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ginnsbaker · 2 days ago

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All Of Your Pieces (29 - The One She Chose)

Chapter Summary: The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.5k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Welcome to Part 3! The final part. Starts immediately after the end of Part 1. Warning, this might give you whiplash. Hopefully I'll finish writing the entire series before school starts again :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“This wasn’t in my bingo card.”

Everyone turns to Jimmy, who breaks the silence with a dry shake of his head, still reeling from the truth behind your voluntary disappearance. He shrugs helplessly. “Just saying. You fake your own death, let Wanda think you’re gone, take the fall for Barton… Kinda hard to top.”

You huff a humorless breath. “Give it time. I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

Clint says nothing. He just stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes shifting between you and the crackling red shimmer of the Hex. Hayward and his men are down, thanks to you and Clint, but the urgency outside hasn’t gone away. A few minutes ago, the signal blacked out. No matter how many experts dig into it, no one’s been able to bring it back.

Still, for some reason, Jimmy and Monica can’t get past one simple fact: the real you is alive and well—just also a convicted international criminal. For Monica, that fact comes with too many questions.

What if you hadn’t taken Clint’s place?

What if Wanda knew you were never really gone?

She knows there’s more to your story than the version you’ve allowed them to hear, but it’s hard not to feel a semblance of resentment. Your choices (however noble or necessary they might’ve seemed) helped bring everyone to this point.

Monica studies you closely, still trying to make sense of the present situation. “They really tagged you?”

You nod once. “Injected. Somewhere deep. I don’t know where.” You glance down at your hands like they’ll tell you. “Not that it matters. If I run, they’ll know. They’ll come.”

Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “From what we’ve seen this past week, I’d say Wanda could fix that problem for you.”

“I didn’t come here to run,” you say. “I’m not looking for an escape, Agent Woo.”

“Then why are you here?” Monica asks. There’s a chill in her tone, sharper than she intended, but not entirely unearned.

You take a slow breath, well aware that the whole truth—every last brittle piece of it—won’t land clean with anyone here.

“I came because Clint asked. Because this whole town did, in one way or another,” you say.

You never meant to see her again. Five years is a long time to stay gone, long enough to convince yourself she is safer believing you died. A reunion was the last thing on your mind, certainly not one like this. If she recognizes you now, your arrest, your sacrifice, the quiet erasure of your life—all of it will have been for nothing.

But none of that matters if you do not stop her. If this continues, everything else is beside the point.

You still can’t believe Wanda did this—built a cage from her grief and pulled a whole town inside. But maybe you should have seen it coming. Maybe you, more than anyone, should have recognized the signs.

After all, you’ve done worse.

Jimmy surprises you then, by asking, “How do we even know you're not the copy?”

You meet his gaze, fighting back a laugh. “I mean, look at me,” you say, glancing down at your own weary, thin frame, worn down in a way the replica Clint described could never be.

The wind picks up then, cutting through you like a blade. You square your shoulders and try to bear it. You’ve never been fond of the cold.

Monica starts pacing in circles, and you gaze at her curiously. Whatever’s running through her mind, you’ve got a feeling it won’t break in your favor.

“It’s cruel,” she starts quietly, “letting Wanda believe you died. You really think she would’ve done any of this if she knew you were out there?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “You know her?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen how desperate she was in there. That’s enough to—”

You cut her off with a sharp breath, bristling. There it is—that tone. As if she has Wanda figured out. As if one week inside the Hex gives her the right to speak like an authority. It grates on you more than you expect.

“No offense, but you can’t be sure of what she would or wouldn’t have done.”

Monica’s expression hardens, but you keep going.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you bite out. “And you don’t have the right to stand there and act like I chose wrong. Like any of this was easy.”

She starts to reply, but you talk over her.

“She was gone, Monica. Gone. And I had to live with that for five years. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”

Your voice shakes, not from weakness, but from how tightly you’re holding everything back.

“I buried her in my mind. Mourned her like she was never coming back. Then all at once, she was here again. And you think I could just… show up? After everything? After what I—”

“Y/N, that’s enough.”

Clint’s voice instantly puts a stop to your rant. Monica’s jab lit the fuse fast, but the anger burns out just as quickly, leaving only fatigue. You’re sick of second-guessing, of tallying every consequence, of defending choices you never asked for.

Exhausted isn’t even the word.

“This isn’t the time or place,” Clint says softly. “You don’t owe anyone here an explanation.”

Monica throws him a look—equal parts frustrated and disbelieving—but Clint just shrugs.

“I’m not taking sides,” he says plainly. “You’re both right in your own ways. But we’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

You look away, jaw clenched, heart still racing. He’s right. As much as you want to keep going, now isn’t the time.

The silence settles again, taut and uneasy. You can still feel Monica’s stare, but she says nothing more.

Then Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay… so what’s the plan, then?”

“I’m going in,” you say simply.

“That’s it?” Jimmy asks, brows raised.

You nod. “That’s it.” You already know what you’ll do once you see her. And with everything happening so fast, there hasn’t been a chance to iron out the details, anyway.

“So you’re just gonna wing it?”

“Pretty much.”

Monica gives a dry laugh. “Wow, did you lose the rest of the plan on the way here?”

You arch a brow. “Got a better one?”

She folds her arms and looks away, biting back a retort.

“Thought so.”

Before she can protest, you add, “Wanda never lets anyone in unless she wants them. Darcy only got pulled in because the Hex expanded.”

A tired smile tugs at your mouth as you point past her. “Take a good look now.”

She turns. The Hex shivers, pulsing like a slow blink. Gaps open and close, an open wound trying to knit itself shut.

“It started a few minutes ago,” you say. “Whatever’s happening inside is tearing it apart. That’s my doorway.”

“And once you’re through?” Jimmy asks quietly.

You study the shimmering wall one last time, then lower your hand.

“Then I figure it out.”

—

“What do you need me to do?”

Darcy blinks, surprised by how quickly you’ve turned around.

“You’re… sure?” she asks, standing up, brushing gravel from her hands. “Because like, five minutes ago you looked ready to knock me out cold.”

You don’t answer right away, just glance down at your wedding ring. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” you say quietly. “But if there’s even a chance you’re right, then I need to do something.”

“I wish I could tell you what to do. I don’t know how we fix this. No one does.”

You look up. “But you think she’ll listen to me.”

“If she’ll listen to anyone,” Darcy says, “it’s probably you, yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I thought the same.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, breathing as much air as you could—while you can. “I thought… if I could just talk to her, get her to see what this is doing—not just to me, but to everyone—she’d understand. She always did. That was our thing, you know? We heard each other.”

Darcy stays quiet, letting you work through it.

“But now… I can’t remember if I ever actually tried. If I even asked her,” you go on, voice hollow with realization. “Which means…maybe she didn’t let me. Maybe she never gave me the chance.”

Darcy’s face softens. “You think she’s keeping you from remembering?”

You shrug. “She doesn’t want to hear it. Not from me. And if Wanda doesn’t want something—”

A deafening crash shatters the moment, and both you and Darcy whip around to find the sky roiling in a storm-like upheaval.

Your feet are already moving. “Come on.”

Darcy stumbles after you, wide-eyed. “That’s Wanda, isn’t it? That has to be Wanda—”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” you mutter, yanking the passenger door open and sliding into the seat, “but I need to get to her and the kids before someone else does.”

The engine groans before roaring to life. You don’t wait for it to warm up. Gravel kicks up behind the tires as you take off down the street.

“What do you think is going on?” Darcy yells, knuckles white on the grab handle as you barrel down the road at triple the speed limit.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble distractedly. You do have a hunch, though. Whatever this is, it feels like the end—of what, you can’t quite say. All you know is that Wanda and the twins come first.

You turn the wheel hard, rounding a corner as another pulse of purple lightning flickers in your periphery. You slow slightly as you pass a neighborhood block, instincts flaring.

People are outside.

Not just one or two—dozens. Men, women, even children. Pouring out of their homes, blinking under the distorted sky like they’ve just woken from a deep sleep. Their movements are stiff, uncertain. Some clutch their heads. Others stumble down driveways, eyes wide, lips moving without sound.

But it’s not the confusion that makes your stomach turn.

It’s their faces when they see you.

A woman points at your car, mouth twisting. A man beside her clenches his fists. Another starts to shout—words you can’t hear through the windshield, but you know what they mean.

The bad feeling that’s been sitting low in your gut blooms tenfold.

“Why are they all looking at us like that?” Darcy asks, glancing around nervously.

“They’re not looking at us,” you say, throat tight. “They’re looking at me.”

Darcy leans back in her seat, eyes still darting to the growing crowd on either side of the road. “Right,” she mutters. “The First Lady of Westview’s benevolent dictatorship.”

You shoot her a look.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “Too soon?”

Well, she’s not wrong.

You don’t linger under the scathing stares. It’s too late to say anything, and there’s no time to try. You push down on the accelerator, jerking the wheel to pass a cluster of panic-stricken townspeople that nearly spill into the street. Darcy hisses in alarm, bracing a hand on the dashboard as you swerve.

Soon, the heart of Westview comes into sight. At the same time, the sky pulses in red and purple, and something far more terrifying.

The townspeople are out and fully conscious. Fully aware. And they’re panicking. Their faces wear all kinds of emotions—fear, anger, disbelief—and a lot of it is aimed at you. They recognize you. Or at least, who they think you are.

You park the car haphazardly, door still swinging open behind you as you break into a run. Darcy scrambles after you, glancing up at the roiling sky, her face tight with fear. You push through them, gently but urgently, until the square opens up, eyes tracking upward—and then you stop cold.

You look up. Floating high overhead are Wanda and… “Agnes?” The name slips out in a stunned whisper.

But she isn’t how you remember her. The face is the same, but the disguise has fallen. She looks like someone you’ve never met. And somehow, this look fits her better. Like something’s finally clicked into place.

Wanda levitates opposite her, and even from this distance, you can tell she’s losing ground, her movements uncertain, her form barely holding together. Both are wrapped in a strange violet smoke, seeping outward from Agatha—or at least, that’s your best guess. Then—

“Mom!”

The twins.

Billy and Tommy break through the ring of stunned onlookers, bolting toward you as fast as their legs can carry them. You barely register the gasp from someone behind you before you’re dropping to your knees, catching them both in your arms.

They’re shaking and so are you. Darcy gives you and the children some space.

You pull them close, clinging to them like they’re the only solid thing left in a world that’s rapidly coming apart. And maybe they are. No matter what you’ve learned about yourself, about Wanda, about this town, it doesn’t change what you feel now. What you know.

They’re real. They’re yours.

“You’re here, mom,” Tommy breathes, clinging to your side.

“Of course I’m here,” you whisper, looking between your sons. “Are you guys okay?”

They both nod.

Another explosion rings your ears. Agatha pulls another surge of energy from Wanda. Around you, the townspeople form a jagged, trembling ring—some pleading with Wanda to stop, others begging her to let them go. All of them stare at you like you’re in on it, like you’re part of whatever’s holding them here.

“Stay behind me,” you tell the boys, rising to your feet.

That’s when you hear it—your name, being yelled from somewhere in the distance.

You whip around to see Geraldine—no, Monica—running towards you. You breathe a sigh of relief at seeing a familiar face, a potential ally in all of this.

Then you see what’s trailing behind her.

And your breath goes still.

It’s… you?

Or someone who looks close enough to make your skin crawl.

And just like that, everything Darcy Lewis told you comes crashing down twice as hard, knocking the wind right out of you.

—

You’d imagined a dozen different ways you might come face-to-face with your doppelganger once you got inside the town. If you were being honest, you’d hoped to find Wanda first—maybe talk her down, get her to release the town, unravel whatever illusions she’d conjured, including this other version of you.

Clint gave you everything he knew when he pulled you from lockup, but even then, his intel was scattered at best. He couldn’t explain why there was another you in there—only that there was.

What stuck with you most was how easily he believed it. How convinced he’d been that it was really you. He didn’t even hesitate—until he saw that version start to come apart right in front of him.

But not like someone dying. More like something made, and then being unmade.

And maybe that’s what haunts you most. Because you’re not sure how to feel about it—about what happens when Wanda finally lets go of all this. What happens to her version of you, of the children that cannot be identified by S.W.O.R.D, when the Hex comes down.

You’re not sure if you should feel guilty. If you should mourn her. But if she was just made to believe, made to love, made to fit—

Was that ever a real person at all?

And then you think of Wanda. Of how she would feel to lose you—again. You don’t know what she’ll do when it all falls apart. When the fantasy cracks and the house she built collapses into nothing. When this version of you that never broke her heart disappears with the rest of it.

What will she feel, standing in the wreckage of the world she made just to feel whole?

You think about the weight of that and how much of it started with you. How your fake death became the matchstick. How you let her suffer because the alternative was harder: telling her the truth.

That while she was gone, you became someone else. Someone she wouldn’t have recognized. That you let go of the best parts of yourself—the parts she loved—just to survive. No, you didn’t die. Not physically. But the person Wanda knew did.

And in time, you learned how to love someone else.

Monica makes it to them just in time for another explosion in the sky. You’re still a few meters back when your stride falters, eyes fixed on the boys now that they’re close enough to touch.

When Clint said Wanda had twins, you pictured something Vision‑like. One look kills that idea. Your other self is with them, one arm stretched protectively in front of their chests. She looks the part perfectly—brave, hopeful, composed. A picture of someone you used to be.

One boy spots you. You know their names but never matched them to faces; there was no time. He nudges his brother, who looks up, and both go still. Your double follows their gaze, the same uncertain expression on her face.

Something cracks open inside you at the resemblance binding the three of them.

A family.

Your heart leaps to your throat. For a moment you freeze, unsure what to say to children who believe you are already standing beside them.

The smaller boy—Billy, you think—steps forward.

You feel it then. A pull of some sort. Familiar and gut-wrenching. Regret sinks in, clawing deeper with every passing second. Was returning the mistake, or taking Clint’s fall? You cannot decide.

They were born from Wanda’s longing, her love and desperation given flesh. Yet, looking at them now, they are heartbreakingly real, and somehow they feel like yours.

The thought pierces you, because you know this can only end one way.

—

“Mom?” Billy whispers, eyes fixed on Monica’s companion. The woman is almost your mirror, only more weathered to your eye. “Why does she look like you?”

You turn to Monica, panic trembling under your skin. “Who is that? I don’t understand.”

“Y/N, look at me.” Monica darts forward, her hands settling on your shoulders—steady, not rough. “I’ll explain, I swear. But right now you need to focus.”

She points toward the churning sky. “What’s happening up there?”

You follow her finger, and in that instant, lightning flares in your eyes. Above, Agatha and Wanda remain locked in a standoff that feels less like a battle and more like a full-blown war. Wanda’s movements are slowing, her blasts thinning out, growing more frantic with each strike.

You’re caught between protecting your kids and reaching your wife, and you’ve never felt more helpless.

“I... I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze darting anxiously between your double and the approaching townspeople. Concentrating feels impossible.

That’s when Darcy reappears, a bit winded from calming down half the square. She plants herself beside Monica and raises a hand. “Hey, Monica. Miss me?”

Monica pulls her into a quick hug. “Glad you’re okay.”

Darcy pulls in a breath, brushing hair from her face. “Okay, headline edition: the whole town’s awake now. They remember everything—days on repeat, their minds on mute, all of it. A few tried to leave, but the Hex won’t let them. So they marched here looking for answers from Wanda.” She jerks a thumb skyward. “And then, get this—” she leans in slightly, voice dropping, “—nosy neighbor Agnes? Her real name’s Agatha. Turns out to be some sort of a witch all along.”

Monica blinks. “A witch witch?”

“According to the guy she had playing her husband and locked in the attic? Yeah.”

A violet bolt flares above you—too bright to track—then slams into Wanda’s shield with a crack that rattles windows. The shield shatters. She’s hurled earthward like a comet.

Concrete erupts when she hits, skidding her across the street; asphalt peels up in her wake. The sound alone makes your ribs ache. Agatha drifts down after her, slow and graceful, savoring every wince.

Within a second you’re on your feet. You sprint, leaving the twins with Monica and Darcy.

“Wanda!” You scream at the top of your lungs.

Wanda lies on her side, clawing for breath, one trembling hand searching for purchase.

You push the boys behind you and take two steps, then five, courage swelling with each stride—

But someone else reaches her first, dropping to their knees at her side.

You pull up short, as if you’ve slammed into a wall. Your world-worn double cradles Wanda with the ease of long practice, murmuring quiet assurances in a voice that is yours, only rougher.

Wanda stirs at the sound, eyelids fluttering. “Y/N?” she breathes.

The other you nods.

All you can do is stand there and watch.

You brace for Wanda to collapse into the woman’s arms, but confusion spiders across her face instead. She studies the lines of that face (older, worn, but unmistakably yours) then glances up and catches sight of you—the one she’s more familiar with—standing a few feet away.

Her eyes go wide.

They dart between you and the stranger Darcy swore was dead. Bewilderment sharpens into panic, her breathing hitching. She winces upright, bracing on an elbow before forcing herself to sit.

“Wanda,” you start, “I—”

“Well, isn’t this delicious?” Agatha drawls behind you, strolling forward like she has all the time in the world. “Two Y/Ns? Tell me, were you keeping a spare in your basement all this time?”

Her words stain your confusion with something new. Wanda looks at you as though the breath has been driven from her body, eyes shining with hurt and bewilderment. Whatever is happening—whatever brought this other version of you into being—it is clear that Wanda had no part in it.

Before you can move, Billy and Tommy break from Monica’s grasp and sprint to their mother. “Mom!” Tommy drops beside her, clutching her hands with trembling fingers. Billy follows, positioning himself like a shield between Wanda and Agatha, fists clenched.

Then the other you speaks.

“Help her,” she addresses you, easing Wanda gently back so the twins can reach her. Then she strides right up to Agatha, placing herself between the witch and everything that matters. “Touch her again,” she warns, voice like iron, “and I peel the smile off your face.”

Agatha’s grin twitches. “Oh, darling—do try,” she purrs, tilting her head as though assessing a new piece on the board.

You seize the moment and drop to Wanda’s side, gathering her and the boys into one fierce embrace. They collapse against you, limbs and tears tangling until the four of you fit together as though made to. Wanda’s breath hitches against your neck. “Y/N,” she whispers.

“Shh.” You kiss her temple, brushing the blood-matted hair. “Are you hurt?”

She gives a shaky but certain nod. With a groan, she shifts, and you help her to her feet while Billy and Tommy steady her other side.

“Monica! Darcy!” you bark, hoping Wanda regains her strength soon while you buy her time. “Clear the houses, move everyone toward the nearest boundary. Keep them low and lock it down.”

Monica hesitates. “What about you? You’re not exactly Captain America.”

“I never said I’d win,” your double answers, eyes locked on Agatha. “I said I won’t let her touch my family again. Go.”

Darcy grabs Monica’s sleeve. “Come on. We’ve got people to move.” They sprint off, herding panicked residents into motion.

You tighten your arm around Wanda. Billy lifts his fists; Tommy squares his stance. In front of you, the other Y/N rolls her shoulders once, then settles in; ready to absorb the first hit so the rest of you don’t have to.

Agatha raises her hands, magic pooling like storm clouds in her palms. “Family reunion,” she sneers. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

And then she strikes. A jagged bolt of violet lightning tears toward the four of you—fast, vicious.

You brace for impact.

But Wanda throws her arms out and roars.

Scarlet power detonates, slamming into the ground and blooming into a dome. A shell of red light snaps around everyone—including your double—and the shockwave leaves your ears ringing.

Agatha laughs, giddy and ravenous. “More… give me more.”

Wanda presses both palms against the barrier. The violet threads burrow into the scarlet shell, leeching color until the red dims and begins to sink into Agatha’s hands like water into dry earth.

Wanda grits her teeth, sweat beading at her brow.

Eventually, the barrier shatters like glass, sending a shockwave to shove everyone to their knees.

When the light fades, Wanda is swaying. Agatha stands a few steps away, smoke curling from her fingers.

Wanda looks down to see the skin of her hands mottled and ashen gray.

Agatha’s grin widens, charred fingertips flexing. “Round two?”

—

In the end, the fight comes down to Wanda and Agatha alone.

They rise into the sky, disappearing above the dark shroud curling over Westview. You lose sight of them, but flashes ripple through the clouds—mostly violet, not red. Your stomach twists with dread. Red would signal Wanda gaining ground, but every violet flash tells you she’s still losing.

Then a loud rumble comes. A line of Humvees grinds to a halt at the edge of the square, headlights spearing the gloom. Soldiers fan out, cradling rifles in front of them.

If Clint were still babysitting Hayward, the cavalry wouldn’t be here. Something’s gone sideways.

You force yourself upright, every muscle protesting after Agatha’s parting blow. The other you is crouched protectively in front of Billy and Tommy, breathing hard. She’s been their mother every second of their existence here; you have no claim, no matter how much it hurts to stay back.

Monica steps between the troops and the crowd, palms open. “Stand down,” she calls, “they’re not your targets.”

The ranking officer hesitates just long enough. You watch, almost impressed, as one by one the soldiers are disarmed before they can even react. Rifles vanish from their hands like magic, dropped in a growing pile ten feet away. Tommy zips past them again, grinning like it’s a game, and somehow it does look that easy—like stealing candy from a baby. You can’t help but feel a little proud.

By the time it’s over, not a single soldier is armed. Monica reiterates her call for a truce.

“We’re not the enemy. Wanda’s ending this—just give her time,” she tells them.

That’s when Hayward steps out of one of the tactical vehicles, gun already in hand. He raises it without hesitation, aiming directly at the kids.

But you’ve been waiting for this. Watching him. Timing him. Your Westview counterpart moves instinctively, stepping in front of the twins without hesitation. Monica joins her a heartbeat later, forming a wall between the children and the barrel of Hayward’s gun.

His finger barely tenses on the trigger before you’re behind him. You twist the gun from his grip in one swift, practiced motion, then wrench his arm back harder than necessary. His knees buckle with a grunt of pain.

“Try that again,” you growl in his ear, “and you’ll lose more than your gun.”

A single nod to Monica and the ranking officer is all it takes. They’ve seen enough. Whatever authority Hayward tried to parade disappears the instant he aimed at children. They cuff him without ceremony and haul him away while he spits useless orders.

With that threat gone, you glance around.

What now?

Wanda’s still in the sky, locked in a silent, brutal battle, and you have no idea how long she can hold her own, or what you’re supposed to do from down here.

You’re on the edge of spiraling when you hear footsteps behind you.

Westview Y/N approaches, cautiously, with the twins close behind her. Monica, off to the side, is already issuing post-op commands to the military, stepping seamlessly into a role she was always meant to assume.

You square your shoulders as she draws closer.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, even though the situation is startling in itself.

You nod once. “Hey.”

It’s strange, looking at yourself like this. Same face. Same eyes. An exact copy of who you were five years ago. The version you’ve spent years aching to become again. And now, looking at her, you finally understand.

You can’t go back. You can never be her again, no matter how hard you wish or how much you try.

Her eyes sweep over you—clenched fists, the blood from your run-in with Agatha—then tip up to the sky. “She’s almost done.”

You follow her stare. “Or almost gone,” you mutter, praying you’re wrong.

She waits a beat, then steps closer, the kids tight at her side. “Billy says she’s winning,” she murmurs. “He can feel it.”

Billy and Tommy peek around her waist, wide‑eyed but unafraid now that the guns have fallen silent. You give them a quick smile, unsure whether it reassures them or you.

Your clone takes a long breath. “So, what’s the plan?”

The truth is you have no real plan. All you carry is the promise to end this before it consumes Wanda. “First we keep the boys safe. After that…” You let the words die there. Saying the rest—asking Wanda to let go—feels like another betrayal. Worse, it feels like the very thing that might not keep the boys safe.

She nods anyway, reading the rest, and says, “You’re here to break the spell.” She turns to the twins. “Boys, go with Monica for a minute, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”

They hesitate, then obey when Monica waves them over. Once they’re out of earshot, she walks closer, eyes shining with something between resolve and resignation. “When this ends, so do I—and they go with me. You know that.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “I was made for a purpose, and you’re here to finish it.” She searches your face. “Just promise me she won’t be alone.”

You open your mouth, close it, and try again; only a thin breath escapes. Each time you reach for the right answer, it slips through your fingers.

Your double waits, steady and expectant. All she wants is a simple yes. You wish Wanda could have everything—could do the right thing and still keep her happiness—but life rarely offers perfect outcomes. Every road forks, and none leads to a tidy ending.

So you do the one thing you swore you never would.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, giving her the words she needs, though they are not the whole truth. “She won’t face this alone. I promise.”

Relief loosens her features—soft, perilous relief that feeds on your guilt. She believes you. Worse, she needs to.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand.

At the back of your mind, you wonder.

You wonder if the Snap had never happened, if you’d settled down in some quiet town with Wanda instead of tearing across the world in a grief-fueled rampage—could this have been you? The gentler, mother of two. The one who built a life instead of burning it down. You envy her, this softer reflection of yourself. It stings to realize she will have to disappear soon, erased along with the dream she represents. Then only you will remain: bitter, broken, and, as ever, not enough.

A second later, a hush sweeps the square.

The clouds above split open, pouring crimson light onto the pavement. Wanda drifts down through the glow, no longer battered and faltering. A dark crown burns at her brow, copper hair fanning wild around her. The armor she wears looks less like clothing than an extension of the power thrumming beneath her skin.

Wanda touches down like the ground belongs to her.

Soldiers gape, speechless. Even Monica’s breath hitches before she gives a single, satisfied nod—just what she’d hoped to see.

Wanda doesn’t spare the troops a glance. She walks—no, saunters—toward her family like the storm never touched her. Not even the soldiers dare raise a hand, their fear is instinctual.

The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Her—the person she pulled from memory, shaped from fragments of who you were five years ago, and brought to life inside her world.

Wanda extends a hand and draws her in as well. The four of them fold together, a tight huddle. A family.

You feel Monica’s eyes on you. Darcy’s too. You don’t have to turn to know they’re both watching. Waiting.

Because this… this isn’t over. Not while the Hex still holds. The mission isn’t done, and you’re the only one who can finish it.

You steady your breath and take a step forward. Just one. But it takes everything in you.

Wanda rises at the same moment, fingers laced with Westview Y/N. Her eyes meet yours, flat and unreadable, a chill sliding down your spine. If she feels recognition, grief, or anger, she masks it perfectly.

She turns, guiding her family toward the street that leads home. The boys keep pace, and your double sends you a glance, part apology, part pity, then squeezes Wanda’s hand and follows.

You stand your ground until they pass.

“Wanda—”

She keeps walking as if hearing nothing.

You try again, a little louder. “Wanda!”

The air answers before she does. A low pressure hums off her like heat from summer asphalt, shaking loose panes in the shopfronts. A wordless warning; the only answer she’s giving. You have no choice but to take it.

Monica appears at your side, a hand light on your arm. Her head moves in a slow, firm no. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Give her space. Give her time.”

You watch the four of them shrink into the hazy light until the far corner swallows them. Only then does Monica speak again.

“Maybe you can’t end this,” she says, voice level but kind. “But she can.” She nods after Westview Y/N. “You and she? The same heartbeat. She’ll say what Wanda needs to hear.”

Monica’s right. She is you.

But she’s better because she’s the one Wanda chose.

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bcystar · 3 days ago

Note

SOCCER PLAYER JOAQUIN PLEASEEEEE i am Seated and waiting

you and joaquín have a one on one match after his game

pairing: soccerplayer!joaquín x gn!reader

wc: 1.4k

authors note: hi anon hope this was to your liking! sorry this took so long, i was out for so long and forgot to post it :( i have my other soccerplayer!joaquín fic brewing at the moment so I hope this will suffice until then!! (also this was supposed to be a short blurb, idk what happened…) ENJOY!!!

Joaquín’s match had been over. All of his teammates were either in the locker room or already on their way home. All except for him. It was the last match of the season, obviously they’d came out victorious. The shiny gold medal weighed down on the yellow ribbon it was hung on and Joaquín looked damn good wearing it. His curls were slightly damp and sticking to his forehead, there was still a slight pink tint to his cheeks, and his jersey was latching onto just the right places. You could see the surface of his abs through the white jersey and it drove you wild.

Joaquín had scored the winning goal. The crowd had erupted in deafening cheers and his teammates were all bundled together chasing him. None of that mattered though. Not to him. As soon as he saw the ball push the net back on the old and rusty goalpost, he was booking it. It was as if you blinked and he had teleported in front of you. There was a bit of a height difference between the two of you because of the leverage the large bleacher of the stadium gave you but that didn’t stop him from kissing you. His arms reached up to cup both sides of your face and leaned you down. The kiss was passionate and heated, fueled by the adrenaline still pumping through Joaquin’s veins. His breath huffed into your mouth as he deepened the kiss. He lowered you just barely and his left hand slithered to push the back of your head towards him. You tilted your head to the side and embraced his shoulders. He softly bit your bottom lip—silently asking permission— and you make a little gap, allowing him to enter. His tongue explored every part of your mouth, as if trying to learn every ridge within you. All of your senses were filled with him and you felt a smile creep up your face. Your tongue’s fighting for dominance but you stood no chance to Joaquín’s ferocity.

Much to his dismay, his teammates finally caught up and crowded the both of you. You were the one to break the kiss, giggling as you did. You felt a string of saliva lingering on your chin and wiped it away immediately, scared his teammates might see. The center midfielder, Johnny, had hoisted Joaquín on his shoulders and made his way back towards the field. You could feel your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling, they got warmer the more you looked at him. You felt like a teenager all over again, giggling in secret about your boyfriend while he was surrounded by all of his friends. That was basically the last you had seen of him before it was time to pack up and leave.

He finally found his way back to you and ran up to basically tackle you in a bear hug, littering kisses all over your face. You couldn’t help the laughs that escaped your mouth at the feeling of his lips on you.

“I feel like I should be the one doing all of the kissing and doting,” you managed to escape out while catching your breath.

A low groan was all Joaquín could let out as he shifted his head off your face and onto the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around his torso tightly and let him stay in that position for a moment. He breaths in a heavy breath, taking in your scent, and finally looks at you.

Your hair was disheveled and slightly messy, you were in his old jersey from high school—Torres #1–it was white with green lettering, you also had on his grey sweats that hung a little loose on you. The more he took you in the bigger the hearts in his eyes got, it melted your heart. “Okay c’mon, Quino. Let’s get home.” You took his hand in yours and led him from your spot by the home goalpost.

You felt him resist behind you and turned in curiosity, giving him a questioning look. The field was empty, even the refs and coach’s gone. “What’s wrong?” You asked.

“Let’s play.” A cheeky grin sat on his face.

“What?”

“C’mon! You and me, one on one!” He walked off to the side where there were extra balls and picked up the first one he saw.

He dropped it by his feet and looked up at you and kicked it just enough. You stared down at the ball and back at him, it was at the tips of your feet. You pushed your leg back slightly and kicked towards him. “Game on.” You smirked at him.

With that, Joaquín takes off towards the goalpost at the opposite end of the field and it takes you a bit to catch up. By the time you’re on his tail, you’re already at the center circle and sweat is starting to prickle out of your pores. You push the bottoms of your feet quicker to catch up to him and can see the ball is just barely in front of you. You reach out your left leg and can feel the ball against your foot. As soon as your foot makes contact with the ball, it pushes farther than the both of you and you catch up to it with ease. You stop it with the side of your foot and turn around to face Joaquín. He was only two feet away from you and charging towards you at light speed. You dribble the ball towards him and kick it right between the gap of his legs. He looks down and back up at you, with a stunned look on his face. You just laugh at him and run past him. You’d caught up with the ball so quickly he didn’t even notice you at the penalty arc in front of your goalpost. You kick a powerful kick and the ball flings against the loose and aged net.

You cheer while running to where he is, your face holding a sheen of sweat. All Joaquín does is stares at you like you hung the stars and keeps his hands on his hips. “First one to get three points wins?” He asks.

“Okay,” you smile at him and pick the ball back up from the net.

___

It’s the last round now. Joaquín took his shirt off after scoring his first score—you scoring two in a row and he scoring two in a row—and the sweat was making his abs glisten in the Sun. It was almost as if there was glitter on them. You saw the full sight of his flexed thighs as he held his shorts up slightly, you could’ve almost fainted at the sight. His curls were covering his eyes slightly due to the sweat weighing them down and you used that to your advantage.

The ball was in your possession, you were running to your end of the field and Joaquín was right behind you. His legs were reaching in between the gap of yours every time you ran forward and you could see his feet getting closer to the ball. The post was still a mere fifteen feet away and you kicked the ball to your right side, where he couldn’t see from his peripheral vision. Joaquín jerked his head up to clear his hair from his sight just to have it covering his face again when he looked down. Unfortunately that small maneuver was what cost him the goal as you kicked the ball into net—at a six feet distance—and watched it fall directly into the net.

“Booyah! Get owned babe!” You flaunted by raising your arms and as you slowed your running.

“Oh what! That’s not fair! You tricked me!”

“Nope! I used your disadvantage to my advantage.”

You were both slightly hunched over at the post, clutching your knees for support. You looked over at Joaquín, who was on your right, and saw the sweat beads roll off his abdomen. You were gawking, like hardcore. He looks over at you and notices you gawking and breaks a smile. “I should’ve went shirtless while playing earlier on, I would’ve won so much quicker,” he straightened and walks over to you.

“Yeah well you didn’t and now you lost.” You shrugged your shoulders, both of you fighting your laughter.

“You got lucky!” He picks you up and slings you over his shoulders.

“Ew Joaquín let me down! You’re really really sweaty!”

“Well you like me like that, cariño.”

#— spu answers 📥#marvel #joaquin torres #avengers #danny ramirez #captain america #joaquin torres x reader #fanfiction #mcu #fanfic #the falcon x reader #joaquin torres x you

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starm0onlight · 15 hours ago

Note

hello ms ma'am kaede !! 💗i hope you've been well. bubble anon here, i just want to say that i absolutely ADORE your layout and your work! may i request, a telemachus x reader angst, where basically they broke up bc lost interest but not feelings for each other, and neither of them wants to reach out but would love to try again? thank uuu <3

—🫧

stitches wounds!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ pairing: Telemachus x reader

₊˚⊹ ᰔ note: im not every good at writing angst but i hope i did well!! also yes i said I'll post it tomorrow but i got excited and finished it.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ warning: none

₊˚⊹ ᰔ content: angst, neglecting, break up, hurt/comfort, crying, apology, Athena and Penelope pushing Telemachus to fix things, happy ending.

🐺- you don't know how everything happened until it did, until it's too late to fix.

🪶- suddenly everything change, you start spending less time together, start talking less to each other, and sometimes not even spending any time with each other.

🐺- and then you two start to argue about the stupidest thing ever and for no reason. you thought it's all was because of the suitors and everything stressing him out, that he was just nervous about everything in the palace.

🪶- but even after his father came back and the suitors were gone, nothing changes, it becomes worse. not even good morning or good night. you barely see his face.

🐺- that when you decide to talk to him about it, that you couldn't be treated like this anymore. and that's when everything fall apart, you two decide to break up and everyone could go to their own path.

🪶- as heart broken as you were you thought it was for the better, that like this you won't feel neglected or ignored that's you'll find someone to actually love. but words were easier than action.

🐺- no matter how much you tired you couldn't forget him, everything seem to remind you of him, even the smallest thing seem to connect to him. but you ignore it, saying it'll all go away, but it never did.

🪶- on Telemachus side things weren't as easy too, he was suffering from his mistake, not only from himself but also his family.

🐺- his mom liked you so much and was devastated when she saw you leave and Telemachus tell her about your break up, she try to talk to him about it. but Telemachus was stubborn.

🪶- he didn't wanna admit his mistake, didn't wanna admit that he lost the only person that ever loved him and cared for him, didn't wanna dmit that he made a mistake her regret so deep but can't fix.

🐺- even athena notice it, how sad and shallow he look, like he just lost his core, his hope. he can't admit it through words but his actions never missed anyone eyes.

"you need to go and talk to her" said athena as she looked down at Telemachus who was laying in his bed, he was tired, not physically but emotionally.

"I'm fine, i don't need to talk to her, she's probably forget about me by now." he said as he rolled in his bed as if he was searching for something, maybe for the presence of his lover. for her warmth in his cold bed.

"look at yourself, you're miserable Telemachus even I can't stand and watch you do this to yourself. you still love her, you're just too stubborn to face it."

her words were true, even Telemachus knew it. but what could he do about it? he already missed up once, he doesn't wanna do it again.

"it's already too late now, it's been weeks. i don't even think she wants to see my face anymore" he said as he sighs deeply burying his face in the soft sheets.

"too late better than never, and there might be still a chance to fix everything. so before it's too late make up your mind." said athena before she turned into her owl form flying out of Telemachus room and away from the palace.

Telemachus just let her words sink in, is there really time to fix things? what if he makes things worse. what if he can't fix anything. what if you already moved on to another person?

after a while of thinking he made up his mind. he's going to take yoy back, he doesn't care if there's already someone else, ge won't let anyone take you from him.

he stands up on his feet and decided to do something about it. he might fuck up but he'll try, for you. for his undying love for you.

🪶- after his talk with athena Telemachus quick went to his mother room, asking her for her advice about what he should do to win your forgiveness.

🐺- Penelope was more than happy to see her son finally come back to his sense and take back what was the best thing in his life. you.

🪶- she tells him about stuff he should do and should say, that he doesn't need a script that his words most be true coming straight from his heart.

🐺- after that Telemachus was more excited now to go and try to fix things, maybe you guys could go back to what you were, before his stupidity ruin everything good hime has.

you were laying down in your bed as tears stormed down your face. no matter how much you try to convince yourself it won't work. you still love him, you still crave him but something inside you forbids you for doing anything about it except crying and asking yourself if there was a way everything could be fixed.

suddenly you heard a knock on your door, it was surprising since no one ever came to visit you. you just stop crying for a little before sighing deeply.

you get out of bed as you fix your clothes and whip your tears making sure they're invisible to whoever comes to see you. you look at the mirror one last time before going to answer the door.

as you opened the door you suddenly were hit by the view of Telemachus sitting on one knee with flowers in his hands, you were too shocked to even make a reaction.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry i was an idiot and ruined everything, I'm sorry I didn't mean for this to happen, i was way too stubborn to see anything or to realized I've ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. i don't deserve your forgiveness, not after what I've done, but please im just asking for another chance, i promise I'll do anything for you. i won't be that idiot and loss you again."

he said way too quickly for you to process, you couldn't even believe the view. Telemachus is here, after all these weeks he came to apologize? something in you tells you to shut the door in his face, but something else tells you to forgive him.

Telemachus had his eyes to the ground all the time, he didn't dare to look at you in the eyes, he couldn't. not after everything he's done.

he only lifted his head when he gears the sounds on your soft crying, his head quickly shot up as he saw you, the love of his love crying as her eyes become red and buffy.

"hey hey.. please don't cry please. i was an idiot and I don't deserve your love but please don't cry.." he said as he quickly stood up putting the flowers aside as his hands went to hold your face, whipping your tears slowly.

"you idiot, you dumb asshole, after all these weeks you came now!" you said almost angrily but you made no move to push him away, matter of fact you got closer leaning more into his touch.

"i know i know, i deserve everything you say about me. i was stubborn and let my pride take the better of me, but i couldn't just stand and see the love of my life slipping through my fingers" he said before trapping you into his arms in warm embrace. the warmth you missed.

"i know I'm late but I'm back now, and I'm asking for another chance to fix everything I've ruined, to build something new with you, are you willing to give me it?" he said as he pulled back enough to look into your eyes.

he has a soft smile on his face and his eyes were full of love and care, then you see him again. the man you fall in love with, the man you swear your life to.

"of course i will you fucking idiot, i could never love anyone but you" you said as you pull him back in your arms, holding him tightly as if he would disappear if you let go. he hold you in just as tight.

"i love you too and don't worry, i promise i won't do it again, athena and my mom would have my head if i did it again" he said sarcastically but he meant every word.

you were happier than ever, maybe the gods decided to give your love another chance and you'd make sure not to miss it up like last time. oh you wouldn't let him go, not again, not ever.

#₊˚⊹ ᰔ ᴋᴀᴇᴅᴇ'ѕ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢѕ #x fem reader #x reader #fanfiction #greek mythology x reader #epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology #epic #epic the musical #Telemachus #telemachus epic the musical #telemachus epic #epic telemachus #epic telemarketing #telemachus x reader #Telemachus x fem reader

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teh-nos · 7 months ago

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loki/william rufus fic, where bill explains that as the second son he has inherited england while big brother bob only got the duchy of normandy, ha ha ha.

#no offence to normandy of course i'm sure it's a fine duchy with many things to recommend it.#oh but wait! England Son then dies in a “Hunting Accident” and the next brother heads for the capital ASAP!#where is Bob? idk i think he was on crusade or something. BUT! he'll get to stay in england when henry keeps him captive for life <3 #apparently robert got very into welsh poetry while imprisoned for being the older brother so maybe that made up for it all?#PLOT TWIST: henry the first of england leaves no legitimate sons and england ends up having a civil war when he dies.#btw it still throws me a bit that post-conquest kings have names like william and robert while the pre-1066 dudes are all named Aethelthing #*whispers* i kind of feel like asgard should be on a atheling system like pre-conquest england but i don't want to complicate things.#though this would explain why Thor 1 treats a Loki succession as a real possibility and thinks aptitude for kingship in any way matters.#whereas the later movies all assume it works on primogeniture (and none of us in fandom really absorbed the fact that when hela shows up #thor instantly accepts that she's ahead of him in the line of succession and objects to her evilness rather than her sex/gender.#so clearly if thor and loki have an older sister the OLDER matters more than the SISTER. right? yet sif is the only female warrior.#and while i think the 'kings NEED to go into battle!' thing was overstated by the past and by modern observers we do all go along with that #in the context of these films don't we? loki is unsuitable due to his *checks notes* weak fragile feminine form.#*looks at him and experiences a brief moment of cognitive dissonance before moving on*#and that's a story more of us want to tell (or i assume that's what's up) so we all just ignore The Hela Evidence don't we?)#(i can explain my own reasons if anyone asks but nobody will so i won't bother doing it in these tags.)#btw a friend once made a william the conqueror joke about passing the duchy on the left hand side which was FANSTASTIC #but explaining it would take far too long so i won't do that either. BUT IT WAS RLY FUNNY U GUYS (gender-neutral)!#history shitposting #plus the mcu because of course

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shinoko-oshi · 2 months ago

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Simon’s sweet wife

seen other people talk about the task force finding out about Simon’s bird at first in subtle ways so I made this

It started with the lunches.

At first, no one thought much of it. Simon had brought the occasional sandwich before, nothing out of the ordinary. But then it changed. Out went the basic bread and meat, and in came proper meals. Lasagna. Curry. A neatly packed container of something warm and homemade, tucked right beside a little folded note Simon was far too quick to snatch out of sight when Johnny leaned over, grinning.

“C’mon, Simon,” he teased, voice full of curiosity. “Just let us have a peek. We wanna know who’s makin’ you lunch like that, eh?”

Kyle nodded, snickering.

“Piss off,” Simon grumbled, big hand curling protectively around the note like it was a classified file. He didn’t care that they were watching, didn’t even look up. Just reread your words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the mask.

“Ay, Johnny, look! you can see a heart through the paper!” Kyle laughed, catching the way the light hit the thin paper just right, revealing the faint outline of a heart signed with your name.

After that, it became a bit of a running joke. Not that Simon gave them anything to work with. But the mystery only deepened when, during a three week deployment at another unit, a care package showed up with his name on it.

To say the guys hovered would be an understatement. Johnny and Kyle practically sat on either side of him like vultures, trying to act casual. Price stayed back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking disinterested but Simon could feel his eyes, just as nosy as the others.

The box had all the essentials: snacks, cold weather gear, a familiar blanket from home. A couple of your sweet notes, some of his favorite tea in bulk. But what really got them going were the Polaroids tucked in between the layers of stuff.

Kyle caught a glimpse of one. Simon sitting on a porch step with you in his lap, your smile soft, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Johnny elbowed him. “Alright, Simon. When ’re we gonna meet this mystery missus of yours?”

“She wouldn’t like you.” He grunted in response

“What is she, a grump like you?”

Hardly.

The real surprise came a few weeks later, when a sweet bird showed up at base asking for Lieutenant Simon Riley.

Price was the first to see you. He’d expected someone with a set it glare, reserved, maybe a little sharp around the edges. Instead, you walked right up to Simon with a warm smile, kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and handed him a jacket.

Simon knew Price, Kyle, and Johnny were watching from around the corner. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if half the rookies and a few of the other sergeants were too.

But none of that mattered.

Not when his sweet girl was standing in front of him.

“Why are you here, baby?” he asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You forgot your jacket,” you said, brow furrowed. “And I heard it was supposed to be cold today. I didn’t want you to get sick.”

Your voice alone cracked something in him, and it was impossible not to smile under the mask.

“Y’know I would’ve been fine, love.”

Still, he took the jacket from your hands with a quiet “thank you,” promising to wear it, walking you down the hallway before watching you turn and head back out.

Well— not before Johnny and Kyle caught you at the corner, peering over the wall like a couple of kids up to no good.

They didn’t say much, but by the time Simon heard about it later, you’d already agreed to let them come over for dinner sometime.

He just shook his head. Not even surprised by their antics. But he didn’t say no either.

Because you’d said yes.

So next Saturday, he guessed he’d be setting an extra few plates at the table for Johnny, Kyle, and probably Price, too.

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mephisto-reporting · 4 months ago

Text

Hearbreak Anniversary with Zayne

Summary: It was your anniversary with Zayne. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Zayne Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. Especially Zayne. So I had to adapt the request a bit. Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, Zayne POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

Zayne’s apartment smelled like him—clean, crisp, and faintly of the eucalyptus-scented candles he kept on the shelves. You sat on the edge of his couch, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your thighs, nerves making your fingers tremble slightly. The dim light of the chandelier cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the carefully planned surprise you had for him —flowers, his favorite treats, elegant scarves, and jackets you had spent weeks picking out. The final touch was the flexible weekend getaway tickets, somewhere warm and far from the sterility of hospital walls. A place where he could finally rest.

You had gone all out for tonight. The garden-themed restaurant was supposed to be the perfect setting—a quiet, intimate place where vines curled around twinkling fairy lights, and the soft scent of fresh blooms would fill the air. And you had dressed accordingly with something elegant, something that made you feel beautiful for him. The deep navy-blue dress you wore clung to your form just right, the intricate lace details at the sleeves soft against your skin. You had taken your time getting ready, styling your hair to perfection, slipping on a pair of delicate earrings he once admired absentmindedly. A spritz of white jasmine perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring mornings. You wanted to look like someone worthy of being by his side. You wanted to be beautiful for him, for the man who had somehow, impossibly, fallen for you.

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

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buckysleftbicep · 6 days ago

Text

the cat's out of the bag 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: teeth rotting fluff

summary: during a storm, you rescue a stray kitten and spend the next week trying to keep her hidden from your boyfriend.

word count: 2k

author's note: i love cats and dogs, genuinely would run a little zoo of my own if i could. enjoy my loves and stay safe out there! please drop a like or a reblog if you enjoyed! <3333 based on this request

i love soft!bucky with my whole heart

It started with a storm and a pair of very, very round blue eyes.

You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat.

The plan was simple. Boring, even.

Drop off your mission report to Val, grab a too-sweet latte with Yelena while listening to her complain about Walker’s latest disaster, and then spend the evening wrapped in your favourite blanket, bingeing your comfort show for the fifth, okay, seventh time.

That was it. No drama. No interruptions. Definitely no unexpected pets.

But fate, and a suspiciously open cardboard box near the alley dumpsters behind your usual deli—had other plans.

That’s where you found her.

Or rather, that’s where she found you.

You hadn’t even noticed the box at first. You were halfway through texting Yelena about her ridiculous idea for matching leather jackets when a faint sound stopped you cold.

A mewl, soft, reedy, desperate. You turned, heart already twisting, and there she was.

Soaked. Shivering. All fluff and no fight.

Her white fur was a grimy, matted mess, stained gray from the rain and dirt. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old—tiny and fragile, huddled against the crumpled side of the box like it might still protect her.

When your shadow fell over her, she didn’t flinch. She just blinked up at you with those huge, too-wise eyes, let out one pitiful little cry, and tucked her nose into her paw like she was already giving up.

And that was it. You were done for.

You crouched without thinking, hands already moving before logic caught up. She was cold, so cold you swore you could feel it through your fingertips when you scooped her up and tucked her against your chest.

Your jacket came off next, hastily unzipped and wrapped around her as you stood, shielding her from the steady drizzle like instinct had overridden every ounce of your common sense.

She didn’t struggle. Didn’t even try to claw or hiss. Just curled tighter against your chest, her body trembling as a soft, tentative purr vibrated against your sternum.

You looked down. She looked up.

That was the moment.

You didn’t have a name for her yet. You didn’t have a plan. Hell, you didn’t even know if pets were allowed at the compound.

But none of that mattered.

You walked the rest of the way with one arm wrapped around your jacket, cradling a soggy, wide-eyed ball of fur like she was the most precious thing in the world.

You didn’t even make it two steps into the building before Bob spotted you and said, flatly, “You’re keeping it.”

You didn’t argue. Because he was right.

You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat. But it turns out, she’d already adopted you.

"Your name is Alpine," you whispered as you tiptoed into your shared bedroom with Bucky, cradling the tiny fluff ball like a state secret.

She was warm in your arms, damp fur already drying against the softness of your shirt, her little body nestled in like she belonged there. "And you, my girl, are a secret agent."

Alpine blinked up at you with slow, sleepy eyes. Then she let out the tiniest sneeze, her whole body jolting with the force of it.

You smiled, tucking her closer. “We’ll work on stealth.”

Operation Hide-The-Cat was officially underway.

You were surgical in your efforts. Strategic. Diligent. The litter box went in the back of your closet, camouflaged behind a wall of boots and a perfectly draped robe. Her food and water bowls were slipped into a lower drawer you’d emptied and converted into a makeshift dining nook, lined with a towel and everything.

You bought a ridiculous amount of pet wipes and dry shampoo to keep her from smelling too obviously like cat. Her toys were buried between pillows and blankets, and her treats were stashed behind rows of books on your shelves, labeled as "protein bars" in case anyone peeked.

Alpine had more square footage and amenities than some junior agents in the compound.

You even rigged the air vents with dryer sheets to mask the scent, knowing full well Ava liked to crawl through them when she was bored—or looking to scare the shit out of someone. If she found out about Alpine, it would be game over.

Not because Ava would snitch. But because she’d absolutely try to recruit her into the team.

The first few days were a breeze. Alpine slept for hours, nestled in the crook of your arm or burrowed into the soft blankets you arranged like a throne.

She ate delicately, gave you tiny headbutts whenever you reached for your phone, and purred like a small engine when you read aloud at night. It was like living with a warm, sleepy marshmallow who occasionally attacked your socks.

Then she discovered Bucky’s jacket.

It was just hanging there—carelessly draped over the back of your chair, like he always left it when he stayed over in your room.

Dark blue, soft with wear, the kind of thing he grumbled about losing but never actually took back. It smelled like him—pine and clean soap and just a trace of that cologne he insisted he didn’t wear.

The same jacket he’d left behind after that quiet night in, when the two of you had curled up on your bed with takeout and old black-and-white movies. You’d fallen asleep on his chest halfway through Casablanca, and he hadn’t moved a muscle until morning.

You never gave it back.

Apparently, neither could Alpine.

You caught her the first time while brushing your teeth, half-asleep, groggy, and wondering what the soft thump-thump-thump was behind you.

There she was, in all her tiny glory, rolling back and forth on the jacket like she’d claimed it in the name of the feline empire.

You watched in disbelief as she kneaded her little paws into it—making biscuits like it was hers, purring so loud it echoed off the tiles.

From that point on, it was a losing battle.

Every time you turned around, there she was—wrapped in it like a burrito, dragging it off the chair like a victorious hunter, or burrowed into its folds with her head poking out like royalty in a four-poster bed.

You tried to relocate it. Hang it up. Even hide it. Somehow, she always found it.

You started picking fur off it obsessively, lint rolling like your life depended on it—every sleeve, every seam, every goddamn inch of it.

But it was too late.

Because when Bucky walked in three nights later, gaze sharp and mouth already forming some sarcastic comment about your tendency to “hog all the blankets,” he paused mid-step. His eyes dropped to the chair. His brows furrowed.

Then he picked up the jacket.

Held it at arm’s length.

And pulled one long white hair off the collar.

You froze.

Alpine, traitor that she was, chose that exact moment to sneeze again—from under your bed.

Day Seven.

You were in the kitchen reheating leftovers, Alpine nestled warm and content inside Bucky's jacket like a smug little stowaway.

She’d made herself a nest just under the zip, her tiny head poking out beneath your chin, her soft purr vibrating gently against your sternum.

Her paws were tucked against your chest, and her tail flicked lazily beneath the fabric, occasionally brushing your ribs like a mischievous secret waiting to be exposed.

You stirred the pasta one-handed, trying not to disturb her. She’d been sleepy and clingy all morning, refusing to be left alone in the pile of blankets you’d made for her on the bed.

You’d tried sneaking away twice, once for the bathroom, once for food, and both times she’d meowed like you’d abandoned her forever.

So here you were, cooking one-handed with a clingy fur baby zipped into your jacket like the world’s neediest hot water bottle.

That’s when your boyfriend walked in.

Fresh from training. His shirt clinging to him like a second skin, damp with sweat in all the distracting places.

He had that casual, unbothered look about him—like he didn’t even realise how effortlessly distracting he was.

He paused the second he saw you.

His brows drew together, subtle but sharp. “Hey,” he said, voice low as he crossed to the cabinet for a mug.

“Hey,” you echoed, far too casually, heart skipping when Alpine’s tail twitched right as he passed behind you. You subtly shifted your stance to hide the movement.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, frowning faintly. “...You purring?”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, mug in hand, a smirk just barely beginning to tug at his mouth. “I swear I just heard purring.”

“No you didn’t.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly, “Are you purring?”

“Why would I purr?” you asked. "That’s not even something people do.”

“Not usually, no,” he said slowly, taking another step forward, eyes dropping briefly to the suspicious lump in your hoodie.

You held your ground. “I’m cold.”

“In June?”

You cursed the climate-controlled compound. Couldn’t they have made it slightly more believable?

And then—of course—Alpine chose that exact moment to stretch.

A soft meow slipped out of her as she extended one paw toward your zipper like she was participating in the worst game of peekaboo. Her little white head pushed through next, blinking sleepily at the sudden light.

There was a long beat of silence.

Bucky just stared.

Alpine blinked up at him, completely unbothered, tail flicking like she was proud of herself.

And Bucky—

He smiled.

Not a smirk. Not one of his usual crooked, knowing grins. A real smile. Slow and soft and a little stunned, like it had crept up on him without warning. Like he hadn’t expected it. Like he hadn’t expected you.

“You adopted a cat,” he said quietly.

“Rescued a cat,” you corrected quickly, your hand already stroking her head out of pure guilt. “I didn’t mean to. She was just... there. In a box. In the rain. She looked at me. And sneezed. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Bucky stepped closer, something unreadable in his eyes. “She yours?”

You nodded. “Technically, she’s off the books. Like… extremely off the books.”

He crouched slightly, careful and deliberate as he reached out and scratched behind Alpine’s ear.

She melted instantly. Eyes fluttering shut. Purr ramping up like a motor.

You watched, heart thudding.

“Well,” he murmured, not looking away from her, “she’s got good taste.”

“In jackets?” you teased, a little breathless.

“In people,” he said, finally meeting your eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Alpine let out a pleased little chirp, completely oblivious to the tension she’d just wandered into.

You exhaled slowly. “Guess the secret’s out.”

Bucky chuckled. “Wasn’t much of a secret. Pretty sure Yelena saw her yesterday licking marinara off the kitchen counter.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the fridge. “Of course she did.”

“She took a video,” Bucky added, laughing now.

You covered your face with your hand. “She’s never letting this go.”

“Relax,” he said, voice warm. “No one’s kicking her out. She’s... kind of perfect. A little menace. Like you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His expression was open, easier than you’d seen it in days. Like Alpine’s very presence had cracked something in him.

“You mean that?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. She can stay.”

You grinned. “But she has to share the jacket?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean my jacket that you permanently borrowed?”

“You left it here, technically.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Semantics, sweetheart.”

Later that night, when you wandered into the living room with a book in one hand and Alpine’s new toy in the other, you stopped in the doorway.

There they were.

Bucky was stretched out on the couch, hair still damp from his post-shower rinse. One arm tucked behind his head, mouth parted slightly in sleep. And curled right on top of him, nestled into the center of his chest like she’d been born to be there—Alpine. Her tiny paws rose and fell with his breathing, purring so loud you could hear it across the room.

Neither stirred. You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, smiling softly, heart full and warm in a way you hadn’t expected when this week started.

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helaintoloki · 1 month ago

Note

Hiii! First of all, I really like the way you write, hope you're doing so good.

Have you ever think about Bucky meeting reader and like, is the cliché thing of "he fell first and hard"? but reader was never aware of it. She never pursued anything. Not that she didn't find Bucky handsome, charming or anything but she thought he wouldn't want a relationship after everything he went through.

a/n: i am such a sucker for bucky pining over oblivious reader you have no idea anon. i hope you like how this came out!

warnings: pining, fluff, bucky is a bit insecure, subtle angst

summery: Bucky has loved you for as long as he’s known you, but he’s not willing to risk your friendship by telling you that. thankfully, you take matters into your own hands

Bucky Barnes could recall the exact moment he realized he had feelings for you.

You’d only been an Avenger for a month and had just completed your first mission. Beaten down and sore beyond relief, the team had gathered around the common room to indulge in cheap takeout and rehash the events of the assignment. You mostly remained quiet, blending into the background while avidly gathering wisdom from the veteran members and taking note of the pointers they gave each other.

Then Sam cracked such an absurdly stupid joke you found yourself laughing so hard water shot out of your nose and straight onto a horrified Tony. All eyes were suddenly on you, and while most would have cracked from the pressure of such an embarrassing moment so early on in your career, it only served to make you laugh harder. Soon the whole room was filled with laughter and aching smiles, and you found yourself settling comfortably amongst your new teammates.

Your unabashed confidence and the ability to make yourself right at home with the team caught his attention immediately, and he spent the rest of the night trying to catch another glimpse of your smile or hear you laugh at Sam’s terrible jokes. Though he wasn’t one to buy into the whole notion of “love at first sight,” Bucky knew he was smitten, and he knew there was no going back.

Of course, Bucky never dared to speak these thoughts aloud, and despite his very strong feelings for you he remained stoic and professional around you, or at least as professional as he could be given your playful and alluring nature. Despite initially trying to keep his distance in an attempt to extinguish his feelings, you never seemed to leave him alone. You clung to Bucky the most out of all your teammates, and after a while he eventually gave up trying to stay away. However, becoming your closest friend and confidant only made his feelings worse, and every day that passed by your side only made his feelings grow stronger.

Unfortunately for him, it seemed you were none the wiser to his feelings, and Bucky felt there was no chance you’d ever reciprocate them, so he kept quiet and convinced himself he was fine with just being your friend.

Even if being your friend involved late night slumber party activities the evening before a mission.

“Wouldn’t Natasha or Wanda have been better suited for this?” Bucky grumbles while you gently comb a brush through his hair, your legs dangling over the edge of your mattress and resting on his shoulders as he sits on your plush throw rug beneath you.

“Natasha spends the night before a mission alone to clear her head, and Wanda likes to meditate with Vision,” you state plainly before setting aside your brush so you can begin to section his hair.

“And how is this supposed to help you prepare?” Bucky questions skeptically, putting on an annoyed front despite the fact that he very much likes the feel of your fingers gently raking against his scalp. No matter how often he pretended to be inconvenienced by your shenanigans, he’d never say no to anything you asked him. You had the man wrapped around your finger, and the worst part was you didn’t even know it.

“It helps me take my mind off of things so I’m not so nervous going into it,” you explain with a sheepish shrug. “It relaxes me. And… it also makes me fight harder to make sure I come home alive.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky prompts more seriously now, tone devoid of his previous combativeness. Your hands falter for a moment, causing the braid you’d worked so meticulously on to slowly fall apart until his hair falls back against his shoulders, but you don’t seem to mind.

“I mean… I don’t want this to be the last time I braid your hair or make you watch my movie recommendations with me. You’re important to me, Bucky. You know that, right?”

Your confession shoots straight to his heart, and Bucky finds himself harshly swallowing down the butterflies that begin to flutter obnoxiously in his stomach. You’ll never how much your words mean to him or how badly he wants to profess that he would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe. You are everything to him, but he doesn’t dare tell you this.

Instead, Bucky gently gives your calf a squeeze and lets his flesh hand rest upon your ankle.

“I know.”

You smile faintly and resume braiding his hair. You know Bucky isn’t one to be mushy or overly affectionate, so you don’t push the conversation any longer. You’re happy to sit in the quiet of your room away from the others, to enjoy this moment of peace before being thrust into chaos, and you know he feels the same.

“After this, do you want to watch a movie? I think it’s time you finally experience Napoleon Dynamite.”

“If it’ll keep you from bugging me about it for the next few weeks then yes,” Bucky responds sarcastically despite the grin that desperately fights to play itself upon his lips.

He knows you both should be getting to bed early for a night of rest, but he can’t find it in himself to protest.

Whatever it takes to make you happy.

~~~

You throw yourself back against the side of an abandoned car and fumble through your pack for another round of ammunition while Bucky covers your flank. You have no idea where the rest of the team is, but you hope they’re fairing better than the two of you are right now.

You’d been sent to rescue a group of hostages from a human trafficking ring intending to supply unwilling test subjects to scientists for illegal human experimentation. Corrupt people around the world would pay a fortune for their own genetically engineered super hero, and you were here to stop that from happening. You and Bucky were assigned to assist in the evacuation efforts, transporting people to a secondary location where a rescue team would later arrive to deliver them to a hospital. Though you’d been able to clear the area, you’d been ambushed by a group of soldiers and forced to take cover.

“Would you kill me if I told you I grabbed the wrong bag?” You implore guiltily after coming up empty handed. Your pack was full of medical supplies and rations, but not a single ounce of ammo could be found.

“I think these guys would probably get to you first before I could anyway,” Bucky replies humorlessly while ducking down to reload his gun. He’s running out of clips and you both know it.

Groaning, you let your head fall back against the car and pinch your eyes shut as you try to think of a new plan.

“I might have something, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Anything is better than dying,” he grits through his teeth as a bullet pierces the tire next to him. He watches as you reach into your bag and produce a speciality made grenade. Bucky’s eyes widen in disbelief when he looks from the bomb then to you. “Where the hell did you get that?!”

“I might have swiped it from Tony’s work desk,” you offer with a sheepish shrug before cautiously handing it over to him. “I thought it looked cool, but I have no idea if it works. It could at least buy us some time to make an escape if it doesn’t manage to blow us up first.”

“We’ll just have to test our luck,” Bucky says before turning to you with a serious look on his face. His tone of voice is more stern now, signaling for you to fall in line and heed his every word without question. You sometimes forget he was once a Sargent, but you can see now why people had an easy time trusting him as a leader. You never doubted Bucky’s ability to keep you safe, and this time was no different. “I’m going to pull the pin, and I need you to get down on the ground as soon as possible. I’m going to throw it, and then I’m going to cover you. Do you understand?”

“But what if you-“

“Y/n,” Bucky says sternly, his tone leaving no room for argument. You nod in reluctance and follow his orders as he pulls the pin. Bucky uses all of his strength to launch it across the way at your attackers before immediately dropping down to the ground and draping his body over yours. Curled into a ball, you let him pull you against his chest and shield your head with his metal arm to prevent you from getting hit with any shrapnel.

You can feel the rapid beating of his heart against your cheek as the ground rumbles beneath you from the blast. Your eyes squeeze shut while your hand grips tightly onto his leather vest for support, and you can feel Bucky tighten his hold on you in response. A beat passes before your surroundings still, and you slowly pry your eyes open just as he pulls himself away to look down at you.

“You okay?” He murmurs breathlessly, still coming down from his adrenaline rush. His wide pupils starkly contrast the blue of his irises, and you find yourself getting caught up in his stare as you swallow down your nerves.

“Fine,” you manage to get out. He looks down at you with uncertainty as you slowly reach out and brush his hair back from his face. “You have a cut on your forehead.”

“That’s okay,” he assures you with a faint smile before reluctantly pulling himself off of you and sitting back on his knees. He misses the closeness, but he knows you can’t afford to waste any time right now. The gunfire has stopped and your window to escape will only be open for a short time before the gunmen recover. “Can you run?”

You offer him a single nod before quickly scrambling onto your feet and booking it into the cover of the woods towards the secondary location where the rescued civilians should be waiting for you both. To your luck, the grenade had managed to help you clear a path to escape without disintegrating you both in the process. You run until your legs ache and your lungs burn, until Bucky is sure they aren’t coming after you, and you finally let yourself collapse against a tree to catch your breath.

“I need to start stealing from Tony more often,” you joke despite being out of breath, getting a rare laugh out of Bucky.

“Yeah, thanks to your sticky fingers we’re alive.”

“Why did you do that?” You ask suddenly, eyes meeting Bucky’s with uncertainty as you rest your hands on your knees.

“Do what?”

“Make yourself a human shield for me. You could have been hurt worse than just a cut on the forehead.”

Bucky sighs, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to come up with an answer that doesn’t reveal his unwavering love for you. You look to him expectantly as he moves towards you and rests a firm hand on your shoulder.

“It’s like you said,” he explains with a faint smile, “I didn’t want that to be the last time I let you braid my hair or force me into watching a movie with you.”

You stare up at him in quiet surprise and watch as he begins to make his way towards the secondary location. You hadn’t been expecting that, not even sure he’d remember your conversation from the night before, but here you were being proven wrong. You feel your heart flutter in your chest with longing but quickly shake the feeling away. You and Bucky are friends, always have been, and there’s no way he felt anything but platonic admiration for you as a teammate and confidant. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have made a move already? Besides, for all you knew Bucky didn’t do relationships, and you knew better than to push that boundary.

The rest of the team arrives an hour later, battered and bruised from a grueling fight against the leaders of the trafficking ring. The mission was a success, and now all that was left to do was wait for the rescue team to arrive for the civilians now that the area was cleared as safe.

Bucky keeps to himself while the others rest and chat amongst themselves to pass the time. Leaned against a tree with his arms crossed firmly over his chest, he watches on warmly as you sit crouched a few fit away with a handful of children around you. Your smile is kind and your voice full of light as you keep them entertained while waiting for the medics to arrive, handing out the stickers you keep in your pack for moments like these. They don’t have parents or an adult to cling to for reassurance, so you’ve taken it upon yourself be that comfort for them. Natasha always says you tend to get too attached to civilians you’ll never see again, but you don’t seem to care in the slightest.

“You love her,” Sam’s voice sounds from beside Bucky, startling him out of his moment of peace. It takes him a moment to regain composure, but he’s still quick to put on a hard front for the Falcon.

“Of course I do,” he attempts to brush off, “she’s my teammate.”

“I’m your teammate and you never look at me like that,” Sam quips with a raised brow much to the soldier’s chagrin.

“Whatever you’re trying to say just say it,” Bucky huffs vexedly.

“You’ve been pining after that girl like a lost puppy ever since she joined the team and not once have you had the balls to do anything about it. Why do you insist on torturing yourself like this?”

“You really think someone like me deserves to be with someone like her?” Bucky scoffs in disbelief, clearly believing such a notion to be impossible and outlandish. “I’ve done terrible, awful things. I’ve destroyed relationships and families, so why should I get to have one of my own?”

“That’s not who you are anymore,” Sam attempts to assuage him in vein. “That wasn’t you in the first place. That was Hydra, and you’re not under their control anymore.”

“When I think about what I’ve done- the blood on my hands… how could I dare taint her with my touch? Y/n deserves a good man with his head screwed on right, and that’s not me.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam avows solemnly, “and the sooner you realize that the better.”

Bucky is left to stew with his inner turmoil when Sam departs to check on Natasha. He could never understand just how much Bucky loved you, how his chest ached with longing every time he was around you, how his feelings for you seemed to grow stronger every day without you noticing. He would do anything to keep you safe, even if it meant keeping you safe from himself.

“Bucky!” Your voice calls cheerfully from across the way, a stark contrast to his brooding demeanor. You wave him over with glee, and how can he deny you when you smile at him like that?

“What do you need?” He asks while crouching down beside you, the children reacting to his presence with muffled giggles and shy smiles.

“The kids and I were trying to figure out where to put their new stickers, and we thought maybe they might look nice on your metal arm,” you inform him with a hopeful gleam in your eyes. A huff of amusement falls past his nostrils in response, but he gifts you a single nod before fully seating himself down on the ground.

“I think you’re right,” he agrees to the children’s delight. They immediately gather around the soldier as he extends his arm out and allows them access to their desired canvas. The activity should be able to tide them over until the medics arrive within the next half hour, and Bucky doesn’t mind being their entertainment.

You meet his eyes and mouth a quiet thank you to the man, and it makes it all the more worth it to see you smile at him.

~~~

Bucky lays in bed with his hands folded neatly on his stomach and his eyes focused on the ceiling as he decompresses from the grueling mission. His sore muscles remain tense despite being back at the tower, and a dull ache persists from the gash on his forehead. He wants nothing more than to fall into a dreamless sleep, but rest evades him. Today’s mission had hit particularly close to home for him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the faces of the people he’d saved.

They had almost ended up like him.

A knock on the door saves him from the suffocation of his mental turmoil. He gets out of bed with a groan and pads over to his door only to find you waiting on the other side once it’s opened.

Equipped with a blanket in one hand and a pillow in the other, you look up at the man innocently and ask, “Can I crash here tonight?”

“What’s wrong with your own room?” Bucky asks with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

“It’s too quiet in there.”

Nodding in understanding, Bucky opens the door wider and allows you to take refuge in his room. You immediately make yourself comfortable in his bed, choosing to set your things up on the side closest to the wall while still leaving enough room for the super soldier. Once you’re still, he climbs back into bed and lies stiffly beside you, ensuring all of his limbs are kept to himself.

“I can’t stop thinking about those kids,” you voice your thoughts aloud, shifting onto your side to face him.

“We did our job,” Bucky reminds you gently. “We got them out before they could be sold off for human experimentation, and now they have a chance at freedom.”

“I know, I know,” you relent with a quiet sigh. “It’s just… we never get to know what happens to them after. I know we’re supposed to detach and not get too close to civilians during missions like these, but I can’t sleep not knowing if they were returned to their families or if they even had a family to go back to. I can’t deal with the not knowing.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with caring,” he assures you with a careful smile. “You’re the most empathetic person I know, and it’s one of the things I adore about you, but you have to trust that those kids are going to be okay. If anything, you probably helped them smile for the first time since they were captured. That’s a win.”

You smile faintly and offer him a quiet nod in agreement. He has a point, and it alleviates some of the guilt you’ve been carrying since getting on the quinjet and leaving them behind in the care of the rescue team.

“Do you ever think about having any?” You prompt suddenly, clearly taking Bucky off guard.

“Any what?”

“Kids,” you state plainly. The question causes him to shift uncomfortably beside you, and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts before he can find his answer.

“During the war, I’d see the other soldiers get letters from their wives or hear them share stories about the babies waiting for them at home, and I wanted that,” Bucky admits quietly while absently fidgeting with his fingers. “I told myself once it ended I’d finally try to settle down and start a family of my own.”

The thought brings up unpleasant memories of a distant past and a longing ache for what could have been if things had turned out differently for him. He tries not to let this show, but you know him well enough to see the turmoil brewing within his troubled blue eyes.

“What about now?” you press quietly, almost afraid to rupture the stillness of the room by raising your voice any higher.

“It’s not completely out of the question,” he professes truthfully in spite of his obvious discomfort at speaking so vulnerably. “I don’t know if I’d be a good dad, or if I could even be a good partner after everything I’ve been through, but for the right person I would try.”

He wants to tell you that the right person is you, that he’d get down on one knee and give you a hundred kids if you asked him, but he holds his tongue and instead keeps his gaze firmly planted to the ceiling. It would be too much too soon, and he didn’t want to risk scaring away the only woman he’d ever truly loved. The dream of family and stability would always be out of reach so long as you remained platonic in your feelings towards him, but he was okay with that. He’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all, even if it meant you might someday fall in love with someone else.

“Do… you ever think about it?” Bucky asks to break the silence and shift some of the focus off of himself.

“All the time,” you whisper with a dreamy smile. “I know our line of work isn’t the most conducive for family planning or stability, but one day I’d like to follow in Clint’s footsteps and retire so I can live a life of my own. Maybe get a cottage somewhere quiet and grow old with the perfect partner if I ever find one.”

“Seems like that’s always the missing piece,” Bucky huffs humorlessly, heartstrings tugging at the wistful look clear in your eyes when you shift your gaze back towards him.

“Yeah, perfect partners are scarce for people like us,” you hum dolefully. “But I came to close to it once."

“What?” He breathes out tensely, heart immediately dropping to his stomach at your proclamation. A sense of dread overcomes him despite his best efforts to push the feeling down, and it takes all of his efforts to keep his reaction neutral in spite of the anguish he feels at hearing you confess your heart is set on another.

“I found a man I thought I could build a future with, but I don’t think he’s the relationship type. He never gave me any signs that he was interested, and after a while I realized it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Who was it?” Bucky asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Someone you know,” you answer vaguely, now avoiding his scrutinizing gaze. The pit of dread in his stomach only grows, and he isn’t sure he can handle knowing who the mystery person is.

An awful thought dawns upon him then, and he blurts it out before he can stop himself. “Is it Steve?”

A pregnant pause hovers over you both as Bucky’s words sink in, your silence unnerving him to no end. However, the quiet is immediately broken when you burst into laughter that you unsuccessfully try to muffle with your hand.

“Steve?” You retort incredulously. A deep frown settles across Bucky’s features and he’s immediately defensive.

“What’s so funny?” He prompts. It isn’t so ridiculous to believe your heart could belong to Captain America of all people, and he’s not sure why you’re not taking it seriously.

“You think Steve is the guy? The same Steve that watches I Love Lucy reruns with me and puts extra vegetables on my plate at dinner?”

“Well if not Steve then who?”

“You, Bucky,” you finally blurt with a nervous laugh. His defenses immediately go down while his brain goes into overdrive to process your confession, and your features slowly lose the humor in them as they become more serious. With a sheepish smile, you turn away and reaffirm, “you’re the guy.”

“I’m- you mean me?” He repeats again like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and he doesn’t. Surely he must have misheard you, or maybe you misspoke.

“Yes, you,” you reiterate in exasperation, clearly embarrassed at having revealed your feelings for your closest friend. “I thought it was obvious. Why else do you think I come into your room like this or spend all of my free time hanging out with you?”

“I thought it was because you saw me as a friend the way you do everyone else.”

“Oh, boy,” you breathe out before sitting yourself up from the bed. “Clearly I shouldn’t have said anything so I’m just going to go back to my own room now-“

“No, wait,” Bucky protests, quickly sitting up and resting a hand on your shoulder to keep you in place. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… it’s kind of hard to believe the woman I’ve been in love with for ages actually feels the same.”

“Wait… you love me?” You repeat softly, hand coming to cover your mouth in quiet shock as you look to him for any sign of insincerity. Instead, you find his blue eyes looking down at you with tender adoration while his lips curl into a careful smile.

“Always have,” he replies gently.

“But you never seemed like the relationship type of guy. You’re always so broody and closed off I figured you like being alone.”

“I’d be any type of guy for you,” Bucky avows while lovingly brushing his metal fingers across your cheek. “You’re everything to me, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life with you if you gave me the chance.”

“Oh, Bucky,” you coo gently, eyes beginning to well with tears as you happily throw your arms around him in a bone crushing embrace. “I can’t believe you, why didn’t you ever tell me?! I love you!”

Bucky wraps his flesh arm around your waist while his metal hand tenderly cradles your head. He laughs off your scolding and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, heart nearly leaping out of his chest from the euphoria he feels at finally being able to tell you the truth. He never once thought this could be possible for him, but having you here in his arms just felt right, like this was the way things were always supposed to be.

“I love you, y/n,” Bucky professes gently, prompting you to pull yourself from the hug to meet his loving gaze. Impulsively, you smash your lips onto his own in a searing kiss, and Bucky is quick to match your pace by pulling you fully into his lap as he melts into your touch. All inhibitions are thrown out the window, and in that moment the only thing Bucky cares to think about is the feel of your lips on his own while your fingers curl into his hair. If he knew it would be like this, he would have confessed a lot sooner.

But you have forever to make up for lost time, and Bucky is okay with that if it means spending the rest of his life being your perfect partner.

#mel writes #request #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #marvel #mcu #mcu x reader #mcu imagine

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squipa · 1 month ago

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let me shatter into you

— aka jason knows better than to let anyone get away with hurting you

———

your eyes trace the brown-yellow bruise forming on your wrist, the consequence of some asshole on the street too drunk to remember it isn’t polite to grab pretty girls. you would’ve let it go, really, it’s gotham, this kind of thing happens. unfortunately for the poor bastard, he had the misfortune of forgetting his sense in front of jason todd.

you try to hide the bruise before your boyfriend can see it, sliding the tarnished patch of skin under the sleeve of your jacket with haste— but he catches it anyways. of course he does. you can faintly see shocks of green lightning crackling in his ocean blue eyes, a precursor to the white hot rage stemming from his chest to the rest of his body.

you gently squeeze his arm, noting how tense the muscles in his bicep are. you know jason. you know he loves you differently— like you’re something fragile. he worships you, taking care of you like you’re a marble statue and he’s terrified of finding cracks. so something as small as a bruise, no matter how tiny or how minor, it makes him lose control.

he gently removes your hand from his arm, pressing a chaste kiss against your bruise. “why don’t you go back to that café, yeah? i’ll join you in a minute.” he says, looking down at you with a soft smile. if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’d completely gotten over the situation, happy as a clam.

but you do know him, and you know that the way his shoulders are tensed and his free hand is fisted in the pocket of his jacket means that he’s enraged.

“jay—“

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, giving you a gentle smile. “please, baby. i don’t want you to see this.”

you should stop it. you should try. but he’s looking at you like that and your morals suddenly become incredibly loose. you hesitate, remembering the waves of repulsion you felt moments ago when that idiot bastard yanked you towards him. “just… don’t hurt him bad.”

jason nods, turning you around and guiding you forward, watching until you turn towards the cafe before he focuses his attention on the man, who is still too piss drunk to comprehend how badly he had fucked up. you hear jason before the door fully closes behind you, an echo of “so you think that’s how you should treat a woman?”

he’s terrifying. that drunk idiot must be terrified.

and he’s yours. scary dog privileges and all that. it makes you feel warm, safe, loved, protected— you’re irrevocably in love with that. with him.

he comes back in a few minutes, maybe fifteen? the wait stretched on for hours in your mind. his knuckles are bloody, but none of it is his. he cleans up in the bathroom before sliding next to you on the cushioned side of your half-booth, wrapping an arm and your shoulder, breathing you in like a man starved.

“he’s fine.” he says quietly, so only you can hear it. “just made sure he learned to keep his hands to himself.”

you close your eyes, leaning into him, into his warmth. you don’t say anything— you don’t have to, the way you bury yourself against him is admission enough. his arms wrap around you and the bruise fades back into your skin. your heart beats with more love than you thought it capable of producing, your chest swelling like it’s about to burst.

you press a gentle kiss against his chest and everything makes sense again.

———

it’s always when i say i’m not gonna write that inspiration strikes

#charli writes #jason todd #dc #batfam #batman #dcu #jason todd drabble #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd imagine #jason todd one shot #jason todd x reader #jason todd fluff #jason todd headcanon #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood fanfiction

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paarksunghoon · 2 months ago

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resignation | sunghoon

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: desperately need to rant about my life and I’m doing it by way of enhypen 😩 this is a small little chapter and I have no idea if I’m gonna make this a whole thing, but we’ll see. enjoy for now and let me know your thoughts! xx

WARNINGS: none :)

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

Like a bird stuck in a metal cage, you feel trapped in an enclosure that’s meant to prevent you from flying away. That’s what it feels like to work at Park Inc., an international venture capitalist firm that serves Asia and the greater North American and European landscape. Your job is boring and meaningless, and today is the day you decided to do something about it.

Your alarm rings every morning at 5 A.M. on the dot and today is no exception. Since becoming Park Sunghoon’s assistant six years ago, you’ve learned the masterful art of never hitting snooze after hearing an earful from Sunghoon himself when he requested your presence the following hour (you failed to arrive in time and learned to never go back to sleep unless it was your day off).

This life seemed like a dream at the ripe age of twenty-one. Freshly graduated from college with no real career goal in mind, one of your academic mentors suggested entering the workforce as a personal assistant to gain social capital and learn about different areas of industry that could potentially lead you towards a career. Your measly business degree left you feeling unfulfilled and your parents’ aloof demeanor towards the lack of job offers lining up after graduating wasn’t the kind of news you were ecstatic about. You jumped at the chance to work as a personal assistant with the assumption that it would be the kind of job that you could pursue in the meantime until something else came along.

This position at Park Inc. fell into your lap like some kind of dumb luck. The role wasn’t posted on any job site. Rather, your name had been submitted on behalf of your academic advisor, which got you your first interview. You suppose that must be some kind of nepotism. After six separate interviews over the course of three months, the job was yours.

You’d saved up enough money, working the night shift at a local restaurant to afford a rundown apartment and a new office-appropriate wardrobe from the local second hand stores in your neighborhood. Pencil skirts, fashionable blouses, heels that promised to last a long time, and blazers that looked professional enough lined your closets for future use. It was an exciting prospect and starting your new life after graduating university felt like a different ball park than when you were still pursuing your degree.

Despite all of that, you feel listless.

Your days begin before the sun rises and ends just after sunset. Anticipating Sunghoon’s needs is seamless for you, to the point where you’re able to think on his behalf without second guessing yourself. He agrees on most days and doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to business matters because you’ve been by his side for over half a decade. You’ve picked him up from many late night rendezvous with women who definitely wanted more than he was willing to give, and you’ve accompanied him to events where he couldn’t bother asking somebody to be his date. You’re his assistant, and therefore you’re always available.

But you’re just the help. You don’t have any real stake in Park Inc., nor does anybody take you seriously unless Sunghoon agrees with your opinion. You know this company inside and out, and you know exactly how Sunghoon envisions this company to succeed. You act like you’re a managing partner without the title because you’re by his side nearly every hour of the day, and it’s gotten to a point where people me either whisper about a silent affair, or look at you with sympathy because Sunghoon can’t seem to function without you.

It was fun, at first. Learning how to stand on your own two feet while leaving everything you knew behind felt exhilarating. Abandoning your hometown to explore the big city was a dream come true, and you envisioned all of the late night food runs you’d go on in an attempt to explore each neighborhood within Seoul. The beginning was tolerable at best—if you count crying in your small apartment after thinking you’d never get the hang of this job—and Sunghoon knew to delegate tasks to you based on experience level. He had you fetch coffee and take care of his dry cleaning in the first few months, on top of organizing multiple reports until you were ready for more. He was kind like that, and you’re sure his willingness to help you in your career was why you stayed for as long as you have.

Six years ago, receiving the amount of responsibility you carry felt like you’d reached the top of the tallest mountain after dreaming of the day Sunghoon could trust you enough to let you do your job without much supervision. You could complete a task for him before he delegated it to you, because you understood his workflow and what needed to be prioritized. The both of you worked well like that, and after six years of getting to know each other, many would say you’re both joined at the hip professionally.

It comes to a point where you learn that the Sunghoon you see is far different than the Sunghoon everybody else sees. He’s naturally funny and a bit clumsy. He’s professional and stoic when he needs to be, but behind closed doors, Sunghoon laughs your ear off about old men who think they can walk all over his business tactics and people who are too rich to see that they’re the problem. Sunghoon is the best boss you’ve ever had, bar none.

He’s unlike any of the wealthy, stuck up assholes you deal with on a daily basis. Sunghoon hides his witty, flirty personality behind a professional face in the eyes of higher ups and investors who he does business with. He keeps his personal and work life separate, as far as he can, with the exception of occasionally letting women he meets accompany him to select events that almost always end up in having to kick them out of his penthouse apartment the morning after if they haven’t left already. His lifestyle is one you’ll never get used to. Even after six years working beside Sunghoon, you go back to your humble one bedroom apartment, the same one you moved into once you were able to afford living without any roommates.

It seems as though life moves for Sunghoon. He doesn’t have to do or say much to get people to fall to their knees or grant his every wish. He’s good looking (that’s something you’ll never deny because he’s objectively handsome), he manages to say all the right things, and he’s really good at his job. Sunghoon comes from a powerful and wealthy family that’s existed in Seoul for as long as anyone can remember, and there aren’t many bad things people say about him behind his back. He’s risky but strategic, gambling on chances that would typically slip through the cracks if not for his watchful eye and modern approach to business.

You’ve learned a lot from him, too. Sunghoon grew into the man he is today. He’s no longer the overly arrogant and cocky person he was when you first met him, and he’s gained a deeper understanding of the company he’s about to inherit once his father transitions his title unto him. There’s much to be said about powerful men who choose to view everybody he works with as an equal, and while you might legally be his personal assistant, Sunghoon has allowed you to partake in the business too. You’ve been his right hand man ever since he realized you knew the company as well as he did. Yet, you can’t help but feel utterly stuck in this endless cycle of work, work, and more work.

There must be something out there for you that doesn’t consist of answering emails and letting your inbox pile up until the stress eats you alive. Being able to travel alongside Sunghoon for business opportunities has granted you a pathway to see the world, but it’s not enough to accompany somebody else. You want to explore the world by yourself and create agendas for your taste and likeliness, not Sunghoon or potential business partners while you sit in the back and take notes during every conversation. You want to live your life without being chained to a desk and learn what it feels like to try something new.

For the past six years, your life has been dedicated to Sunghoon and only Sunghoon.

“Sir?” You say tentatively, knocking on his door while pushing the heavy wooden door open.

“Come in.”

You know well enough he’s got nothing on his schedule that would impose a distraction. You slip into the room and close the door behind you with your fingers gripping a beige Manila folder behind your back. Sunghoon wears a suit that’s tailored to his likeness and his hair is slicked back like he’s trying to resemble Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unscheduled interruption?” Sunghoon asks with humor in his tone. He knows you typically keep to your inbox unless something is imminently urgent.

He turns around from looking outside of his window and watches as you hesitantly walk towards his desk. The office space is huge, bigger than your entire living room, and the sudden realization that you’re about to make the biggest change of your life is weighing on your shoulders. Your feet feel heavy beneath you when Sunghoon glances between your face and the folder in your hands.

“What’s this?”

You don’t hesitate to open it and put it on his desk facing up.

“My resignation letter.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sunghoon stares at the letter you’ve typed out and notices the large, black signature at the bottom of the page. His eyes flicker back at you as if to detect any lie in your face before he scoffs with a short laugh.

“Right. April Fool’s Day has already passed. No need to keep me on my toes like you usually do, though I appreciate a good joke.”

You shake your head. “I’m being serious, Sir. I’m quitting.”

The seriousness of your voice seems to catch him. He takes a seat on his leather chair and pulls himself closer to the desk to fully examine the letter.

“Dear Mr. Park, I am writing to inform you that I will be resigning from my position as your personal assistant at Park Incorporated. My final day will be two months from the day I hand you this resignation letter. I am committed to ensuring a smooth transition, and will facilitate seeking a replacement while I complete projects and tasks on my docket.”

He looks up at you.

“You’re breaking up with me.”

“No, I’m quitting this job.”

“Which is the same as breaking up with me. You’re my business partner, for God’s sake. You come with me to every meeting and important event that requires my presence.”

“I’m your assistant. There are many people who would die to be able to do that for you.”

He looks at you like you’ve set his office on fire. “I will not let you quit.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not how it works, you know. Soobin from HR will process my resignation, even if you beg him not to. I’m giving you a two months' notice because that is how much I value my time here.” Sunghoon clasps his hands as if trying to make sense of the matter.

“But why? Why now? You’re impeccable at your job. Is the pay not suitable enough for you? I can give you a generous bonus and pay raise, if that will convince you to stay. Do you want a bigger office or reduced working hours?”

“I don’t need any of that. I’ve made up my mind, Sir.”

“Why?”

With a sigh, you sit down in front of him. “I’ve spent nearly every day for the last six years catering to the needs of you and this company. I’ve loved my time here, and I credit my ability to navigate this industry to you and this job. You’ve given me incredible opportunities that I probably wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere, and it’s been fun learning the ins and outs of this business.

“But I don't have a personal life at all. My days are spent catering to your needs. I don’t have many friends aside from the people I see in this building. I don’t travel and I’ve had to miss important family milestones because of work obligations.”

“Is more time off what you need?” Sunghoon interrupts. “You’ve earned your fair share of requested time offs, even if it’s a personal day for no reason. You’re responsible enough for me to know you can handle your workload when you get back.”

You shake your head. “It’s not just that. I…I don’t meet new people anymore. I don’t make new friends and I don’t date because this job eats up my life. I feel like I’ve been wrapped up in this company and doing whatever it takes to help it succeed while neglecting my own needs. I’ve had six incredible years, but it’s time for me to move on.”

“…Date?”

With a sigh, you respond. “Yes, Sir. Just because you can find women at the snap of your fingers doesn't mean that everybody else can too.”

“You don’t date at all?”

You scratch the inside of your wrist at his question. “I can’t date. I don’t have the time to.”

“So you’re quitting because you want to date.”

“No. I’m quitting because I want to experience life without being on call for when you need my help.”

Sunghoon purses his lips and you can’t read his expression. In the years you’ve worked with him, learning his every mood has been critical to maintaining cordial balance between the two of you, and with other people who Sunghoon isn’t particularly fond of. You’ve extinguished emotional fires just by glancing at him, but the way he looks at you is something you can’t seem to figure out.

While you wouldn’t say you’re exceptionally close with Sunghoon, you’d argue your relationship to him is far closer than other assistants in the firm. He might be hard headed and stubborn, but he’s compassionate and understanding. He doesn’t expect you to stay in the office until he leaves unless explicitly stated (which consists of half the week, but you can’t complain when some of your colleagues are constantly working longer days than you).

He compensates you well from time to time, buying you new wardrobe for events he’s requested you to be at. You have a drawer full of exquisite jewelry. You’ve had the privilege of accompanying him on international business trips. From the outside, your life looks like one glamour shot that’s been afforded to you through diligent work, which is partially true, but seldom do people see the dark circles underneath your eyes or how many meals you skip because you need to cater to Sunghoon’s needs.

For as lucky as your career has been thus far, it’s all on company time, and nothing is ever because you want to. You get the perks, but it’s a transaction. There’s nothing you want more than the freedom to choose what time you wake up and what time you go to bed.

“I can’t say I’m too happy with this news,” Sunghoon says as he leans back on his chair. “You and I work together really well. I don’t think I’ve ever had an assistant as diligent and as smart as you.”

“You had three assistants before I came into the picture.”

“They were terrible. Why did you think you went through six interviews?”

“I can train my predecessor to be as excellent as I can be. I can do it in two months because that’s the time it took me to get used to you and your habits.”

Sunghoon remains silent for a moment.

“They’ve got big shoes to fill.”

Part of you thinks he’s accepted your resignation. He doesn’t immediately grab the Manila folder with the papers in it. Rather, he closes it and keeps it shut on his desk with his hands clasped like he’s afraid it’s going to materialize and escort you out of his office.

“You’re still needed for events and other internal-facing meetings until your time comes to an end.”

“Of course, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “There’s one tonight. I wasn’t going to have you come to this one initially, but given the circumstances, I think it’s fair that we squeeze in as many as possible before you’re off the hook, no?”

You can’t say you’re incredibly excited by the idea, but knowing Sunghoon, he’s either forgotten he needs someone to act as arm candy or one of his many flings bailed on him at the last minute.

“I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 8 P.M. Don’t worry about checking in early tomorrow, either. Come in at nine instead, and get some sleep tonight.”

Nine is still early, especially if you’re going to accompany Sunghoon to an event this evening, but it’s better than getting four hours of shut eye before you’re needed the next day.

***

A section of your wardrobe is dedicated to items Sunghoon has gifted you throughout the years you’ve been with him. They’re far more expensive and of higher quality than the garments you buy for yourself, and the jewelry is far too precious for you to mix in with your everyday wear. They sit in their own designated section, away from your business attire and weekend wear.

Back when you started this position, Sunghoon found it amusing that you refused the luxurious gifts he’d offer for large tasks such as acting as a liaison at black tie events or helping him with projects that required you to look more presentable than remaining in an office. He bought you enough dresses, shoes, and jewelry until you were able to rotate a few pieces so that you’d never have to wear the same thing twice in a row. To assuage your mind about the prices of each item, Sunghoon would tell you to wear it out on a date with a special someone or to important events that required you to dress up a bit.

When you pull out a sleek baby blue powder dress that hugs your body in all the right places and jewelry to match, the memory makes you laugh. There hasn’t been any time for engaging in those types of things and your life does not reflect that of Sunghoon’s. They gather dust in your closet until you’re needed to make an appearance as his well-trained, capable assistant. His colleagues know to defer to you unless Sunghoon’s word needs to be confirmed, and that’s how the dynamic has been for the entirety of your working relationship with him.

You don’t put much effort into your appearance tonight. After touching up your makeup and slipping on a pair of black sling backs that match a black Italian clutch purse he had gifted you on your first international trip, you wait for the car to arrive at your doorstep.

Surprisingly, Sunghoon steps out from the backseat and holds the door open for you.

“…Sir?”

“Right on time. You look stunning.”

His compliment flies over your head as you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. You’re used to meeting Sunghoon at the fairgrounds and not holding the door open for you in his personal mode of transportation. The only time the two of you arrive together is when you depart from the office. Sunghoon is a busy man who makes work his priority. He doesn’t escort you from place to place. That’s your job.

“What are you doing here?”

He beckons you inside of the car. The partition is raised to give the two of you some privacy. Sunghoon slides into the backseat and puts a respectable distance between the two of you when the driver begins to drive away.

“It dawned on me that I rely you on you for so many things, and yet, I can’t seem to take an hour of my day to ride with you to events I’ve asked you to be at.”

“It’s my job.”

“No, your job is to make sure I don’t lose my head.”

“If letting you work while I drive alone makes your head stay on your shoulders, I think that’s a job well done.”

He purses his lips. “Still, I don’t think ending my workday early to pick you up will kill me.” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“This isn’t changing my mind, Sir. I still plan to leave the company.”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Worth a try. But I meant what I said about accompanying you. We’re a team, even if your position is just my assistant.”

“Sir—”

“Sunghoon,” he interrupts. “Call me Sunghoon.”

“...Sunghoon.” He smiles.

“That’s more like it.”

***

will there be a part 2? who knows

#enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #enha x reader #kpop x reader #park sunghoon fanfiction #park sunghoon fluff #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #sunghoon #fic: resignation #my writing*

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blueivyy99 · 2 months ago

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Finding a photo of his ex

Sylus x Non-MC

summary: a painful break up with your ex left you insecure, like you were never enough no matter what you do. then Sylus came to mend your heart. but when you found out who his past girlfriend was, you're left thinking: will he be like your ex?

tags: insecurities, exes zayne and non-mc, slight angst, comfort, fluff, sweet bf sylus, not set in LADS universe, VERY OOC Zayne description

note: SORRY ZAYNE I LOVE YOU PLS FORGIVE ME

taglist: @animegamerfox @lazypostfandomer

It was an accident. You were rummaging in Sylus's storage room looking for some books to pass by some time. You found one that piqued your interest; the book is squished under one of the old boxes obviously forgotten you pulled it out and looked over the pages.

As you were skimming, a photograph fell to the floor. When you picked it up and examined the photo your breath hitched when your eyes saw a familiar woman.

In the photo, she is grinning from ear to ear while Sylus gives her hand a kiss.

It was MC with Sylus.

This is not the first time you encountered her. Since she is a woman you know too well. The very woman who is the reason for your insecurities. The same woman who stole your previous boyfriend away.

You took a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You knew that Sylus had a previous relationship. He knew about your past as well but you didn't expect that MC would be his ex.

Well, you didn't ask, that's one thing. But life seems to just like playing with you. Seeing her face again brought back bitter memories and little seeds of doubt started sprouting in your heart.

You didn’t mean to fall for another one of MC’s ghosts.

Zayne was first. Quiet, reserved, and soft spoken Doctor Zayne. You remembered chasing him back then. Asking to get noticed, being overly happy when given a mere glance. So when he relented and gave you a “chance" you wasted no time and showed him how much you love him.

At first, it was okay. You keep telling yourself that it's just the way he is and in no time, he will open up to you and let his walls break down but that didn't happen.

Not with you, at least.

Because when you saw him one time laughing and smiling with his childhood friend, suddenly everything just made sense.

What you were begging for him to do with you comes so naturally for him when it comes to her.

Lunch with you in the office? Nope, too unprofessional. But with MC, he would even go as far as cooking for the both of them.

Dinner after work? He's too tired to even lift a leg. But wouldn't mind driving to go to her place when she asked him to.

One social media post about you? Oh hell nah. He is not a social media person anyway. But would occasionally post their arcade escapades with a sassy caption.

You confronted him about it, but he just told you that it meant nothing. That she is a childhood friend nothing more and that she has a boyfriend.

But you knew that he was lying of course. You spent ages trying to learn him and loving him. You saw how his eyes had that air of sadness and anger when says that MC already has a boyfriend.

It was not a surprise when he started spending less time with you when the news of MC and her boyfriend broke up. Of course he'd be there.

But the more he kept choosing to be with her, the more you started spiralling to sadness as well.

You kept trying and trying to keep him by your side. Being the docile girlfriend that he needs. Never demanding, never yelling, never crying.

You held onto him long enough to believe he might look back.

But he never did.

So you let him go.

Or maybe he let you go first, you didn't know.

The break up became more of a relief for him and that's what struck the most. A part of you hoped he would at least feel remorseful and maybe even regret but there is none.

So you left. But with more insecurities as ever.

Was it really that hard for him to love you?

Was there anything you didn't do?

Why was it easy for him to just let you go and leave like you didn't matter?

Did he really love you or did he just get in a relationship with you to stop you from chasing him like a wild dog?

You ponder over it for a year or two. Just accepting that maybe you're just no match for her and guys like Zayne would always, always choose a woman like her over a woman like you. Because of that you swore to never love again.

Then came Sylus.

Rough, loud, reckless Sylus, who didn’t ask you to be anything. The same Sylus who didn't force you to return his feelings when he figured that you weren't ready yet and let you at your own pace.

Sylus who became the receiving end of your insecurities but gently kissed all the doubts away. Sylus who made you feel like loving again doesn't sound bad as it seems.

With him, the ache didn’t fade to zero but it stopped owning you.

Not until you saw this photo.

You have been doing a good job of reigning over the dark thoughts brought by your past but seeing this just makes you question everything.

Sylus never gave you a chance to doubt him. He showed you every day that his eyes are set on you and you alone. That no matter how many women fawn over him, he will always choose you.

But because of this stupid photo, you're seeing yourself as that same woman five years ago. Pathetic and a loser content with just a scrap of affection from her boyfriend.

The boyfriend who will choose the same woman in this damned photo over and over again.

You knew Sylus isn't like that.

Right?

But a voice in your head tells you that it will only take a matter of time before he realizes that she is the better option. That you are not worth wasting his time for. That once the opportunity presents itself, he will toss you aside like Zayne did just so he can run to her.

Sobs broke out of your lips and the photo on your hand is already crumpled by how much you're gripping it.

Just the thought of Sylus giving you that cold dismissive look made your heart shatter. It didn't help when the memory of you breaking up with Zayne and he had the audacity to be relieved kept popping in your head but this time, Sylus's face was in it.

It had been five years since that night. But everything is still fresh. Everything is still vivid. You don't know where Zayne is. You're not gonna bother finding out anyway.

But you're in the same city and Sylus crossing paths with MC is not impossible.

What if he sees her and thinks that he's wasting time with you?

What if he is with you out of pity because of how miserable you were before?

Your head is aching at all the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“– Sweetie?” Sylus's voice took you out of your haze. "What's happening?”

He looks at your tears streaked face and he quickly gathers you in his arms, grounding you back to reality. You sobbed in his chest holding him tightly. Silently begging for him not to go.

He took your hand and gently removed the photo from your grip, throwing it away on the floor. Connecting two and two together.

“I'm sorry, darling. Should've thrown that away. I didn't know it's still there." You feel him kissing your head and rubbing your back trying to make you stop from crying.

“P-please, please, don't leave me for her," you whimpered. “I'll do everything … anything. Just don't go."

You held him tighter while hoping and begging.

You felt him stiffen and you brace yourself for the worst. Maybe this is the part that he tells you that he will still leave. Maybe it's a good thing that you finally gave him a way out of this relationship just like what Zayne did.

He cupped your cheeks and looked at you with such bewilderment. “Where is this coming from? I'm not leaving you, sweetie. Never in a million years."

Fresh set of tears fell from your eyes again.

“B-but it's her. Everyone chooses her.” You replied.

Sylus isn't strange to the fact that your ex left you as a mess. He was there to help you pick up the broken pieces after all. He still wants to beat up your ex for being such an asshole.

But hearing you say those words, a realization occurred to him.

"Her? You mean the woman you told me about was MC?"

You nodded your head.

"My sweet little darling,” he wiped your tears away. "Try not to worry about it, okay? I won't leave you. I would die before anyone could take me away from your side. I love you. I love you so much.”

You yelped when suddenly his strong arms are lifting you up carrying you, transporting you back to the living room and settling in the couch making you sit on his lap.

“The best days of my life are with you, sweetie. I'd be a fool to let you go." He said. Your heart thumping at the sincerity in his tone. “You are perfect for me. The one I've been waiting for my whole life. Even if the women from my past come back and try to take me, I will always choose you. I will always stay with you for as long as you want me to."

You looked at his eyes. Trying to find deception and lies. But all there was was his overwhelming sincerity. You're trying hard not to believe him, but there is something in his gaze that begs you to have faith in him.

“Don't say that," you said almost above a whisper.

“Hmm why not?" He said with a little teasing in his voice sensing the shift in your mood.

“I might not let you go if you keep telling me those things."

A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Is that so? Then allow me to shower you with assurance so you'll hold me tight, sweetie.”

He held one of your cheeks and looked you straight to the eyes, “I love you. I'm not like your ex. I won't leave. You're not a burden to me, darling. As long as I'm alive, you're wanted here in my heart, sweetie.”

When he leaned closer to kiss your lips, you held on to him tightly pulling him closer as you answered his kisses. One by one, all your doubts were washed away.

Every brush of his lips against yours is a confession of his love, his loyalty. One that you have never felt before in your previous relationship.

“I love you, Sylus." You said in between kisses. It made him groan and kiss you more fervently.

As Sylus held you tenderly, softly caressing you and kissing you gently, you feel a part of you getting healed.

As your bodies collide, he reminds you that for him you are enough.

And maybe that's all you needed. To feel loved, cherished and assured that no matter how perfect she might be, someone will choose you within a heartbeat.

Thoughts? Comments? Lemme hear ❤️ luv u! Hope u enjoyed.

#love and deepspace #sylus x non mc #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads fanfic #lads fic

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a-casxandra · 8 days ago

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❝𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞.❞

Actor Rafayel x you (non-mc) as his non-showbizz girlfriend. angst.

𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗸. Especially if you’re not part of that dazzling, cutthroat world.

You never thought it’d be this hard. You told yourself love was love, and that behind the flashing cameras and glimmering premieres, he was just Rafayel—your Rafayel. Not the actor the world worshipped. Not the onscreen heartthrob. Just him. Just yours.

But lately, it doesn’t feel like he is.

You sat in the softly lit penthouse you both called home. Candles flickered on top of a small cake you picked up that morning, the wax slowly pooling as the minutes turned to hours. Your anniversary. Two years.

Your fingers trembled as you typed, “Rafayel, where are you? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

It took him ten minutes to reply.

> “I’m with MC. We just finished shooting and the production team invited us to eat outside. So you don’t need to wait for me.”

You stared at the message. Read it. Reread it. It didn’t hurt because of what he said—it hurt because he didn’t even apologize. Like he’d forgotten. Like it didn’t matter.

You didn’t text back.

MC.

You knew her name before you ever met her. She was his first love—a part of his life from long before you arrived. He never hid that from you. He told you, once, that their story ended long ago. That what they had was over.

But now?

Now they were cast in the same drama. And the world, blind to you, started shipping them. Every interview. Every tweet. Every video edit, every comment and Rafayel never said a thing to deny it.

One week after your forgotten anniversary, you snapped.

You dressed simply. Jeans. Hoodie. Cap. And you went to the set. You knew where they were filming—of course you did. You’d helped him memorize lines, listened to him stress about this scene or that shot. And yet, he never once offered for you to visit. Never once asked if you’d come.

You stood behind the crowd near the monitors. Nobody noticed you. Just another fan in the sea of them. That was all you ever were, wasn’t it?

Then you saw him.

Rafayel stood across from her—MC—laughing softly. A sound you hadn’t heard from him in weeks. His hand rested on her back, gently. His eyes sparkled when he looked at her. You felt like a stranger, intruding on something real.

Then the scene started.

It was a confession. He looked at her with so much longing, you forgot it was acting. The way his voice broke on her name, the way his hands reached for hers. And when he kissed her… the world spun.

But you reminded yourself—it was a job. Just a script. Just a role.

Until the director yelled, "Cut!"

And Rafayel didn't pull away.

Their lips still touched. They were laughing. Flushed. Embarrassed by the cheers of the staff, by the teasing, but neither of them denied it. She tucked her hair behind her ear, he covered his smile—and you realized:

You never made him smile like that.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your legs took a step back. Then another. The voices faded. Your heart didn’t shatter all at once—it cracked, slowly. Silently.

You stood alone, surrounded by people who adored him. But none of them knew him. Not like you did. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

“Why is it her and not me?” Your voice trembled. “I’m his girlfriend… I stayed by his side longer than her… I supported him in his dreams… but I guess I’ll always remain a fan. Someone who cheers him on from the shadows… but never gets to stand beside him.”

You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t scream or cry. You just… left. The penthouse felt too big that night. You packed slowly. No drama. No chaos. Just… an end. Quiet and unseen, like you always were.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮. 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩…

…𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #angst #lads zayne #lads caleb #lads sylus #lads xavier #oneshot #non mc reader

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godmadeaterribleerror · 15 days ago

Text

Along the Line

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, sex pollen, smut (fingering, oral f!receiving, handjob, p in v sex), angst, light fluff, humor, no use of y/n, love confessions

Summary: After you get hit with a chemical on a mission, Bucky has to take care of you. But he won't do the one thing that will fix it, no matter how much you want him to.

And he wants it too. Maybe more. And, at some point, something has to break.

Author's Note: Sex pollen won the poll. First Thunderbolts fic. Big things happening. Enjoy!

Word Count: 11.4k

“I told you this was a bad idea, Walker.”

“Yeah, you’re a genius. Do you want a trophy that says I knew it was a bad idea, or a sash-“

“Can I have a trophy?” Alexei pops into the screen, and you really don’t think this has to be a group activity. “I could make it into a very fancy cup!”

You’re lying flat on the granite counter of the safe house, Bucky stiff at your side as he glowers to the video feed, and you might be dying. Or just burning alive. There’s a hot prickle over your skin that’s only getting worse, a series of cramps in your gut that feels like you’re being shredded apart then slammed back together, and an ache between your legs that isn’t foreign—at least, not when Bucky’s present—but is far too powerful given the circumstances.

Maybe you’ve just lost it. You had been giggling an awful lot while Bucky killed all those Hydra agents, but he’d also called you doll again, and there had been a blissful, fuzzy feeling over your skull. And you’d moaned—really loudly, too—right in Bucky’s ear when he’d hauled you over his shoulder and carried you out of the building.

“Fuckin’- Gonna throw Walker off a roof- We all told him this was a stupid new protocol-“

You’d hummed along to his grumblings, and most of your attention had been fixed on his hair. It was longer now. And he’d been taking care of it, so it was soft, and kind of smelled like vanilla. You’d wanted to tug on it. To run your fingers through it and see if he’d hum. Maybe yank on it while he was deep inside of you-

His muscles had flexed around you, and you’d whined that time.

Whined and buried your face in his neck, before biting back tears as he’d tensed.

The line.

You’d had to remember the line.

Bucky smiles at you more than most people, but the line means that smiles are all you get. He sticks to your side most days, but you’re pretty sure he just feels responsible for you. You’re the lost puppy they picked up off the street. Sweet and likable, but mostly useless.

You aren’t useless.

You try not to be useless.

That’s part of the line, too.

You do a little more for Bucky than the rest of them. You’ll make sure Yelena has all the hamster food she needs, track down Bob all those coloring books he likes so much, and explain to Alexei that no, the government does not know how this season of Yellowjackets is going to end, so you’re not going to ask. But they can figure those things out themselves.

You think.

The point of your job is that none of these people have ever lived normal, 21st century lives, and they need to be likable to the public so please teach Ava about knocking, but none of them are stupid.

They could all live without you.

Bucky maybe the most of all. He has lived a life. He managed to—some fucking how—get his way into congress.

So the line is do everything for him, because you’re a pathetic idiot with a crush on her boss, but also don’t do so much that you’re over stepping.

Prioritize all his questions but don’t neglect the others. Return all of his smiles, and talk to him whenever you can, but he always has to initiate it. Always come when he calls—you really are a puppy—but don’t abandon other conversations for him.

Be an idiot, but keep your dignity.

You’ll let him flirt with you—he doesn’t flirt with you, he just makes polite conversation, and you look at him like he’s sprouting gospel—but you won’t encourage it, because you really do like this job. It pays well. It’s morally questionable, but no well-paying job isn’t. And you’re going to use this money to pay off all your debts, and then your family’s debts as well.

So if Bucky offers you his arm at an event, take it, and pretend you don’t want to grab him by the collar and climb him like a tree.

If someone makes a comment—passing jokes from Walker about how you’re supposed to work for all of them, not just Barnes, or a dry look for Yelena when Bucky says good job and you flush like he just called you pretty—brush it off. Don’t make it weird. It’s obvious, and everyone knows, but don’t make it weird.

You’d whined, though. Whined and tried to nuzzle into Bucky as if he’d want that.

You made it weird.

And you’d pulled back with a mumbled apology, but Bucky had just grunted. You hadn’t spoken for the rest of the walk back to the safe house. If Bucky’s hand on your thigh had been squeezing on purpose, you’d bitten your tongue until you’d tasted the tang of blood. He couldn’t have been doing it on purpose. And you couldn’t make it weird. Again.

You’d gagged yourself with a cloth, when Bucky had set you down on the counter. If he’d thought anything of it, all you’d gotten was raised brows and a small frown before he moved on. Gotten you a second cloth—cold and wet and resting on your brow to combat the dry fever—and called the tower to report that the new protocol was, in fact, a stupid fucking idea.

“Nobody’s getting any trophies.” He grunts, his arms crossed over his chest, and you want to spring up and tackle him.

Maybe the metal arm could go inside of you, while the other one wrapped around your neck and kept you still against his chest, and that low, commanding voice would be right in your ear-

You’re moaning again. And your hips are jerking off the counter.

It’s a good thing Bucky positioned himself where he did. You don’t need everyone to see you humping the air to the thought of metal fingers inside of you, cold and hard, pressing deep into your cunt at an abusing pace and-

That might have been another moan.

The sound might have been too close to Bucky.

Fuck.

“Hey, I’m not handing them out,” Walker raises his hands on the screen. “And Yelena’s the one who started it-“

“No, I did not-“

“Uh, yeah you did. You said my idea was stupid-“

“It was stupid! It is going to get the bumblebee killed-“

Walker voice becomes almost a whine. “She’s not dying, she just got drugged! We’ve all been drugged, it’s not that big a deal-“

“Walker.” Bucky grunts, and that’s his everyone shut the hell up and listen voice, and your nails are digging into your skin with the effort not to grinding onto your hand. “Shut up. It was a stupid fucking idea-“

“But-“

“She’s a civilian-“

“She should know how to defend herself-“

“She shouldn’t have been here.” Bucky’s yelling now. The world is blurring slightly, and he’s not mad at you, but it’s still making your heart howl.

He’s not mad at you.

He still said he didn’t want you here. With him.

The line says you should swallow that, then cry in your room later.

But whatever is making your heart burn and your skin feel raw doesn’t care about the line. It’s just pressing on your eyes and feeding the sting behind them, lumping in your throat and shaking at your lips-

The first sob is soft, and weak. Muffled in the gag. If you’re lucky, too quiet to hear-

You’re not lucky.

Bucky turns to look at you with wide eyes, his brow furrowed in tight lines your fingers are literally fucking itching to trace, and you shake your head.

No attention. If he’s kind, he’ll pretend he can’t see the tears rolling down your cheeks and he’ll ignore you and let you just choke on it. On the overwhelming soreness in your chest and the way your heart is pressing into itself until hairline fractures start to form, and soon they’re going to turn into chasms and why is he moving, he’s a good man that should let you deal with your own problems, so why the fuck is he moving-

A warm, calloused hand rests on your face, wiping your cheeks before moving to your brow, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. If you look at Bucky hovering above you, you’ll either cry more, or moan his name again. If you turn your head you’ll see the rest of the team on the computer, and they’ll be looking at you with all that sympathy—the kind that calls you weak—and you’ll scream.

Eyes shut.

Don’t lean into his touch, even when his finger tangle slightly into your hair. Even when thumb brushes over your lips—why the fuck is he doing that too, he must secretly fucking hate you—hold the line. Don’t open for him. Don’t moan his name into the gag. Don’t-

“Shit.” Bucky’s voice is low, and you squeeze your eyes tighter. “You’re- Shit-“

“What is wrong with the bumblebee?” Alexei calls from the computer, and you can hear Yelena’s sigh.

“Walker’s brilliant plan got her exposed to something. She’s sick.”

“It was a brilliant plan-“

“She is crying, you dickshit-“

“I think you mean dipshit-“

“I am going to kill you-“

“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, his hand still on your face. You’re losing resolve. You’re going to lean into his touch. “Don’t let them kill each other.”

“Do not worry, Barnes. I will stand right between them, and their attack will not affect- Ow!”

Bucky’s hand moves away.

Thank Christ.

“Yelena, why did you punch me-“

“I was trying to punch John, and you were in the way-“

“Yelena.” Bucky’s voice is a little further away now.

You’d wanted him to move away. It was best for everyone that he moved away. You can open your eyes and stare at the ceiling now.

But where his hand had been now feels white-hot, like he’d lit you on fire then poured liquid nitrogen over your skin. And it’s spreading. Through your blood before pooling in your gut, then leaking between your thighs-

“I need you to focus. Walker, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Good. Keep doing that.”

“Whatever-“

“That’s not shutting up.” Bucky says your name, and you really hope he’s still blocking you from view. You’ve started to palm at your breasts—just for something—and you don’t really want to be a full, on display sex show. “We need to focus on her.”

Fuck. Your eyes roll back in your head, and his words are sending shivers through your whole body. Up your spine and over all your nerves, and he’s nowhere near you now, but he’s still fucking talking, and that seems to be more than enough.

“Whatever was in that gas, it’s making her- She can’t walk without falling over. And she’s got a fever.”

“A fever?” You can hear the frown in Yelena’s voice. “How bad of a fever?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a thermometer. But,” you turn your head slightly to see the screen, just in time to watch Walker’s mouth snap shut. “I can feel her skin burning. It’s bad. I need options.”

“Options?”

“What can we do.” Bucky mutters, and you can’t see his face, but there’s a strain in his voice that just makes you want to moan for him again. “We’re miles from a hospital, and it’s a two-day flight back. I gotta know how to make it better until we get pickup.”

Yelena hums, her eyes meeting yours through the camera. “Why is there a gag in her mouth.”

“I- Uh-“ Bucky glances over his shoulder, and you choke on another whimper. “She did that. To herself.”

“Can she talk?”

“Yelena-“

“Take the gag out.” Yelena shrugs, still holding your gaze. “She can tell us what she feels.”

No.

That’s a horrible idea.

And you’re trying to tell Bucky that, before it’s too late. Trying to plead with him, using an open, desperate expression. Begging him with your eyes to ignore Yelena and say that he can see that you’re in pain, so the best thing to do is just send the jet.

But he just glances at you, his jaw tenses, and he shakes his head.

It doesn’t look like it’s for you.

It still pulls an almost broken howl from your throat. Like he’s driving a blade right into your chest.

His knuckles brush your lips as he moves the cloth out of your mouth. He won’t look you in the eyes.

The howl splits through the room, falling into more of a whimper by the end, and if the ground opened up, you’d jump down to hell without a second thought.

There’s a long, taut silence—Bucky still won’t look at you—and Yelena clears her throat.

“Are you in pain?” She says your name carefully, and you nod. “Can you speak?”

“Yes.” Your voice is barely a breath, and Yelena’s lips move into a thin line.

“Bucky, she needs to be closer. I cannot hear her from there.”

Bucky grunts, and suddenly you’re being scooped up into his arms. Your face is near his neck again, and you’re being cradled right against his chest, and you can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat, or his-

“Why didn’t you just move the computer, man.”

Bucky tenses around you. “Shut up, Walker.”

“No, I’m not insane about this one. I mean, Alexei, he could have moved the computer right- Fuck!”

“You are not helping.” Yelena snaps, and Walker groans from somewhere off the screen. “Be quiet, or go.”

Walker sighs, but doesn’t move away. There’s a tightness to his face that’s mirror on Bucky and Yelena’s, and that can’t be a good sign. You haven’t even said anything yet.

Yelena says your name carefully, leaning closer to the camera. “What are you feeling.”

“A- a lot.” You whisper, and someone’s—you’re still not clear on if it’s yours or Bucky’s—heart stumbles slightly. “My- Skin. It’s on fire. And, um- I- My throat hurts, and it’s so much and empty and cold-“

“Cold?” Yelena cuts you off with a frown. “You are feeling cold?”

You nod, then shake your head. “It- I’m feeling everything. I- It’s- It’s like I’ve been turned up to a million and it all hurts-“

“Does anything feel good?”

Bucky. Bucky feels good. The feeling of him all around you and the smell of that shampoo and his woodsy body wash. The strength of him around you. Bucky feels so good-

The line.

You nod, and bite your tongue again. You can’t say it. Everything falls apart if you say it.

And Yelena sighs, scanning over you carefully, and shakes her head.

“Bucky, leave the room.”

He goes rigid. You don’t love the idea either. “What.”

“Put her back on the counter and go outside.”

“I am not-“

“Do you want to help her?”

“Of course I-“

“Then go.”

No.

No, no, no. He can’t leave. If he pushes you away it will be like shooting you with a toxin, he can’t, no-

Bucky sets you down with far too much care, and you’re not fast enough to squeeze your eyes shut. He’s cupping your face. Forcing your gaze onto his, looking right into you with an unreadable expression, and your mouth is falling open—a split second from begging him to stay—but he shakes his head.

“Call for me. If you need anything.” His grip tightens, and your hand flies up to his wrist. “I’ll be upstairs. I-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, and something flashes over his face. “Please.”

You don’t even know what you’re asking for. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

Bucky flinches back as if you’ve burned him, grumbles something to Yelena you can’t hear over the ringing in your ears—it was his heartbeat—and then stomps away. When your vision clears—it’s unclear when you started crying, but you’re really starting to lose track on everything—the laptop is right next to you, and nobody is on the screen but Yelena.

“Are you done?”

You nod, wiping your nose with your sleeve, and she lets out a slow breath.

“Good. I mean, keep… Letting it out. As you have to. But if you are done, we can talk.”

“Yelena-“

“I am going to ask you a question.” She holds your gaze, and your arms wrap around your stomach. It’s honestly a miracle you haven’t collapsed to the side. “And you will need to be honest.”

Your voice is still too soft. “Okay.”

“What are you thinking about, right now. And,” Yelena raises her brows before you can answer. “Honest. Whatever you are thinking, I have seen and thought worse-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, and the floodgates open. “And his hands. And arms. And legs. And his face, his face is so nice, and his beard and hair look so good, and I- I need him- His hands- In me. And he smells so good, and I think he’ll taste good too, and if he kisses me I’m going to die- And if he doesn’t touch me I’m going to die- and he- he won’t look at me-“ You’re fucking crying again. You can’t stop. “And if he doesn’t look at me I’m going to die- But if he does look at me I’m going to- Shit, I want him to look at me and touch me and kiss me and his hands-“

You take a long, shaking breath as darkness creeps at the corner of your vision, and Yelena blinks at you.

“So you are… Thinking about Bucky.”

Fuck.

You give a tiny nod, and she-

Grins.

“Oh, thank God.” Yelena leans back in her chair, running a hand over her face. “I was actually worried. I mean- If I say Bucky’s cock, what-“

You let out a loud, lewd moan, and Yelena’s still grinning.

“And if I say we all hate you-“

It’s immediate. The rush of pain tightening in your chest, almost like an electric shock. You burst into tears, pulling your knees right up to your chest, and Yelena’s eyes widen.

“Oh, shit-“

Something slams, and Bucky’s shouting your name far too close to your body. He shouldn’t be close to him. He hates you, they all hate you, you’re going to get fired and die alone and empty and you can’t breathe-

“What the fuck did you do to her-“

“I was testing it! I’m sorry, I didn’t think-“

“Obviously you didn’t fucking think-“

“Don’t yell at me, Bucky, I was helping-“

“She’s fucking crying-“

“I know, I-“ Yelena says your name, and you curl into a tighter ball. “We don’t hate you. Nobody hates you. You’re the bumblebee. You do all the work, and you’re sweet, I was- I was just kidding-“

“Just-“ A hand rests on your shoulder. You’d recognize it as Bucky’s even if there were a million others, pulling you right down into Hell. “You told her we hate her?!”

“It was a test-“

“What the hell, Yelena-“

“I can fix it! Listen,” she repeats your name, and you choke on the air. “We do not hate you! Shit, it’s- Bucky loves you!”

That’s your heart. Doing the scratch and break and rewind. Stumbling over itself before kicking up to pace that’s going to burst right out of your chest. And the silence in the air is too long, and too heavy, and you want to keep crying but you also feel like you’re sort of high. He loves you. Yelena might be lying, but she’s not the type to lie about that, so Bucky loves you-

You’re giggling again.

Something is seriously fucking wrong with you.

“Yelena.” Bucky grunts, and at least he’s still touching you. Because he loves you. “What the hell is wrong with you.”

“A lot, but- Look! She’s smiling! And I know what she got hit with!”

There’s a long pause, the only sound your soft, breathy laughs—Bucky’s starting to rub circles on your back, and you can feel the moan building back up—and Bucky clear his throat.

“Are you going to fucking tell me?”

“I was getting to it. Keep your pants on.” Yelena laughs. “I mean, for now-“

“Yelena-“

“It is an old gas. The red room used to use it for torture.”

Broad, strong fingers still on your back. “Torture.”

“Yep, that is what I said-“

“What kind of torture-“

“Physical and mental. Her brain is scrambled soup. All of her feelings have been dialed up to a bajillion, so she is going to be very suggestive, and very overwhelmed.” Yelena sighs. “Emotionally. And, ah- Her reservations maybe be… Broken.”

Bucky’s silent for a little too long, and all you can do is focus on your breathing. That explains a lot. You really wish it didn’t.

“Do we wait it out?” Bucky’s voice is impossibly neutral. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love you, Yelena had been lying to calm you down, and the tears are pricking back into your eyes-

“No. It has to be sweat out. Exercise or torture.”

Fuck. Something low and heavy, dreadful and tight, is starting to bubble in your gut. You can’t walk, let alone exercise. And you’re not strong enough to withstand torture. Not from anyone, but definitely not from Bucky, that’s going to shatter you into nothing more than scattered sand and glass on the floor-

“Or,” there’s a drawling kind of glee in Yelena’s voice, and you keep your face buried in your knees. “Sex. Sex should work.”

Your head shoots up, your eyes land on Bucky’s own, wide ones, his mouth hanging open and something that’s either sweat or the other thing is wet between your legs. He’s still touching you.

“I-“ He coughs, still staring at you, and you’re feeling a little light-headed. “I can’t-“

Oh.

Okay.

You don’t get a chance to cry this time.

Everything just goes black.

———

“No.”

“Bucky-“

“I won’t.” He snapped, narrowing his eyes at Yelena. “Stop trying to convince me.”

“I’m not trying to convince you, I am trying to get you to save her life-“

Bucky shook his head. She didn’t get it. Didn’t understand that what was being painted as the solution was really just the worst crime he could ever commit.

He’d done a lot of fucked up things, as the Soldat. And being at war hadn’t exactly been a picnic before that. But he’d never crossed that line. There were some fogged over memories—the kind that stung at his brain when they bubbled to the surface—where Hydra had told him to, but he’d resisted. Throttled that last bit of his humanity by the throat, and said no. He wouldn’t.

It had been the only thing he’d always been able to fight back against, even when he couldn’t remember his own fucking name. The last thing he’d been able to identify as wrong.

And doing it to Her- When She was trusting him to take care of Her, and it was his own fault this was happening at all, because that gas had been meant for him-

Bucky would rather jump off a tower or shoot himself in the goddamn skull.

“This isn’t saving her life.” He muttered. “It’s ruining it. We’ll wait it out until you can send a jet to us, and then we’ll put her in a sauna or some shit.”

Yelena’s nose wrinkled. “Or you could just fuck the girl you are obviously in love with-“

“I am not-“

“Yes, you are. Do not lie to me, Bucky. You make a really pathetic expression at her, it’s all-“

Yelena’s face went slack, her brows raising and drawing slightly, and Bucky scowled.

“I’m hanging up-“

“No, wait- Just-“ Yelena sighed. “I know you’re a man, and feelings are scary, but this gas is- It will be the worst days of her life, if you do not just get over yourself, and stick your dick inside of her.”

Jesus Christ. If She hadn’t been trying to kill him before—moaning his name and opening Her mouth when he touched it, looking at him with pretty eyes and snuggling into his chest—Yelena was trying to kill him now. All Bucky could see was Her sprawled out below him, Her eyes blown-out with lust as he slid into Her, head thrown back as she whined for more, and Bucky gave it to Her with his lips biting and sucking on Her throat-

These were the type of things he shouldn’t be thinking about. Not now. Not when She was rolling around in bed upstairs, and the last time Bucky had checked on Her, he’d gotten too good a look at Her breasts. Flushed with peaked nipples as the sheets stuck to Her skin, and he could’ve goddamn sworn She’d moaned his name in her sleep-

Not thinking about it. He couldn’t think about it. For so many reasons, Bucky couldn’t think about it, and he’d never do it.

He’d sworn to himself he’d never do it. That the well-played fantasies would remain fantasies, because he had no right.

He was Her boss had been the first reason. The obvious one, when She’d been bouncing in Her heels and looking around the meeting room with an open, sweet expression. Valentina had said meet your new admin, it had clicked in Bucky’s head what that meant, and then suddenly asking Her to get a drink or something had been forcibly tossed out the window.

Then that reason had become… less effective. She’d kept being beautiful—which just wasn’t fucking fair to anyone—and She was smart and charismatic and patient, and her hips swayed a little when she walked, and Bucky’s attraction had grown. Bloomed and spread and burrowed roots over his ribs, where it was impossible to dig them out. He liked Her wide smile, and he liked Her voice, and he liked how She could shut Walker up with just a look.

He liked Her enough to take risks. Risks like walking closer to Her than he needed to, and convincing the rest of the team that She did actually need a room in the tower. And they’d all seen right goddamn through him—he’d heard Bob whisper to Yelena it’s because he has a crush on her, right, after the meeting was over—but they’d let it slide. So he’d taken more risks. Eating lunch with Her in a very professional way. Bringing He to events and keeping Her on his arm, for safety. Casual, flirty comments that were nothing if She didn’t want them to be, but did manage to take an edge off of his own pent-up hunger for Her.

Boss hadn’t been enough.

So he’d turned to young. She was too young. Bucky was over a hundred and She was younger than Bob.

Then he’d walked in on Her watching a TV show with Alexei and Ava, the former looking downright terrified about the comments that were being thrown at the screen. About how hot the actors were. And She’d pointed to one with a beard and longer hair—this hadn’t helped the situation—and said I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me.

Bucky had been a fucking idiot and googled the actor. The guy was almost fifty.

He’d needed another reason.

Too kind. She was nice to everyone, and it wasn’t just for Her job. She never got frustrated at stupid questions, and She’d listen to anyone’s stupid rants—She’d somehow sat through a whole I just think I’d have been a good Roman General speech from Walker without one eyeroll—and Bucky wasn’t rude, but he didn’t deserve that.

The too kind reason had lasted the shortest amount of time. She’d kept being kind, and then She’d made Bucky cookies for his birthday, and he’d wanted to kiss Her right goddamn there.

His current reason was She deserved better. That one had been serving him well. She deserved someone who hadn’t done the things Bucky had, who was all smiles and kindness, who She’d want. That was a second, incredibly useful reason. She didn’t want Bucky.

So he wouldn’t think about Her breasts anywhere but in the privacy of his own room, alone, while he beat his cock into his hand. And he wouldn’t stick his dick in Her, because it would be wrong. He’d be taking advantage of Her while she was vulnerable.

He wouldn’t cross that line.

“Just send the jet.” He grunted, moving his hand the top of the laptop. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Bucky-“

He closed the laptop, and let out a long, heavy breath.

He wouldn’t.

No matter how much this was one of his fantasies come to life, Bucky had to remember that it was really more of a nightmare.

For Her.

For Her, she was stuck in a painful looking state of unpredictable emotion. Bucky tried to bring Her tea, and She’d started crying again because he’d remembered the way she liked it and that was apparently tear-worthy. Then he told Her that she needed a shower—she was drenched in sweat and other things that Bucky was trying really fucking hard pretend he couldn’t smell—and Her odd, soft and happy tears changed to weak, broken sobs.

“Shit- What’s-“

“You think I’m disgusting.” She looking up at him with glossy, watering eyes and trembling lips, and Bucky felt like he was being goddamn shot. “You- You hate me-“

“No.” He grunted. “I don’t hate you-“

“Yes, you do-“

“No. I don’t.” Bucky grabbed Her face between his hands, forcing Her attention onto him. “Trust me. You’d know if I hated you, doll.”

It was a sight, before him. Her lips parted, literal drool falling from them—that Bucky would like to kiss away, but he wasn’t allowed to—and Her hands wrapped around his wrists with an almost strangling grip.

“I don’t hate you.” He muttered, forcing himself to hold Her gaze. “Got it?”

She nodded, sitting up a little up She was on her knees, and Bucky didn’t have enough willpower for this-

His thumb moved of its own accord. Wiping just a little bit of drool from away.

She moaned.

Fuck.

“Bucky.” Her voice was breathless, and almost songlike. “Please. I- I need it, I need it so bad-“

“Doll-“

“Please.” Her eyes were welling with more and more tear, and a few were starting to slide down Her cheeks. “I- I’m sorry- It just hurts- You can fire me after or call the cops-“

He frowned. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m-“ She hiccupped slightly. “You’re saying no, and I’m asking again-“

“Jesus- I know you can’t help it, doll, it’s the gas-“

“So fuck it out of me.” She rose higher, and Bucky wasn’t sure if she was pushing Her boobs up on purpose or not. “I- I’m sorry- I need you, Bucky, I’ll do anything, I’ll suck your cock first or after and it can be however you want but please-“

Bucky had to let go of Her. He had to release Her and take a stumbling step back, or else he would have damned it all and listened to Her. She was drugged. Her mind was being altered, and when it left her system, She’d already be embarrassed about what happened. Bucky would rather still be at Her side to assure Her, then cast out into the dirt because he’d been a selfish dick and taken advantage of Her. She only wanted him because he was the only option. If Walker was here, She’d be throwing herself at him, too.

That made Bucky feel fucking sick. Walker wouldn’t do that—at the very least, they all seemed to clear that last, impossibly low bar—but now Bucky was fucking thinking about Her on her knees, whining for Walker to fuck Her. Promising to suck his dick. And now he was thinking about Her under Walker, and there was a bad taste in the back of his throat, and he didn’t even care that it was Walker, Bucky just goddamn hated that it wasn’t him-

No right. Bucky had no goddamn right over the sour feeling in his chest, or the sickness in his gut. If he had a right, none of this would be a problem. She’d actually want him, and there wouldn’t be any complexities, and Bucky could help Her.

But this was Hell for Her. And all Bucky could do was help Her.

She was all that mattered.

So he wouldn’t cross the line.

The rest of the night was hell. The two days for a jet thing hadn’t been an exaggeration. It was even looking more like three. They were trapped together. And Bucky was doing everything he could to make it better, but it only seemed to be getting worse. Bringing Her more tea just led to Her begging for sex. Avoiding Her just meant he could hear Her crying about how much he hated Her, but when he’d try to remind Her that he didn’t, She’d just ask him to fuck Her again. Then She’d start apologizing for asking, all while still pleading, and Bucky would shuffle away to hide in his own room.

A lot of sleep was lost trying not to get a boner to the sounds of Her fucking herself into Her pillows. As the next day progressed, Her activities seemed to be limited to cry, beg for sex, sleep, masturbate.

It was going to drive Bucky goddamn insane.

And She had no way of knowing. No way to understand exactly what She was doing to him.

She’d plead with him, and he said no, and his heart split in two as She’d start crying once more. There had to be some way he could help. He couldn’t just fucking sit here and-

“Bucky.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. She was calling for him again, and he couldn’t ignore Her—what if something was actually wrong—but he didn’t know how many more Bucky, please fuck me’s or I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask, it just hurts he could take.

He murmured Her name as he opened the door, but She didn’t respond.

The whole room smelled like sex.

He had to ignore it.

“Bucky.” Her voice was breathy. Soft.

And when he moved to the mattress, She was knocked the hell out. Holding the sheets bunched around Her legs and pressing her face into the covers.

Bucky whispered Her name, moving to pull a little hair out of Her mouth, and she snuggled further into the mattress.

But his knuckles brushed Her cheek, and she let out a sweet little sound that was going to haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life.

She was shivering. Breathing too shallow, with Her fever building, and Bucky didn’t know what the hell to do. Yelena said She needed to sweat, but She was only shaking and whimpering. Running wasn’t an option. They didn’t exactly have warm, sunny days outside. Torture had never even been on the table, and touching Her-

She leaned into his hand. The human one, cupping Her cheek because Bucky had gotten lost in thought, and failed to realize what he was doing.

But She leaning into him. Into the warmth of his skin.

That wouldn’t be crossing any line. Body heat was body heat. Soldiers shared it all the time. It was a necessity.

He stared at Her for another long moment, trying to weigh it out in his mind, and then She whispered his name again. Whispered it and shivered, and that was enough. Bucky wouldn’t do that.

But he wouldn’t just let Her fucking suffer either.

“Hold on, doll.” He muttered, and She shifted slightly on the mattress. “You’ll be alright.”

She would be. Bucky would make sure of it.

He detached his metal arm, first. She’d never had a problem with it—that was one of the things he’d liked about Her a lot, at first—but it wasn’t warm.

Then he crawled into bed at Her side, and used his remaining arm to pull Her right into his body. Her face tucked under his chin and Her fingers curled against his chest. She wasn’t sweating, but She was getting warmer. She stopped shaking, then a lot of the tension left Her body, and within what could only be an hour, Her breathing was steady.

Bucky should go now. His work was done.

He couldn’t move.

And maybe if he moved, he’d have to come back. They hadn’t gotten it out of Her system. It might be better, just for it to worsen the moment he was gone.

It was a good an excuse as any. The closest he’d ever get to Her without losing Her.

So Bucky stopped trying to force himself to move. She felt to right in his arms to push Her away.

And he held Her until morning.

He’d like to hold Her longer.

But he could also die a happy man with only this.

———

He was here. It wasn’t a fever dream.

You know Bucky was here.

The mattress is still dipped where he’d lain. The sheets have been more awkwardly shoved into your arms than caught in them by restless sleep.

You can fucking smell him. Vanilla and cedar, hanging in the silent air around you.

He was here.

But he’s gone.

You don’t understand why he’d be here, just to go. Why he won’t help you.

He must know about your crush, and he thinks that once he indulges you, you’ll be weird. You won’t be weird. You’ll suck it up. You know he’s off-limits, and this would just be a favor to stop how much this hurts. He can see that you’re just in pain from the drug, and it’s amplifying all your emotions, and one of your emotions just happens to be love for Bucky.

Maybe he’s disgusted by that.

By you.

Maybe he hates you, and that’s why he won’t just save you from this hell and fuck you.

But if he hated you, he wouldn’t have been in bed with you. He would have heard you moaning his name—you’ve done that before, only in the privacy of your own room, but the drug doesn’t seem to be doing wonders for your self-control—and curled his lip and turned a blind eye.

He hasn’t turned a blind eye all day. He’s brought you food and made you drink water and helped you stumble to the bathroom. He checks on you every hour, and his jaw always clenches whenever he tells you no, and you burst into tears.

It could be frustration. He’s told you no, and you keep asking, and that isn’t cool. It’s mean. Cruel. Wrong. And a lump is forming in your throat because he’s trying to take care of you and you’re pushing him-

But he crawled into bed with you. Without you asking him to.

And you don’t know why.

You don’t call for him. Your legs feel like paper underneath you, but you’re standing on them. Taking shaking steps to the door, and-

You fall in a second.

Bucky’s there faster.

“What the hell,” he’s scooping you into his arms. They’re so big. “Do you think you’re doing.”

You swallow, trying to fight off a whimper at the firmness of his tone. He hates you-

The bed. He’d been in your bed.

You’re going to figure this out. Your brain feels like a hazy of very loud songs about pain and Bucky and love and it hurts and Bucky again, but you’re going to get to the fucking bottom of this.

“I was walking.”

“You were walking?” Bucky’s expression is incredulous, as he sets you down. You’d laugh if you didn’t think you’d cry at the same time. “Why-“

“Was coming to find you.” You mumble, staring at your hands, and Bucky sighs.

He’s holding your face between his hands.

Why does he keep doing that.

“Could’ve just called, doll.” He mutters. “Nothin’ is so urgent you gotta hurt yourself-“

“Why were you in bed with me?”

He freezes. “What.”

“You were in bed with me.” You whisper, ignoring the blur in your eyes as you hold his gaze. “I know you were. And I- I don’t understand why you’d do that-“

“I-“

“But you won’t fuck me!” You push up on your knees, and Bucky’s so tall over you. Tall and firm, and you want to him to wrap around you forever-

Not now.

Bucky’s staring at you, and you’re trying not to fall into him, and no matter what this ends—either in your head, or real life—with Bucky over you. Right now you just have to push through the white-hot pain in your gut and over your head, and get through this.

“You-“ Bucky clear his throat, his voice suddenly a little hoarse. “You’re not mad. That I was in bed with you.”

“Yes. No. I-“ You take a shaking breath. You won’t moan. “I- I’m mad you were in bed with me and didn’t fuck me-“

“I’ve told you, I won’t-“

“But you will get in bed with me? Without me asking?” You raise your brows, and Bucky lets out a long breath.

“I- You don’t get it.”

“I don’t. Bucky I- I know you don’t want me like that-“

“I never said that-“

“But it hurts.” You sound pathetic. You can’t remember how to care. “I- I just need it to stop hurting, and I’m sorry, I know it’s- I shouldn’t be asking more than once, but it hurts, and if you really don’t want to I’ll survive, but-“

Stop telling me what I- Fuck.” Bucky snaps your name, and pain shooting through your head. “I never said I didn’t want to.”

You’re both silent. Far too silent, for a little too long, and the air grows thin as you stare at Bucky, and he stares right back. Jaw clenched and arms folded over his chest, and you’re either floating or falling but you can’t really fucking tell. You can still smell him. Feel the heat from his body, only a foot away.

Words come slow. Everything that isn’t Bucky is sort of far away.

“I-“ You swallow, your skin on fire and an iron is wrapping around your lungs. “You- Bucky-“

“Breathe.” He mutters. “Slow.”

You take a loud, stuttering gasp, and his eyes flare in slight surprise.

“You should lie back down, doll-“

“No- I-“ You shift around, bunching the sheets between your thighs to alleviate some of the pressure that’s pounding in your core.

Bucky’s nostrils flare slightly, and you’re really trying to not make him uncomfortable—if not only because, if his lips curl in disgust, you’ll start sobbing again and maybe pass out—but it hurts.

“Bucky.” You whisper, and he grunts, his eyes suddenly fixed right over your head. “Can you please-“

“I won’t.”

“Look at me.” You dig your fingers into your thighs, just to stop them from reaching for him. “Please keep looking at me.”

His throat bobs, and if he says no, that will be fine. Right now it feels like a death sentence, but in the long run you’ll get over it. You will get over it. You’ll change your name and move to Mongolia. You don’t speak Mongolian. You’ll figure out how to speak Mongolian, then move to Mongolia. You’ll build a life there. And Bucky will never find you, and nobody will ever have to think about you ever again except for your future Mongolian husband-

Bucky’s eyes drop to yours, and they’re darkened and pretty, and the whine that escapes your throat is involuntary. But Bucky’s jaw only ticks, and he holds your gaze.

You try to mimic Yelena’s cooperate or die tone when you speak.

“I’m going to ask you a question.” You whisper, and in your voice, the authority just comes out as breathless and needy. “Can you please be honest with me?”

Bucky grunts, giving you a tight nod, and you let out a slow breath.

“Do- Do you want to?”

“Fuck-“ He runs a hand over his face, and your whole body braces for the no-

“I’m sor-“

“Of course I want to.” He snaps, and this is floating, not falling. “You look so- I can fucking hear you, and I’d do goddamn anything to make this better for you-“

“Then please-“

“No.”

You gape at him, your heart shooting right into your throat. No. He wants to, but no, and every single nerve in your body is burning and freezing all at once. You can’t even find tears. It’s all just fogged thoughts and pain, torn between Bucky wants to help, wants to fuck you, and no.

“Why?”

Bucky mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“You don’t have to, Buck, I’d- It’s your choice and I’ll be fine-“ You won’t be. But that’s not Bucky’s responsibility, how you broke your own heart into a million pieces because you were an idiot, and this was how it was always going to end, but picking up the mess you made of yourself is still going to slice your hands open and leave your heart bleeding and lonely on the floor. “I- I’ll be okay, but tell me why-“

“I wouldn’t be right.” He mutters, and your chest is going to split open.

“Why not-“

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Doll-“

“Please, just tell me-“ You take a stuttering breath, curling slightly away from him. You can’t be close. It’s only making the pain worse. “I promise, I’ll stop asking, but I- Just tell me why-“

“Be-“

“Don’t say because.” You glare up at him, and his mouth snaps shut.

Now there’s a pain in your gut that’s hot and bitter. Sore. You were mean, and it’s not his fault-

“I- I’m sorry.” You whisper, staring down at his knees. “It hurts, Bucky, and you say you want to, but you won’t, and that doesn’t make any sense-“

He grunts your name, and you wrap your arms around your stomach.

“I just- I want to know why-“

“Because it can’t happen like this!”

Your world does the sane little stutter-stop from yesterday. That must be your own heartbeat in your ears, but- Maybe you’ve just lost your mind, and this is all a dream, yet the sound of Bucky’s ragged breathing is very loud. And you’re leaning forward. To Bucky.

When you drag your gaze up his body—your mouth hanging open and your heart still stumbling in your ears—he’s staring at you. His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You’re not in your right mind, sweetheart.” There’s a softness to his words, and this must be a dream. “I’m not gonna do this to you, when it’s not even you askin’ for it.”

“I- I am-“

“No. You’re not. It’s the gas talking-“

“And where do you think it’s getting the words?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“Nothing I’m feeling is new.” You stare at him, and his frown deepens. “I- I’m not- Yelena said it amplifies things, not creates them-“

“You’re looking for relief-“

“Why do you think I need relief?!”

His stare is cutting right into your body. There’s no fucking way it’s been this easy. That he thought that you just- That you wouldn’t, all the time, every single time you take a breath or lay in bed alone-

“I- I giggled.” You whisper. “And cried. When Yelena said you- That you felt something for me.”

“You were crying about everything.” He counters, but even his voice is dropping to a rasp. “And- Sex is just one of the ways to get rid of it, and I’m here-“

“I wouldn’t be desperate for sex if I didn’t want you.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing, and you push a little higher off the mattress.

“I- I want you, Bucky. It’s not the drugs, it’s me, wanting you, and I- It hurts how much I want you-“

He whispers your name, but you just fucking push on. Too late to turn back now, anyway.

“I want you to touch me and fuck me and use me and let me touch you and- And I want you to sleep next to me and kiss me and l-“

Your words fall into a long, loud moan as Bucky grabs your face between his hands. You don’t fight him. You could never fight him. It’s just waiting for him, and you’re really good at that.

He’s examining you so carefully. Slowly. Trying to give you one last chance to tell him no.

You’re not going to take it.

So you hold his gaze, and let out a soft little sigh when he licks his lips.

That seems to be what he was waiting for.

Bucky leans down, his nose bumping against yours ever so slightly, and then he’s kissing you.

He’s fucking kissing you.

And God, you were right. It’s going to kill you. It’s slow and deliberate, Bucky humming against you as his mouth slots perfectly over yours, taking far too much—and still not enough—time to let you sigh and get lost in the taste of him. Somehow exactly what you imagined—coffee and mint and vanilla—and far, far better.

His tongue starts to trace over your lips before pressing down, and you open for him without a thought. Letting him push in deeper, until you’re moaning into his mouth and he’s eating the sound with low grunts, angling your head in his hands to grant him further access. All you can think about is the warmth spreading through your whole body in a way that doesn’t hurt, and how euphoria is building up like fireworks and light under your skin, and if this is just one kiss, sex might kill you.

It will be a good way to go.

When Bucky pulls back—his gaze blown out and your mouth still hanging open—you’re not above begging again. If he kisses you like that then walks away, you’ll crumble into a million, dented pieces that will scatter on the wind and sink into gutters-

“Is that okay?” His brow is tightened, his thumb toying slightly with the corner of your mouth. “I can do more, but-“

“More.” You nod a little like a bobblehead. “More is good, Bucky, please-“

He shakes his head, and a sob almost breaks out of your throat—he can’t do this to you, not after kissing you first—before you hear the borderline awe in his voice.

“You’re- I can’t believe you’re real.” He murmurs your name, and his hands are so careful on your face. “You need to tell me-“

“I’m real.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound only spurs your need for him, rushing right between your legs. “Was going to ask if you were sure, doll.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and nod. “I- I’m sure. I’m so sure, Bucky, I- I want you- So bad-“

“How bad?” There’s something dark and hungry in his voice, and you don’t bother to stop your moan.

“So bad, I- I need you, Bucky- Just you, I- I love you-“

There it is.

The second kiss is a little harsher than the first. More demanding, with teeth and spit and Bucky pressing you down onto the mattress. You let him move over you, his hands finding your thighs and slowly pushing them apart-

You gasp into his mouth when the metal hand traces over your core, your hips jerking slightly off the bed your fingers scratching at his back, and Bucky chuckles.

“You like that, babygirl?”

Oh.

That’s nice.

And whatever sound that escapes you must echo that—high and blissful—because Bucky only laughs again.

“Yeah, I think you like that.” He nips at the corner of your mouth, then starts to trail a line of open-mouthed, sloppy kisses down your throat. “Been waitin’ for this so long, think-“

He cuts himself off, pushing up to frown at you.

“You think you can take it slow, doll? Or, uh-“ He slaps your pussy lightly over your underwear, and you squeak. “Y’know.”

He’s still rubbing you with his palm, as he waits for you to answer. And slow sounds like fucking torture, but it’s Bucky asking, and there’s already some sort of relief being offered by him liking you back, he likes you back and it’s making the world slip from under you as your heart floats away-

Bucky grunts your name. “Words would be helpful.”

“Slow is fine.” You whisper, trying to spread your legs a little wider. “Just- Don’t stop touching me, please.”

His nostrils flare, his hand gliding up your stomach to palm at your breasts with a look of what might be wonder on his face. “You want me to touch you?”

You nod weakly, and his tongue flicks over his lips as he mimics the movement.

“Yeah, alright.” His thumb starts to flick over your nipple as he examines your face. “I can do that. Think you can take what I give you?” He lowers back down, just enough for his lips to brush yours as he speaks. “Think you can be good?”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Ye- Yes. Please.”

“Yeah.” His face splits into a wide grin, right as his hand moves away from your chest. “I think you can too.”

You’re about to shove him for the teasing tone—or just whine about how he’s not touching you anymore—but then his hand returns to your core, and he’s just rubbing, but his mouth has attached to your breasts and he’s sucking small marks all over your body, and you’re going to fly out of your skin from nothing at all.

“Jesus, I can feel how wet you are.” Bucky words are muffled against your skin, and you start to grind against his hand. “Slow down, doll, I told you-“

Bucky cuts himself off with a groan that rolls through your body, and in the effort to stop your own movements, you’d yanked on his hair.

Hard.

And you swallow when he tilts his gaze up to yours. He looks like he’s going to eat you alive.

“Don’t stop doin’ that.” His voice is almost a growl. You might be able to cum from only that. “You like these?”

You frown at him. “Like wha- Oh.”

A metal finger shoves your panties to the side, his finger shoving right into your cunt without warning, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

He’s moving so slow. Pumping in and out at a torturous pace, holding your gaze as he kisses his way back up your body. Then Bucky slams his lips back over yours right as a second finger splits you open, and his thumb finds your clit.

“Feel good?” He mutters, and you make a weak sound into his mouth. “Words-“

“So good.” You mumble, clenching around him slightly. “I- I like it- want more-“

Bucky hums, kissing the tip of your nose with mock charity, picking up the pace ever so slightly. “Can you tell me what kinda more you want?”

“I- I don’t-“

He slows down again, and you shake your head, your fingers tugging at his hair.

“Bucky-“

“I want to hear you, pretty girl.” His drawl is lighting a small fire over your skin. “Tell me what you want-“

“I-“ He presses his thumb right over your clit, and gasp. “Mouth. Want your mouth. And your fingers. At- Shit- At the same time.”

Bucky’s brows raise, and if it wasn’t for the way his was still slowly pumping in and out of you, you would’ve pleased for the mattress to swallow you whole. “You want my mouth.”

You nod, and then add. “And the metal hand. Keep using the metal hand.”

“You- Jesus.” He shakes his head, and before you can try to take it back, he’s kissing you again. It’s getting rougher every time, and your hips jerk sightly as his fingers find that deep, spongey spot inside of you.

“I- Bucky- Fuck-“

“Such a good girl, using your words.” He starts to kiss back down your body, following the trail of spots he left before with perfect precision. “Hold on, doll.”

Before you can register what’s happening, Bucky’s shoving your legs fully apart, and-

“Oh- Bucky-“

You arch off the bed as his mouth replaces his thumb, and the speed on his fingers triples in half a second. Pumping in and out of you at an inhuman pace, pressing up and stroking inside you as his tongue leaves small, teasing licks on your clit. His free arm is pinning you down with a splayed hand on your abdomen, and his lips are latched around you and sucking, and every time you tug on his hair it only spurs him on-

It’s building so fast. The tight, hot coil in your gut. And it might be built up frustration from the gas, or the hypersensitivity of your body, or just fucking Bucky, but you’re-

“Fuck- I- I’m gonna-“ You can’t get the full sentence out. Bucky doesn’t seem to care. “Bucky- Please-“

He understands. He hums against you and nods slightly, and you know he understands.

But he doesn’t slow down.

And when his fingers press into your already burning g-spot and rub so fast it feels impossible, you cum with a high scream of his name. Stars cloud your vision and warmth crashes through your whole body, but when the fog clears, you’re not coming down.

Bucky’s not stopping. He’s finger-fucking you harder than before, his tongue moving with almost a fervor and his beard scraping at your inner thighs, and before you know what’s happening you’re flying over the edge again, and again, and soon you can’t tell where one orgasm is ending and the next one is rising. It’s all just a rolling, swirling storm of Bucky and heat and perfect, torturous pleasure.

It’s only when you’re shaking below him that he pulls away. Leaving a soft, gentle kiss over your swollen clit before crawling back over you, and you’re a needy, dazed mess, but he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen.

“You doin’ okay down there?” He brushes a little hair from your face, and you nod weakly.

“S’- Yeah.”

He grins. Your arousal is stuck to his beard. “Yeah?”

You hum, finding enough strength to trail your fingers down his chest. “You’re so big. And hot.”

“Thanks.” He says your name, and when you drag your gaze away from his, there’s a slight blush near his ears. “You look like a painting, doll.”

Your smile is love drunk and stupid, and you don’t care. “Thank you. Bucky?”

He hums, and you let your fingers trail a little lower.

“Can I?” You palm him over his pants—why the fuck are those still on—and he jaw clenches.

“You want to?”

You nod and give him your sweetest smile, and he lets out a long, slow breath.

“A- Just a little, but- Shit.” His eyes flutter closed as you squeeze him. “You’re the one who needs to attention, sweetheart-“

“I feel better.”

That earns you a flat look. “Really.”

You hum, your smile widening. “I feel good, Buck-“

“Uh huh.” Bucky rolls his thumb around your clit, his mouth lowering to rest back over yours. “I love you.”

You go slack beneath him in a second, and breathless sound escaping you as tears prick at your eyes and a giggle bubbles out of your lips, and Bucky looks way too fucking smug with himself.

“Look at that.” He hums your name, and you pout up at him.

“That’s not fair, James-“

He groans, his cock jumping against your hand, and that’s a fun discovery.

Your mouth opens, and he silences you with a deep, rough kiss.

“You can touch me a little, baby. Since you’ve been so good for me. But then,” he ruts into your hand, and you moan into his mouth. “I’m fuckin’ you until you can’t walk.”

He’s trying to distract you from the James thing. Trying to make you forget by rising back up and ripping his pants away, displaying his impossibly pretty cock—the perfect length and thick and making your mouth water—before stroking himself over you with a lazy grin. He’s trying to divert your attention by helping you sit up and guiding your hand up to replace his.

The strategy is working.

He fits so well in just your hand, and he’s making the most sinful, beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard as you pump him slowly. His head is thrown back, letting you suck and kiss at his neck, and deep rumbles roll from his chest whenever you squeeze the base of him or swipe your fingers over the angry head of him. You’re all but folded against him, grinding against his thigh as your hand picks up speed and he moans your name-

You’re being flipped back in a second. Bucky grabs your wrists and moves you back to the mattress with your hands pinned over your head and his mouth attacking yours. Bucky teases his cock against your dripping pussy for only a second—sliding between your folds and slapping it against your clit—and then he’s pushing into you with one, long thrust.

“Shit-“ Bucky’s face drops to the crook of your neck, his breaths ragged against your skin. “You’re so tight, and- Fuck.”

He cuts himself off with another groan, and you understand. You didn’t know you could be this full. That someone could fit so right. And he’s staying so still, trying to let you adjust, but-

You clench around him, and Bucky hisses your name in your ear.

“Don’t do that, babygirl, you’re lookin’ to start something-“

You roll your hips, and Bucky draws over you with a narrowed gaze.

“Askin’ for trouble, doll.” He gives you one, sharp thrust, and you gasp. “Yeah, I said you’d take it. And you told me you’d be good. You gonna keep bein’ good?”

You nod, not bothering to hide the eagerness on your face, and Bucky leans back down with one sharp thrust.

“Say it.”

“I- I’ll be good-“

Another thrust, this one impossibly deeper. “Say you love me.”

“I- Bucky-“ His free hand is hiking your legs up, and he’s so big- “I love you-“

He groans, and his movements start to pick up. “Tell me- Fuck-“ His brow presses against yours. “Say you know I love you-“

“You love me, James, please-“

Tears are just starting to prick at your eyes when Bucky kisses you, and this one is borderline feral. The time for words seems to be over.

Now it’s just Bucky.

You can’t move, with his weight a heavy comfort over your body. He’s hammering into you and bruising against your humming and aching g-spot, but your hands remain trapped above you and whenever you try to bite at his lips he only moans and fucks you harder. Splitting you open on his cock as the bed squeaks below you, and twisting his on your thighs to rub furious circles on your clit, and you’re already ruined but now you’re never going to recover-

This orgasm hits you like a hurricane. Flipping the world on its head and drowning you in the high of Bucky, still pounding into your cunt and roaring your name against your lips as he fucks you through your orgasm, and there’s dirty praise falling out of his lips but it only sounds like a song. Then he’s kissing you down into the mattress and you can feel him painting your insides and inner thighs as he jerks a last few times, and a small, sweet aftershock hits you with a fucked-out sigh.

Bucky’s face drops to your neck as he lets out a long, slow breath, and your smile might look fucking insane.

You don’t really care.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, and you’re going to sit in the feeling of him as long as he lets you. Breathing him in and letting this last, small waves of pleasure wash away the rest of the pain.

There’s still an ache between your thighs, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world. You might need help walking to the jet, in the morning.

You’ll ask Bucky to carry you. And maybe ask him to keep putting that ache there, until he gets bored of you-

“You feelin’ better?” Bucky mumbles in to your skin, and you swat that last thought far away.

He might get bored of you. Right now, he’s still buried in your cunt and kissing a soft line over your neck. You won’t ruin this before you even have it. If you do have it. Maybe you’d just pressured him, and you’re going to lose your job, and Bucky, and he won’t get bored of you because he was never even interested in the first place-

Bucky mutters your name, pushing up over you, and you swallow. “What’re you thinking.”

“I-“ You shake your head, fixing your gaze on his neck. On the little bruises you left there. “Nothing.”

He chuckles, and there’s something so open on his face. Like all the smiles he’s given you in passing, but with a veil lifted. “You’re not a good liar doll.”

You frown at him. “Yes I am-“

“No,” Bucky lowers himself down, ghosting a soft kiss over your lips. “You’re not. You’re thinkin’ about something. Tell me.”

You shake your head, but wrap your arms around his neck all the same. You don’t want him to move away. Not yet. “It’s- It’s stupid-“

“Doubt that.”

“Bucky-“

He repeats your name back to you, his gaze driving right into yours that makes you somehow feel more bare than you already are. “If it’s- If you’re having second thoughts-“

“No!” Your voice is almost a yelp. “It’s- It’s not that-“

“Thank Christ.” Bucky lets out a slow sigh, his grin a little sheepish. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry-“

“No, you’re not.” He squeezes a hand on your hip, and you all but melt into the mattress. “Tell me, pretty girl. What are you thinking.”

“I- I’m-“ He’s still inside you. And when you squirm slightly, his cock jumps. “Bucky-“

“Shit-“ He groans, and suddenly his hand is pinning you down, stopping your movements. “Nope. No distracting me.”

“But-“

“I won’t fuck you again until you tell me.”

Again.

He’s going to fuck you again.

And some of the drug must still be in your system, because your face splits back into a wide, easy smile, and Bucky raises his brows.

“Did you…” He tilts his head slightly. “Were you worried we were done, doll?”

You nod, not trusting your voice, and Bucky sighs.

“Did you miss the part when I said I love you-“

“No. Told you it was stupid.”

“Yeah, well.” Another kiss. This one softer, and a little more on your cheek. “We’ve both been kinda stupid today. Think I’d like to keep being stupid together, though. If you’re up for it.”

You blink at him. “Like, together together?”

He nods. “You can keep your job. I’ll do all my own shit, or we can get a second admin who’s not fucking me-“

“But what if you fall in love with that admin too?” You whisper, keeping your smile wide on your face, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Nothin’ is coming close to you.”

You can’t stop the clench that his deep voice and promise spark in you, and a low groan is pulled from Bucky’s throat.

“You want a round two?”

You nod, and he grunts, rolling his hips slightly.

“Tell me what you want, baby-“

“You. All of you.” Your hands move to cup Bucky’s face. “This and… that. Please.”

He nods, and the last kiss is just as slow as the first. Deep and gentle, filled with the knowledge that now, you have the time in the world.

“You’re mine?” He mutters, and you don’t know why it’s a question.

You have been for months. Maybe, even without knowing it, your whole life.

“Yes.” Your voice is soft against his lips, and Bucky grins.

“Good.” He nips on your lower lip, and the gas might be gone, but you don’t think anything about him is ever going to make you not want more. “Cause I’m yours.”

End Note: his hair in the post-credit scene.... nature is healing.

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thetriumphantpanda · 2 months ago

Text

take me to florida | joel miller

summary | turning up on his doorstep covered in blood was not was Joel had expected of you, and when you open your mouth, he expects it even less. There's a shitstorm in Texas you both have to escape from, but how long can it last?

pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

word count | 4,496

warnings | it's a lot. Descriptions of murder (stabbing), blood, violence, domestic violence and the death penalty (yeah idk either don't ask), basically reader does a bad thing to someone who did bad things to her. One singular slap (reader to Joel). Mentions of adultery and cheating. Explicit smut - grinding/dry-humping, fingering, rough sex, biting, squirting. No use of y/n. No outbreak AU.

authors note | *taps mic* is this thing on? Hi! It's been a whilst hasn't it?! I've been doing life, enjoying being offline and in love and all of that stuff, but the new series has my brain WHIRLING and I wanted to share this with you all. I wrote most of this back in the autumn last year and was inspired to finish it, so here you go. Let me know if I've still got it! As always if you enjoy this, please like, reblog, comment or scream in my ask box. I've missed you.

Divider by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

It’s viscous, dripping down the back of your hand, seeping through the webbing of your fingers. Crimson staining the floor as it drips from the tip of the knife, pooling around the body, slumped against the wall now. Your limbs are heavy, vice grip on the handle easing, arm dropping to your side as the knife clatters to the floor. Your chest is heaving, sucking in air, you steady yourself by putting your palms against your knees, bending over, trying not to throw up. There’s a pool of blood forming against the toe of your shoe, deep red staining white canvas. No-one ever mentions how messy it is, but then again, not many people stick a knife into their husband’s ten times. There are splatters across the wall, you can feel some of the warmth seeping down your forehead, you can taste it on your mouth when you lick your lips to wet them.

You let out an animalistic groan as you straighten up, the fucker deserved it, you think, picking the knife up from the ground, wiping both sides of the blade against the white of your tank top. Pushed you and pushed you until you broke. Put his hands on you one too many times with no remorse, no punishment. Called you a useless whore for the last time. There was some sick sense of satisfaction the bloomed when your mind replays the the look of shock on his face when you’d stabbed him the first time, like he couldn’t believe you had the guts. By the fifth time, there wasn’t anything behind those eyes of his, but you added five more just to be sure.

There’s a rage simmering underneath your skin still. Rage at the fact that no matter how many police reports you’d filed, how many hospital trips for split lips and black eyes, the law were going to come for you, and you’d go down, no doubt about it. That distinct feminine rage that a man could push you to the limit and back, and it’s still going to be your fucking fault when you stand in front of a jury and plead your case. The mad woman, the violent woman, the unhinged woman. It makes you want to scream, makes you want to thrash, maybe it makes you want to stick the knife into your own middle and twist it deep. You don’t though. You take the knife, run it under the tap until the water down the drain runs clear, wipe it dry with the towel and then shove it into your bag.

The mad woman indeed, you think, unhooking your car keys from the hook by the door. Well, if they wanted to fucking fry you, they were going to have to catch you first.

The darkness makes this easier. The hood pulled up over your head, covering your face just enough that the few passing cars don’t notice a thing on the drive there. There’s only one place you think to go, one person you know will understand, probably getting ready to go to bed on the other side of town, none-the-wiser that you’re on your way to him, covered in blood with a murder weapon sitting on the front seat of your car.

His home is unassuming. Two levels, two bedrooms, one for him - brown wood and dark - the other for his dead daughter - still pink with the sheets messed up, not made or changed for years as some sort of fucked up shrine. His truck, parked on the driveway, right next to yours. Most of the houses on the road have their lights turned out, families tucked up and sleeping for the night, but the light in his lounge is on - hard day at work, you think - as your fist knocks against the wood.

It takes him a minute, but then again, it always does, with his aching knees and his sore back, but he opens the door anyway, looking at you with confusion for a second, like he’s forgotten you’d arranged something, until you look up at him, let the light hit your face and show the blood spatters, drying and flaking, then his eyes are concerned, his big hand on your shoulder, dragging you inside.

“What did he do?” He’s asking, voice gruff.

He does this a lot, when you turn up in the middle of the night, bruises on your arms or lip split and sore, threatens to kill him, threatens to kill the cops who won’t do anything. Soothes your wounds, puts plasters on you, and then fucks you into his mattress and promises to run away with you. Well, jokes on you Joel Miller, you think as he leans you against the kitchen counter to look at you, I already fucking did kill him, and now you’re going to have to run away with me.

“What did he do to you, baby?” Voice still gruff, but tinged with concern this time, his hands cupping your face, turning it into the light to try and find the injury.

You cup his face too, congealed blood in the palm of your hand smearing across his skin, catching in the coarse whiskers of his beard, “He didn’t do anythin’ Joel.” You whisper, watching as the realisation hits his face and he takes a step back from you, dropping his hands like you’ve burned him.

“What did you do?”

You smile at him, the way he looks a little scared, “I killed him, Joel.”

He sucks in a breath, takes another step away from you, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

You scoff, “Why the fuck do you think?” You snarl, “Had his hands around my neck,” You say, moving your head to show the red marks where his fingers had squeezed, “Told me I was a stupid whore and just squeezed harder.”

Joel’s eyes soften as he takes a step back towards you, “So I stabbed him,” It’s so matter of fact, “It was that or it was me Joel, do you understand?”

“Well then we go to the police,” He says, trying to reason with you, “One stab wound in self-defence and they’ll understand.”

“Ten.”

“What?”

“I said ten, ten stab wounds.”

He’s silent now. Those brown orbs staring directly into your soul. You can see the snarl of his top lip, the faint twitch in his left eye, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

And then it’s a whirlwind. You’re stood in his bathroom and he’s taking off your clothes, forcing you into the shower and scrubbing your skin raw like he doesn’t trust you to be thorough enough in doing it yourself. He shoves your blood-stained clothes into a bag, along with his own, worried that there’s enough blood on that shirt that they’ll come after him too. He dries at your skin, gives you the single set of clothes you keep at his house to change into, dressing himself frantically. Then he’s shoving more of his clothes into a duffle bag, avoiding your eye as he swipes the picture frame off his chest of drawers - the one of him and Sarah, soccer trophy in her hand - and shoves that in the bag too.

When he’s satisfied he has everything he needs, his palm grips the scruff of your neck and guides you down the stairs, like he’s scared you’re going to bolt, only letting go to put his boots on and pick up his keys. He makes sure to turn all the lights off, even the one on the porch, letting you go again to lock his door, then his hand is back on you, guiding you roughly to his truck, where he opens the door and waits for you to get in.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

“Just get in the fuckin’ truck baby.”

You’re two hours into the drive before he speaks, clearly trying to focus on getting as far away from the scene of your crime as he can. He’s silently fuming, having had to go back and put you back in your own car, have you drive behind him until he pulled onto the side of some deserted country road. He sat you back in the passenger seat of his truck, took the bag of bloodied clothes and put them in the boot of your car. You watched in the rear-view mirror as he doused it in petrol from a can and then set fire to it.

Neither of you looked back as you drove off.

“Are you okay?”

It makes you laugh, a full body-shaking laugh, the kind of laugh where you have to bite your lip to stop yourself. His hand is back on your shoulder, rough and tight, as it shakes you, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck do you think is wrong with me?” You spit, “I just killed my fuckin’ husband Joel, don’t ask stupid fuckin’ questions.”

He’s sailing down the highway, hand still gripping at your skin, “Do you have any idea what we’ve just done?” He asks, eyes forward, not looking at you, “You have any idea what they’ll do when they catch us?”

“Yeah, I got some notion.” You sigh, sinking back into the seat.

“What did you do with the body?”

You shrug, “I just left it there.”

“How long do you think we got?” He’s finally letting go of you, both hands back on the wheel.

“Couple of days,” You hum, “He ain’t due at work until Monday,” It was Friday now, “No-one’s gonna look for him until he doesn’t show.”

Joel nods, finally relaxing into his seat as much as he can, but he’s tense, you both are, and you’ve got to be careful. One wrong move and this is all going to unravel.

It’s silent then for another couple of miles until he speaks again, “I’m sorry,” He says quietly, “I’m sorry he did that to you and I’m sorry that you had to do that.”

“I’m not.”

It comes out at easy and breathing. Your asshole of a husband deserved it. Years of beating you around, of belittling you in front of your friends and family, all those nights of being curled up, forced to unravel and undress and lie there in the dark whilst he used you. You’re not sorry you had to do it at all.

You’re in a motel in Alabama when the news hits. It’s a shitty place, middle of nowhere vibes, with a receptionist who couldn’t have given less of a shit about the two of you when you arrived. Handed the keys to a room to Joel once she’d insisted on him paying cash for the three nights he wanted. Joel’s not long come back from the store down the road - a large bag of chips, two cans of soda and some candy shoved into a plastic bag, enough to stave off the hunger for the evening.

You’ve actively avoided the news until now, settling instead on trash tv for background noise, but it’s Monday, and you know that as soon as your shitty dead husband didn’t turn up for work, it would be a shitstorm back in Texas. There’s a woman, sitting behind a desk, looking incredibly morose over a dead man she doesn’t know. You listen intently to what she’s saying as Joel cracks open your can of soda and hands it to you.

It’s the basics right now, he’s been dead a few days, a brutal murder and the police are following all open lines of enquiry. They don’t mention you, they don’t mention Joel and there’s no appeal for witnesses. You sigh out some kind of breath of relief that you’re okay for now, but you know in the back of your mind you have to get moving. It’ll only be a matter of time before your photograph is pasted across the news channel, Joel’s too - you have to move on.

“Where are we going to go?” You ask quietly, sipping the sugary cold syrup from the can.

“Where do you want to go?” He replies just as quietly.

“Mexico?” You offer, it’s the only place you know that criminals go, crossing the border and down into South America to disappear into obscurity.

“Gone in the wrong direction for Mexico, baby,” He shrugs, “Maybe we head into Florida, lay low as much as we can, and then move on from there if the heat follows us?”

“Sounds good.”

There’s something about Florida that feels freeing. Sure, you’re in a dead end town, nowhere near a beach where you could enjoy the sun, but there’s something about the air here that feels different. Joel manages to find a small apartment for the two of you. Conscious that he doesn’t want anyone to know your faces when they start getting plastered across the news channels, he phones a number from a newspaper, asks for the keys to be dropped somewhere outside and three days ago you’d let yourselves in and settled down.

Joel had gone out and bought new clothes for the two of you, the old ones thrown in the bin, not sure any amount of laundry would have taken the smell away. He stocks up on simple groceries, and for the third night in a row, you sit down to spaghetti with tomato sauce from a jar. You’ve got the news on again, low on the volume, but just enough that you catch the news anchor speaking, “We have a development in the Austin murder case to bring you tonight.”

The spaghetti in your mouth turns to lead and what’s already in your stomach threatens to reappear when Joel turns around to find his face plastered across the TV screen.

“Austin local Joel Miller has been reported missing today by his brother,” The anchor continues, “And police have been open in explaining that they believe his disappearance is connected with the murder of an Austin man, found days ago in his home, stabbed to death.”

The camera cuts to a shot of Joel’s house, covered in police tape with an office stood outside his closed front door, and then to add insult to injury, the familiar face of Tommy Miller comes into view. He’d known about you, met you plenty of times, you think he liked you even, pulling cold beers out of the fridge for you and asking you how your day had been.

“I just wanna know where my brother is,” His Texan twang rings out, but you’re not watching him, you’re watching Joel, and the tick of his jaw as he grinds his teeth, “I don’t know where he is, but Joel, if you’re listenin’, come home brother, whatever has happened, just come home.”

Joel’s fist clenches the TV remote, turning it off, bathing the room in a dead silence that feels stifling. You don’t know what to do, except chew the spaghetti in your mouth for what feels like the hundredth time in an attempt to make you swallow it. He won’t look at you, instead he stares down into his bowl of unfinished food, jaw still twitching in the way it always does when he’s angry or stressed.

“Joel…” You trail off when he brings a hand up to signal you to stop talking.

“Don’t say anythin’.”

“They just think you’re missing,” You offer, trying to lessen the blow.

He snorts, shakes his head and looks up at you finally, his dark brown eyes blown almost black.

“Missin’, huh?” He scoffs, “And when Tommy airs this whole affair we’ve been havin’, tells the police everythin’ he knows about us, what then?”

You scoff right back, getting up from the table, chair scraping across the floor as you do, “So what, you wanna run on back to fucking Texas and leave me here?”

“I didn’t say that,” He sighs, standing up too, “I’m just sayin’ it ain’t gonna be long until they realise what really happened, and then what?”

“We move on, just like you said.”

“We don’t have that kinda luck baby,” He’s started to pace, “They’re gonna find us eventually, and I don’t know how you’re gonna talk yourself outta ten stab wounds.”

“Oh fuck you, Joel,” You spit, sanity hanging by a thread, “Yeah I stabbed him, maybe I even fucking enjoyed it, but you’re just as guilty in this as I am, you’re harbouring a criminal right now, even if they don’t know it yet.”

“I’m as guilty as you?” He pries, stepping closer to you, making you step back against the kitchen counter, “I didn’t stab him baby,” His voice is dripping in sarcasm, “That was all you,” He drags out, taking another step towards you, “They might arrest me baby, but when they catch you, they’re gonna give you the damn chair.”

It all happens in such a blur, his taunting tone and the way he’s caged you in against the kitchen counters. Before you even know what you’ve done, your hand has flown up and slapped him right across the cheek, following by a spitting “How fucking dare you.”

You’re both breathing heavily, the sound of sucking breath the only thing you can hear in the room. His eyes are darker than ever as he takes one more step, tangles his fist in the hair on the back of your head and tugs hard, before his mouth is hot and open against yours, tongue sliding against yours. It’s the first time he’s touched you like this since you left Texas, hot and full of want as he presses his entire body to yours, your lower back digging into the edge of the counter. You groan into his mouth, let your arms wrap around the broad expanse of his shoulders, and melt into the hand his puts on your lower back.

There’s a fumbling of limbs when he finally lets go of the grip he’s had on your hair, palms against the globes of your ass as he pulls you up, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s kissing you as he walks to the couch - it’s old, pattern faded, and when you sit on it you feel the springs pressing into you from below, but none of that matters when you’re legs are splayed wide across his thighs, straddling him as his hands rip open the blouse he bought not two days ago. It’s torn from your body, cups of your bra pulled down, nipple sucked into his mouth, his tongue swirling it into a stiff peak before he’s switching to the other one.

Your hand is on the back of his neck, gripping tightly to the unruly curls there, body leaning back in pleasure as your start to subtly grind your hips down into his.

“I fucking hate you,” You breathe, knowing you don’t really, not deep down, just for right now, “This is all your fault.”

“All my fault?” He asks, voice gruff as his teeth nip at the delicate skin on your breath, “I didn’t force you to stab him.”

He sucks your nipple back into his mouth, this time adding his teeth, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your cunt throb.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to me that night,” You moan out when he lets your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other one, “If I didn’t know you existed this never would’a happened.”

You hear him chuckle a little against your skin, as if it’s not a bare-faced lie. Whether he’d have been here or not, you’re sure that knife would have found it’s way into your husband one way or another. Joel just adds a complication, another person who doesn’t need to be caught up in this.

He doesn’t reply, all he does is grip harder to your ass through your jeans and drag you across the growing bulge in his own. You can feel him pushing up into you, the friction of the clothes between you making you sigh as you continue grinding yourself across his jean-covered cock.

It goes on like this for a while, kissing and biting at each other, until Joel has enough. His hands move from gripping painfully to your ass to effortlessly unbuttoning and unzipping your own jeans. You lift up just enough for him to pull them down over your ass, taking your underwear with them. There’s awkward fumbling whilst you try and manoeuvre them off your body whilst staying as close to him as possible, but eventually you get there.

Before you can settle back to rubbing your wet pussy along the bulge of his trousers, his hand cups you. The heat is stifling, almost unbearable, hot skin against hot skin, but when his fingers find you soaked, and he’s pressing two inside you, everything makes sense again.

Nothing outside of this room matters. Not for the next few hours. The police, the dead husband, the nightmares that have started to creep in at night. None of it matters anymore. Not when Joel curls his fingers just perfectly, making you cry out to the ceiling with your head tossed back. When it’s like this you remember why you did it, to be with him, and only him.

“Knew this would’a shut you up.” Joel murmurs into your skin, face pressed between your breasts as he nips marks into the skin there.

Your hips are working in time to the thrusts of his fingers inside you, shamelessly grinding yourself into his palm so it’s not just his fingers inside that are setting you alight, but the palm of his hand rubbing against your clit on every move forward you make.

You can feel yourself tightening around him, getting closer, and you know he can feel it too, his fingers getting harder inside you with each push.

“Come on baby,” He coos, “Let go for me.”

And it’s always been that simple. He only has to say it and you do. Soft screams filling the room as your cunt spasms around his fingers. Body shaking as he holds you to his own, working you through it.

There’s no real reprieve for you after. Joel shifts you so you’re lying face down on the couch, and through the haze you can hear his belt buckle being undone and the zipper of his jeans being pulled down.

His hand fishes underneath your body, pulling you up so you’re draped across the arm of the couch, ass splayed upwards and legs spread wide. His hand runs up and down your swollen cunt a few times, gathering your wetness which you know he’s using to pump his cock with, before you feel the head of him at your hole.

He’s unforgiving when he pushes in, giving you everything all at once as he surges forward inside of you. He’s touching the deepest parts of you and you swear you see stars. You hear him sucking in breath behind you, his two hands gripping your ass to pull you open you he can watch himself slide in and out of your cunt.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, the only sounds that can be heard are the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, the obscene squelch of you cunt when he pushes in, and the moans you both let out.

He’s rough, but you don’t mind. You want it to consume you, the pleasure and the tinge of pain every time his cock nudges at your cervix. It means you don’t think about anything else, just how good this feels, how good he makes you feel and how right it feels now that there isn’t someone else to think about. Joel has always felt right, like the person you were always meant to find, but it’s different now.

One of his hands comes up to grip your wrist on the arm of the couch, dragging it underneath you until you feel your cunt.

“Rub it for me baby,” He growls into your ear, “I wanna do this one together.”

So you do - you circle your clit with your middle finger, pressing harder and harder on every circle as he pounds into your cunt like it’s the last time he’ll have you like this. He’s gripping the back of your neck, pushing you further down into the material of the couch.

“Come on baby,” He groans above you, “You can do it.”

“Joel,” You squeak out, almost pathetically, “I think I’m gonna-”

“Go on then baby,” He says, “I’m right behind you.”

You let yourself go, feeling your cunt squeeze his cock as you gush around him. Your mouth is dropped open but there is no sound, only the hot spark that flushes across your body when he buries himself as deep inside of you as he can and stills, filling every inch of you with his cum.

His body falls onto yours, both of you struggling to catch breath as you recover. Joel eventually moves enough so that you can both lay down, pressed up against his body, almost uncomfortably so. His skin is hot to the touch and you can see small bruises on his neck and chest starting to rise where you’d bitten him - you suspect you must look the same.

There’s silence for a while, his hand tracing gently up and down your back, before you can think to ask anything.

“What are we gonna do, Joel?”

It takes him a while to respond, probably weighing up his options. There aren’t many. He goes home and has to explain everything to the police and goes to jail, or he stays here with you, keeps running and hope for the best.

He’s quiet when he says it, but you can tell when he does speak that whatever he’s feeling is genuine. He’s too far in now, there’s no going back, and you both know that.

“We keep runnin’ baby.”

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