning back in his chair.

Jade sat frozen, her mouth slightly open, her hand hovering over the popcorn bowl she’d forgotten about entirely. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Hold on, Dad!” she blurted out, breaking the silence. “You can’t just end the story like that!”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. The way she said it—the tone, the determination—it reminded him so much of you that it gave him chills.

“Clark Jordan?” Jade said, her voice rising. “That Jordan? Oh my God, Mom was actually going to marry a conglomerate heir?” She gasped dramatically, throwing her hands in the air.

Bucky groaned and rolled his eyes. “Excuse me! Your father also owns a successful business, you know.”

Jade couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just a joke. Don’t get all defensive.” She rested her chin in her palm, tilting her head as she studied him. Her expression softened. “But seriously… if you loved Mom so much, why did you two break up?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands, which were fidgeting with the label of the water bottle he’d grabbed earlier. He let out a slow sigh before answering. “I can’t explain it,” he said quietly. “We were young and stupid… Well, I was the stupid one for letting her go.”

Jade nodded slowly, her face thoughtful. “Yeah, I can see that,” she said, her tone teasing but not cruel.

Bucky shot her a pointed look, but his lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”

Jade shrugged, grinning now. “Anytime.”

“What happened next?” Jade leaned forward, her curiosity growing. “Did anyone chase after you two?”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s a lot to unpack,” he muttered.

🔔💍🔔💍

Flashback

The church erupted into chaos. Gasps echoed through the hall, bridesmaids huddled together whispering in disbelief, and the Jordans were already barking orders at security. The bride was gone—snatched right out of her own wedding.

You were still reeling. Sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of a moving car, your hands gripped your bouquet so tightly that the petals were beginning to wilt. Your heart pounded against your ribcage as you stared out of the window, the landscape blurring past.

In the driver’s seat, Bucky’s grip on the wheel was steady. His expression was calm, almost infuriatingly so, as though he hadn’t just crashed your wedding and whisked you away in front of hundreds of people.

Your voice finally found its way out. “Why are you doing this?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Turn this car around, Bucky. You don’t understand the trouble you’re in.”

He ignored you, his jaw tight, and your frustration bubbled over. You knew exactly what kind of chaos this would cause. Your parents, already controlling, would unleash their full fury, and the Jordans—especially Clark—wouldn't take this humiliation lying down.

Suddenly, the car jerked to a stop. Your body pitched forward slightly, and you braced yourself against the dashboard.

Bucky turned to you, his movements deliberate. His gaze locked with yours, intense and unwavering. Leaning closer, his presence filled the space between you, and instinctively, you leaned back.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he said, his voice steady, his words slicing through the charged silence. “But the biggest mistake I ever made was letting you go.”

You froze, the weight of his confession catching you off guard.

The breakup had been mutual—or at least, that’s what you had told yourself back then. The truth was, Bucky had been the one to pull away. It had hurt, but you’d respected his decision, thinking he had his reasons. You never imagined he’d regret it.

“Then why did you suggest it?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze flicked away, focusing on the distant horizon outside the windshield. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, tinged with something raw.

“When we were together, I felt like I wasn’t enough for you. You deserved more—better than the life I could give you at the time. So I thought… if I let you go, you’d find that ‘better.’”

The weight in your chest grew heavier as you listened. His words didn’t erase the pain of the past, but they unraveled pieces of the mystery that had lingered for so long.

He continued, his voice steady but quieter. “And then I saw that article… the one with you and Clark. That photo of him holding your hand. I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try one last time.”

You turned to look at him, his profile outlined in the faint light of the dashboard. His hand on the wheel was steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders, like he was bracing for rejection.

“One week,” he said, breaking the silence. He held up a finger. “Give me one week to prove to you that this”—he gestured between the two of you—“is worth fighting for.”

You blinked, the audacity of his demand rendering you momentarily speechless.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life wondering what could’ve been. If I can’t change your mind in a week, I’ll take you back. No drama. No excuses. I’ll even apologize to both families.”

His words hung in the air, daring you to respond. The car was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of your shallow breathing.

"You can't just barge in and demand a second chance, Bucky," you snapped, your voice sharp as you yanked the veil from your head. The delicate lace caught briefly on your hair, but you didn’t care. “If we’d never broken up, none of this would’ve happened.”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His jaw clenched as he glanced at you, his voice calm but with an edge of frustration. ���Both of us agreed, remember? You kept walking that day.”

Your mind flashed back to that day—the one that had changed everything. The apartment you’d shared was nearly empty, save for a few boxes. You had been standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other clutching a bag.

“I didn’t want to walk away!” you shot back, your eyes blazing as you turned to him. “I was hoping you’d stop me. That you’d chase after me.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed through. “But you didn’t. You just… kept walking.”

His breath hitched at your words, his body stiffening as though they’d hit him like a punch to the gut. The realization sank in slowly, and he sat there in silence for a moment, staring at you with wide, almost vulnerable eyes.

“Wait… are you saying there was still a chance back then?” His voice was quieter now, almost disbelieving.

You crossed your arms and looked away, unwilling to give him an easy answer. The memory of that day was too raw, the hurt too deep.

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed your words. Slowly, a flicker of hope sparked in his expression, something unspoken but undeniable.

Without another word, he started the car again, the engine humming to life.

“You said once that you wanted to try skydiving,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the tension. “Let’s do that together.”

Your head whipped around to face him, your eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Oh, it won’t just be skydiving. We’ll do everything on your bucket list. Every. Single. Thing.”

Your bucket list? You blinked, caught off guard. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the road. “I’ve always remembered.”

His tone was softer now, almost wistful, and you hated how much it made your heart ache. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, unsure of how to respond.

“You’re not saying no,” he added after a beat, his smirk returning. “Does that mean you’re having second thoughts about this wedding?”

Your glare snapped back to him, but you didn’t have the words to argue. Instead, you crossed your arms and said firmly, “Be quiet and drive.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he looked ahead. “Yes, ma’am.”

Present Time

"I never knew Mom had that side of her," Jade said, her voice full of surprise. "It’s pretty obvious she was having second thoughts about marrying Clark."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking a little smug. "I did the right thing."

Jade nodded, then her expression shifted. "But what about grandpa? Was he mad at you? Because right now you and grandpa were pretty close."

Bucky chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Well, if I could change your mom’s mind, I figured I could convince him too." He laughed again, but it was a little forced as he rubbed his back, probably remembering that time. "Let’s just say, he wasn’t thrilled about me stealing his daughter."

"You already know how this ends," Bucky said with a chuckle. "Your mom and I ended up together."

Jade leaned in, her eyes full of curiosity. "But I want to know the full story! How did she end up giving you a second chance? Please..." She gave him her best puppy eyes, the kind she knew always worked on him.

"Come on, Dad, you’re holding back! Did you two really go skydiving? What happened next?"

Bucky leaned forward, a sly grin on his face. He paused for a second, clearly enjoying the suspense. "I’m not spilling all the details just yet."

Jade groaned in frustration. "Dad!"

Bucky just winked at her. "You’ll find out eventually. But trust me, that was just the beginning of the adventure."

Author Note: What do you want to see next between the reader and Bucky?

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[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 14

Pairings: Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 8.8k 👀

Warnings: ANGST, Mentions of brief virg!nty loss

A/N: I was gonna make this 2 parts cuz its long but it just didnt flow nice soooo your welcome 🫶🏻

Summer before senior year

“You’re not going with him!” Bucky said, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, his tone more commanding than concerned.

You frowned, crossing your arms in defiance. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“He’s no good for you,” Bucky shot back, his voice rising. “Mike doesn’t care about anything but himself.”

“Oh, and you’re suddenly the expert on who’s good for me?” you snapped, frustration bubbling over. “I’ve known Mike as long as you have, Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart race for all the wrong reasons. “Trust me, he’s bad enough. And you’re not going.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” you yelled, stepping closer to him. “I’m not a child, and you’re not the boss of me!”

“I’m trying to protect you!” Bucky shouted back, his voice breaking slightly with desperation. “Fine, go! But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart, because he will. He only wants one thing.”

You glared at him, the words stinging more than you wanted to admit. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

Bucky scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Your virginity,” he said, his voice bitter. “That’s all he cares about.”

You froze, his words hitting like a slap. “And how would you know if I’m a virgin, Bucky?” you spat, your voice trembling with anger. “Maybe I’m ready to lose it. Maybe I’m tired of being the only one who hasn’t.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, so now you’re in a rush to keep up with everyone else? What, just because I lost mine, you suddenly want to lose yours?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat as his words settled. “You… you lost yours?” you asked quietly, your anger briefly replaced by shock.

Bucky’s defensive posture faltered, and he exhaled deeply, his annoyance still evident. “Yeah,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “With Carley.”

Your heart sank, a strange mix of emotions washing over you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky shrugged, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. “Because you’re not one of the guys. I didn’t think it mattered.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a lump form in your throat. “Noted,” you said curtly, turning on your heel and walking away before the tears could fall.

Bucky called after you, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

"Don't come crying to me, i mean it!"

The date with Mike started fine. He picked you up in his car, flashing his usual charming grin. But as he drove you to the cliffside—a spot where half the school went to make out or hook up—your mind kept replaying the fight with Bucky. His words echoed in your head, cutting deeper with each repetition.

Mike was sweet enough, but his intentions were clear. When he leaned in to kiss you, you let him. His hands roamed, his kisses became more insistent, and when he whispered, “Are you sure?” you barely hesitated.

“Yeah,” you murmured, the numbness creeping in as you tried to push all thoughts of Bucky out of your mind.

The act itself was quick, mechanical. It didn’t feel like the magical, life-changing moment you’d once fantasized about—especially not the one where Bucky was somehow involved, as stupid and childish as that fantasy had been. Instead, it was awkward and empty.

When it was over, Mike leaned back, pulling his clothes on casually. “You good?” he asked, his tone light but distant.

You nodded, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Mike stretched, glancing at his watch. “Do you want a ride home?”

You shook your head, staring out at the horizon where the first hints of dawn were starting to creep in. “No, I think I’ll stay here for a bit.”

Mike didn’t argue. “Alright. See you around,” he said with a grin, getting into his car and driving off without a second glance.

As his taillights disappeared, the weight of what you’d just done hit you. You pulled your knees to your chest, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilling over. You stayed there, alone on the cliffside, as the sun began to rise, crying for everything you’d lost and everything that could never be.

You cried for the stupid fantasy you’d had, for the connection you and Bucky had once shared, and for the gaping hole that now seemed impossible to fill.

You sat on the edge of the cliff, the cold morning air biting at your skin as the sun’s first light painted the horizon in soft pinks and oranges. Your tears had finally stopped, but the hollow ache in your chest remained, a constant reminder of the choices you’d made and the moment you couldn’t take back.

You pulled out your phone, your fingers trembling as you scrolled through your contacts. Bucky’s name was right there, familiar and taunting. Your thumb hovered over it for a moment, but then you shook your head, blinking away the fresh sting of tears.

You couldn’t call Bucky—not after everything. Not after the fight, not after what he’d said, not after tonight.

Instead, your thumb slid down to another name.

Steve.

Your heart pounded as you pressed the call button. The line rang twice before his voice came through, groggy but instantly alert.

“Hello? Y/N?” Steve’s voice softened, concern lacing every word. “Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Hearing his voice felt like a lifeline, and for a moment, all the emotions you’d been holding in threatened to spill over again. You took a shaky breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “Steve… can you come get me?” you asked, your voice small and broken. “I’m at the cliff.”

There was a brief pause, then the sound of rustling sheets as Steve sat up. “Yeah, of course. Stay put, alright? I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, the weight of his words wrapping around you like a blanket.

Fifteen minutes later, the familiar rumble of Steve’s car pulled you from your daze. He parked and quickly got out, his worried eyes finding you immediately. His hair was messy, and he was still in sweatpants and a hoodie, clearly having rushed out of bed to get to you.

“Y/N…” he said softly, walking over to where you sat. Without another word, he shrugged off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders, kneeling down in front of you. “What happened?”

You shook your head, biting your lip as fresh tears threatened to fall. “I… I messed up, Stevie.”

He reached out, gently placing a hand on your knee. “Talk to me.��

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. But Steve’s patient, steady gaze gave you the courage to speak. “I… I was with Mike tonight....last night i guess now"

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And… and I let him… we…” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the words, but the way Steve’s eyes softened told you he understood.

“Oh, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet sympathy. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes. “It was supposed to mean something,” you whispered. “But it didn’t. It didn’t mean anything. I just… I just wanted to feel like everyone else for once. Like I wasn’t being left behind.”

Steve’s grip on your knee tightened slightly, his brows drawing together. “You’re not being left behind. You don’t need to rush into anything just because other people are.”

You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. “Too late for that now.”

Steve sighed, shifting to sit beside you on the edge of the cliff. His arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You’re not defined by one moment, Y/N,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t change who you are or what you’re worth. You’re still you, and you’re still amazing.”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his body grounding you as the cool breeze swept past.

Friday Morning

You were running late, your thoughts a tangled mess as you walked briskly toward work. The looming reality of tonight’s bar meet-up gnawed at your nerves. Dean meeting your friends, meeting Bucky—it felt like a line you weren’t ready to cross, even though you knew you had to eventually.

Your phone buzzed against your ear as Natasha’s voice filled the silence, grounding you slightly. “Are you even listening to me?” she asked, her tone bordering on impatient.

You muttered a distracted, “Yeah, sorry,” as you pushed open the door to your favorite coffee shop. The familiar smell of roasted beans and baked goods hit you, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest. You glanced at the line, groaning softly when you saw how long it was.

Natasha sighed on the other end of the line. “Something about coffee, right? Let me guess, you’re about to be late again.”

“Yeah, the line’s too long,” you grumbled, stepping to the side to avoid blocking the doorway. “I’ll just skip it.”

Before she could reply, your eyes landed on someone by the counter, waiting for his drink. He was wearing a fitted black jacket over a plain white tee, his hair a little messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. Bucky.

He must have felt your gaze because, in that moment, he turned. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and everything else—the bustling café, the noise, even Natasha’s voice in your ear—faded into the background.

You both froze, caught in a stare that felt like it lasted far too long and not long enough. His expression shifted, something soft flickering in his eyes before he masked it with a neutral look.

“Hello? Y/N? Are you even there?” Natasha’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You blinked, your heart pounding as you quickly looked away. “Sorry, Nat. Yeah, I’m here,” you said, forcing your voice to sound normal. “I was just… distracted.”

Natasha groaned on the other end. “Look, relax about tonight, okay? Everyone’s going to love Dean because we all love you. And Wanda’s super excited to meet him, so you’ve got her vote.”

You swallowed, your eyes flickering back toward Bucky. He was picking up his drink, his jaw tense, but he hadn’t looked away from you. You could feel the weight of his gaze even as you tried to focus on Natasha’s words.

“Yeah, okay,” you murmured, not really sure if you were trying to convince her or yourself.

Natasha exhaled, her tone softening. “I mean it, babe. Stop overthinking. You’ve got this, alright? I’ll even send coffee to your office so you’re not a grumpy mess when Dean picks you up later.”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Anytime, babe,” she said, her voice warm. “Now, go crush your day. I’ll see you tonight.”

You ended the call, slipping your phone back into your pocket. Bucky was still there, sipping his coffee, his eyes lingering on you like he was waiting for you to say something.

But you didn’t. Instead, you turned and walked out of the café, the knot in your stomach tightening. The truth was, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, tonight wasn’t just about Dean meeting your friends.

It was about seeing Bucky again—about facing whatever was still left unsaid between you.

The hours ticked by painfully slow. You’d spent the morning buried in paperwork, but your mind was far from focused. Every time you tried to concentrate, your thoughts drifted to tonight—Dean, your friends, and most of all, Bucky.

By lunchtime, you were more than ready for a break. You pulled out your phone and opened the group chat with Wanda and Natasha.

Natasha: How’s work?

You: Dragging. Can’t believe it’s only lunchtime.

Wanda: That bad, huh?

You: Yeah, but at least I have tonight to look forward to… right?

Natasha: Exactly! You’ve got this, babe. Everyone’s gonna love Dean.

Wanda: Especially after we interrogate him, obviously.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your shoulders relaxing slightly.

You: Please be gentle. He’s nice, I promise.

Natasha: Nice doesn’t cut it. He’s gotta be great if he’s dating you ;)

Wanda: Agreed!!! <3But don’t worry, we’ll be on our best behavior. Sort of....

You rolled your eyes and switched over to your chat with Sam and Steve.

You: How’s the day going for you guys?

Sam: Busy as hell. Just got out of a meeting and I’m already over it.

Steve: Same here. But at least it’s Friday.

You: True. You both coming tonight, right?

Sam: Wouldn’t miss it. Ive been thinking about hot wings all damn day.

Steve: Of course. Wouldn’t want to miss meeting Dean…

You paused for a moment, then typed:

You: Thanks, guys. I know it’s weird with everything going on, but I appreciate it.

Sam: Hey, we’re family. No matter what, we’ve got your back.

Steve: Exactly. You’re stuck with us :)

The warm reassurance from your friends eased some of the anxiety that had been building all morning. You set your phone down, took a deep breath, and tried to refocus on your work.

But even as you typed away at your computer, your mind kept circling back to one thing: how tonight would change everything.

You were about to set your phone down when a familiar name caught your eye in the messages list: Bucky.

Your heart stopped. Beside his name, a small gray bubble appeared, the telltale sign that he was typing.

You stared at the screen, your breath hitching. He was going to say something. Maybe something important. Maybe—finally.

The bubble lingered for a moment, and you held your breath, waiting. But then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

No message.

Your heart stuttered, a sharp pang in your chest as you watched the screen, hoping the bubble would return. But it didn’t.

You blinked, trying to shake the feeling. Why now? Why would he start typing and not send anything? You bit your lip, your mind racing. Was he going to apologize? Say something about tonight? Or was it just another reminder of the messy, tangled connection between you two?

You let out a shaky breath, locking your phone and setting it down on your desk. But the damage was done. The small flicker of hope—unwelcome but undeniable—had lodged itself firmly in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

Even when you forced yourself to get back to work, your mind kept drifting to that empty chat bubble.

The end of the workday couldn’t have come fast enough. By the time you got home, Natasha and Wanda were already at your apartment, rifling through your closet and chattering like old times. It was grounding in a way—familiar, comforting, a temporary balm for your nerves.

“Okay,” Wanda said, holding up a soft cream sweater. “This. It’s casual but still shows you put in effort.”

Natasha nodded in agreement. “Pair it with those high-waisted jeans and your ankle boots. Perfect mix of cozy and hot.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Cozy and hot? Is that what we’re going for?”

“Yes,” Natasha said firmly. “You’re seeing Dean, but you’re also seeing Bucky for the first time since… everything. You want to feel confident.”

You sighed, letting them guide you. Once you were dressed, Wanda pulled out a simple necklace while Natasha fixed your hair into loose waves. The whole process was lighthearted, filled with little jokes and the kind of banter that made you forget, even for a moment, about the knot in your stomach.

When you were finally ready, Natasha gave you an approving nod. “Okay, you’re perfect. Wanda and I are gonna head to the bar now, give you and Dean a little entrance moment.”

“Thanks,” you said, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “You said the guys are already there?”

Natasha hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Bucky’s there too. That okay?”

You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral. “That’s fine. I mean, he’s part of the group, right? And I said I want things to be normal again.”

Natasha gave you a searching look. “If you change your mind, say the word, and I’ll drag him out so fast his head will spin.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, it’s fine. Really. Better to see him with everyone else around. He’s part of us, part of me. Gotta get it over with, right?”

Natasha’s eyes softened, and she pulled you into a hug. “You’re stronger than you think, you know that?”

Wanda joined in, squeezing you tight. “We’ve got you,” she said with a warm smile. “Always.”

“See you in a minute,” Natasha said with a wink before they left, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The quiet settled over the apartment as you paced for a moment, nerves bubbling to the surface. Your phone buzzed, and you grabbed it eagerly.

Dean: Hey :-) I’m downstairs whenever you’re ready.

You checked yourself one last time in the mirror, smoothing your sweater and adjusting your necklace. Then you grabbed your bag and headed out. As you stepped into the elevator, another message came through.

Natasha: He seems to be in good spirits. Gave me a hug and everything. It’s gonna be okay… Oh, by the way, he doesn’t know about you bringing Dean. Sam pulled me aside when I got here.

You stared at the message, your stomach twisting.

You: Great.

Shoving your phone into your bag, you took a deep breath as the elevator doors opened. Time to face the night.

As you stepped out of your apartment building, you spotted Dean leaning casually against his car, his hands in his pockets. He looked effortlessly handsome in a dark denim jacket and a simple black shirt. When his eyes met yours, his face lit up with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice soft but laced with excitement. “You look amazing.”

You felt your cheeks flush slightly. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He chuckled, opening the passenger door for you before you had a chance to protest. “Ready for this?”

You took a deep breath, glancing at him as you got in. “Yeah, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

The ride to the bar was short, filled with light conversation and the kind of laughter that made you momentarily forget your nerves. But as you neared your destination, Dean’s tone shifted, becoming more thoughtful.

“So,” he began, glancing over at you at a red light, “anything I should know? You know, to make a killer first impression with your friends?”

You laughed softly, appreciating his effort. “Well, they’re all pretty easygoing… but they’re also insanely protective.”

“Noted,” Dean said, smirking. “Who should I be most worried about?”

You hesitated, your mind immediately going to Bucky. But you didn’t want to say his name just yet. “Natasha,” you said instead, half-joking. “She can be… intense. But it comes from a good place but im sure you already know that”

Dean nodded, clearly taking mental notes. “Got it. Be charming but not too charming.”

“Exactly,” you said, smiling. “Wanda’s super sweet, so you’re safe there. Sam’s a joker, so if he starts teasing you, it’s a good sign. And Steve… well, Steve’s like the group’s moral compass. If he likes you, you’re golden.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a solid group.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Something like that.”

As you pulled up to the bar, the knot in your stomach tightened again. Dean must have sensed it because he reached over, his hand resting lightly on yours. “Hey,” he said softly. “Relax. It’ll be fine. And if it’s not, we’ll just make a run for it.”

You chuckled despite yourself, squeezing his hand. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink as he parked the car.

The two of you stepped out, and as you approached the bar’s entrance, your heart started to pound. The familiar sounds of laughter and music spilled out onto the street, and you could already see your friends gathered at your usual corner table. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for what was to come.

Dean held the door open for you, his expression calm and confident. “Let’s do this.”

The moment you and Dean walked into the bar, your eyes immediately found your usual booth. Sam, facing the door, was the first to notice you. His grin widened, and he nudged Steve beside him. Both men stood as Sam made his way toward you.

“Hey! Look who’s finally here,” Sam called out, pulling you into a warm, familiar hug. “You didn’t get lost, did you?”

You laughed. “You wish, Wilson.”

As Sam stepped back, Steve was right there, his soft smile as steady as ever. “You look great,” he said, pulling you in for a quick, friendly hug.

“Thanks, Stevie.” You tried to keep your voice light, but his comforting presence was already easing your nerves.

Dean extended his hand to Sam, his posture relaxed but confident. “Sam, right? It’s great to meet you. Y/N’s told me all about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Sam said, shaking Dean’s hand with a grin. “Sam Wilson, resident funnyman.”

Dean chuckled. “Only the best things. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“And I’m Steve,” Steve chimed in, extending his hand after Sam stepped aside. “Glad you could join us.”

“Likewise,” Dean replied, shaking Steve’s hand firmly. “Y/N’s been hyping this place up.”

After Dean waved at Natasha, who gave him a knowing smirk, and shook hands with Wanda, your focus inevitably drifted to the end of the booth. Bucky sat there, his back to you, his head slightly down as he sipped his drink. The sight of him made your chest tighten, and you hesitated for a split second before Dean spoke again.

“Hey,” Dean said, extending his hand toward Bucky. “You must be Bucky.”

Slowly, Bucky turned, his blue eyes locking onto yours for a brief, intense moment before shifting to Dean. His jaw clenched, and after a pause, he stood and shook Dean’s hand. His grip was firm, deliberate.

“Bucky,” he said, his voice low and measured.

Dean smiled, unfazed. “Nice to meet you. Y/N’s told me you two go way back.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, then back to Dean. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze even after he sat back down. Dean slid into the booth beside you as everyone shuffled to make room. Now, it was Natasha next to Wanda, then Steve, Sam, and finally you and Dean, directly across from Bucky.

The waiter came by to take your drink orders, and the usual buzz of conversation began. Sam, ever the storyteller, launched into a tale about his latest misadventure at the VA, complete with exaggerated gestures and dramatic pauses. Laughter erupted around the table, even from Dean, who seemed to be settling in easily.

Everyone, that is, except Bucky.

He sat back in his seat, his drink in hand, his gaze sharp but distant. Every so often, you felt his eyes on you, a heavy, unspoken tension lingering between the two of you. It wasn’t lost on Dean, who kept glancing between you and Bucky, his curiosity evident but unspoken.

“So, Dean,” Sam said, leaning forward. “What’s it like working with Nat?”

Dean grinned. “It’s great. She’s a force to be reckoned with. Keeps everyone on their toes.”

Natasha raised her glass with a smirk. “Damn right I do.”

“And what exactly do you do again?” Steve asked, his interest genuine.

“Security consulting,” Dean replied. “Risk assessment, crisis management, stuff like that.”

Sam nodded appreciatively. “Sounds badass.”

Dean chuckled. “It can be. Keeps me on my toes, for sure.”

Dean then turned to Bucky, clearly making an effort to include him. “And you, Bucky? Y/N mentioned you both work in publishing.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his glass as he gave a short nod. “Yeah. Reviewing manuscripts, editing, making sure everything’s ready for print.”

Dean nodded, his tone still friendly. “That’s awesome. Must be great working alongside your best friend.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, and his eyes briefly met yours again. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s… something.”

The silence that followed was heavy, and you felt your stomach twist. Dean, sensing the tension, tried to steer the conversation back on track, but before he could, Bucky abruptly stood, grabbing his empty glass.

“Be right back,” he muttered, heading toward the bar without another word.

You watched him go, your heart pounding in your chest. The knot in your stomach tightened, and you forced yourself to focus on the laughter and conversation around you, even as your thoughts remained with Bucky.

The laughter at the table was infectious, the kind that made your cheeks hurt. Sam was recounting some ridiculous story about a mishap at work, complete with exaggerated impressions of his coworkers. Natasha rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop giggling, and even Wanda had to wipe away a tear from laughing so hard.

You tried to stay present, chiming in here and there, but your eyes kept drifting toward the bar. Bucky was leaning against it, nursing another drink, his back to the room. His shoulders were tense, and you could tell—even from this distance—that he was deep in thought.

Steve, ever perceptive, caught your glance. He gave you a subtle look, raising an eyebrow as if to say Want me to check on him?

You hesitated, then gave him a small, grateful smile. Steve nodded, sliding out of the booth with ease.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he said casually, patting Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t let them order wings without me.”

“Not making any promises,” Sam called after him, grinning.

Steve made his way to the bar, his presence steady as always. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he approached Bucky, leaning on the bar beside him. Their conversation started low, and Bucky glanced over his shoulder briefly, his expression unreadable.

Natasha leaned over, nudging you playfully. “You okay, babe? You seem a little… distracted.”

You blinked, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just… you know, first time bringing someone into the group. Kinda nerve-wracking.”

Dean, catching the tail end of your comment, smiled warmly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Everyone’s been great so far. I mean, Sam’s a riot.”

Sam raised his glass. “Damn right I am.”

“And Wanda,” Dean continued, gesturing toward her, “she’s been keeping me on my toes with all her quick-witted remarks.”

Wanda smirked. “Gotta make sure you can keep up, Dean.”

The table laughed, and for a moment, you felt a little lighter. But your eyes drifted back toward the bar. Steve was saying something to Bucky, his tone calm but firm. Bucky looked down at his drink, his jaw clenched.

Natasha followed your gaze, her smile fading slightly. “They’ll be fine,” she said quietly, her voice just for you. “Bucky needs to cool off, and Steve knows how to handle him.”

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink to steady yourself. “Yeah. I know.”

At the bar, Steve leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Alright, Buck. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Nothing. Just needed a breather.”

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing,” Steve said, his tone gentle but probing. “You’ve been brooding since they walked in.”

Bucky scoffed, shooting him a sideways glance. “Didn’t know you were the feelings police, Rogers.”

Steve chuckled softly. “You know me, always looking out for my friends.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the counter. After a moment, he muttered, “It’s weird seeing her with him.”

Steve nodded, keeping his tone neutral. “Yeah, I figured. But she seems happy.”

Bucky’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. “I know. That’s the problem.”

Steve tilted his head. “You want her to be happy, right?”

“Of course I do,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too sharp. “It’s just… he’s not one of us. He doesn’t get her the way we do.”

Steve studied him for a moment, then said, “Buck, if you’ve got something to say to her, you can’t keep waiting for the perfect moment. Life doesn’t work like that. Trust me i know" He smiled sadly.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the table, where you were laughing with Sam and Natasha. His expression softened, but there was still a weight behind his gaze. “Yeah… maybe.”

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “Just think about it, alright? And if you need to vent, you know where to find me.”

Bucky nodded, finishing the last of his drink. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Anytime,” Steve replied, standing upright. “Now, come back to the table before Sam eats all the wings.”

Bucky let out a small chuckle, setting his glass down. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”

As the two of them returned, the dynamic shifted slightly. Bucky slid back into his spot next to Wanda, his demeanor a little more relaxed. You caught his eye briefly, and though neither of you said anything, the tension seemed to ease just a bit.

Steve slid in next to Sam, who immediately started teasing him about missing the best part of the story. Dean, oblivious to the undercurrents, leaned in toward you, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the table. “See?” he whispered. “Told you this would go well.”

You smiled, hoping he couldn’t sense the turmoil still swirling beneath the surface. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s going great.”

The table was a flurry of activity as the wings arrived, piled high on multiple platters. Everyone dove in with gusto, the smell of tangy barbecue and spicy buffalo sauce filling the air. Drinks were refilled, and the conversation flowed easily.

Sam leaned back, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Man, I’ve been waiting all week for this.”

Natasha smirked. “Yeah, well, don’t eat too fast. We’ve got plenty of time to enjoy it.”

Dean chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. “I can see why this is a regular thing for you guys. It’s nice.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of the familiar setting, even with the subtle tension still lingering under the surface. Everyone seemed to be making an effort to keep things light, and for the most part, it was working.

A few drinks later, as the laughter died down for a moment, Dean glanced around the table, his curiosity piqued. “So,” he began, his tone casual, “is anyone else seeing anyone? Or is this the final group count?”

The question lingered in the air, and you noticed a subtle shift in energy. Wanda raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly as she reached for her drink.

“Well,” Sam said, grinning, “I’m playing the field. Gotta keep my options open, you know?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “By ‘playing the field,’ he means he’s been flirting with the bartender at our usual spot for months and hasn’t made a move.”

Sam held up a finger. “Hey, I’m working on it.”

Everyone chuckled, and Dean turned his attention to Wanda. “What about you, Wanda? Anyone special?”

Wanda shook her head, a soft smile on her face. “Nope. Too busy trying to keep my plants alive.”

Dean laughed. “Fair enough.”

He looked over at Steve next. “And you, Steve? Got someone in your life?”

Steve, who had been quietly nursing his drink, looked up, his expression calm but unreadable. “Not at the moment, got some stuff to sort through” he said simply, his eyes flicking briefly to you before he focused back on his glass. “Just focusing on work.”

Dean nodded, clearly not picking up on the subtext. “Makes sense. You seem like the kind of guy who’s got his priorities straight.”

Steve gave a small smile, but he didn’t respond, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his glass.

Finally, Dean’s gaze landed on Bucky, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, mostly focusing on his food. “What about you, Bucky? Anyone special?”

The table fell silent for a beat too long. Bucky set down his wing, wiping his hands deliberately as he leaned back in his seat. His expression was neutral, but his jaw tightened slightly. “Nope,” he said, his voice clipped. “No one.”

Dean, oblivious to the tension, smiled. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours for the briefest moment before he shrugged. “Guess I’m just picky.”

Natasha snorted into her drink, and Sam quickly covered a laugh with a cough. You felt your cheeks heat up and reached for your own drink to hide your reaction.

“Well,” Dean said, clearly trying to keep the conversation light, “picky’s not a bad thing. Just means you know what you want.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on his plate. The silence stretched, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

Sensing the awkwardness, Sam jumped in, raising his glass. “Alright, enough about our love lives. Let’s toast to Friday nights, good food, and even better company.”

Everyone raised their glasses, and the moment passed, but you couldn’t help the way your heart raced every time Bucky’s eyes drifted in your direction, even if only for a second.

The bar was bustling, the low hum of music and chatter creating a comforting buzz as you waited for the bartender to line up the shots. You were trying to focus on the drinks, the simple act of getting them back to your friends, but your thoughts kept drifting—Dean’s question about relationships, the tense exchange between Bucky and him, and now, the weight of Bucky’s silence.

You felt him before you saw him, his presence unmistakable as he slid up beside you, leaning on the bar. His scent—faint cologne mixed with something distinctly him—sent a rush of memories flooding back. You glanced up, but he didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you picked up the first tray of shots.

“Need help?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small smile, trying to keep things light. “No, it’s okay. I got it. Thanks, though, Buck.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly as he shifted his weight. But then, after a beat of silence, he spoke again, his tone more serious. “He’s not right for you.”

The words hit you like a jolt, and you froze, your hand hovering over the next tray. Slowly, you turned to face him, your brows furrowed in confusion and disbelief. “What?”

Bucky’s blue eyes locked onto yours, intense and pleading. “Dean. He’s not right for you.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking your head. “And how exactly would you know what’s right for me, Bucky?”

“I just… I know,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “You think he gets you? Think he knows you?”

Your chest tightened, the familiar ache surfacing. “That’s not fair, its new-- im trying,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Bucky’s hand clenched on the bar, his knuckles whitening. “You think I don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Like he’s just waiting for the right moment to get what he wants, its like Mike all over again…But it’s not real. Not like—”

You froze “Don’t you bring that up James.." Your voice low "And not like what?” you shot back, your voice sharper now. “Not like us? Newsflash, Bucky: there is no ‘us.’ You made damn sure of that.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he was struggling to find the right words. “You act like you’re the only one hurting,” he finally said, his voice low but cutting. “But you’re not. You hurt people too!”

Your heart sank, your throat tightening. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered, his frustration giving way to something rawer. “You hurt me, you have been for years! You just dont see it...” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “And you hurt Steve.”

“Steve?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper. “What about Steve?” You mind reeled back to how off he’s been lately.

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed. He’s been madly in love with you for years, and you just… what? Pretend not to see it? You think that doesn’t hurt him?”

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train, and your eyes instinctively darted across the bar. Natasha and Steve were standing together, both of them looking your way. Natasha’s gaze was sharp, assessing, while Steve’s was softer, a mix of concern and something deeper. Your stomach twisted as you saw the truth written plainly on his face, a truth you’d somehow managed to ignore until now.

You turned back to Bucky, your voice trembling. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

His face fell, a flicker of pain crossing his features, but he didn’t say anything. You grabbed the tray of shots, your hands shaking as you carried it back to the table. Natasha’s eyes followed you the whole way, and Steve’s expression shifted into something unreadable as you set the tray down in front of them.

Dean grinned, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Finally! Thought you got lost at the bar.”

You forced a smile, sliding into the booth beside him as you handed out the drinks. “Just took a little longer than expected.”

Natasha shot you a questioning look, but you shook your head subtly, letting her know now wasn’t the time. As the group raised their glasses in a toast, your eyes flickered back to the bar, where Bucky still stood, watching you with a look that sent a fresh wave of heartache crashing over you.

Summer before Senior year

The summer heat clung to the air, thick and stifling, as Bucky sat on the porch steps of Steve's house, bouncing his leg anxiously. He'd been quiet for most of the afternoon, his thoughts circling like a storm, the tension building with every passing minute.

Steve leaned against the railing, arms crossed as he watched his best friend brood. Finally, he sighed, breaking the silence. "Come on, Buck. When are you gonna go talk to her?"

Bucky's jaw clenched, and he shook his head. "Why does it have to be me first? She's the one who walked away."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, you didn't exactly give her a reason to stay. You basically pushed her away"

Bucky's head snapped up, his blue eyes filled with frustration. "I told her the truth, Steve. I warned her about Mike, and she didn't listen, if he breaks her heart thats her problem not mine."

Steve pushed off the railing, stepping closer. "You think this is just about Mike? Buck, she's hurting. And trust me....she needs you."

Bucky scoffed, his tone defensive. "If she needed me so bad, she'd be here."

Steve exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience. "She's not here because she's scared, because she feels alone, and because she thinks you don't care anymore."

Bucky's throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze falling to the ground. "I can't believe she went out with him," he muttered, more to himself than to Steve. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That guy's a piece of shit."

Steve stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "Bucky...She...they..."

Bucky's head shot up, his eyes wide with realization. "She..?"

Steve nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah. And he just left her there."

The weight of Steve's words hit Bucky like a punch to the gut. His mind raced, his chest tightened as anger and guilt warred within him.

"Where?" Bucky asked, his voice low, almost a growl. "Where did he leave her?"

Steve hesitated, then said, "The cliff."

Bucky didn't wait for another word. He bolted from the porch, his heart pounding as he made a beeline for your house. His feet pounded against the pavement, but before he reached your street, something caught his eye in the open field nearby. A group of guys were playing flag football, laughing and shouting-and among them was Mike.

Bucky's blood boiled as he altered his course, heading straight for the field. The laughter died down when the players noticed him, their gazes shifting uneasily.

"Hey, Buck," one of them called, wary. "What's up, man?"

Bucky ignored him, his focus solely on Mike, who stood in the middle of the group, smirking as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"What do you want, Barnes?" Mike asked, cocky as ever.

Bucky didn't answer. He just strode forward and, without hesitation, drove his fist directly into Mike's face. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage echoed as Mike stumbled back, blood immediately streaming from his nose.

"Stay the fuck away from her," Bucky growled, his voice dangerously low.

Mike wiped the blood from his face, grinning like a maniac despite the pain. "What's the matter, Barnes? Mad I deflowered your girl? Because you were too pussy to do it yourself?"

Bucky's vision went red. He punched Mike again, harder this time, sending him sprawling to the ground. The other guys started to step in, but one glare from Bucky had them backing off.

Mike groaned, but he still laughed, his teeth stained red. "She tasted so sweet," he sneered, his voice taunting. "So tight. A perfect little notch on my belt. She was desperate for it, practically begging-"

Bucky didn't let him finish. He turned on his heel and sprinted toward your house, his heart thundering in his chest. His mind raced with fury and panic, the image of you sitting alone at the cliff, broken and hurting, driving him forward.

He had to get to you. He had to make this right.

The bar buzzed with laughter and music, the energy high as your group settled deeper into the booth. Drinks flowed, wings were shared, and the conversation had turned to teasing stories from the past. You felt the warmth of familiarity, even with the slight tension still lingering from earlier.

Dean excused himself to take a phone call, offering you a soft smile before stepping toward the back exit. You watched him go, feeling the comfort of his steady presence, even as your thoughts wandered to Bucky. He’d been quiet all night, his usual sharp wit dulled by whatever storm was brewing inside him..

Needing a moment, Bucky stood, stretching as he made his way toward the bathroom. He passed the back exit and froze when he heard Dean’s voice, low and smooth, just around the corner.

As he made his way toward the bathroom, Bucky caught sight of Dean. He hesitated, the urge to confront gnawing at him, but he kept walking—until Dean glanced up and caught his eye.

“Bucky,” Dean said with a slight smirk, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You following me now?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t realize I needed to. Just taking a walk.”

Dean leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms. “You’ve been watching us all night. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean chuckled, his tone light but pointed. “It means you’re not exactly subtle, man. You’ve got this look every time she laughs at something I say, like you’re ready to tear me apart. Jealous much?”

Bucky took a step closer, his voice low. “Maybe I just don’t think you’re good enough for her.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, his smirk unwavering. “That so? Funny, because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m the one who’s actually here for her. You had your chance from what i’ve seen, and you blew it. That’s not on me.”

Bucky’s chest tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t know a damn thing about me or her.”

Dean’s smirk faded slightly, his tone dropping. “I know you’re hung up on her. And I know she deserves someone who’s all in, not someone who’s just been dragging her through the mud for years because he’s too scared to step up.”

Bucky’s blood boiled. “You think you know what she needs?” he growled, stepping even closer. “You don’t know half of what we’ve been through.”

Dean shrugged, his expression calm but unyielding. “Maybe not. But I do know this: I’m here now, and you’re just a guy at the bar, staring like you’re waiting for permission to act.” He straightened, his gaze sharp. “She’s amazing. She deserves more than being someone’s regret.”

That did it.

Before Dean could react, Bucky’s fist connected with his jaw in a swift, hard punch. Dean stumbled back, holding his face, but his composure didn’t falter long. He let out a humourless laugh, wiping his mouth as he straightened.

“Well, that’s one way to admit you’re still in love with her,” Dean said, his tone sharp but surprisingly calm. “Too bad you’re a little late.”

Bucky took another step forward, but Dean held up a hand. “I’m not doing this,” he said firmly. “You’ve got your own demons to sort out, Bucky. Don’t make her collateral damage.”

With that, Dean turned and walked back toward the table, leaving Bucky seething in his wake.

Dean leaned against the table, his face composed but red blooming across his jaw. Natasha’s eyes narrowed immediately, her gaze darting between Dean and the direction of the bar. “What the hell happened?”

Dean exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to shake off the impact. “Your buddy hit me.”

You choked on your drink, eyes wide in disbelief as Sam quickly leaned over, patting your back. “What?” you managed to get out, your voice hoarse with shock.

Dean nodded, glancing around the table, his eyes lingering on Natasha before meeting yours. “Yeah. He’s got a hell of a right hook.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “That idiot,” she muttered, already pushing to get out of the booth.

Dean raised a hand to stop her. “No need to escalate. It’s handled.” He looked at you, his expression softening. “Can we talk for a second?”

You blinked, still processing what just happened, but you nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

The others watched as you slid out of the booth, your gaze flicking toward the bar. Bucky stood there now with Sam and Steve, both of whom were leaning in, their expressions serious as they talked to him. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his head tilted down like he was bracing himself.

You turned away and followed Dean outside.

The cool night air hit you, a stark contrast to the warmth and chaos inside. Dean led you a few steps away from the entrance, giving you both a semblance of privacy. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes soft but resolute as he turned to face you.

“Look,” he began, his tone gentle. “You’re incredible. You’re smart, funny, beautiful—everything any guy could want.”

Your heart sank at the way his voice carried a finality you weren’t ready for. “Dean—”

He shook his head, giving you a small, sad smile. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want drama. I don’t want fights and complications. And as much as I like you, I can’t ignore what I saw tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, though deep down, you already knew.

Dean’s eyes searched yours, his voice soft but firm. “You and Bucky. Whatever it is between you two… it’s not going away. I can see it in the way he looks at you. Hell, I can see it in the way you look at him, even if you don’t realize it.”

Your breath hitched, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to surface. “Dean, I—”

He shook his head again, this time with a sad chuckle. “It’s okay. I get it. But I can’t be someone’s second choice—not when I’m putting them first.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and unyielding. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. What could you say? He was right, and deep down, you both knew it.

Dean reached out, his hand gentle as he cupped your cheek. “You deserve to figure out what you really want without me in the middle of it.”

You nodded, the tears finally spilling over. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled softly, leaning in to place a tender kiss on your forehead. “Don’t be. I’m glad we met.” He stepped back, his hand slipping away. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You nodded, unable to speak as he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing down the street.

You stood outside for a moment, trying to collect yourself. When you finally re-entered the bar, the weight of Dean’s words still lingered heavily on your heart. The noise hit you again, but all you could focus on was the booth where your friends sat. Natasha and Wanda were deep in conversation, their eyes occasionally darting toward you.

Sam and Steve were still by the bar with Bucky. Sam’s hands were on Bucky’s shoulders, clearly trying to talk him down, while Steve glanced toward you, his expression unreadable.

Your legs felt like lead as you walked back toward the booth, the reality of the night sinking in.

This wasn’t just about Dean leaving. This was about everything that had been building for years. And now, it was all unraveling.

You returned to the table with heavy steps, the weight of the night pressing down on you. Everyone’s conversation fell silent as you approached. Without a word, you sat down, grabbing your nearly empty glass and downing the last of it. Then, you reached for the shot in front of you and knocked it back too, the burn barely registering.

The table was tense, eyes flicking between you and Bucky, who had just returned from the bar. His jaw was set, his arms crossed as he leaned against the booth, avoiding your gaze.

But you weren’t done. You grabbed Steve’s half-finished drink and swallowed it in one go, slamming the empty glass on the table. The tears started to well up, and you didn’t care who saw anymore.

Finally, you turned to Bucky, your voice shaking but steady. “How could you do this to me?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to yours, wide with sadness and guilt, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” Your voice rose, breaking slightly as the tears began to stream down your face. “Why do you keep hurting me? For what, Bucky?! What do you get out of it?”

“Doll, I—” Bucky started, his voice low, but you cut him off.

“No! Don’t ‘doll’ me. I don’t get it! I don’t get you! You’re supposed to be my best friend, the person I can trust, but all you do is make me feel like this!” You gestured at your tear-streaked face, your chest heaving with the weight of your emotions. “And I can’t do this anymore. I can’t feel like this anymore!”

Bucky’s face was a mixture of hurt and panic, his mouth opening as if to say something, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat.

You stood abruptly, grabbing your bag, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m done, Bucky.” Your voice dropped to a near whisper, broken and raw. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Without giving him the chance to respond, you turned and stormed out of the bar, ignoring the concerned voices of your friends behind you. Natasha called your name, and you heard Sam mutter a curse under his breath, but none of it mattered. You pushed past the door and into the cool night air, the weight of everything crashing down on you as you kept walking, your tears blurring the city lights around you

[aquaticmercy]

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years). 

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.  

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes. 

The former Winter Soldier. 

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected. 

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.  

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.  

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities. 

Now, he was drawn to the past. 

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of. 

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings. 

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory. 

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought. 

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time. 

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer. 

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.  

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop. 

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it. 

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare. 

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.  

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d  missed it—  its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.  

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.” 

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”  

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.  

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”  

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”  

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer. 

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.  

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.  

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”  

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. 

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.  

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.  

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.” 

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.  

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”  

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.  

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.  

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.  

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.  

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.  

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.  

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.  

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.  

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.  

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.  

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.  

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”  

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.  

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.  

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery. 

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”  

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”  

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”  

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”  

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”  

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.  

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?” 

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly. 

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”  

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”  

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”  

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”  

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”  

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”  

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”  

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.  

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”  

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”  

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed. 

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch. 

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”  

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.  

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”  

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.  

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.  

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”  

Shit.

He was right.  

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.  

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.  

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.  

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.  

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.  

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.  

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.  

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire. 

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears. 

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow. 

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp. 

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone. 

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals. 

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.

[thesamimarie]

THE HAIR! THE BEARD! FUUUCK

~ Good Morning America ~

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love That Burns ~ 35

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 3,090ish

Summary: You and Logan fight to save Mariko.

Warnings: wounds, fighting, near death experiences

Notes: I have loved all the reactions I've received! Please keep them coming. They all mean so much to me! This is the last chapter before we start on the two different endings! Ending 1 will come out before ending 2. Also, before the ending 1 starts coming out, I'm going to post the one-shot for this series about their everyday lives from the ten year gap.

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! 

You gasped as you woke up naked on the medical bed you had died on. Looking around, you could tell that you were alone. Meaning that Logan had followed through with going to save Mariko, which was what you had asked of him. You were honestly surprised that you had risen from the dead again, but you couldn't waste any more time. You needed to get to Logan.

You quickly found some clothes to wear and the location of Yashida’s birthplace. Thankfully, rich people always had a few cars lying around, and you were off. Racing to get to Logan before he did anything incredibly stupid.

~~~

Logan’s anger was fueling him forward. He needed to rescue Mariko and finish off Dr. Green. He needed to get his revenge for you. When Logan arrived at the town, he was met with Harada, waiting in the streets for him. Logan could sense that there were others nearby, hiding in the shadows.

“I see you’ve come to fight,” Harada stated, coming towards Logan. “It’s pointless. You’re outnumbered. The Black Clan has protected the House of Yashida for 700 years.”

The Black Clan began emerging from the shadows, from the alleys and the rooftops.

“Is that all the men you brought?” Logan challenged. “I’m going to get to Mariko.”

“We are grateful for your protection of Mariko. But there is one more sacrifice you must make for her family.”

“Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”

Harada yelled, and the fighting began. It didn’t take long for the other Black Clan members to jump down and join, with more continuing to appear on the rooftops. Hard ordered them to begin firing arrows as Logan started to run through the streets. Logan got halfway through town before the arrows began to have heavy wires attached. Logan grunted as he tried to continue on despite the resistance of the wires. He groaned as a poisoned arrow hit the middle of his back. His vision began to blur, but Logan continued to move forward. The Black Clan continued to shoot wired arrows into his back until Logan collapsed face-first into the snow.

~~~

You followed the tracks of a fight in the snow once you reached the town. Your heart clenched at the sight of the clear marks of someone being dragged. You knew it had to be Logan. You continued to follow the tracks, slipping into the large house on the hill. With your powers fully restored, it was easy to take down the Black Clan members in your way. Eventually, you reached the center of the building, revealing to be a large, open lab spanning the whole building. 

Glancing down, you saw Logan locked up in some machine that kept his hands facing outward. You could see him moving slightly and groaning like he was waking up. With a sudden tug, you could see Logan trying to free himself. Slowly and quietly, you began to sneak down.

“Stand back," Dr. Green ordered the nearby Black Clan members as she waltzed up. “There is no need.”

“Where’s Mariko?” Logan demanded. “Where is she?”

“Are you pinning for someone who is not your wife? For shame. Where is your wife anyway?” Logan simply growled. “Did she not make it? Too weak?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Dr. Green smirked before looking away at the giant samurai nearby. “Impressive, no? He is made of adamantium, just like you.” Logan continued to try to break free. “Oh, Logan, you know what, I get it. You’re frustrated.” 

She pressed some buttons, moving the machine that Logan was stuck in forward. The machine pulled his arms forward, away from his body. Logan kept heaving breaths as the machine kept him still, drilling into him and inflicting pain.

“I know Mariko is here,” Logan panted. “I want to see her.”

"You want answers,” Dr. Green stated.

“Yes, I want answers!”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could say more, but I was hired in part for my discretion.” Dr. Green leaned forward, up against the machine, taunting Logan. 

“I’m sure you were."

“That and a certain talent for combining biochemistry and metaphysics. High-grade toxins are my specialty. It helps to be genetically immune to every poison known to man, as I am. And immune to the toxin of man himself… as I am.”

“I’ll tell you what, you twisted mutant bitch, why don’t you open these bracelets, and we'll see who’s made of what?” Logan released his claws. Almost as soon as he did, the machine clamped down further around his fists, preventing his claws from retracting.

“The claws,” Dr. Green smiled. "Now we can begin. The suppressant bug you found inside of you and your wife was mine. You took it out on your own. I didn’t see that coming. Did you take your wife's out, too? Is that why she’s not here?”

“You don’t deserve to talk about her!”

“You are strong. You have courage. Real courage. But that won’t help much now.”

The giant metal samurai ripped itself free from the wires it was connected to. It stomped over to Logan, going around him, before stopping in front. You arrived on the same floor they were on in time to see the giant samurai pull a huge sword out and line it up with Logan’s claws. Your eyes widened as you noticed the sword heat up as it lifted. You rushed over and threw yourself between Logan and the samurai.

“Stop!” You shouted. 

The samurai lost its concentration, hitting the back of the machine Logan was in, throwing you, Logan, and Dr. Green around while the samurai fell back. Logan grunted as he landed on his knees.

“Y/N!” He yelled.

You looked up and over at him, shooting him a smile. “Hey, handsome,” you breathed out. “Miss me?”

Logan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, he noticed the samurai getting back up. Slamming the leftover wrist clamp against the stairs, it came clattering off. He ran over to you and grabbed your hand, tugging you up harshly to stumble against his chest. His lips quickly captured yours for a brief kiss.

“You gotta stop doing that, sweetheart,” he whispered. 

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, honey,” you replied with a smirk.

He smirked back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” The samurai stomping closer caused Logan to start to drag you in the opposite direction. “Run! Go!”

You and Logan ran side-by-side. You noticed Dr. Green rushing to cut you off. You threw your hands out, launching her over the railing and down a few floors in a ball of flames. Harada and Mariko rushed out of a room a few floors up.

“Go!” Logan urged, waving them off. “Run!”

The two of you began running down the stairs. The giant samurai jumped down to the level you had reached. Logan let out a roar as he flung himself at the samurai, causing himself and the samurai to fall down a few levels.

“Logan!” You screamed, looking over the railing to see him squaring up with the samurai. 

You spun around and tried to take the stairs two at a time to get to Logan. You could hear him groaning, straining to keep the samurai’s sword still as he used his claws as a shield. You reached the floor in time to see the samurai pull out a second sword that was quickly heating up. Using the railing, you launched yourself onto the back of the samurai and took hold of the heated sword with one of your hands. You focused on heating the sword up further, causing it to begin to lose its shape. It dropped the melting sword and reached back. It grabbed you and threw you over the railing.

“Y/N!” Logan roared.

You cried out in pain as you harshly landed a few floors down. You could hear Logan and the samurai fighting for a few moments before you heard a thud close by. Logan was quickly kneeling beside you, checking you over.

“Are you okay?” He asked, eyes still frantically searching you over. He carefully helped you sit up.

“Honestly, I’m ready to go home,” you responded.

He let out a hearty chuckle. “Me, too, darling.”

The samurai dropped down onto the level the two of you were on. Logan pulled you up and dragged you over to the electrical boxes. Using his claws, he ruined the boxes, turning off most of the lights in the building. You and Logan quietly hid behind nearby posts as the samurai searched for the two of you. The samurai passed the two of you, allowing Logan to jump on its back and retrieve another sword it had. 

“Y/N!” Logan shouted. 

He tossed you the sword, and you caught it. Holding it with both hands, you began to heat it up. The samurai spun around, kicking Logan down, allowing you to cut the head off the samurai. Logan launched himself at the samurai again, forcing him and the metal monster down to the bottom floor. The samurai slammed against the wall, breaking a hole into it that Logan was launched through.

“Logan!” You yelled.

You ran down the flights of stairs as Logan climbed back into the building. You dropped to your knees in front of him, the two of you quickly wrapping your arms around each other. In a blink of an eye, the samurai grabbed your ankles and tore you from Logan’s grasp.

“No!” Logan shouted, hands barely brushing against your arms as you’re torn out of reach.

The samurai spun you around and grasped onto your hands. The metal clamped against your wrists, and three drills from each of the metal hands appeared and began drilling into your fists, right into your bones. You screamed out in pain.

“Let her go!” Logan demanded.

The middle of the samurai opened up to reveal Yashida.

“Logan-san,” he greeted. “Don't look so shocked. With you at my side, I survived Nagasaki. Surely, I could survive this.” You let out another scream as the drills pushed further into you. “It’s alright. It won’t take long.”

“What are you doing to her?!” Logan didn't know what move to make without hurting you.

“Dr. Green and I have been waiting. It’s only this armor that's kept me alive. We built it to make me strong so I can take what you would not give. And transfer your unwanted healing to my body. It’s only by mere coincidence that your wife could also provide what you would not give. My legacy must be preserved. Your mistake was to believe that a life without end can have no meaning. It is the only life that can.”

Logan was watching as the life slowly drained from your body. You were growing older while Yashida was growing younger. He couldn’t get his eyes to look away from you. He couldn’t force himself to move.

“Logan!” Yukio shouted, throwing one of the large swords in his direction.

Logan caught it, gripping it with both hands, causing it to heat up. He stood up and, with a shout, threw the sword into Yashida’s head. The metal hands retracted the drills and let you go. Logan caught you before you could collapse onto the ground. Yashida stumbled back, gasping for breath, before falling out of the building to his death.

“Sweetheart,” Logan shook you, trying to get you to gain consciousness. “Wake up… I really can’t handle this again… I need you to wake up.” Yukio slowly came over, watching the scene. “Come on, honey.” 

The only hope Logan had was the fact that you were still breathing. You had to wake up. Yukio placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“We need to get her some medical attention,” Yukio said.

Logan nodded, hoisting you further up into his arms before standing up. Yukio led the way out, where Mariko and Harada were waiting safely.

“Logan! Y/N!” Mariko exclaimed, rushing towards Logan. “Oh my gosh!” Mariko looked you over, immediately seeing your increase in age. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Logan pulled you closer. “Too dangerous.”

“Logan, I have my grandfather’s business under my control. I have resources. The two of you have helped me so much. Please let me return the favor.”

“Mariko can help,” Harada agreed.

Logan scoffed. “Not really caring for your word right now, bub,” he muttered.

“Trust me,” Mariko pressed. “I won’t let any happen to either of you anymore.”

~~~

Logan snarled at anyone who tried to pry you from his arms the moment Mariko had the group escorted to a private wing of a nearby hospital. Yukio and Mariko had to work together to coax him into setting you on the bed. He insisted on staying near you the entire time. 

The doctor Mariko had called in specialized in mutants, giving Logan hope and making him even more cautious. Logan’s eyes created a rotation going from your rising chest, your face, to the monitors and back. He wanted to know everything and not miss a second of anything. He stood on the edge of every room you were brought into, like a constant guarding shadow. Mariko and Yukio took turns trying to get Logan to rest, but he couldn’t leave you.

It took a few hours for the doctor to get any results from the tests they had run. The doctor informed the group that you were slowly healing and de-aging. They said that you’d be fine in a day or two and would most likely sleep the entire time. The doctor encouraged the group to keep you there until you woke up, and Logan reluctantly agreed. 

“There's one other thing,” the doctor added, after updating the group. “I talked to Dr. McCoy on the phone, and he informed me of the incident that happened ten years ago when Y/N returned from the dead like a Phoenix.”

“What about it?” Logan asked. 

“Was that the only time?”

“No. She did it about a day ago.”

“That would explain what we saw in the blood we took.”

Logan took a protective step closer. “What did you see, doc?”

“Mr. Howlett, your wife is a powerful mutant, but when she rises from the dead like that, it sucks away at some of her abilities. The tests we ran and compared to previous tests that Dr. McCoy had run, show that her mutation is slowly decaying.”

“Are you saying that she’s dying?”

“Not exactly. She could still live another hundred years as long as she is careful. The more she rises from the dead, the faster her mutation will decay, meaning the faster—“

“She’ll die… Can she use the other parts of her mutant?”

“Of course. But I would be wary of bringing her into any more life-threatening situations. I have sent our findings to Dr. McCoy for his records, and so that he can keep track of Y/N himself.”

Logan clenched his jaw as he stared at you, processing the information. Mariko stepped forward and placed a hand on Logan’s back.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mariko said.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “I’ll be around if there’s anything you need.” 

The doctor left as Logan walked over to your bedside. You were slowly returning to the woman he knew. But, even if you hadn’t, Logan would have loved you anyway.

“I need to take her home,” Logan murmured.

“I’ll have the plane ready for as soon as she wakes,” Mariko said.

“No,” Logan shook his head. “I need to get her home now.”

“Logan—“

“I appreciate what you’ve done. But it’s my duty to take care of her and the best way I can manage that is at home.”

“If you’re sure.” Logan nodded, causing Mariko to sigh. “I’ll go make the calls.”

Mariko left to go to as she said. Logan gently took your hand and lifted it up, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“We’re going home, sweetheart,” Logan whispered. “And we’ll never leave again.”

~~~

You needed to move, but you were trapped. The familiar weight of Logan’s arms around your waist was comforting, with his head resting on your shoulder. But you felt like you hadn’t moved in days; your muscles were stiff. As you slowly opened your eyes, you quickly realized that you were no longer in Japan. You were home. Logan’s head was on your shoulder, with his arms around you, keeping you against his bare chest. You lifted your arm and began scratching Logan’s arm. He groaned as he began to wake.

“Sweetheart?” He mumbled into your neck.

“It’s me,” you whispered.

Logan’s head lifted to fully look at you as his arms tightened around you. “You have to stop worrying me… I can’t take anymore.”

“I'm sorry. I’ll try hard not to.” Logan leaned down and kissed you softly. “When did we get home?”

“Last night. The doctor cleared you, and I wanted you home.”

You reached up and cupped Logan’s cheek. You could tell that the concern was still lingering. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I know, darling.” Logan grabbed your wrist and turned his head to kiss the palm of his hand. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Logan then explained what the doctor had found out about your ability to rise from the dead. You could feel Logan trembling as he spoke, like he was finally letting all his concerns out. Once he was finished, you pulled him to lay on top of you. Logan was careful not to fully put his whole weight on you but appreciated you holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you quietly promised Logan.

“No more danger,” Logan muttered. “No more missions.” He pulled back enough to allow your eyes to meet. “I need you safe. I need you here.”

“I won’t promise that unless you can promise the same thing… I can't lose you either.”

“I’m not the one with the habit of dying.”

“I promise I don't try to.”

“I know, sweetheart… Alright, no missions. No danger. For either of us.” He leaned down and gave you a brief kiss. “I never asked, how are you feeling?”

You smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll let you know if it changes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I do have one thing, though.”

“Anything.”

“Can we stay in bed all day?”

Logan gave a hardy laugh as he wrapped you in his arms and rolled over so you were on top of him. “Sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”

Ending 1 next chapter >

Ending 2 next chapter >

[regardstosoulandromance]

not a sound on the city streets; just the beat of my heart

“I’m Agatha, by the way,” said the storybook lady with a smile that made Rio’s heart twist in a way not unpleasant, “This is my shop.”

Rio’s smile froze on her face, “Rio. Just call me Rio.” Of course the hot book store witch was the owner of Shop Around the Corner.

read chapter two of an agathario you’ve got mail au here on ao3

[ao3feed-moonknight]

The biggest liar

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/EO4lGMh by Haxong David is a normal fourteen year old boy who just so happens to love the interactive Moon Knight TV series and the follow-up virtual reality action/life simulation game of the same name. In this game he can take on the role as one of the alters of the Moon Knight System and guide his favourite boys through the ups and downs of their life. His best friend Jake sometimes joins him in multiplayer mode. Sometimes they fight thugs and muggers and whoever else Khonshu sent them after. Mostly though David just watches his two boys, making sure they're alright, switching them out if necessary, making sure Marc doesn't kill them and making doubly sure nobody else learns about their DID, or about David and Jake themselves. Everything's fine until Steven starts to date one Maybelle Parker, David befriends her nephew Peter, Marc decides to go to marriage counselling, New York's local hero Spider-Man starts harassing Moon Knight and Khonshu keeps complaining about an impending zombie apocalypse that'll come unless Jake retrieves another Egyptian trinket. Oh yeah, and Jake has been acting really weird lately - he's starting to confuse reality with TV. It's almost like he believes he is a game character himself and not a real person! Words: 1363, Chapters: 1/22, Language: English Series: Part 2 of David and his boys Fandoms: Moon Knight (TV 2022), Spider-Man - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Multi Characters: Marc Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel), Jake Lockley, Layla El-Faouly, Peter Parker, Aunt May Parker (Marvel), Original Male Character(s), Khonshu (Marvel), Reader, Anubis (ENNEAD) Relationships: Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Steven Grant/May Parker Additional Tags: Steven Grant and Jake Lockley and Marc Spector Share a Body, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Delusions, Everyone Has Issues, Attempted Suicide, Past Child Abuse, Reader is a fourth alter, Unreliable Narrator, I'm pants at writing accents, Canon Compliant, Post-Moon Knight (TV 2022) Season 01, mcu - Freeform, everybody needs a hug, Claustrophobia, Social Anxiety, technically polyamory, It's just Marc and Steven having different girlfriends though, Canon-Typical Violence read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/EO4lGMh

[needmorereading]

I LOVED THIS SO MUCH 😍😍

SOO much fluff with my random thoughts. We love a meet cute featuring a sweet uncle Bucky. Imagine working at a daycare, surrounded by the cutest little ones everyday. You know you shouldn't have favourites but you can't help but fall especially in love with three year old Jamie and his mop of brown hair, his sweet blue eyes absolutely stealing your heart. He'd recently been babbling and talking your ear off about getting to stay at his Uncle's house since his parents were going away on vacation.

"We have the same name" He stated proudly while mushing up some playdoh between his tiny fingers, "Mama said I gets to stay with him for two whole weeks"

"I hope you have the best time, bub" You smile at his excited ramblings, giving his hair a ruffle before making your way to cut up some fruit for snack time.

-

You arrived at the daycare center just in time for their lunch for the afternoon shift, setting your things down and getting to work grabbing napkins and laying them on the tables. The littles ones all lined up to wash their hands before getting their lunch boxes out, most quite self-sufficient with opening their containers without assistance.

You heard a frustrated grunt, looking over your shoulder to find a very determined Jamie with his brows knitted together attempting to open his lunch to no avail. He finally gave up, toddling over to you, the growl of his belly making a clear statement.

He was hungry.

"Can you open this please?" He holds his thermos with two hands, smiling when you take it from him, patiently waiting for you to open it. You try to unscrew the lid, frowning when it doesn't budge even when you try with all your might. You tie a rubber band around the top to give it some grip but it stays locked in place, unmoving after you ran it under hot water and ridiculing you when you tried to pry it open with a butter knife.

"What is your uncle, a super soldier?" You huffed, trying to open the little lunch thermos one more time but there was no point; it was sealed shut. "I don't think I can open this for you, bub, he closed it extra tight"

"Uncle Jamie made me mac and cheese" his little face melted into a sad pout, his belly rumbling again.

"I'm sorry baby, how about sharing half a grilled cheese with me, hm?" You cooed, toasting your own lunch in the panini press and putting it on a plate for him. "We need the avengers to open this, let's see if uncle Jamie can open this when he picks you up"

He happily nibbled on the sandwich, licking up the crumbs, putting away his thermos and making his way over to play with some blocks. When it was hometime, you got everyone ready, sending them on their way while Jamie remained, waiting patiently for his uncle to arrive while sitting on the playground, hugging onto his stuffy in the meantime.

"Ms. y/n, Uncle Jamie is here!" He jumped up in excitement hearing the rumble of a motorbike pull up outside, running to the fence, waving over to him.

"Let's see this Uncle Jamie of yours" You said with an amused expression, wondering who managed to close a lunch lid so tightly. His uncle certainly wasn't what you imagined, watching a tall, broad man parking his bike. He was dressed in all black, parking the bike and pulling his helmet off, letting it rest on one of the handle, running his hand through his short chestnut locks, a toothy grin spreading on his face.

There was no way.

"Oh my God-

"Uncle Jamie!!" The little one ran off to his uncle, jumping into his arms, hugging him with his entire body. The super soldier grinned, catching him with ease, blowing a raspberry against his cheeks making him squeal and sending him into a fit of giggles.

"Hey little man" He chuckled, cradling his nephew and giving him a few extra cuddles before setting him back down and taking his backpack from him. You'd wondered what the hell was in his little backpack which was strangely heavy, gasping when you saw him pull out a tiny leather jacket.

"Arms up, buddy" Jamie lifted his arms, letting his uncle secure the jacket on him.

"He didn't eat his lunch, we couldn't get the lid open" You handed him the thermos with an apologetic look, "He had a grilled cheese instead, I hope that's okay"

"Sorry, doll" Bucky smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, "Guess I didn't realize how tightly I closed it" He took it from your hand, opening it up with ease, steam still billowing from the contained from when he'd heated it up that morning.

"He didn't tell me his Uncle was the very Sergeant James Barnes" You ignored the heat that crept up on your cheeks, an equal blush spreading across Bucky's. "He's been talking about you all week"

"He's been talking about you too" Bucky said with an edge of a flirty tone to his voice, his nephew had said just about everything there was to know about you but the little runt left out just how pretty you were. How sweet. Super cute.

Actually that was a lie, he definitely went on about how pretty you were.

It would appear he had more in common with the three year old than he thought; they both had an apparent crush on you.

Get it together Barnes, you just met her.

"He's a little rascal" Bucky chuckled, looking over his shoulder to find his nephew impatiently wiggling, waiting for a ride, "We're actually just around the block so not a long ride but he loves it" Bucky chuckled as he strapped Jamie into the sidecar, plopping a tiny helmet onto his head.

"Bye Ms. y/n!! See you tomoowo!!" Jamie waved making you smile at how adorable he was, his voice muffled in the helmet.

"Bye baby, see you tomorrow!" You waved back, your breath hitching in your throat when you met the other set of sparkling blue eyes peering at you.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow, Ms. y/n" Bucky said with a wink making your stomach flip, giving you a cheeky smirk before pulling the visor down.

You couldn't wait for tomorrow to come.

-

Okay imagine after two weeks of little parking lot interactions he obviously has to ask you out on a date. Then another. Another. Soon, little Jamie is excited to see you having sleepovers at Uncle Jamies!! He's bragging to all his friends about how he gets to see Ms. Y/n all the time.

Then you're over for Christmas! And New Years! Now you live with Uncle Jamie and it's the best thing ever! And obviously, little Jamie is the ring bearer at the wedding. A year or two later, he finds out he's going to have a baby cousin to play with.

Just an idea.

[ervotica]

what do we think of a side blog for dark fics? like the good old days? probably predominantly marvel + seb stan + chris evans fics !! need a blog dedicated to marvel again methinks

[thesamimarie]

I need all the marvel and star wars fanfic girlies to come flood my discord server, I want to crawl into my cave of thirsting over our marvel men while throwing damaged and emotionally unstable FMC at them https://discord.gg/A8bdYvHj

[needmorereading]

How is he always so dreamy? 😍

Knock You Down a Peg or Two

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.

Word Count: Over 1.5k

Warnings: Established relationship, violent threats (not against the reader), protective vibes, implied sexy times, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I'm in a mood, lovelies. We can consider this in the same universe as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes and Handsome and Beautiful. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky was no longer the Winter Soldier. He told himself every day he wasn't a cold killer anymore. He did his best to make amends and worked hard to clear his name. From time to time though, people pushed his buttons and got under his skin. You helped him brush it off. Their opinions didn't matter at the end of the day, only yours.

You mattered to him more than anything else. So, if someone bothers him, yeah, he could let it go. Someone upsetting you? He wouldn't stand for it.

Bucky's eyes narrowed as he spotted the little weasel sitting at the table in the break room alone. A few hours ago, you called him to vent about how this guy repeatedly tried to make you look bad in front of your superior during a meeting. It wasn’t the first time either. Your tears of frustration were obvious by your tone on the other end, though you tried to hide them. You worked hard, harder than anyone else he knew, and you took your job seriously.

He saw red when he heard you sniffle and it was the only color he had seen since then.

“Give me his name.”

“Bucky, no,” you had argued. “The guy’s a prick and I just needed to vent, so you don’t-”

“Please, baby,” he whispered, knowing full well you could handle yourself, but you were his wife and someone took joy out of your day. Not just that, they made you cry. He took this personally and he wanted to defend you. “Just give me his name so I can take care of it.”

You softly gave him the name, and he made it a priority to find the asshole. It didn’t take him long. No one even questioned why he was asking. It must’ve been his “murder strut” and glare. You once said it could break even the strongest of people.

He headed toward the empty chair beside the agent, careful not to make a sound. His stealth assisted with that. Once he reached the chair though, he made it a point to scrap the chair across the floor to get the prick's attention. The annoyance in his eyes quickly shifted to fear when he realized who he was looking at.

Good. He hoped he pissed his pants.

He made a show of slipping off his leather jacket before taking a seat, making sure the agent got a good look at his metal arm. He also made a show of getting one of his knives out, one you gifted him. “I think we can skip the introductions since you know who I am and I really don't give a shit who you are,” he began, his voice low as he twirled the knife between his fingers. “But I understand you know my wife and, well, she’s the reason I’m here.”

The guy blinked when Bucky made eye contact, the blade still expertly weaving in his hand. “S-Sure. Everyone knows your wife.”

Bucky smiled softly, taking a second to glance at his wedding band. “I’m usually not one to brag, but I can’t help it when it comes to her. She works hard and deserves all the praise she gets, but she’s still humble. Appreciative. Loyal,” he boasted, still smiling before he glared again. “She’d never throw anyone under the bus, especially in front of a superior.”

The little weasel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. He seemed to notice for the first time that they were the only two people there. “Look, I don’t know what your wife said, but-”

Bucky pointed the blade at him. “I would think very carefully about what comes out of your mouth next,” he snarled, his eyes as cold as ice.

There was a beat of silence as the guy squirmed in his seat and averted his gaze. Bucky wished you were there to see it. And Steve and Sam. “I may have run my mouth a bit. I just wanted to knock her down a peg or two, you know? She keeps getting promoted and…” he swallowed when Bucky’s eyes narrowed to slits. If this fucker even thought about implying that you slept your way to get where you were today, he may actually cut his throat. “Please, don't kill me.”

The silence after that statement may have been uncomfortable for some, but Bucky didn’t break a sweat. No, he was just thinking of all the different ways he could put him in the hospital for even thinking he had a right to put you down. Putting the knife away, he slowly got to his feet. “Get up,” he said quietly, flexing his hands in intimidation.

“Fuck.” The man nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, putting his hands out in front of him. “I’ll apologize to her first thing tomorrow, I swear.”

“You think that makes up for it? And are you sorry for trying to make her look bad or are you sorry that you’re under my radar now?” Bucky’s stare remained steady as he knocked his chair out of the way, the piece of furniture nearly splintering when it hit the wall. “Everyone knows what I'm capable of, but do you know what happens to people who upset. My. Wife?”

Bucky refused to say that you cried. The asshole might take that as a sign of victory and he wouldn’t give him any sort of win. He didn’t deserve it. He didn't deserve to be in the same space as you.

The guy’s mouth parted as he took a few steps back on shaky legs. “I-It won’t happen again! I swear!”

“No, it won't, but how about I cut your tongue out so you can’t run your mouth again? Maybe pull out your teeth, too?” Bucky knocked the table away next as he advanced. “Or how about your eyes so you won’t look at her either. Hell, I’ll settle for taking your arm. We’ll match.”

The man let out what sounded like a whimper, his teeth nearly chattering from his fear. Scaring people had given him nightmares, haunted him, but it fueled his fire when he terrified anyone in your honor. “I won’t bother her ever again! I’ll tell my boss she deserves another promotion! I'll transfer! You have my word! I’m sorry!”

Bucky laughed after a moment, a bitter, chilling sound before he held up a hand. “I’m just fucking with you.”

His eyes were still wide with fear. “W… What?”

“I was just trying to scare you a little. You should see the look on your face,” Bucky chuckled again, lightly smacking the guy’s cheek. “Listen, you don’t have to transfer and I’m not going to torture you. Just apologize to my girl and we’re good, okay?”

“Okay.” He let out a breath and chuckled, too. “You really won’t torture me?”

“No, I won’t,” he grinned, grabbing his shoulders. “But I will knock you down a peg or two.”

The prick didn’t see the headbutt coming, but he felt it before he hit the ground. Bucky knew he’d feel it in the morning, too. He got off lucky.

“You know, after you apologize to my wife, I hope you do stay so you can see her continue to thrive,” Bucky toed the guy’s body with his boot. “And speaking of, I need to go buy her some flowers, chocolate, and wine. She deserves it.”

Grabbing his jacket from the broken chair across the room and brushing it off, he whistled as he left the room. He waited until he was a good distance away to call. You picked up on the second ring.

“Hey.” You sounded much better than you did earlier. “So, what’s the damage?”

“Hey, baby,” he smiled. “I headbutted the prick. And before you ask, my head feels great.”

The former assassin may get suspended for that and damaging the table and chair, but he doubted the asshole would have the balls to speak up about what happened.

“Bucky…” you sighed. You were probably pinching the bridge of your nose. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’re gonna let me eat you for dessert when I get home,” he smirked. Not that he needed an excuse to dive between your legs, but he'd take any chance he had. “Figure I'll give you at least two orgasms before dinner.”

“Is that right, Mr. Barnes?”

“That is right, Mrs. Barnes.”

The sound of your giggle spread warmth through his chest. Your happiness was his happiness. “Better not keep me waiting,” you teased, pausing for a beat. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said. You always stuck up for him without question.

“Love you.”

His heart swelled more. “Love you, too.”

He’d have some more explaining to do once he got home and would probably have to pay for the damage he caused. He was also sure that you were plotting the demise of the man’s career and would tell him that he didn’t need to do anything, but he wanted to. He was no longer the Winter Soldier.

But he was your husband and he’d defend you with his life, no matter what.

Violence isn't the answer, but this is fanfiction and we all deserve a loving Bucky. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[valarmorghulisforeva]

Deadliest Assassin in the MCU doesn’t know who she is ⚔️

Crimson Sun

Elektra Natchios awoke to pain. Every nerve in her body screamed as waves lapped at her legs, the salty sting of the ocean seeping into her open wounds. She blinked against the brutal sun, disoriented and weak. Her blood mingled with the wet sand beneath her, forming dark stains that trailed to the surf.

She couldn’t remember how she had gotten there, only the faint echoes of violence—the metallic tang of gunfire, the searing heat of betrayal.

Footsteps approached.

Two men stood over her, their uniforms marking them as local police. Their laughter grated on her raw nerves, low and mocking.

“Looks like she didn’t make it far,” one said, nudging her side with the toe of his boot.

“She’s still alive,” the other murmured, crouching down. His hand brushed her bruised cheek, lingering too long. “Maybe we can help her… after we have some fun.”

Elektra’s heart pounded with fury and fear, but her body refused to move, her muscles locked in exhaustion. The man leaned closer, his hot breath a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.

Something snapped inside her.

With a sharp inhale, Elektra drove her thumb into his eye. He howled in agony, stumbling back as she ripped the rifle from his grip. Before his partner could react, she struck him across the jaw, the butt of the weapon cracking against bone. Pain blurred her vision, but adrenaline carried her forward.

The first man recovered, raising his own weapon. Elektra hurled herself at him, her body screaming in protest. Her fists, her knees, her very bones became weapons until he lay still. Blood spattered her skin, mingling with her own.

Breathing hard, she turned to the second officer, who tried to crawl away. With a cold fury, she kicked his weapon aside and drove his head into the sand.

“Who am i,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Where am i”, she muffles in her raspy breath.

She staggered to her feet and stumbled into the jungle, the dense foliage swallowing her battered figure whole.

---

The Jungle Sanctuary

Elektra woke to the gentle rays of sunlight slowly revealing through the cracks of the wooden doors.

She lay on a bed of woven mats, her wounds cleaned and dressed with earthy pastes that smelled faintly of mint and bark. The morning melody of the birds replaced the crashing waves.

A woman sat beside her, grinding herbs in a stone bowl. Her face was lined with years of wisdom, her dark eyes warm and steady. Elektra tried to speak, but her throat was dry, her words rasping like dead leaves.

The woman hushed her, placing a gentle hand on her forehead. A second figure entered—a young woman carrying a bowl of steaming water. They worked in quiet tandem, nursing her back to life with a tenderness that made Elektra’s throat ache in a different way.

Days passed. The tribe—small, reclusive, and deeply connected to the jungle—taught her the language of the earth. Leaves and roots became her medicine. Kindness became her salve. As her body healed, so did her mind, though it came with a cost.

The dreams began.

---

Dreams of a Strange City

They started gently, like whispers on the edge of her consciousness.

She saw a penthouse bathed in golden light, its sleek glass walls framing the Manhattan skyline. She was standing in the kitchen, barefoot on cold marble, slicing vegetables with a blade that moved like an extension of her hand.

Eric Killmonger leaned against the counter, watching her with a half-smile. The golden rings in his dreads caught the light, but it was his eyes that held her captive—warm, knowing, unyielding.

“You know, you’re wasted on this,” he teased, nodding at the knife in her hand.

She smirked, not looking up. “I could say the same about you.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the space between them. She let herself sink into it, into him.

They had been assassins, partners in both life and death. Their work was brutal, but their moments together were sacred—curling on the couch with the faint hum of jazz in the background as their bodies became one.

But even in dreams, peace was fleeting.

---

Skyfall

The warmth of the penthouse faded, replaced by the sterile hum of a private jet.

Elektra sat across from Eric, the tension between them palpable. Their prisoner—a high-profile target, bound and seething—sat between them, his eyes sharp with hate.

“This doesn’t feel right,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the hilt of the blade hidden beneath her jacket.

Eric shrugged, leaning back as if they weren’t flying toward their next storm. “We’re almost there habibti. Just another job.” He looked out the window as a lightning flashed.

It wasn’t like Eric to utter his sweet nickname for her outside of the confines of their bedroom.

The lightning flashed again and this time it struck the right wing of the jet, prompting Eric’s gun to hit the floor, and go off.

Elektra acts quick, but the prisoner was faster with the turbulence in his favor. He grabs the gun from the floor as Elektra lunges at him, and tries to restrain him.

The emergency exit has been blasted off by the gunshot and Eric is holding to a seat to prevent being pulled apart by the velocity of a jet in mid air with the door blown apart.

Eric uses all of his strength to get closer to Elektra and the prisoner and the gun they are toying with.

Another lightning strikes and this time Elektra and prisoner fumble closer to the edge of the exit.

Eric releases his cold grip and falls on top of the prisoner as he fights him off his partner in crime.

Elektra stands up and cracks her neck with her raven black hair flying uncontrollably and blending in with the night sky behind her.

Another lighting strikes and Eric looks up with a jolt in his chest. Elektra’s mane parts for a second and reveals her hazel green eyes. He can never get enough of staring into those starry eyes.

He almost lifted his hand out to part her hair fully as he would when they are at home with each other. In those moments of pure bliss where their body, mind, soul and spirit are tangled with each other. Each fighting for dominance and giving into submission at the same time.

BANG.

Elektra hears Eric screaming her name, as she drops into the void.

Her last sight is Eric crushing the prisoners skull with his bare hands as he chucks him out the same exit she fell out of.

---

Rebirth

Elektra woke gasping, her hands clutching at the air. The jungle was there to meet her—a reminder of where she was, and what she had lost.

The woman from the tribe sat beside her, wiping the sweat from her brow. She whispered soothing words Elektra didn’t understand, her touch grounding her in the present.

The memories didn’t fade this time. They burned, raw and relentless. Eric. The penthouse. The fallout on the plane. The life she had come to love and lost.

The tribe’s leader approached her one morning, their hands cradling an obsidian blade.

Elektra took the blade, its weight anchoring her trembling hands.

The leader informs her of a body that washed up on the shore, this one lifeless.

Elektra’s mind races through the unknown and images of a past she is only putting together through grainy images from her dreams and absolute nightmares

She whispers “Eric” as she clutches her chest.

THE END.

Interested in more?

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 15

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: unrequited love, angst, heartache...

A/N: A lot is said in this one lol not between bucky and her yet but you'll see lol. Also the flashbacks kinda tie into the chapters! The mike flashback will finish in the next chapter when her and bucky finally hash it out lmao

The city buzzed around you, but it all felt distant—like you were moving through a world that didn’t quite belong to you. Your feet carried you aimlessly, dodging crowds and cars, your mind swirling with everything you’d just said to Bucky. Everything he’d done. Everything you’d felt for so long but couldn’t say out loud until tonight.

Eventually, you found yourself in a quieter part of the city. The hum of traffic and voices softened, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional bark of a distant dog. You spotted a park bench under a flickering streetlight and sank onto it, your body heavy, your heart even heavier.

You sat there for a while, trying to steady your breathing, focusing on the cool air filling your lungs. In and out. In and out. But no matter how hard you tried, the tears wouldn’t stop. You wiped at them furiously, frustrated at how raw and exposed you felt.

You just don’t understand. Your brain can’t even begin to piece together how Bucky could do this. How have you been hurting him? You’ve been nothing but a great friend—loving him from the sidelines for so long. And now, when you finally have a chance at something outside of him, he crushes it.

A dark thought creeps in, twisting the knife further. Maybe, deep down, Bucky never truly was your friend. Maybe he secretly resents you because you could never do to him what he’s done to you. Maybe he hates you for making him feel something he can’t figure out how to handle.

But then another realization crashes over you, colder than the first. Have you been doing this to Steve the whole time? All these years, if what Bucky said is true—if Steve really is in love with you—oh god. Have you been breaking his heart, too?

The thought hits you like a freight train, leaving you breathless. Steve. You’ve been so consumed by your feelings for Bucky, by the endless cycle of longing and heartbreak, that you never stopped to consider the weight of your own actions. If what Bucky said was true, if Steve really had been in love with you all these years…

Your chest tightens as you think back to every lingering glance, every reassuring touch, every moment when Steve was there, steady and unwavering. He had always been your rock, the one person who could ground you when everything else fell apart. How many times had you leaned on him, venting about Bucky, crying on his shoulder, seeking comfort without a second thought?

And all the while, he was—what? Silently pining for you? Loving you in a way you never noticed because you were too busy looking at someone else?

The guilt settles in your stomach like a lead weight. What have I done to him?

You run a hand through your hair, your fingers trembling. Have I been doing to Steve exactly what Bucky’s doing to me? Leading him on, even if unintentionally? Letting him love you while you poured all your love into someone else?

It’s too much. Your thoughts spiral, memories flashing like scenes from a movie. Steve’s quiet smiles, the way he always showed up when you needed him, the way he seemed to know you better than anyone else. How could you have been so blind?

But then your mind snaps back to Bucky. Bucky. The thought of him twists the knife in your chest all over again. His words, his actions—they’re like a tangled web, one you can’t seem to escape. You replay the fight in your head, the way his blue eyes burned with frustration, with something deeper and more vulnerable hidden beneath the surface.

He said you hurt him. That you hurt Steve. That you think you’re the only one who’s been in pain. How could he say that to you?

But the worst part is, he wasn’t entirely wrong. You’ve been so consumed by your own heartbreak, by the years of loving Bucky in silence, that maybe you didn’t see the ways you’ve hurt the people around you. Maybe you were so focused on surviving your own pain that you ignored theirs.

Your tears blur your vision as you stare at the empty park in front of you. What if Bucky’s right? What if you’ve been selfish this whole time? What if, despite everything, you’ve been blind to the way your actions ripple through the lives of the people you care about most?

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and bury your face in your hands. The city feels impossibly big around you, like it could swallow you whole. The weight of your thoughts presses down on you, suffocating in its intensity.

But there’s one thought that refuses to let go: Why does it feel like everything you touch falls apart?

You’ve spent so many years loving Bucky, holding onto a hope that maybe, someday, he’d see you the way you see him. And now? Now you’re not even sure what any of it means anymore. The fight, the hurt, the years of unspoken feelings—they’re all crashing down around you, and you don’t know how to make sense of it.

And Steve. Sweet, dependable Steve. You think about the way he looked at you earlier, his eyes filled with something you now recognize as quiet resignation. How long has he been carrying that? How long has he been holding onto a love he knew you couldn’t return?

A fresh wave of tears threatens to spill over, but you blink them back, your hands clenching into fists. You’ve been selfish. Blind. And now it’s all unraveling.

The night stretches on, cold and unyielding, as you sit there, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your relationships. You feel like a puzzle with missing pieces, and you’re not sure how to put yourself back together. Or if you even can.

You didn’t even flinch when someone sat beside you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Because of course, it was Steve.

It was always Steve.

He didn’t say anything, just sat there, his broad frame a steady, comforting presence. You could feel his eyes on you, filled with quiet concern, but he didn’t push you to speak. He just waited.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally wiped at your cheeks one last time, sniffling softly as you turned to face him. The weight of everything Bucky had said still lingered, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“Is it true?”

Steve’s brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

You held his gaze, searching his face for any sign of denial. But he only looked confused until you asked again, this time without words. Just a look, one that carried all the weight of Bucky’s earlier confession.

Steve’s face softened, his shoulders sagging slightly as he let out a quiet sigh. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to deflect or change the subject. He just nodded, his voice low and steady.

“Yes.”

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. You blinked at him, trying to process what that single word meant, what it changed.

“How long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steve gave you a sad, almost apologetic smile. “Since high school,” he admitted. “Maybe even longer.”

Your heart ached, the weight of his words settling over you. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Steve looked down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “Because I saw how you looked at him. And as much as it hurt, I wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.” He paused, his voice softening further. “You’ve always been happiest when you’re with him.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. All the moments you’d shared with Steve over the years—the lingering glances, the quiet support, the unwavering presence—it all made sense now. “Steve…”

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. “I’m not telling you this to make things harder. I just… I wanted you to know the truth. You deserve that much.”

The tears threatened to fall again, but you swallowed them back. “You’re such a good friend, Steve,” you whispered.

He nodded, his smile bittersweet. “Yeah. I’ll always be that, no matter what.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while longer, the weight of the conversation settling between you. But despite the heaviness, there was a sense of clarity—a new understanding of the bond you shared.

Steve sat quietly beside you, the weight of your conversation pressing heavily between you. The hum of the city seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets. After a long stretch of silence, he took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I ask you something?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his cautious gaze. “Yeah, of course” you said softly.

Steve hesitated, his jaw tightening as if he was bracing himself. “Do you think… you could ever love me? More than a friend, I mean?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. You froze, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. It wasn’t unexpected, not after everything Bucky had said and the way Steve had just confessed his feelings. But hearing it out loud was different. It made it real.

For a moment, you didn’t answer, your mind racing. You thought back to all the times Steve had been there for you, all the quiet moments you’d shared, the safety and comfort he provided. You thought about how easy it would be to fall for him—to love someone as steady and kind as Steve.

And maybe… maybe you could have. Before the last couple of weeks, before everything with Bucky had come to a head. There was a time when things weren’t so complicated, and you might have let yourself feel more for Steve. But now?

Now your heart was a tangled mess of longing and pain, and you couldn’t see past Bucky.

You exhaled shakily, your voice breaking. “I don’t think I can,” you admitted, tears pricking at your eyes. “Not now. Maybe… maybe once, I could have. But everything’s different now.”

Steve’s face didn’t change much, but the way his shoulders sagged slightly told you he’d braced himself for this. “I see,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with sadness.

Your chest tightened painfully. “I’m sorry, Steve. You have no idea how much I wish I could. It would make everything so much easier.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you buried your face in your hands. “You deserve so much better than this, better than me,” you choked out. “You deserve someone who can give you their whole heart.”

Steve reached out instinctively, his hand hovering near your shoulder. “Hey, don’t—”

But you pulled away, shaking your head. “Please don’t, Steve. I can’t let you do that,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t let you be the one to pick me up when I’m falling apart. Not like this.”

His hand dropped, and he swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he said, his voice low. “I get it.”

You both sat in silence again, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on you. Steve was always the one who stayed, the one who tried to make everything okay. But now, you’d drawn a line, and it felt like a small piece of your heart broke just from doing it.

“I’ll still be here,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Whenever you’re ready, however you need me. That doesn’t change.”

You nodded, the tears still falling. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything. You’ve always been too good to me, i've never deserved this, i never deserved you”

Steve gave you a small, bittersweet smile, “You deserve the world” and you could see the depth of his love in his eyes. Even now, even when it hurt, he was still there. And that was what made it all so much harder.

Steve sat beside you, silent, the weight of your shared history and unspoken feelings hanging heavily in the cool night air. You’d both said so much, yet there was still an ache between you, a lingering sense that this moment wasn’t finished.

After a few moments, Steve reached into his jacket pocket, his hand hesitating before he pulled out a small, familiar object. The soft glow of the nearby street lights reflected off the delicate gold of the locket, the one you’d seen weeks ago at the farmers market, the one that reminded you so much of the one your mother gave you, and hers before that, the one you carelessly lost at that stupid party. He turned it over in his fingers for a moment, his expression unreadable, before holding it out to you.

Your breath hitched as you recognized it immediately. “Steve…”

He gave you a small, almost shy smile. “I’ve been holding onto this for a while,” he said softly. “I wasn’t sure when the right time would be, or if there even would be a right time.”

You stared at the locket, your heart twisting painfully. “You bought it?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded. “I saw how much it reminded you of what you loss, when i brought it home to exam in i opened it up” he paused opening it up and your heart stopped, your grandma's note “The lady said her daughter found it at some party and thought she could make some money at the market”

Steve’s words lingered in the cool night air as he handed the locket to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a second. The warmth of his touch, so brief yet grounding, contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

You took the locket gingerly, your eyes wide, the gold chain glinting in the soft glow of the streetlights. Your fingers traced the familiar curves and edges as though to confirm it was real. You opened it carefully, your breath catching when you saw the tiny, worn note tucked inside—the same one your grandmother had written years ago. You traced the intricate design, your mind flashing back to the day you’d first seen it, the quiet hope you’d felt, and the weight of everything that had happened since.

Tears blurred your vision. “Steve… I can’t believe this.” Your voice wavered, thick with emotion. “You didnt even know if was the one i lost, i didnt even, why would you—”

He shrugged, his smile soft, tinged with the kind of quiet understanding that only Steve could give. “I saw the way you looked at it and even i knew it was the one you lost, i just figured it could help give you a little piece of what the original one meant to you. I got lucky, when i opened it and saw that" He's gestured to your great grandma's note, "I thought, maybe—just maybe—it was meant to find its way back to you.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do this,” you whispered, clutching the locket tightly. “I was so careless, and I thought I lost this forever.”

Steve leaned back slightly, his hands now resting on his knees as he looked at you with a mixture of tenderness and resolve. “You didn’t lose it forever,” he said gently. “It found its way back. Just like it was suppose to. I just… I wanted to make sure it did.”

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of everything—your fight with Bucky, your complicated feelings for Steve, the memories of your mother—all pressing down on you at once. “Steve…” you started, but your words faltered as you searched for the right thing to say, the gratitude and guilt tangling inside you.

He seemed to sense your struggle, his eyes softening even further. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted you to have it back.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that allowed you to think, to breathe, to feel. You closed the locket carefully, holding it against your chest. The cool metal pressed against your skin, a small but powerful reminder of everything you’d lost and found.

Steve’s voice broke the silence, low and full of emotion. “I know it’s not my place to fix things or to make things easier for you. But… I wanted you to know that I see you. I always have.”

“Steve,” you said again, your voice a broken whisper. “You’re… you’re too good.”

He shook his head, his eyes glistening. “No. I’m just someone who loves you, in whatever way you’ll let me.”

That broke you. A sob escaped your lips, and you covered your mouth, trying to hold yourself together. But the tears kept coming, and Steve just watched, his own eyes brimming with unshed emotion.

After a moment, you managed to look up at him, your voice barely audible. “I wish I could love you the way you deserve.”

Steve smiled gently, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. “And it’s okay.”

You held the locket to your chest, as if it could somehow steady the storm inside you. “You’ve always been there for me,” you whispered. “Always. And I’ve never deserved it.”

Steve reached out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. “You don’t have to deserve love,” he said softly. “You just have to let yourself feel it.”

You both sat there for a while longer, the world around you blurring into the background. Finally, Steve stood, offering you a hand to help you up.

“Come on,” he said, his voice steady. “Let’s get you home.”

You nodded, slipping the locket around your neck, feeling its weight settle against your heart. It was a piece of him, a piece of everything you shared, and it would stay with you, no matter where life took you next.

As you walked beside him, the silence between you was full of understanding. It wasn’t the ending either of you had imagined, but it was a moment of truth, a quiet acknowledgment of what had always been there and what might never be.

Summer

The sun was high, casting its golden rays over the park as laughter echoed through the wide-open fields. It was one of those rare Saturdays where everyone’s schedules aligned, and the entire group had decided to spend the day outside.

Sam had commandeered the grill, expertly flipping burgers with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer in the other. “I’m telling you, my secret seasoning is gonna blow your minds,” he bragged, tossing a wink over his shoulder.

Natasha smirked from her spot on a picnic blanket, her sunglasses perched on her nose. “Your secret seasoning better be more than just salt and pepper, Wilson,” she shot back, taking a sip from her drink.

Wanda giggled, her legs stretched out in front of her as she picked at a bag of chips. “Sam’s been talking about his ‘grilling skills’ all week. It better be good, or we’re ordering pizza.”

“You wound me,” Sam said dramatically, clutching his chest.

Steve stood nearby, setting up a game of cornhole with Bucky. “Alright, who’s teaming up?” Steve asked, holding up the bean bags. His eyes flicked to you for a second longer than necessary before he quickly looked away.

“I’m with Nat,” Wanda chimed in, grinning as she elbowed Natasha. “We’re unbeatable.”

Natasha nodded confidently. “Damn right we are.”

Steve turned to you and Bucky. “Guess it’s us versus you two.”

You raised an eyebrow at Bucky, who was leaning lazily against a tree, sipping from his bottle of beer. “Think you can keep up, Barnes?”

He smirked, pushing off the tree to stand beside you. “I think the real question is, can you?”

The game started off competitive, with Sam and Steve shouting exaggerated encouragement from the sidelines. “Aim for the hole, Buck!” Steve yelled, laughing when Bucky glared at him after missing.

“Oh, brilliant advice, Captain Obvious,” Bucky muttered, his cheeks tinged pink. He turned to you, leaning in. “You got this, right? Show ‘em how it’s done.”

You laughed, tossing your bean bag and landing a perfect shot. “Boom,” you said, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “That’s how it’s done.”

Bucky grinned, holding up his hand for a high five. “We make a good team,” he said, his voice softer, his blue eyes twinkling.

Natasha, ever observant, raised an eyebrow behind her sunglasses but said nothing, nudging Wanda when Bucky wasn’t looking.

By the time lunch rolled around, everyone was sprawled out on the blankets, full of Sam’s surprisingly good burgers and Wanda’s homemade cookies. Steve sat cross-legged next to you, while Bucky leaned back on his elbows on your other side.

Natasha watched the scene unfold, a small smile playing on her lips. She caught Steve stealing a glance at you when you weren’t looking, and her smile faltered slightly, her fingers toying with the edge of her cup. Wanda noticed and gave her a reassuring nudge, mouthing, You okay?

Natasha nodded, brushing it off. She wasn’t about to ruin the moment.

“Alright,” Sam said, clapping his hands together. “Who’s up for some frisbee?”

Steve stood immediately. “I’m in.”

“Same,” you said, hopping up and pulling Bucky along with you. “Come on, let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

Bucky groaned but let you drag him to his feet. “I’ll show you sweetheart.’”

Natasha and Wanda stayed behind on the blanket, content to watch as you all ran around like kids. Wanda sighed happily. “This is nice,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “Feels like we haven’t done this in forever.”

Natasha nodded, her eyes following Steve as he ran after the frisbee. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice a little distant. “It’s perfect.”

Wanda glanced at her, her brow furrowing slightly. “You’re still not gonna tell him?”

Natasha shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s not the right time.”

Wanda sighed but didn’t push. Instead, she watched as Steve tossed the frisbee to you, his face lighting up when you caught it with ease, your laughter ringing out. Bucky cheered you on, his arm slinging around your shoulders for a brief moment, and Wanda couldn’t help but notice the way Steve’s smile faltered, just for a second.

Despite the complicated dynamics, the love and friendship within the group were undeniable. It was in the way Sam teased everyone mercilessly but was the first to help when needed. In the way Natasha always had a sarcastic quip but fiercely defended her friends. In the way Wanda’s quiet warmth balanced out everyone’s chaos. And in the way Steve and Bucky—despite everything—always had each other’s backs. And in the way you were the glue always keeping everything and everyone together.

The afternoon faded into a golden sunset, and as you all sat together, sharing stories and laughs, it felt like nothing could break the bond you all shared.

For now, at least.

The alley was dimly lit, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp. Bucky stormed out of the bar, his jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. The cool night air did little to calm the fire raging inside him. He barely made it a block before he heard the familiar sound of heels clicking rapidly behind him.

“Bucky Barnes, stop right there!” Natasha’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the city.

He barely had time to turn before she grabbed his arm and shoved him against the rough brick wall of the alley, her hands pressing firmly against his chest.

“What the hell, Nat?!” Bucky snapped, but she wasn’t having it.

“No, you don’t get to talk right now!” she shot back, her green eyes blazing. “I am so sick of this, Bucky! So sick of you and her dancing around each other like you’ve got all the time in the world!”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but Natasha cut him off with a furious glare.

“You love her,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’ve always loved her. And she’s loved you since before any of us even knew what love was! But you’re both so goddamn stubborn, so scared, that you’re wasting your lives.”

“Natasha, you don’t—” Bucky tried, but she jabbed a finger into his chest, stopping him cold.

“Shut up, Bucky! Just shut up and listen for once!” She stepped back, running a hand through her hair. “We’re all in our mid-twenties now. We’re not kids anymore. You and her? You were supposed to set the tone for love. You were supposed to show the rest of us that it’s worth it, that it’s real. But instead, you’re both stuck in this endless loop of fear and self-sabotage.”

Bucky’s throat tightened, his eyes flickering with guilt. “Nat, it’s not that simple…”

“Bullshit!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the narrow alley. “It is that simple! You’re scared. You’ve always been scared. But guess what? So is she! And you know what else? You’re not just hurting yourselves—you’re hurting everyone around you.”

She took a shaky breath, her voice lowering but no less intense. “Steve’s been in love with her for years, and it’s killing him. And me?” She laughed bitterly. “I’ve been in love with Steve since high school, Bucky. But do you think he’ll even look at me the way he looks at her? No. Because he’s stuck, just like you.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in shock, but Natasha wasn’t done.

“I’ve been waiting, Bucky. Waiting for Steve to see me, to love me the way he loves her. But he can’t, because you and her keep dragging this out, making it impossible for any of us to move on! And god if i told her..”

Her voice cracked, and for the first time, her anger gave way to raw vulnerability. “I can’t do it anymore, Bucky. I can’t keep watching the two people I love most in the world destroy themselves and everyone else around them.”

Bucky looked down, his heart pounding. The weight of Natasha’s words hit him like a freight train. “Natasha, I…”

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “You need to tell her, Bucky. Tell her you love her. Stop running, stop hiding, and stop making excuses. She deserves to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And if you can’t do it for yourselves, then do it for the rest of us, do it for me Bucky” she pleaded

Bucky swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. “What if… what if I’m too late?”

Natasha sighed, her anger softening as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. But you won’t be too late, Bucky. She’s been waiting for you her whole life.”

She pulled back, her eyes searching his. “But this? This has to end, tonight. Go to her. Fix this. And maybe, just maybe, the rest of us can start to heal too.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his chest tight. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll do more than try,” Natasha said firmly, stepping back and crossing her arms. “Now go. Before I change my mind and punch you again.”

Bucky gave her a small, appreciative nod before he opened his mouth “Does anyone else know?” He asked, referring to her confession about Steve.

Natasha smiled sadly and said “Wanda”

College

It was one of those golden autumn afternoons, the kind where the campus was bathed in soft, honeyed light, and the air carried the faintest chill. You sat cross-legged on the quad, a pile of books spread out in front of you. The vibrant reds and oranges of the trees framed you like a painting, the wind occasionally tugging at your hair and making it dance in the sunlight.

Steve watched from a distance, leaning against a tree with a sketchbook balanced on his lap. His pencil hovered over the page, but he hadn’t drawn a single line in minutes. Instead, his eyes were fixed on you.

You were laughing, your head thrown back as Bucky said something undoubtedly ridiculous. Steve couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He could see the way your eyes lit up, how you leaned in closer to Bucky as if the rest of the world had melted away. The way Bucky looked at you—grinning, but with an ease that Steve envied—made Steve’s chest tighten.

“You’re staring again,” Natasha’s voice broke through his thoughts, jolting him back to reality. She plopped down beside him, her sharp gaze cutting right through his defenses. “Not a good look, Rogers.”

Steve sighed, lowering his pencil. “I’m just—”

“Sketching,” she interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Sure.”

He didn’t argue. There was no point. Natasha had known for a long time—probably since the day the three of you met her. She was good at reading people, and Steve was an open book when it came to you.

“She doesn’t see it, you know,” Natasha said after a beat, her tone softer now.

Steve glanced at her, his jaw tightening. “Doesn’t see what?”

Natasha gave him a look, one that said she wasn’t going to let him play dumb. “You. The way you look at her like she’s the only thing that matters.”

Steve let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter, does it? She only has eyes for Bucky.”

Natasha sighed, leaning back on her hands. “And Bucky… Bucky’s too blind to realize what he’s got right in front of him.”

Steve’s eyes flicked back to you. You had your hand on Bucky’s arm now, laughing at whatever joke he’d just made. Bucky, for his part, seemed blissfully unaware of the way your touch lingered just a second too long, the way your eyes softened when they met his.

Steve felt a pang of something between longing and resignation. “I just want her to be happy.”

“And what about your happiness?” Natasha asked, her voice low.

Steve didn’t answer. Instead, he flipped the page of his sketchbook, finally putting pencil to paper. He didn’t need to look up to draw you; your image was already burned into his memory. Every line of your face, every curve of your smile, every glint in your eyes.

“Maybe some people aren’t meant to have that kind of happiness,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Natasha.

Natasha sighed, her expression softening. She reached out, giving his arm a light squeeze. “You’re a good guy, Steve. But you deserve more than being someone’s second choice.”

Steve didn’t respond, his focus locked on the sketch forming beneath his hand. But deep down, he knew she was right. He deserved more. He just wasn’t sure he could ever want anyone else the way he wanted you.

Natasha’s gaze lingered on Steve for a moment longer, her hand still resting on his arm. Her heart ached, not just for him, but for herself. She’d seen the way Steve looked at you for years, and every time, it chipped away at the small sliver of hope she held onto. Steve was kind, strong, and everything she wanted, but his heart belonged to you. It always had.

“Steve,” she said softly, almost hesitant. When he didn’t respond, she pulled her hand back, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned against the tree beside him. “You deserve someone who sees you.”

Steve’s pencil paused, his hand hovering over the sketch. He glanced at her, and for a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them. But then his gaze shifted back to you, and Natasha felt her chest tighten.

The sound of your laugh carried across the quad again, pulling both their attention back to you. You looked so radiant, so alive, and so hopelessly, irretrievably in love with Bucky.

And Steve? Steve would keep loving you silently, from the sidelines, even if it tore him apart.

Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing a small smile. She’d keep loving Steve the same way, even if he never looked at her the way he looked at you.

[selfcestmovies]

It's been roughly one year since the end of Hawkeye Season 1.

Clint has officially retired, and has graciously bestowed the Hawkeye moniker officially to Kate Bishop. She's committed to living up to the title and patrolling the streets of NYC.

Life is tough, though. She's cut-off from her family's resources, and making ends-meet while not holding down a real job is tough in the big city. She's tried to earn cash, of course, but being a hero takes all her time. Except walking Lucky, she always makes time for that.

Her other relationships are languishing. As much as Kate has made it clear that she wants her and Yelena to be officially girlfriend-girlfriend, Yelena keeps Kate at arms length. They've hooked up, and it blew Kate's mind, but more often than not Yelena leaves her texts on read. Kate's not giving up, though.

The season begins with Kate piecing together a pattern of low-level criminals that seem to be able to enter and escape vaults across the city without a trace; not to mention that any of these "bandits" that she tracks down have access to advanced tech, or magical thingies, or even knowledge and foresight that borders on impossible.

When Kate realizes what she's up against, she almost can't believe it: these bandits belong to a cult that seemingly have access to multiversal travel. It was Stark tech (surprise surprise) stolen from Avengers Compound back in 2023, back before defeating Thanos.

Kate knew she was out of her depth, and quickly took a bus across town to plea with Doctor Stephen Strange himself. He didn't believe the threat was real-enough to warrant his time… so Kate set out to gather more intel and prove to Strange and Wong that the bandits were seriously up to no good. The fate of her universe might hang in the balance.

The next chapter is up!! I finally have momentum.

[ao3feed-moonknight]

and my waves meet your shore (ever and evermore)

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/EKBM10w by marcspector (blackleaders) The harbor was her favorite place to visit, more in reach than the lighthouse that dominated her imagination during their stay: she watched as boats left for voyages and as they returned, legs swinging over the deck. It struck her then, and several times after throughout her life, that she was a harbor; people came and they went, in and out of her life, but nothing about her seemed to be enough to anchor them. Words: 633, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 5 of nephila and the knight Fandoms: Moon Knight (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Original Characters, Marc Spector Relationships: Marc Spector/Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Non-Graphic Smut, Porn with Feelings, Character Study, No Dialogue, POV Original Female Character, it's about the mildly ironic imagery, ("mildly"), Mild Sexual Content read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/EKBM10w