#a tale of two sams

[just-an-enby-lemon]

I mantain that S1 Jon would besties with Anna Enfield. I can absolutly see an alternate reality where Sasha survived the worms and convinces the Archival Crew into suing the Institute for Workplace Endagerement and Anna ends up being their lawyer. Bonus points for Sam Enfield and Martin bonding.

[I can also easily see Anna as Gwen's lawyer. They have a mostly professional relationship buy Gwen has a crush on Anna and, as things worsen for Gwen, Anna's older sister instincts turn her a little protective over Gwen's well being. Bonus points for Alice deciding to buy Sam Khalid a poted plant as some joke and becaming friends with Oliver]

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

Had a yuri Stancest dream where fem!Ford’s name was fucking Saraford

honestly, dont hate this one bit! i actually really like it fhdbfudh

if anything my only gripe w it is how it doesnt have a "stan" or even just an "St" in it, but i think as a name for a fem ford its actually really good and i think really fits her😭 also, something about her wanting to go with ford because she wants to be taken more seriously and ergo goes by a masculine nickname makes sense to me. id love to use it with constance if i wasnt so hung up on their names HAVING to match

but then again, i think the easier solution is to just give stan a diff name, since stan is the one named after ford after all lmfao. Saraford and Sarah, a tale of two Saras. do we have takers on this

[mrsthunderkin]

Every prince needs his princess~

Tamara belongs to @owlcatchyoul8r

[bearlytolerant]

A Tale of Two Cities

[thecurioustale]

(Re)introducing the Author

I have two main series: a fantasy series called The Curious Tale and a sci-fi series called Galaxy Federal.

For those who are newer here, or wouldn't mind a refresher, here's a little about me and the kind of stories I write:

My name is Josh, pronouns they/he. (I am agender but I don't get upset if you gender me masculine; I do it myself sometimes out of force of habit.) I am 41 years old and live in Washington State not far from Seattle, in the beautiful but troubled United States. I am left-handed, hence my proudest epithet, The Sinistral, and I have been a writer for basically my entire life—even as a kid!

I published my first and so far only novel in 2015, Prelude to After The Hero, which you can currently buy as an e-book or read for free in HTML. Additionally, I have published countless worldbuilding articles and meta-discussions of my fiction over the years (see my previous post about Curious Tale Saturdays), and countless nonfiction essays and personal musings on my personal journal, which in more recent years I have updated much less frequently (but am still active on).

As an author I mostly write stories about "power" and "beauty." I'll have more to say about my specific stories over the next couple days when I do corresponding (re)introduction posts for The Curious Tale and Galaxy Federal, but the bottom line is that I am very interested in human potential, both at the individual and collective levels, and in the beauty of being alive and experiencing "the world," i.e. our material reality and our own headspaces within it. Other topics that interest me and frequently show up in my writing include justice, creation (both the acts and products of creating), civilization, Illumination (what many would call wisdom or "enlightenment"), ambition and desire, animism, and the poignance of the fleeting nature of all things.

I am fascinated by liminality and subliminality; boundaries; vast indoor spaces; megastructures; mysteriousness; "the magical"; surrealism; absurdism; nostalgia; pathos; journeys that do not involve backtracking; and other such things as generally might describe a vast world with hazy horizons lit in twilight. I also strive in my writing (less successfully, I fear) to convey a sense of mystery and wonder.

At the same time, I am also fascinated by human emotionality and subjective experience; personal relationships; the human condition and the human psyche; and narrative life arcs. Some who know me through my nonfiction or by talking to me in person have been surprised to see how passionate and emotional my fiction is.

My writing style tends to be long-winded and self-indulgent; deliberate and precise; esoteric and bespoke. I usually set a slow pace, and seldom indeed will I resort to cheap action or thrills. Most of my fiction is either long-form play-by-play scenes in high resolution, or Tolkienian epic narration far removed from the ground level.

With certain exceptions for key locations, I usually don't reuse a given location in a story; the locations are usually new from scene to scene, and thus there is a lot of environmental description throughout the whole length of my works and not just at the beginning. This creates a certain quality, where everything is always new, that I find engrossing.

In terms of the three most popular conventions, political intrigue, violence, and sex and romance: My writing mostly rejects the treacherous political intrigue genre conventions that are so prevalent in sci-fi and fantasy today, even though "politics" is definitely an integral part of my writing (and I am not shy about sharing my opinions, though I try to do so through specific characters rather than on narratorial authority). When it comes to violence, there is a lot of death and killing and suffering in my work, but I am not a big fan of writing extremely graphic violence and torture, mainly because I don't have the heart to dwell on it in great detail most of the time. (It's very draining for me.) And on the sex side of things, I eschew tacked-on romantic subplots and in general I would say that there's too much damned snogging in our contemporary storytelling, but I definitely do explore and depict matters of love and sex in my work in my own way—though not at a very high frequency, and, I would like to hope, never gratuitously. (Unless the gratuitousness is a tongue-in-cheek joke that we're all in on—which can be said of many other aspects of my writing as well.) I never write explicit, graphic sex scenes, although I do sometimes write sex scenes.

Which reminds me: My stories tend to have a lot of "competency porn" in them; my characters are usually intelligent, thoughtful, and logical. Ignorance and luck are not big plot story drivers for me, generally.

My favored characters tend to be some combination of fat, left-handed, and female; and, of them, my central protagonists additionally tend to be extremely powerful, demigodlike individuals who are able to operate within their respective domains virtually without limitation. In critical respects my characters are only vaguely-defined; I usually avoid character archetype trope reinforcement, so my characters are ideally as internally diverse as real-world humans are...which means you can't actually know them right away. And that opens the door for you to project your own personality ideas onto them. Which...I suppose is a feature?

I have a cinematic mind, and I think my stories are best appreciated with a strong visual imagination. I try not to smother readers with too many unnecessary details, though I confess I am only partially successful at this and often find myself hanging on every word of my lengthy environmental descriptions. I think some of my most satisfied readers are those who enjoy digesting these elaborate visuals as a reward unto itself.

I am a big believer in the idea that obvious story setups should have payoffs, that narrative arcs should eventually be resolved, and that plots and subplots should be be highly interconnected. I am chiefly theme-driven in my writing, as opposed to character-driven or plot-driven, and oftentimes the central purpose of a given scene will be to express one particular idea (or more than one)—either a conceptual idea, or a specific moment in the story. If you read the Prelude and remember Silence's introduction, I wrote that entire scene just to be able to describe the image of Silence in silhouette standing against the evening sky, and her powerful, predator-like movement as she turns around.

Add it all up, and my stories are definitely out of the norm for today's fashions and quite possibly for any fashion in history. They are slow and heavy and long. Their vastness belies their thrilling internal intricacies and shapes. The characters are highly realistic. The plots tend to feel emergent and organic. Or at least I think so. I am very much "writing the stories I want to see."

My stories tend to be incredibly long. Like...just know that going in. There are many sources for "tight," "fast" writing in the world. I am not one of them.

Oh, one more thing: There are various types of representation that are important to me and which I don't see the current state of sci-fi and fantasy storytelling doing a good job of delivering, so I explicitly lean into that, on top of my natural proclivity to write these kinds of characters anyway. So, if you're ever reading a scene and you find that the demographics of the people in it are noticeably unusual for contemporary American fiction, that's why.

More about me as a person: When not writing, I am a fan of sunsets, sunrises, and twilight; clouds and water; saying "Merciful McGillicuddy!" a lot while sighing loudly; solving Wordle; trying mostly in vain to gain weight; and being a curious information sponge.

[viky2318]

(i thought i posted this a while ago but hey sounds like Tumblr broke again or something ._.)

so: i know no one seemed to care about my last story. i'm just here to tell you that I DIDN'T STOP WRITING!!!!!!!!!!! A new tale isn't discontinued, i'm still working on it!!!!!!!!! i simply noticed nobody seemed to enjoy it and decided to take my time. when i'll have finished writing it all i'll post the chapters one by one once a week.

with that said, have a nice day :3

[tenderrot]

Why doesn’t sam, the largest winchester not simply kill dean? (Smaller)

[demisexualnathanvuornos]

Ohio

The Colorado Kid (2005) Stephen King/ Haven pilot script (2009) Jim Dunn & Sam Ernst / Haven 1x7 Sketchy (2010) W. Matt McGuinness D. TW Peacocke / Haven 2x1 A Tale of Two Audreys (2011) W. Jim Dunn & Sam Ernst D. TW Peacocke

[leeloooonfire]

Steve hasn't read out loud since 4th grade - he still remembers the snickers of his classmates when he stumbled over the words as the letters twisted and turned on the page.

He doesn't like to read in general. It takes him so long to finish a story, let alone an entire book. He tried to read Hamlet once. When he and Nacy were a thing and he knew she liked classic literature. He hated it. Shakespeare, while the storyline seems to be interesting enough, nearly bored him to death.

So, that's the thing: Steve doesn't read, especially not out loud.

But then Vecna happened, and while Max and El finished the bastard off, they barely managed to get a deadly wounded Eddie out of the Upside Down.

(Eddie died in Dustin's arms and came back to life under Steve’s furious hands.)

While Eddie is bound to the hospital bed, unable to move, Steve picks up The Hobbit. He doesn't intend to read it, but when Edide can't hold the book long enough, let alone concentrate on it, Steve takes over. (He always does these things for the people he cares about. It is a small mystery to Steve when he started to care about Eddie.)

So, he reads - stumbling over the words, stuttering and slowly, but instead of laughing or making snide comments, Eddie listens to him patiently, a small smile on his lips.

(They finish The Hobbit and the first of Lotr before Eddie is allowed to leave the hospital.)

Steve thinks with Eddie free to go, that's it. No more hours sitting together and learning the tale of Frodo and Sam.

He is surprised when Eddie wants to hang out with him every other day. (He didn't think Eddie would want to be his friend.)

Two months after Eddie was allowed to go home, they lie in Eddie’s bedroom, sharing a joint and listening to Dio when the cassette comes to an end and Eddie turns slowly to him, brown eyes wide.

(Steve doesn't try thinking about kissing Eddie. He fails. Just a little bit.)

it's then when Eddie turns and grabs something from underneath his bed. A book. The two towers. "Aren't you interested how the story continues?"

Instead of waiting for Steve to answer, Eddie lays back down and starts reading. He is so much better than Steve at it - voice animated, each character distinguished.

(Steve loves it. Maybe even loves Eddie a bit.)

After a while, Eddie's voice gets rough and he pushes the book into Steve's hands, "Your turn." And he's too high to say no, so he reads. Less animated, less practiced, but Eddie lays his head on Steve's stomach and he smiles, humming whenever they reach parts he especially likes.

(If Steve's free hand runs through Eddie's curls every now and then, there's no one here to call them out for it.)

The letters still play tricks on him, turn and twist and make it hard for him to read, but Steve gets better. He doesn't really care if he comes to a stuttering halt or if he doesn't know how to pronounce a word, because Eddie doesn't seem to mind and only speaks to help when Steve gets frustrated with himself. Then they take turns and Eddie takes over reading.

(If Steve gets frustrated on purpose so Eddie reads for him, it's our tiny secret.)

[artficlly]

hi !! i love ur work <3

ok i had an idea for a one shot but it’s totally fine if u don’t want to do it!

so reader and bucky break up (bucky dumps her) bc he thinks she can do better or whatevs and instead of feeling sad, reader is kind of getting off to how bad bucky is doing without her 😜😜 this is obviously inspired by my kink is karma from chappell lmao. anyways ends in fluff or smut and a lot of how much bucky missed her 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️😛😛

thank uuu !!

BITTER [one-shot]

modern marvel au vet!bartender!bucky x reader Bucky doesn't do relationships, but maybe you'll be the one to change him

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, sexual themes, angst, hurt/comfort, major character death, ptsd, bucky barnes needs a hug, bucky barnes has issues, bar fights, alcohol, smoking, swearing, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.2k

A/N: heya nonnie. this isn't exactlyyy what you asked for but i hope you like it anyway. i'm technically on hiatus rn but i felt bad leaving your ask unanswered for so long. i've been working on this between classes, i'm not super happy with it but i thought i'd post it anyway, it got a bit longer than i was expecting. i have like 5 million things due at the end of the month so i might be gone for a bit so here is a treat in the meantime! much love! ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

permanent taglist: @civilbucky @globetrotter28 (i swear there was someone else who wanted to be added, pls let me know if that was you i lost your comment)

main masterlist

The first thing Wanda had told you about Bucky Barnes was to beware. 

Proceed with caution.

You were the type to fall in love easily, it was one of the first things you had confessed to Wanda, wine-drunk only a week after moving into her dodgy shoebox of an apartment, where the previous tenant's mail still showed up—and so did their debt collector. You were new in the city, bright-eyed and overly romantic about all you encountered, including the suspicious stains on the carpet courtesy of Wanda’s old roommate, who she only referred to as ‘that nightmarish cunt’. Wanda was cool, chic yet edgy, her voice dripping a Slavic accent and always armed with a dangerous look in her eye. She worked downtown as a sous chef at one of those mid-tier restaurants that you considered fancy, but anyone even marginally higher than your pay grade wouldn’t look twice. 

Her boyfriend, Sam, worked at a bar across the road. Howling Commandos. He co-owned it with his buddy, the infamous Bucky Barnes. They had met while serving in the army, both retiring early from service. Sam was discharged after an injury that rendered him ‘useless’, and Bucky was discharged shortly after on grounds of mental health. 

And maybe that was the allure—the myth of Bucky Barnes. 

He was handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed, the usual fairy-tale rom-com affair. He was brooding, damaged goods, and had a real chip on his shoulder since his discharge. He poured a good drink, kept the bar running smoothly, and was big enough to intimidate drunk frat boys who occasionally wandered in looking for a fight. But apparently, he didn’t do relationships. He would fuck anything that moved if it caught his fleeting attention for long enough, but that was it. 

Wanda had confessed it all to you on that dreaded wine-drunk night, hummus and carrot sticks forgotten as the TV blared Wanda’s Spotify playlist on loop. She’d had a friend, one who had moved away now, but that friend had slept with Bucky. Said it was the best lay of her life. 

So, Wanda had said, voice dipped as she gave you a drunken, sloppy grin over her Pinot Gris, the two bottles she had pinched from work now empty. If you want the night of your life, go for it, but don’t expect anything more. 

That was the rule with Bucky Barnes:

Don’t get attached. 

So, maybe foolishly, when Wanda had roused you from a hangover-induced nap the following day by asking if you wanted to join her at the Howling Commandos and continue your bender from the night before, you had taken the leap. 

–

Howling Commandos didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.

It had the look of a place that had seen one too many late nights and even more bad decisions. Exposed brick walls, low-hanging lights that shrouded the room in a dim orange glow, and a row of pool tables tucked in the back behind a collection of stained wood tables and chairs.  It was edgy, kind of dark and mysterious, much like the infamous bartender who now stood before you in the flesh. 

You and Wanda had descended upon the bar at half-past nine, arms linked, laughter spilling between you. You’d gelled quickly—your soft, unguarded friendliness balancing out her wicked smirks and razor-edged sarcasm.

She swung into a barstool with the ease of someone who belonged here, peeling off her winter coat and tossing it onto the counter, shaking the snow from her auburn hair. Across from her, Bucky barely spared her a glance, his mouth set in a line that could have been annoyance or indifference.

“Wanda.” His voice was low, unimpressed.

That was all he said. No hello, no warmth. Just her name, like it was something to be tolerated.

Wanda only grinned, leaning her elbows onto the bar like she had all the time in the world.

“Sam’s out back,” Bucky added, eyes flicking toward the door before sliding right past her, landing on you instead. “Still picking up strays, I see.”

You grinned before you could help yourself, slipping into the seat next to Wanda. As you shrugged off your coat, neatly sliding it into your lap, Wanda let out a mock-horrified gasp on your behalf. 

“So rude, this is my new roommate.” Wanda’s eyes slid over to you, head tilting as she gestured towards the scowling Bucky. “And this dickhead is Bucky. He’s co-owner with Sam.”

“I remember.” You replied with ease, your gaze and smile unwavering even as Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, turning away to continue polishing the glass in his palm. 

Wanda, unbothered by his callousness, leant in. “I’m going to be honest, I need a drink ASAP. I’ve got an awful headache, and you know what I always say! Best way to beat a hangover? Drink even more.”

“Does Sam know you’re an alcoholic?” Bucky cut back, not even bothering to turn around. 

“Awwh, Buck, is that genuine care?”

“Not for you.” Bucky snipped.

Wanda made a mock pout face, fingers drumming across the bar. “But seriously, put me out of my misery here—”

“Your usual?” He cut over her.

Wanda didn’t skip a beat. 

“Pretty please,” she purred, her tone sweet and syrupy, dripping with exaggerated charm. As she settled more comfortably into the stool, her gaze flicked to you with a knowing gleam. “What do you want? On the house.”

Before you could respond, Sam’s voice rang out, thick with amused exasperation. “Baby, you can’t go offering drinks on the house to everyone—” He appeared from the back, a box of bottled spirits cradled in his arms,

“She’s my roommate—” Wanda began, but Sam cut her off, raising an eyebrow as he set the box down with a thud.

“Oh yeah? I haven’t forgotten the last one that you also insisted could have free drinks, and she turned out to be—”

“Don’t! Don’t bring up that cunt—”

You tuned out the conversation as Wanda slipped from her seat, weaving around the bar with the kind of effortless grace that came with knowing she belonged. She leaned into Sam’s space without hesitation, her laughter slipping through the low hum of the bar, threading between the murmur of voices and the scratchy tune spilling from the jukebox in the corner.

It wasn’t until Bucky slid a glass of dark liquor across the bar—precisely where Wanda had been sitting—that you finally tore your gaze away from them.

His eyes found yours, expectant, unmoving.

“It’s okay, I can pay,” you assured him, reaching for your wallet, but his unimpressed stare didn’t waver. His silence stretched, almost as if he were waiting for you to back down first.

You didn’t. “Gin and tonic.”

No acknowledgement, not even a nod. He simply turned, reaching for the bottle of gin without a word.

Wanda reappeared beside you, collapsing back into her seat with a dramatic sigh, a sound that quickly dissolved into a giggle as Sam pressed a quick kiss to her cheek on his way past. The small moment of affection made you smile, your gaze trailing after him as he made his way toward the pool tables. He moved with familiarity, exchanging greetings with the patrons, his presence met with easy grins and back pats.

“He’s cute,” you hummed, watching him settle into the space like he owned it.

“I know, right?” Wanda smirked, pulling her drink closer.

You propped an elbow on the bar, your curiosity piqued. “How’d you meet?”

She took a slow sip, savouring the taste before setting the glass down. It looked like rum and coke. Smelt like it too. “He used to come to my work all the time when they were fixing up this place. We just got to talking one day and—”

Bucky set your drink in front of you with the same quiet precision as before, cutting off Wanda’s sentence mid-thought. You turned your attention back to him, offering a bright smile that didn’t falter, even as he met it with a frown.

“I’ve never liked those,” Wanda barely spared him a glance, instead eyeing your drink with mild disdain. “Not sweet enough for me.”

“Well, I like my drinks how I like my men,” you replied, the words coming with a smirk that you directed toward Bucky, holding his gaze longer than you probably should have. “Bitter.”

—

Shivering in the back alley by the dumpsters probably wasn’t your brightest idea, but at this point, you were committed.

You and Wanda had knocked back one too many drinks—again. It was becoming a habit, one that Sam was starting to take personally, considering he was the one who had to cut Wanda off after she got a little too liberal with her chatting and nearly convinced a stranger to let her wear his coat home. You, on the other hand, had managed to slip out gracefully, settling your tab before Wanda was carted out back to be babysat and force-fed water.

Neither of them had been thrilled at the idea of you walking home alone. Buzzed, barely dressed for the weather, and just reckless enough to make poor decisions, you’d assured them you were fine. Which, technically, was true. What you had failed to mention was that you hadn’t actually made it more than a few feet out the door before deciding to truly test the limits of your dignity.

The cigarette hanging from your lips wobbled slightly as you tried—unsuccessfully—to light it with numb fingers. You swore under your breath, stuffing the useless lighter back into your pocket just as the back door of Howling Commandos swung open.

And as fate—or some cruel, all-seeing god—would have it, it wasn’t Sam or Wanda who stepped outside.

Bucky emerged, a black trash bag slung over one shoulder, his usual scowl fixed in place. His stride slowed slightly when he caught sight of you, his expression unreadable.

“Thought you went home,” he muttered. “Sam and Wanda already left. If you need a ride, I can call you a cab.”

You tilted your head, watching as he moved, efficient, mechanical. The back door groaned shut behind him, its echo swallowed by the muffled city noise beyond the alley. Dumpster lid up, bag tossed in, blue eyes flicking back to you, waiting.

“I don’t need a ride.”

His gaze swept over you, unimpressed. “Sure about that? You look outta your damn mind right now.”

You exhaled, breath clouding the frigid air as you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets. The wind bit through the alleyway, slithering beneath the fur-trimmed collar and creeping up your spine.

“Well, when I had this brilliant idea, I was still drunk,” you admitted, shifting your weight on unsteady legs. “Now that alcohol’s worn off and it’s cold as shit, I can’t even fuckin’ light a smoke ‘cause my hands are shaking so bad.”

You lifted your fingers to prove your point, stiff and trembling from the cold, flashing him a lazy grin. He did not look impressed.

“This a cry for help? I don’t know what it is with Wanda and picking up crazy fuckin’ roommates—”

“I wanted to get your number.” You shrugged, unbothered by the scepticism in his tone. “Didn’t want to do it in the bar, figured you’re a private kinda guy, don’t like putting your business out for the world. I can respect that.”

He blinked, once. Then, slowly, “So you thought the next best option was to wait in a back alley in the snow—?”

“Hey,” you cut him off with a laugh, shifting your weight against the wall. “I said I was drunk when I came up with it… never said it was a good plan.”

Something flickered across his expression. Dry amusement, maybe. Then, to your surprise, he huffed out a short laugh, his breath visible in the cold air curling between you.

You smirked. “C’mon, I’ve been out here for like… an hour. Least you can do is give me your number.”

He took his time looking you over, slow and assessing. Despite the heavy winter coat hanging off your shoulders, you were still grossly underdressed for the weather. The short, tight-fitting dress clung to you like a second skin, courtesy of Wanda’s slut-shaming is sooo 2016 speech. A poor choice in hindsight, considering the temperature was bordering on unbearable.

“I’ll do you one better.”

You arched a brow. “Yeah?”

His voice dipped lower, something rougher curling at the edges. “How about I lock up, and you sit your pretty little ass in my car? I’ll drive you back to mine.” A beat. “Sound good?”

Now, this was the Bucky Barnes Wanda had described—the dangerous one, the elusive ladykiller. The shift had been minuscule, yet you already found your panties were wet.

You smiled. “Well, now you’re talking my language.”

—

"We should stop seeing each other."

Bucky sat hunched on the edge of his bed, forearms braced against his knees, fingers laced tightly together as if he were holding himself back. He didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his mouth a firm line, but that wasn’t what unsettled you—it was the tension in his shoulders, the restless bounce of his leg, the way he exhaled through his nose like he was already regretting this conversation.

That first night had been the spark, but the fire never quite burned out. It carried on in flickering embers, nights tangled in his sheets, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, bodies moving in time with the city’s restless heartbeat. If you had to put a name to it, fuck buddies was the closest fit, though even that felt too familiar, too warm. There were no tender morning-afters, no texts outside of arranging the next meeting. You met him in the alley after closing and let him drive you back to his place. Though sometimes, you never made it that far. Sometimes, it was the backseat of his car, windows fogged, streetlights streaking across his skin as you clawed at his shoulders. Other times, it was rushed and desperate, your palms braced against crates in the storeroom, breath hitching between half-suppressed moans before either of you had the sense to lock the damn door.

But as winter thawed into spring, something shifted.

The first crack in the foundation came when Bucky, against all odds, accepted your half-hearted invite to grab a bite to eat. You’d won a cheap voucher for a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place around the corner from the bar, fully expecting him to wave you off. But he hadn’t. And somehow, the two of you had ended up crammed into a booth, sharing a pile of nachos, snickering into your drinks as you watched a group of college kids make absolute fools of themselves. You wouldn’t have called it a date—Bucky sure as hell didn’t—but something about it felt different. Easier. The way he’d nudged his plate toward you when he noticed you eyeing his last taco. The way he leaned just a little too close, voice dropping low in your ear, murmuring some dry remark that made you snort into your margarita.

You weren’t sure when the line blurred. Maybe it was when your not-date nights became just as routine as your hookups. Or maybe it was at Wanda’s birthday dinner when Bucky—without thinking, without hesitation—draped his arm across the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin of your shoulder. You hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in conversation, but Wanda and Sam sure as hell had. They shared a look, one of those wordless exchanges, tight-lipped and knowing. Like they were bracing for the inevitable. Like they could already see the fallout creeping on the horizon.

And they were right.

Because after a year of effortless, reckless bliss, Bucky finally reached his limit.

You should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known that letting Wanda rope you into planning his surprise birthday party was a mistake. That something so personal, so full of effort, would make him withdraw. It was all too much. Too close. Too intimate for someone who spent his life keeping people at arm’s length.

And just like that, the fire snuffed out.

Your grip tightened around the box in your hands, the crinkling of the wrapping paper comically loud in the quiet room. The laughter and chatter from the party outside felt like a world away, muffled through the walls of his bedroom. You had pulled him aside to give him his present in private, and now it sat between you like a hand grenade, pin already pulled, waiting for the explosion.

“Are you going to open your present? Hand-picked by yours truly, I made sure not to let Sam meddle with those prank gifts of his—” You ignored his words, shoving the brightly wrapped box towards him. He barely glanced at it before waving it off, his scowl deepening.

“Did you even hear what I said?” Bucky interrupted you, expression nowhere near impressed

“Jesus, Bucky. Are you serious?” The sigh that left you was excessive, the once bubbly and sweet aura you wrapped yourself up in so tightly melting away in an instant. 

You should have known.

He had been off all week. Distant, restless. He’d stopped waiting for you in the back alley after his shifts ended, ignored your texts, and let your calls go to voicemail. Hell, he hadn’t even invited you over to fuck in two weeks, and that was the foundation of whatever this was between you. You’d told yourself it was the late winter blues—snow had been falling thick for weeks now even with spring looming closer by the day. Maybe, you had told yourself, it was some kind of early mid-life crisis with his birthday looming.

But deep down, you’d known better. You’d felt it in the way he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, how his touch had cooled from burning to indifferent. It was like a switch had flipped, turning lust into something close to disgust.

“I’m serious,” Bucky said, exhaling like the conversation had already exhausted him. He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder as if looking at you would make this harder. Or maybe easier. “We should stop… whatever this is.”

The present now sat on the bed, abandoned between you. You placed it down with deliberate care, fingers smoothing over the edges as you mulled over his words. Beyond the walls, the party raged on, voices rising in drunken harmony as Sweet Caroline blared over the speakers. A chorus of shouts—touchin’ me, touchin’ you—mocked the silence stretching between you.

You knew there was no point in arguing, not when Bucky had already made up his mind, disillusioned or not. But the question still burned its way up your throat before you could stop it, raw and sharp as you met his gaze.

“Why?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

However he had expected you to react, this clearly wasn’t it. Maybe he thought you’d cry. Maybe he thought you’d yell. But you had never been the type for tears or begging. You just wanted the truth. The cold, ruthless reason why this wasn’t working anymore.

“Yes. Why? What’s changed?”

Bucky hesitated, something flickering across his face. Hesitation, regret, guilt, maybe all three. Then, his jaw tensed, and he forced the words out like they tasted bitter on his tongue.

“You’re… You’re just too much. You’re too much for me.”

Your head tilted slightly, observing him. He still wouldn’t meet your eye.

“Too much, huh?” You echoed, voice steady despite the way your stomach twisted. “And how exactly am I too much?”

He sighed, exasperated. “You’re just… overbearing. You always want to text or call, or stop by the bar. You’re always asking after me with Sam and Wanda. It’s all just a little too much, doll. This was supposed to be a casual thing.” His fingers flexed at his sides, his frustration palpable. “You’re just—”

“So, you’re punishing me because I care?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying, Bucky?” Your voice sharpened, and your patience unravelling. “That I’m clingy? That I’m suffocating you? Is it such a crime that I want to spend time with you—”

“You’re just—fuckin’ everywhere.” His voice rose, and you arched a brow, arms folding over your chest. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I swear to God. Every thought I have, everything I do—you’re there. I dream about you. And sometimes, I swear I smell that goddamn perfume of yours even when you’re not around—”

“Bucky.” You took a step forward, searching his face for something, anything. “Have you ever considered that maybe this is happening because you like me? Not because I’m some overbearing burden in your life—”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his entire body stiff.

“I don’t do relationships.”

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking your head. “So, what then? You’re just gonna cut me off? I got too close, didn’t I? Too close to you—to the real you, the one you hide under all that brooding, tough-guy bullshit—so now you’re pushing me away?”

Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

You exhaled sharply, your patience splintering under the weight of his silence. “You know, Wanda warned me this would happen. Sam too. Hell, just about everyone out there did.” You gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the muffled chaos of the party beyond his bedroom. Laughter and music seeped through the walls. “Your friends, your colleagues. They all warned me. Guess I’m the idiot for thinking it’d be different, huh?”

His gaze flickered. A barely-there flinch. You pressed on.

“They told me you throw people away when they get too attached.” Your voice softened, but not with kindness, with something hollow, something resigned. “Or worse, when you do.”

His breath hitched, so quick and so subtle that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you would’ve missed it. But you saw it: the crack, the hesitation, the battle waging behind those sharp blue eyes.

For a second, it almost looked like he might break. Like he might finally say what he was really thinking.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment was gone. His expression hardened, every ounce of warmth draining from his face.

“I don’t need you.”

And just like that, the last ember of hope inside you burned out.

You swallowed against the ache in your throat, but your voice came steady, unwavering. “Is that the truth?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Or are you just telling yourself that to feel better?”

His eyes darkened, and this time, there was no hesitation.

“Get out.”

—

You weren’t sure why you came back to the Howling Commandos.

You were beginning to suspect that Wanda and Sam were scheming something. She was constantly begging you to visit the bar every night off she had with the promise of free liquor. It had taken a few weeks after Bucky’s birthday meltdown for you to finally budge. Maybe it was the way Wanda had pulled you along, her arm hooked through yours like she could drag you away from the weight of it all. Maybe it was the way she made you laugh, tipping her head back, auburn hair catching in the bar’s dim light, her wicked look as she shrugged off her coat and flung it onto the counter. Maybe it was because you knew he would be here.

And, maybe, just maybe, you wanted that.

Bucky stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tight as he poured a whiskey neat without looking up. He must’ve heard you come in like he always did, but his eyes never once lifted from his work.

You perched upon one of the barstools beside Wanda, the wood sticky beneath your elbows, the orange glow from the bar’s lights catching in the condensation on your glass. A gin and tonic. No words exchanged, no request needed, just Bucky’s hand sliding it across the table without so much as a glance in your direction.

It was almost funny, the way he refused to look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge you beyond the ghost of a touch as his fingers brushed the glass. And yet, he still remembered your drink. Still took the time to slice a bit of lemon for the rim, just the way you liked it. Never mind that he’d once grumbled about how much he hated customers who ordered anything that meant extra cleanup at the end of the night.

“You gonna sulk all night or actually have fun?” Wanda teased, knocking her knee against yours.

You took a slow sip, letting the cool burn of gin settle on your tongue before answering. “I am having fun.”

“Sure you are,” she drawled, not buying it for a second.

But the night wasn’t all bad. You were feeling good, maybe a little too good, laughing at Sam’s exaggerated retelling of a story you’d already heard a dozen times, Wanda snorting into her rum, the buzz settling in like a second skin.

But the uneasy peace did not last long, as chaos had a way of following Bucky Barnes like his own shadow.

Two guys, a little too confident, a little too eager. You felt them before you even turned, whiskey on their breath, a practiced smirk tugging at the lips. The kind of men who smelled like cheap aftershave and overconfidence, sliding into your space with easy grins and empty compliments. One leaned in too close. “Didn’t think someone like you would be drinking alone.”

You arched a brow. “Who says I’m alone?”

He took the bait, smirking. “That right? Where’s your boyfriend, then?”

“Don’t have one.” You replied, tone disinterested.

He grasped your arm, and you yanked it away, nearly elbowing Wanda beside you in the process. “Oh yeah? I could change that for you sweetheart—” 

You didn’t have time to answer before you saw the bar flap shoot up in your peripherals. 

“Hey, man,” Sam warned, barely getting the words out before Bucky was there, a cloud at the edge of your vision, muscles wound tight beneath his shirt. He wasn’t looking at you, not really, but you could feel the storm rolling off him in waves, the tension singing through his frame.

The guy didn’t even have time to react before Bucky shoved him back—hard enough to knock him off balance, sending his drink sloshing onto the floor.

“The fuck?” Whiskey-breath scowled, stumbling forward like he thought he had a chance.

Bucky stepped in, jaw clenched, fist already curled like a promise. His voice was smooth, even. “Out. Now.”

The guy scoffed, straightening. “Oh yeah? What are you, the bouncer?”

“Nah.” Bucky tilted his head. “I fuckin’ own the place.”

Sam was rounding the bar, slipping beneath the bar flap. “One rule, Bucky! We have one rule!”

“No assholes in the bar?” Bucky deadpanned, flexing his fingers.

“No. No punching customers—hey!”

Too late.

The first punch landed with a sickening crack, sharp enough to slice through the low hum of conversation. A brief, stunned silence settled over the bar, glasses paused mid-air, a cue ball rolling to a stop on the felt. Then, a gasp. A sharp inhale. Someone let out a bark of laughter.

The guy staggered back, clutching his jaw, blinking like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened. But instead of learning his lesson, he surged forward, swinging blindly in a desperate attempt to save face.

The impact came from the right. A solid hit, knuckles cutting against Bucky’s brow. His head snapped slightly to the side, strands of dark hair falling loose from where they’d been tucked behind his ears. The second punch followed fast—less precise, more frantic—but it clipped him along the cheekbone, just enough to split the skin.

A thin trail of red welled up, tracking down the sharp line of his face.

Bucky stilled.

A slow, dangerous exhale. Then, before the guy could so much as blink, Bucky struck. A brutal, efficient one-two, fist slamming into ribs, then an upward cut that sent the man sprawling. His friend hesitated, torn between pride and self-preservation, before grabbing a fistful of his collar and dragging him toward the door.

Bucky flexed his fingers, shaking out his hand like he was testing for damage, like he barely felt it. The cut above his brow was bleeding, a slow trickle of crimson trailing towards his temple, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

You took a sip of your drink, eyes flicking lazily towards him, your pulse not even kicking up. Beside you, Wanda didn’t so much as blink; she just swirled the last of her rum and coke, watching the scene unfold like it was a rerun of a show she’d seen too many times before.

Finally, with a knowing smirk, she leaned in, voice low and honey-smooth. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

You swirled your gin and tonic, ice clinking against the glass, lips curling around the rim as you took another sip.

“Maybe.”

—

The back room was cold, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones, seeping through the exposed brick walls. A single bulb hung overhead, casting a dim, yellow glow over the stacked crates of liquor and the metal shelves lined with bottles. You’d been in here many times, though usually under much more pleasurable circumstances. Bucky sat on an overturned crate, elbows on his knees, blood drying along the ridge of his knuckles. His head was tipped slightly forward, shoulders hunched as he rolled one of his split knuckles between his fingers, like he was testing if it still hurt. 

You shut the door behind you.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

You ignored him, stepping past the crates and grabbing the first aid kit off the nearest shelf. “Sit up straight.”

He didn’t move.

So, with a sigh, you pressed a firm hand to his shoulder and shoved him upright. He let it happen, though he shot you an unamused look as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Jesus, you’re pushy.”

You crouched in front of him, flipping open the first aid kit, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air. He watched as you poured alcohol onto a clean cloth, soaking it through before pressing it against the cut above his brow.

Bucky flinched, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab your wrist, to stop you. But he didn’t.

“Hold still,” you murmured, dabbing at the wound.

His lip curled slightly, but he stayed put, letting you clean the blood away. His fists clenched on his thighs, shoulders wound tight like he was waiting for something worse.

“You know,” you said, voice light despite the weight in the air, “I heard from Wanda you’ve been losing it lately.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah?”

“She said you’ve been missing shifts, and when you do turn up, you’re, uh…” You smirked, twisting the cloth to clean the edge of his jaw. “Well, these are her words, not mine—a miserable old cunt. Keep picking fights with customers.” You paused, waiting to see his response. His lips remained sown shut, his gaze cold, and he did not quite meet your eye. With an arch of your brow, you continued.

“Apparently, someone broke into your car, and you’re getting kicked out of your apartment because your landlord wants to sell it to some construction assholes.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I mean, some of that isn’t your fault, but it sounds like karma to me.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed. “Why do you care, doll?”

“I don’t,” you said easily, wringing out the cloth before pressing it against his brow again. “It’s like… watching a car wreck. Kind of captivating in a way.”

He let out a short, humourless laugh. “You’re fucked up.”

“Yeah, maybe I am.” You shrugged, barely glancing at him as you grabbed another clean cloth. “But I think, deep down, maybe I just pity you.”

Bucky’s expression darkened. “Why are you so normal about all of this? Aren’t you the one that’s supposed to be, I don’t know, freaking out? I was the one who dropped you, not the other way around.”

You paused, the cloth still pressed to his skin. You considered his words, then slowly and calmly, you replied. “It’s your own heart that you’re breaking, baby.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know that.”

“I think I do.”

His lips parted like he was about to argue, but instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t know shit about me.”

You sat back on your heels, observing him. The bruises were darkening across his cheekbones, his knuckles still raw, and his body shuddering from the aftermath. But beneath it all—under the cold defiance and the sharp edges—you saw it. The weight of something unspoken, something he wouldn’t admit to himself.

You hummed, tilting your head. “I know a lot.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, wary.

“I know that you take your coffee black, your whiskey neat,” you said, voice soft. “That you always make your bed because it’s a habit from when you served. You prefer to drive stick. You’re a cat person.” 

You held his gaze, watching the way his fingers curled. “I know that you wear two sets of dog tags. That there are ghosts following you that you don’t talk about. I know that you realised you were getting attached to me. That it scared you so badly you dropped me the moment it clicked.”

“I know that you still ask after me,” you finished, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know that deep down, you care about me.”

Silence settled between you. 

Bucky stared at his hands, dried blood caking along the ridges of his knuckles. He was still for a long time, so long you thought maybe he wasn’t going to respond at all. 

“This… this thing between us.” His voice was rough. “It was a fling. Nothing more. A moment in time, not to be repeated.”

You inhaled slowly, disappointment evident, then stood.

With an easy motion, you tossed the bloodied rag onto a nearby crate.

“Keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, stepping back.

Bucky looked up at you, something flickering behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

You just smiled.

“Because I know,” you said simply, turning toward the door, “that in the end, you’ll come crawling back to me.”

“I won’t.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the corners of your lips curling.

“Okay.”

—

The cemetery was quiet, save for the whisper of wind through bare branches and the distant hum of traffic beyond the iron gates. The last bite of winter still clung to the air, spring struggling to take hold, leaving the sky an endless stretch of pale grey.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself as you stepped out of Sam’s car, boots crunching against the gravel path. Wanda climbed out from the passenger side, rubbing her arms against the cold, while Sam exhaled sharply, tilting his head towards the small gathering of headstones up ahead.

“He’s already here,” he murmured.

Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his back to you, his head slightly bowed toward the grave. Even from a distance, there was a tension in the way he held himself—like he was bracing for impact or maybe just trying to keep from unravelling.

You tightened your grip on the flowers in your hand and followed Sam and Wanda towards him.

Bucky didn’t turn when you approached, but you saw his shoulders shift, the slight tensing of his jaw when he realised there was one more person than expected. He still didn’t say anything, though, just kept his eyes on the headstone.

Steve Rogers.

The name was carved deep into the stone, clean and straightforward. No rank, no medals, no accolades. Just a name. A man who had meant something to them.

You hadn’t even known Steve existed until Sam mentioned him offhand a few days ago, his voice softer than usual, the usual humour dimmed. He hadn’t given many details—just that Steve was an old friend, someone he and Bucky had served with, and that the anniversary of his death was coming up. It hadn’t been an invitation, just a passing remark, but something about it stuck with you. Maybe it was the way Sam glanced at Bucky afterwards, concern hidden beneath his easygoing demeanour or the way Wanda’s expression darkened slightly like she’d been expecting it. You didn’t know anything about the man they were mourning, but you knew Bucky, and you knew the kind of grief that sat heavily on a person’s shoulders. Maybe you wanted to pay your respects. Perhaps you just wanted an excuse to get eyes on him, to see how bad the damage was. Either way, when Wanda and Sam left for the cemetery, you were in the car with them.

You stepped forward and crouched down, laying the flowers gently against the grave. The wind tugged at the petals as you stood, moving back beside Wanda, who sent you a glance but didn’t say a word.

Sam was the first to speak. “Damn, Steve. I hope you know we visit you even in the freezing fuckin’ cold.”

A small chuckle rumbled from Bucky’s chest, barely there. “Yeah.”

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, I think about that time in training when Bucky dared you to climb the roof of the barracks, and when you actually did it, Bucky nearly had a heart attack ‘cause you realised he’d have to go up there to get you down.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “Idiot did a victory pose at the top. Almost fell straight off.”

Sam laughed. “Man, I wish we had taken a photo of you, dumbass.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, trading stories, some funny, some quiet and unspoken, shared only through small glances and nods. Wanda stood beside you, hands clasped in front of her, while you listened, letting them have their moment. She hadn’t known Steve either, just fragments of memories and stories Sam had told her over the years.

Eventually, the cold started to settle in deep, and Sam clapped his hands together. “Alright, I don’t know, but I think Steve would be personally offended if we froze our asses off standing here like idiots instead of heading home.”

Wanda nodded, already turning back toward the cars. You followed, but before you could take more than a few steps, Bucky spoke.

“I’ll take her home.”

The words were short, and clipped, but they made Wanda and Sam pause.

Sam lifted a brow, glancing between the two of you, then exchanged a look with Wanda, one of those unspoken conversations between lovers that didn’t need words.

But neither of them argued.

Sam just gave a small, knowing shrug and started toward his car. Wanda followed without a word, though you could’ve sworn the auburn gave you a subtle smirk.

You exhaled softly, then turned towards Bucky’s car.

The drive was quiet.

Outside, the world blurred past, fields and roads stretching under the grey sky. You kept your hands close to the vents, soaking in what little warmth the car offered, your fingers still stiff from the cold. Bucky’s grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles pale. He was wound up, his shoulders rigid, and his jaw locked. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he shifted gears, and every so often, he exhaled sharply like he was biting back something sharp.

Minutes passed, the ghost of unspoken words swirling between you.

Then, suddenly—

“Fuck this.” Bucky muttered the words under his breath, his grip on the wheel tightening before he jerked the car off the highway. The tyres crunched over gravel as he turned onto a narrow backroad leading toward a small, empty picnic area near a river. The place was deserted, picnic tables dusted with half-melted frost. Too cold for anyone to be out.

You sat there, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. The sky outside had darkened, clouds pressing down low on the horizon as the river lazily wound its way through the mist. Bucky’s hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes fixed on the view outside. 

“How did you know about Steve?” The question left his lips quietly, almost like an afterthought, but it was sharp all the same.

“Sam.” You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “I kind of put the pieces together. It’s his dog tags you wear, right?” Your voice came out soft but steady.

Bucky gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah.”

You sighed, glancing out the window for a brief second. The weight in his voice, the way he carried it like an old wound, told you this was something fragile, something that had never quite healed.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I just…” You trailed off, the words dying on your tongue, uncertain, too small for the grief that lingered between you. Your gaze flickered to his, but he wasn’t looking at you.

His voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “Steve... Steve, he wasn’t just my friend. He was my partner.”

Something inside you stilled. The breath you’d been meaning to take got caught in your chest. “You were… together? Dating?”

“Yeah.” His voice wavered, unsteady in a way that made your stomach twist. “We were, uh, in love, I guess.”

The words hit you like a cold gust, Something in your mind clicked into place, pieces of him you hadn’t understood suddenly making sense. You stared at him, taking in the way his brows furrowed, the way the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seemed more pronounced now, like he’d aged in the last few minutes.

“Did Sam know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “A few people did. His family, mine. A few friends.”

“I’m sorry.” You swallowed, trying to push past the lump forming in your throat. The words felt inadequate, almost meaningless. “I know my words don’t mean much or change anything, but I truly am sorry that you lost someone that important to you.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, the leather creaking beneath his hold. His eyes stayed locked on the river, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was somewhere else.

Then, barely above a whisper, “He stood on a landmine.”

Bucky’s voice was rough, worn thin. “He was dead before… before he would have even realised he’d stepped on it. They never really recovered all of his body. He just kinda… turned into mist.”

You felt your stomach drop. A slow, creeping horror curled around your ribs, sinking its claws in deep. “You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“Bucky, that’s horrific, I—”  You felt your words die in your throat. What was there to say? There was no comfort for something like that. No words that could make it hurt less.

Then, slowly, his head turned, an empty, haunted gaze meeting yours. “That coffin out there, it’s empty. We do this every year, but it’s like talking to the wind.”

The words were like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the rawness of it. Slowly, you reached across the console, your fingers brushing against his arm. “He didn’t suffer.”

“No.” Bucky's voice broke for the first time. “No, I suppose I should be thankful for that.” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a rough, almost impatient hand. But he didn’t pull away from your touch. Didn’t move to hide the way his hands shook, fingers still locked in a vice grip around the wheel.

You didn’t comment on it.

You kept your hand on his arm, a steady presence against the tension coiled beneath his skin. There was nothing to say—at least, nothing that would make any of it easier. He had already said enough, and you weren’t going to insult him by pretending there were magic words to fix it. So you simply stayed, grounding him in the quiet, hoping that maybe, just maybe, letting even a sliver of it out might lighten the weight he carried.

The silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable, the kind that settled in the space between two people who understood each other without needing to fill the gaps with empty words. A sharp gust of wind rattled against the window, slipping through unseen cracks and sending a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bucky turned his head, his gaze locking onto yours, raw, searching, like he was looking for something he wasn’t even sure existed. His throat bobbed, lips parting as he exhaled a slow, uneven breath. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked, taken aback. “For what?”

“How I’ve treated you these past few weeks.”

“Baby, you don’t need to apologise—”

“No, I do.” He interrupted tone tinged with frustration. “I… I realised that I cared for you. A lot. And it scared the shit out of me. After Steve, well, I swore I wouldn’t love again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t imagine going through that again. Or worse, if I died and left someone behind like that—”

You shook your head, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not though—” he began, but you interrupted him again, your voice calm, sure.

“I forgive you.”

Bucky went still, his expression unreadable for a moment as he processed your words. His jaw clenched, his eyes flicking between you and the river, as if weighing something in his mind.

A long, charged silence settled in. Then, just as you thought the moment would pass, he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” You smiled softly. “Listen. I didn’t know Steve, and I never will but… if he cared for you. If he loved you, he’d want you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you to shut yourself away from love, from feeling.”

“Honestly…” Bucky paused, sucking on his teeth. “Honestly, you’re probably right, doll.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, staring ahead like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“I still don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Loving someone. Letting someone love me.”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “Good thing I’m patient.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that much is obvious.” Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then, almost too softly to hear, “I want to try.”

You reached over, lacing your fingers through his. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

His grip tightened, just for a second like he was anchoring himself to you. And then, as if realising how ridiculous he sounded, he let out a low laugh, disbelief lacing his tone. “You’re too good for me, doll.”

“Hmm, maybe.” You giggled, leaning towards him, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a brief moment, letting the warmth between you settle. “I think I’ll stick around, though.”

“Yeah?” His voice held a tinge of uncertainty like he was testing the waters. His arm shifted, moving from the wheel to pull you closer to his side. “I haven’t scared you off?”

You tilted your head to look up at him, grinning. “I think you’d have to try a little harder to do that.”

He held you closer, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “So…” He paused, his breath hitching as if the words were caught in his throat. “Would you stick around… as my girlfriend?”

You jolted up, eyes widening in surprise. “Did the Bucky Barnes just ask me—”

“Shush, you.” He chuckled, cutting you off, his finger moving to gently press against your lips.

You smiled, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek, and he tugged you in closer, his grip firm but not demanding. His lips found yours, slow at first, testing—like he was still convincing himself this was okay, that he could have this. But as you melted into him, your fingers curling against the fabric of his jacket, something shifted. His hand slid up your back, anchoring you against him, his lips warm, sure, moving against yours with a quiet intensity.

You sighed into him, your breath mingling with his, the space between you disappearing until there was nothing but the press of his body, the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin. His fingers skimmed the nape of your neck, tilting your head slightly, and he kissed you again, slower this time, savouring it like he wanted to memorise the way you felt against him.

The world outside blurred, the hum of the car engine distant, unimportant. There was only this, only him, his warmth, the quiet, desperate way he held you like he was afraid to let go.

When you pulled away, Bucky let out a sharp sigh as if something inside him had finally relaxed. “Thank god, it would be kind of awkward if you didn’t—”

You silenced him with another kiss, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

A spark reignited. 

[amethystarachnid]

hi!! natasha romanoff x fem!reader 13 trope pls? thank you!💗

SWAPPED

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: during a mission you and Natasha get body swapped by an artifact so, until Bruce and Tony find a way to get you back in your own body, you two are blocked. The already disastrous situation only worsens if you think that you are inside the body of the woman you have a crush on

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): some innuendos and tony's jokes

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The rhythmic hum of the Quinjet fills the space between you and Natasha. It’s one of those comfortable silences, the kind that only comes from spending years side by side in life-or-death situations. You sit across from her, legs slightly spread, fingers playing with the frayed edges of your gloves. She's leaned back, arms crossed, her head tilted against the wall, the soft overhead light catching the reddish strands of her hair.

You shouldn’t be staring. But you are.

Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against her pale skin, and for a moment you let yourself have this—watching her like this, peaceful, completely unaware of the way your heart hammers against your ribs just from being near her. You tell yourself it’s harmless. She doesn’t know. She’ll never know.

It’s been like this for a while now. Years, actually. You’re friends—good friends—and that’s all it’s supposed to be. That’s what you keep telling yourself. But there are nights, in the quiet of your own room, when you replay moments between you two, when the air feels heavier, charged, and wonder if maybe she ever thought about you the way you think about her.

But then you remember every sly smirk she’s thrown at a cute waiter, every flirtatious comment she’s batted toward some attractive guy during missions, and you push it all back down. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t like women, and she definitely doesn’t like you. At least, not like that.

“Earth to Y/N,” Natasha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and your heart stutters painfully.

You blink, realizing too late that her eyes are open now, green and sharp, staring right at you. Caught.

“Zoned out there for a second,” you say, forcing a small smile, hoping your face isn’t betraying you.

Natasha quirks a brow, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Thinking about the mission?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”

She hums, clearly not buying it but letting you off the hook. “You’re cute when you lie.”

The words hit you square in the chest, even though you know they’re nothing more than a tease. She always does this—throws out little comments that make your head spin, but never with any real weight behind them. Still, your stomach flutters embarrassingly.

You scoff, trying to play it cool. “You’d know. You’re the queen of lies.”

She grins, sharp and amused. “Touché.”

The comms crackle, and you’re grateful for the distraction. “Approaching the target,” comes Sam’s voice through the speakers. “We’re two minutes out.”

You pull yourself together, focusing on the mission. It’s supposed to be simple: in and out, retrieve some weird artifact that SHIELD flagged as dangerous. But nothing ever really goes according to plan.

The Quinjet dips lower, and you and Natasha both rise, moving in sync like you always do. Her presence is grounding, even when your heart is a mess. She gives you a look, the one that says we’ve got this, and you nod.

The building is dark, abandoned, with only the occasional flicker of a broken light illuminating the dust-filled air. You and Natasha slip through the corridors with ease, your footsteps nearly silent. It’s like this every time—the two of you moving together like a well-rehearsed dance. But still, you feel the tension in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it’s the mission. Maybe it’s just her.

You find the artifact in a room that looks more like an ancient temple than part of a crumbling office building. It sits on a pedestal, glowing faintly—a sphere of dark glass with strange runes etched along its surface.

“Looks easy enough,” you whisper, inching closer.

“Famous last words,” Natasha murmurs beside you.

You shoot her a look. “You jinxed it.”

She smirks, but there’s caution in her eyes now. “Let me take a look first.”

You step aside as she approaches the pedestal, fingers hovering over the orb but not touching it. There’s a beat of silence, and then—because of course—something shifts in the air. A pulse radiates out from the sphere, like a ripple through water, and you barely have time to react before it hits both of you.

You feel it deep in your chest, like your whole body is being stretched and compressed all at once. There’s a sharp, blinding light, and your vision blacks out.

When you come to, everything feels... off.

You’re lying on the cold floor, but your body feels strange—heavier in places, lighter in others. There’s a weird disconnect, like your brain isn’t entirely synced with your limbs. You groan, pushing yourself up, but even your voice sounds different.

And then you see yourself.

Or rather, your body. Across the room, sitting up just like you, wearing that same expression of confusion and dawning horror.

“Y/N?” Natasha’s voice comes out of your mouth. Her eyes—your eyes—are wide.

You look down at yourself—except it’s not yourself. It’s Natasha’s body. Her black tactical suit, her gloves, her—

“Oh my god,” you breathe, hands flying to your chest where, yes, you can feel everything that makes Natasha Natasha. “This can’t be happening.”

Natasha scrambles to her feet—well, your feet. “We swapped,” she says flatly, already more composed than you feel.

“No shit,” you snap, but your voice—her voice—makes it sound more seductive than pissed.

There’s a beat of silence before Natasha quirks an eyebrow, still in your body. “I sound hot.”

You glare at her, but it’s hard to focus when your body is standing there, hands on hips, looking at you with your face. It’s beyond weird. And then there’s the fact that you’re inside Natasha’s body right now, every inch of it hyper-aware.

You try not to think about it. About how many times you’ve imagined touching her, being close to her, and now—now you are her.

“This is bad,” you mutter.

Natasha crosses her arms—your arms. “Could be worse.”

You blink at her. “How?”

She smirks. “At least I don’t have to do my own makeup tomorrow.”

Despite yourself, you snort, but the sound that comes out is so soft and melodic that it makes you self-conscious all over again.

“Okay,” you say, trying to focus. “We need to fix this. Get back to the Quinjet, call for backup—something.”

But as you move, you realize that walking in her body feels different—more balanced, stronger. Your limbs respond, but there’s an elegance to it that you never noticed before, at least not from the inside. You can’t help but glance down, and immediately regret it.

Natasha catches you staring.

“Enjoying the view?” she teases, a wicked glint in your—her—eyes.

You flush, but it’s hidden behind her perfect features. “Shut up.”

“Hey, if I were you—” she gestures to herself, “—I’d take advantage of the situation.”

You want to die.

But the thing is, she has no idea. No idea that inside your head, the thoughts are spiraling. Being in her body is like standing too close to the sun—intense, blinding, dangerous. Your brain is a mess of don’t think about it and holy shit, I’m her right now.

“Let’s just get out of here,” you say, voice tight.

You make your way back through the building, trying your best to focus on walking normally, not gawking at the way her body moves, how natural it feels, how strong. But you can’t help the intrusive thoughts—the ones that creep in despite your best efforts.

I wonder what it feels like to fight like her. To stretch, to—

You shake your head, forcing your mind away from the edge.

Natasha, meanwhile, seems to be having a great time. She whistles at one point, and you glare at her.

“Really?”

“What? I’ve never had your legs before. They’re nice.”

You want to scream. Or melt into the floor.

When you finally get back to the Quinjet, you both sit down hard, exhausted and overwhelmed. The artifact is in a containment box now, but there’s no telling how to reverse whatever the hell it did.

“We’ll figure it out,” Natasha says, running a hand through your hair.

You nod, but your mind is still racing. This body swap—being in her skin—it’s like every buried feeling you’ve ever had is now screaming at you. And the worst part is, you’re terrified that you’ll slip. That you’ll say something, or do something, that gives it all away.

Because if there’s one thing you know, it’s that you can’t let Natasha find out how you really feel.

But sitting here, in her body, with her teasing you like it’s all just a game—it’s going to be harder than you ever thought.

The Quinjet touches down at the compound just as the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the tarmac. You’re gripping the edge of the seat so hard that your knuckles—Natasha’s knuckles—turn white. Beside you, Natasha flexes your hands, examining them with curiosity, like she’s still amused by the whole body swap disaster.

“This is so weird,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your posture. Every tiny movement feels strange, foreign. The suit that usually fits Natasha like a second skin now molds to you, and the weight of her body, the strength in her muscles, is something you’re still not used to. Every step feels like you’re walking in a too-real dream.

Natasha glances at you with your face and shrugs. “I think I’m handling it pretty well.”

You shoot her a glare but it doesn’t have the same impact when it’s coming from her eyes.

Sam’s waiting at the hangar, leaning against a crate, his arms crossed, but the moment he spots the two of you descending the ramp, he frowns. “Everything go okay? You guys look… off.”

You try to open your mouth to explain, but Natasha beats you to it, stepping forward in your body with her usual swagger. “Define okay,” she says, your voice sounding way too confident.

Sam blinks, glancing between the two of you. “Wait—what?”

“Yeah,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “We, uh, swapped.”

“Swapped,” Sam repeats slowly, like he’s trying to process whether you’re joking.

Natasha gives him a grin. Your grin. “Body swapped.”

Sam’s jaw drops open, and then he bursts out laughing, his voice echoing through the hangar. “No. No way.”

You groan. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Sam counters, wiping a tear from his eye. “I mean, look at you two.”

“Can we just get inside?” you snap, not really in the mood for jokes—not when you’re wearing Natasha’s body like some awkward cosplay.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam waves you through, still chuckling. “This is gonna be good.”

The three of you head into the compound, and you can already feel the tension building in your chest—or, well, Natasha’s chest—as you try to figure out how the hell you’re going to explain this to the rest of the team.

Of course, you don’t have to wait long.

The moment you step into the common area, Tony Stark is there, lounging on the couch with a drink in hand. Bruce is at the table, reading through something on his tablet, but both of them glance up as you and Natasha enter.

“Hey, Red, Y/N,” Tony greets, lifting his glass. “You’re back early. What’d you do, set off a self-destruct sequence to save time?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples, which feels even weirder when it’s not your head. “Tony—”

Natasha cuts in, crossing your arms over her chest. “We had a bit of an incident.”

Tony narrows his eyes, noticing the odd dynamic, the way you’re both standing, the uncomfortable distance between you. “What kind of incident?”

“Body swap,” you blurt out.

Tony stares. “Body swap? Like Freaky Friday body swap?”

You nod grimly.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Tony starts laughing so hard he nearly spills his drink. “This is perfect. Oh my god, I wish I had cameras on that mission.”

Bruce lowers his tablet, blinking in mild confusion but already looking concerned. “Wait, seriously? You two swapped bodies?”

You and Natasha both nod.

Tony, still cackling, leans back further on the couch. “This is like the greatest sitcom episode I never knew I needed. Please tell me you at least tried to do each other’s voices.”

Natasha, still in your body, smirks. “I think I nailed hers. Don’t you think?” she asks, and it’s unsettling hearing your voice laced with her sarcastic edge.

Tony snaps his fingers. “Spot on. Ten out of ten.”

“Can you just help us?” you interject, crossing Natasha’s arms tightly, feeling the tension coil in your muscles. Her muscles. “This isn’t exactly fun for me.”

Tony waves his hand dismissively, though there’s still a grin on his face. “Fine, fine. We’ll fix you. Right, Brucie?”

Bruce sighs, already getting up and walking towards his lab. “I’ll start running some tests. Come on.”

You and Natasha follow him through the compound, Tony trailing behind, still muttering about the comedy gold of this entire situation.

In the lab, Bruce starts scanning you both, asking all kinds of questions about the artifact, while Tony pokes at the readings, throwing out occasional jokes that you’re trying really hard to ignore.

“So, Y/N,” Tony says, tapping on a screen, “how does it feel to be the Black Widow for a day? Got that spy mojo flowing yet? Maybe try one of her signature flips?”

You shoot him a glare. “Not the time, Tony.”

He holds up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, I’m just saying—if I were you, I’d make the most of it. Stretch a little. Test out the flexibility.”

Natasha snorts, still in your body, clearly enjoying this more than she should.

Bruce, thankfully, clears his throat, cutting through the banter. “This isn’t going to be an easy fix,” he says, his brows furrowing as he studies the readings. “Whatever that artifact was, it didn’t just swap your consciousness—it rewrote certain biological signals. I’m going to need time to figure out how to reverse it.”

You feel your stomach sink—or Natasha’s stomach, whatever. “How long are we talking?”

Bruce hesitates. “Could be a day. Could be a week.”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “Great.”

Tony claps his hands together. “Well, in the meantime, you two get to live each other’s lives. This is going to be so entertaining.”

Natasha crosses your arms and smirks. “I think I’ll enjoy this.”

You glare at her. “Glad one of us will.”

After Bruce gives you both a few more instructions, you and Natasha head out of the lab, the weight of the situation sinking in. It hits you harder when you realize you can’t just sit around in her body without taking care of… basic things.

“So,” Natasha says casually, as you both walk towards the living quarters, “I guess we should talk about the elephant in the room.”

You glance at her. “Which one? The fact that I’m stuck in your body or the fact that Tony thinks this is hilarious?”

“No,” she says, stopping in front of her room—your room, for now. “The fact that we’re going to have to deal with… hygiene.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Hygiene?”

She gives you a pointed look. “We’re going to have to shower at some point.”

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Showering. In her body.

You can already feel the heat rising to your face, and you scramble to find words. “I—I can just, you know… avoid looking.”

Natasha chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. “Good luck with that.”

You glare at her, trying to seem unbothered, but your heart is racing. “You’re way too chill about this.”

She shrugs, still wearing your body with an ease that’s almost infuriating. “I’ve been through worse.”

You groan, running your hand through her red hair. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Or an adventure,” she says, smirking.

You try to ignore the way that makes your stomach flutter.

Hours pass, and after a painfully awkward attempt at dinner—where Tony made more jokes about the swap and Sam nearly choked laughing—you find yourself back in Natasha’s room. It’s neat, sparse, just like you expected. Her gear is lined up meticulously, and there’s a faint trace of her perfume in the air.

You’re standing in front of her mirror, still wearing her tactical suit, trying to muster the courage to actually take it off. You need to wash up. You can’t exactly avoid it forever. But the idea of seeing… everything… it’s almost too much.

“This is fine,” you mutter to yourself, tugging at the zipper.

The suit peels away, and you force yourself to keep your eyes on the wall, on the ceiling—anywhere but the mirror. But your curiosity gets the better of you, and you glance.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen Natasha in her suit a million times, in training, on missions, but seeing her body like this—knowing it’s you in there—it makes something twist painfully in your chest. You try to ignore the intrusive thoughts, the ones that creep in despite your best efforts.

Don’t look. Don’t think about it.

But you can’t help it.

You take the quickest shower of your life, eyes squeezed shut most of the time, and when you’re finally done, you throw on a set of Natasha’s pajamas, which are soft and simple but still somehow make you feel like an imposter.

You flop down on her bed, groaning into the pillow. “This is hell.”

A knock sounds at the door.

You sit up quickly. “Yeah?”

Natasha steps in—in your body—wearing one of your old T-shirts and sweatpants, looking way too comfortable. She grins. “So. How was the shower?”

You scowl. “Don’t.”

She raises her hands. “Hey, just checking.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She shrugs, then flops onto the bed next to you, stretching out her arms—your arms—and sighs. “It could be worse.”

You turn your head to look at her, feeling the heaviness in your chest again. “Yeah? How?”

She grins. “We could’ve swapped with Tony.”

You both burst out laughing, the tension breaking, at least for a moment. But as the laughter dies down, you realize that being stuck like this, stuck with her, is going to be harder than you thought. Because every second in her body, every teasing joke, every lingering glance—it’s pushing you closer to a line you’ve been avoiding for years.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending.

You lie there on Natasha’s bed, still in her body, staring up at the ceiling while Natasha lounges beside you in your body like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s got your legs crossed at the ankles, one arm draped over her stomach, and she looks almost too comfortable. You wonder if it’s that easy for her, adapting to being someone else.

But it’s not.

What you don’t realize is that behind her smirks and sarcastic comments, she’s struggling just as much as you are—maybe even more.

She glances over at you, watching herself—well, you—stare at the ceiling, your jaw tight, eyes heavy with everything you’re trying not to say. From where she’s lying, seeing her own face from the outside, it’s strange. Surreal. But what throws her off the most isn’t the swap—it’s you.

You’ve always been the reason she’s held back.

Natasha has spent years convincing herself that it’s fine—more than fine—that the friendship you two share is enough. She never let it go further, never allowed herself to say anything, because she was sure you didn’t feel the same. Every time you talked about past relationships—guys—it reinforced the wall she built around her feelings. You’d talk about dates that didn’t work out, about exes who weren’t worth the time, and even when you were clearly frustrated with how they treated you, you never mentioned anything about girls. Never once hinted.

So she buried it.

She became your closest friend, your mission partner, the person you trusted when things went to hell. She told herself that was enough. That it had to be.

But being in your body now? It’s like standing too close to a window she was never supposed to look through. She feels everything—your heartbeat, the way your chest rises and falls with every breath, the way your hands fidget when you’re anxious. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

And it’s killing her.

You shift beside her, still oblivious to what’s running through her head, and groan into the pillow. “This is the worst.”

Natasha props herself up on her elbow—your elbow—and studies you. “It’s not that bad,” she teases, though her chest feels tight.

You turn your head to look at her, your—her—red hair spilling across the pillow. “You’re handling this way too well. I’m over here having an identity crisis, and you’re… what? Just chilling?”

She forces a smirk. “I’m adaptable.”

But inside, she’s far from chill.

Being in your body, it’s different from anything she’s experienced. She thought it’d be awkward, and yeah, it is, but there’s more to it. She can feel your strength in the way your muscles shift under the surface, the subtle scars from past missions that she traces absentmindedly while sitting in front of the mirror. She knows every inch of you now—every part of you that she never thought she’d be allowed to see.

And it terrifies her.

She didn’t expect this—didn’t expect that being you, even temporarily, would make her feelings harder to ignore.

Earlier, after you both left Bruce and Tony’s lab, she’d gone straight to your room. It felt weird, standing there in the doorway, in your skin, staring at your bed, your shelves, the mess of clothes in the corner. It was so you. She’d hesitated before going in, feeling like she was intruding on something personal.

But curiosity got the better of her.

She walked around the room, running her—your—fingers over your books, photos, little trinkets you’d collected. Things she recognized, things she didn’t. She sat on your bed for a moment, bouncing lightly on the mattress, wondering if you ever thought about her here, in this space, when no one was around.

The thought made her stomach twist.

And then came the harder part—the shower.

It wasn’t until she stood in front of your bathroom mirror, the water running in the background, that she realized how complicated this was. She pulled your shirt over your head, carefully, like if she rushed it would be wrong. She avoided looking too closely at first, focusing on the tiles behind her, but her eyes eventually drifted to her reflection—your reflection.

It was strange, but also… beautiful.

She knew you were gorgeous—she wasn’t blind—but seeing you this way, with nothing to hide behind, made her heart race. It wasn’t about attraction in a superficial way. It was deeper than that. It was seeing the person she cared about, vulnerable, open, even if you didn’t know it.

She felt like she was breaking some unspoken rule.

The shower itself was quick. She kept her eyes closed most of the time, focusing on the mechanics, but even that was a challenge. Feeling your body move, the way your hands—her hands—ran through your hair, it was too much. Every second in there felt like she was toeing a dangerous line.

And now, lying next to you on her bed, still in your body, it’s all she can think about.

You sigh beside her, breaking the silence. “Do you think Bruce will actually fix this?”

She shrugs. “Eventually.”

You roll onto your side to face her, propping yourself up on one elbow. It’s a surreal sight—her own face looking at her like that, soft and tired. “This is so weird,” you say. “Like… I’m talking to myself, but I’m not.”

She smiles, but there’s a tightness to it that you don’t notice.

“You’re really good at this,” you add. “The whole… hiding how weirded out you are.”

She hesitates, then says, “I’m used to pretending.”

The words come out softer than she intended, and for a second, something shifts in your expression, like you’re about to ask her what she means. But then you stop yourself, and the moment passes.

Another beat of silence stretches between you, heavy and thick.

You break it with a nervous laugh. “God, I can’t believe we’re in this mess.”

Natasha chuckles, though her mind is racing. She wants to say something—anything—to bridge the gap that’s been growing between what she feels and what she shows. But she can’t. Not when she’s convinced that if she does, she’ll lose you.

So she stays quiet, even though every part of her is screaming.

But then you say something that catches her off guard.

“You know,” you start, your voice hesitant, “when we first swapped, I was… kinda panicking. I thought you’d be pissed. I didn’t think you’d take it so well.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Why would I be pissed?”

You shrug, looking at the bedspread. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought… I don’t know. That you’d hate being stuck in my body.”

There’s something vulnerable in your voice that tugs at her chest.

She sits up slightly, looking at you more seriously. “Why would I hate it?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because… I’m not you. I’m not the Black Widow. I don’t have your skills, your… confidence.”

Her heart aches. She never realized you felt that way.

“Y/N,” she says gently, “you’re one of the strongest people I know.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious.” She shifts so she’s fully facing you, her legs crossed beneath her. “You think I don’t notice how much you do? How hard you train, how much you care about everyone on this team?”

You look at her—at yourself—with wide eyes, surprised by the intensity in her voice.

“I’m not in your body right now just wearing it like a suit,” she continues. “I feel it. I feel your strength. Your resilience. It’s all there.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the tension between you almost palpable.

Then you smile, shy but genuine. “Thanks, Nat.”

She swallows hard, her throat tight. “Anytime.”

You lie back down, staring up at the ceiling again, but Natasha remains sitting, watching you. She wants to say it—the thing that’s been burning in her chest for years. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she whispers, almost too softly for you to hear, “You have no idea.”

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because while you lie there, in her body, wondering if this swap is going to break you, Natasha sits in yours, wondering if it’s the only chance she’ll ever get to be this close to you.

The next few days in each other’s bodies are, unsurprisingly, absolute chaos. The compound, usually buzzing with energy and the hum of advanced technology, now feels like a stage for the most awkward reality show ever made, starring you and Natasha as the unwilling leads.

Tony, of course, is having the time of his life.

“Alright, Y/N—” he grins one morning, leaning against the kitchen counter with a coffee in hand, “—or should I say, Natasha? How’s the super-spy life treating you? Mastered the seductive stare yet?”

You narrow Natasha’s green eyes at him, but the effect is ruined when you accidentally bump the edge of the counter with her hip. Natasha’s body is a powerhouse—every movement feels amplified, and you’re still adjusting to the strength in her limbs.

Tony smirks. “Careful, Widow. You’ll dent my kitchen before you dent my heart.”

“Tony,” you say through gritted teeth, crossing Natasha’s arms over her chest. “This is already hard enough without your commentary.”

“Hard enough?” He raises an eyebrow. “Was that an innuendo? Damn, Y/N, didn’t know you had it in you.”

You groan and glance at Natasha—who’s leaning casually against the fridge in your body, sipping coffee like none of this bothers her. She catches your look and raises your eyebrow in amusement.

“Tell him to shut up,” you mutter.

Natasha takes another sip of coffee, licking your lips—her lips?—before responding. “Why? He’s right. You’re terrible at hiding your thoughts. I can practically feel the awkwardness radiating off you.”

Tony cackles. “Oh, this is golden.”

Bruce walks into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He freezes when he sees the three of you—Tony grinning like a maniac, Natasha lounging in your body, and you trying not to break the counter with Natasha’s super strength.

“Are we still like this?” he sighs, pouring himself coffee.

“Yup,” you and Natasha answer in unison.

“I’m working on it,” Bruce mumbles, taking his mug and retreating to the lab before Tony can rope him into more banter.

But of course, Tony isn’t done.

He spends most of the day following you and Natasha around, making jokes and taking mental notes for what he calls his “future blockbuster screenplay” about two spies who swap bodies and fall in love.

“You know,” he says at lunch, spinning a fork between his fingers, “this situation would make a killer rom-com. Two partners, forced into each other’s bodies, learning deep secrets—maybe even… forbidden feelings?”

You almost choke on your food. Natasha, meanwhile, chews calmly, though you notice the slight twitch at the corner of your mouth—her tell when something gets to her.

“I’m serious,” Tony continues, pointing between you two. “You know you’re gonna come out of this with some kind of emotional breakthrough. It’s, like, body-swap 101.”

“Tony,” Natasha says dryly—your voice coming out smooth and unimpressed, “you’ve been watching too many movies.”

“And yet, I’m still right,” he replies, grinning.

You glare at him. “Just let Bruce fix this already.”

But Bruce is struggling. Despite his genius, the body swap isn’t something easily reversed. Every time he calls you into the lab for scans or bloodwork, he looks more stressed, muttering about neurological pathways and “molecular consciousness displacement” like the world’s worst bedtime story.

“We’re talking about reprogramming the body’s natural biological signals,” he explains one afternoon, running a scanner over Natasha’s body—you in Natasha’s body—again. “It’s not just swapping your consciousness. Your physical forms are literally rejecting each other.”

“Cool,” Tony says, lounging on a lab stool, “so we’re one step away from Y/N growing red hair and Nat turning into a Starbucks-loving civilian?”

Bruce gives him a withering look.

You shift uncomfortably on the exam table. “How long, Bruce? Seriously.”

He sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe a few more days? Maybe a week? I don’t want to rush this and make it worse.”

The idea of being stuck in Natasha’s body that long sends your thoughts spiraling. Not because you hate it—but because you’re terrified of slipping up. Of showing too much. You already catch yourself staring at Natasha—your own body—when she’s not looking. She wears your skin like it’s nothing, moving through the compound with her usual confidence. And it drives you insane.

But the worst part? She seems completely unaffected. Like this is just another mission to get through.

Except… it’s not.

What you don’t see is how hard Natasha’s working to hide her own cracks.

Being in your body isn’t as simple as she makes it look. The first few days, she plays it cool—leaning into the teasing, pretending she’s fine—but inside, it’s chaos. She feels everything—your racing heartbeat when she stands too close, the way your stomach flips when Tony makes an offhand comment about the two of you being too comfortable.

The worst part is your scent.

She didn’t expect it to affect her, but it does. Being in your body means being surrounded by your warmth, your softness, the little details she’s tried to ignore for years. When she lies in your bed at night, staring at the ceiling, she wonders if this is what it would feel like—if things were different.

If you wanted her.

But she doesn’t let it show.

Instead, she focuses on small things—testing your strength at the gym, running drills with Sam, even sneaking in sparring sessions with Clint. It’s weird using your body in combat—your movements are less refined than hers, but there’s a power in you she’s always noticed.

“You hit harder than you think,” Clint comments one afternoon after she knocks him to the mat in the gym.

“Thanks,” she says, wiping sweat from your brow, though it feels strange to take credit for your strength.

“You’re adjusting fast.”

She shrugs, grabbing a towel. “I adapt.”

Clint watches her for a beat, then smirks. “You know, Y/N’s been asking about extra combat training for weeks now. Maybe when this is all over, you should be the one to help her out.”

The idea makes something twist in her chest.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “maybe.”

But adapting gets harder at night.

The quiet moments, when she’s alone in your room, lying in your bed, wearing your oversized T-shirts—those are the ones that crack her armor. She’ll catch herself staring at the ceiling, running your hands over your arms, wondering how you’d react if you knew. If you felt what she was feeling now.

And there are moments—small ones—when she thinks maybe you do know.

Like when you catch her reflection in a window, watching you when you think no one’s looking. Or when your gaze lingers too long on her—your own body—during training.

It builds, slowly, over the days.

The tension. The unspoken.

And Tony doesn’t help.

One evening, after another failed attempt at reversing the swap, he corners you both in the kitchen with two glasses of wine.

“Alright,” he says, sliding the glasses across the counter. “We’re officially past the ‘this is hilarious’ stage. Now we’re in the ‘let’s get deep and vulnerable’ stage.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tony—”

“Nope,” he cuts you off, raising a finger. “You’ve both been weirdly quiet about this, and I know—” he points between you—“that there’s more going on than just a body swap.”

Natasha, in your body, leans against the counter and sips her wine. “Like what?”

He grins. “Like, say, hidden feelings? Deep-seated emotional repression? Classic spy stuff.”

You almost spit out your drink. “Tony!”

He laughs. “I’m serious! You two have been dancing around each other for years. Now you’re literally in each other’s skin, and you’re telling me there’s nothing happening? Come on.”

You glare at him. “You’re reading into this way too much.”

But Natasha stays quiet.

Tony notices and smirks. “Or maybe I’m right.”

She finally speaks, her voice low. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But even you can hear the edge in her tone.

Tony backs off—barely—but his words linger.

That night, after everyone’s gone to bed, you find yourself wandering to the balcony, staring out at the stars. It’s quiet, peaceful, and for once, your thoughts settle.

Until you hear footsteps behind you.

Natasha.

In your body, wearing one of your hoodies, her hands stuffed into the pockets. She stands next to you, leaning on the railing.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words.

“Y/N,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, “do you ever wonder… if things could be different?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Different how?”

She hesitates, then sighs. “If we weren’t always on missions. If we didn’t have to… hide things.”

The question makes your heart race. Because yes. You’ve wondered. More times than you can count.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

The words hang between you, fragile and heavy.

And for the first time since the swap, you see it—the crack in her armor. The way she looks at you, like she’s been holding something back for years.

“Y/N,” she says again, her voice barely audible, “if we never get this fixed… I need you to know—”

But before she can finish, there’s a loud bang from the lab, followed by Bruce shouting, “I think I found something!”

You both jump, the tension snapping instantly.

But even as you rush toward the lab, Natasha’s unfinished words echo in your mind.

I need you to know…

And suddenly, the thought of going back to normal doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

The lab is a mess of wires, glowing monitors, and a haze of smoke from whatever Bruce just accidentally exploded. You and Natasha rush inside—her still in your body, you in hers—hearts pounding, the echo of her almost-confession still lingering between you.

Tony’s leaning against the wall, grinning like the proud inventor he is. Bruce, flustered but hopeful, gestures wildly at a console that’s beeping erratically.

“I did it,” Bruce says breathlessly. “I think I actually did it.”

“You’re sure?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, even as your hands—Natasha’s hands—tremble slightly.

Bruce adjusts his glasses. “Ninety-five percent sure. That’s pretty good, right?”

Tony claps him on the back. “Close enough. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You swap with a dog? Or each other’s subconscious fears? That would be fun.”

You glare at him, but Natasha—still in your body—smirks. “If we end up in Tony’s body, I’m quitting.”

Tony gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Romanoff. Truly.”

But you barely register the banter. Your mind is spinning with the weight of what Natasha almost said out on the balcony. The thought that she was going to confess something—and that you might never have known if Bruce hadn’t found a solution—sits heavy in your chest.

“Alright,” Bruce says, flipping a few switches. “This should reverse the swap. You’ll stand here—” he points to two glowing platforms, side by side, “—and when I activate the sequence, it’ll realign your consciousness with your original body.”

You glance at Natasha. She’s watching you, expression unreadable in your face, which makes it even harder to guess what she’s thinking.

You swallow hard. “Ready?”

She holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

You step onto the platforms, heart racing. There’s a low hum as the machine powers up, energy swirling around you both.

Tony’s voice cuts through the noise. “Alright, lovebirds. If you swap brains with a toaster or something, I call dibs on the patent.”

You roll your—Natasha’s—eyes, but then everything blurs.

There’s a blinding flash, like lightning in your veins, and suddenly, everything feels… right.

You stumble forward, catching yourself with your own hands. Your own hands.

You blink, the world spinning for a second, then look up to see Natasha standing across from you—in her own body—rubbing her temples.

“Nat?” you ask, your voice—your real voice—cracking slightly.

She lifts her head, and when her green eyes meet yours, there’s a beat of silence that stretches and expands, until the buzzing in your ears fades completely.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’m me again.”

The sheer relief makes you laugh, breathless and shaky, and Natasha’s lips twitch upward.

“We did it!” Bruce exclaims, but his voice is distant, muffled against the roaring in your head.

Because all you can focus on is Natasha.

Tony is still yammering, probably making jokes about you two now being able to “safely kiss without existential dread,” but his words blur as the lab becomes a peripheral hum.

Natasha steps closer.

The tension is palpable—electric.

She hesitates, then grabs your wrist gently, fingers curling around your skin like she’s grounding herself.

“Y/N,” she starts, her voice low, almost trembling. “We need to talk.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah. Okay.”

Without waiting, she pulls you out of the lab, past Bruce’s triumphant cheers and Tony’s relentless teasing. Neither of you say anything as you navigate through the compound, weaving past empty hallways until you find yourself standing outside your room.

She pauses at your door, biting her lip. “Can we—?”

You nod, opening it.

The room is exactly as you left it, but it feels different now—charged with an energy you can’t ignore.

Natasha walks in first, stopping in the middle of the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her usual calm is gone—replaced by something raw, vulnerable.

You close the door behind you, heart pounding. “Natasha, what—”

She cuts you off. “I found your diary.”

The words hit you like a freight train.

Your face heats up instantly. “What?”

She swallows, her hands flexing at her sides. “When I was in your body. In your room. I—I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear. But I couldn’t sleep, and I was looking around, and I saw it on your nightstand.”

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Y/N,” she says quickly, stepping closer, “I didn’t mean to read it. But when I opened it… I saw what you wrote. About me.”

Your heart is now definitely trying to claw its way out of your chest.

“I—” You struggle to form words. “Natasha, I—”

She takes your hands, pulling them away from your face so you’re forced to meet her eyes. They’re soft, filled with something you can’t quite name—hope, fear, longing.

“You like me,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

You nod, defeated. “Yeah. I do.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, but instead of tension, there’s relief.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” you rush on, “because I thought—you know—I thought you only liked guys. And I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

Natasha lets out a shaky breath, then laughs—soft, incredulous. “You’re an idiot.”

You blink. “What?”

She smiles now, full and real. “I like you, too. I have for a long time.”

You stare at her, stunned. “You do?”

She nods, her hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t say anything because I thought you weren’t into girls. You’ve only ever talked about guys, and I didn’t want to cross a line.”

Your head is spinning. “So all this time…?”

“All this time,” she confirms.

There’s a beat of silence, then you both laugh—nervous, breathless, but filled with something else now.

Natasha’s eyes darken slightly as she steps even closer, her hand now cupping your cheek. “I didn’t want to tell you while I was still in your body,” she admits. “It didn’t feel right. I wanted this—” she leans in, her breath ghosting over your lips, “—to happen with us. The real us.”

Your breath catches. “So… what happens now?”

Her lips curl into a smirk. “I think this.”

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft at first—tentative, as if both of you are testing the waters. But then you melt into it, your hands tangling in her hair, her fingers digging into your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, and everything else—the awkwardness, the fear, the weeks of body-swapped chaos—fades away.

When you finally pull apart, breathless and grinning like idiots, Natasha leans her forehead against yours.

“That was worth waiting for,” she murmurs.

You laugh, your heart so full it hurts. “Definitely.”

But then there’s a loud knock at your door, followed by Tony’s unmistakable voice.

“Hey! I’m gonna assume the awkward confessions are done and the kissing has commenced?”

You and Natasha groan in unison, but neither of you can stop smiling.

Because for once, Tony’s actually right.

okay so, writing this was actually more confusing than I thought lol

[mrsthunderkin]

Panique~*•°○☆▪︎°•○~

[flaminandgooo]

Bucky, who loves reading and finally gets to sit down and enjoy all the literature he's missed for the past decades.

And Sam. Who watches that stunning smile bloom across his face like a morning glory at the first rays of sunshine the first time he gifts him a new book and decides he wants to witness that sight again and again and again.

Sam, who eyes the ever growing piles of books scattered across Bucky's apartment with a fondness that has long since done surprising him and snorts at Bucky's stupidly proud smirk when he compares him and his book herding to Smaug herding the dwarves' gold in the Hobbit (they did a buddy reading of the Hobbit, LotR and the Silmarillion on Bucky's insistence, which was about when Sam found out that 1) Bucky could talk non-stop for at least half an hour with enough motivation, and 2) the asshole had no concept of time when he talked about books and Sam had woken up half a dozen times to at least one 20 minutes long audio message from Bucky rambling about Tolkien lore).

Sam, who learns how much Bucky loves poetry on a random night during a stake out because the man mentions that the only thing he's grateful for when it comes to the Winter Soldier conditioning is all the languages they've put inside his head so now he can enjoy poetry in every language that he speaks, because no poem is more beautiful than in the language it was originally written in.

Sam, who from then on buys Bucky poetry books. English classics, of course. But also Spanish and Turkish. French and Arabic. Japanese and Hebrew. Xhosa, Hindi, Greek, Portuguese. Old and modern alike.

Sam who listens with his eyes closed when Bucky reads him his favorite poem of each book, losing himself into the sudden softness of Bucky's voice, into his surprisingly beautiful diction, asking 'how about another one you liked?' when he feels especially greedy and wants to bask in the velvety quality of the man’s voice just a little longer, Bucky indulging him, always, too happy to share, the shyness of the first few times he'd done this long gone now.

Sam, who listens with a bleeding heart to Bucky as he explains why Tommorow, At Dawn and 'Tis A Fearful Thing are his favorite poems.

Sam, who goes on a cruisade against the Smithsonian to get his hands on Bucky's belongings from the war because he mentioned once a beat-up copy of the Ghost of Canterville he used to drag around everywhere with him across Europe because it was his favorite tale, the one his mother had read to him time after time when he was little, and it reminded him of home.

Sam, who gifts Bucky a collector LotR bookset he got from a small artist for his birthday, with handmade leather bindings and painted edges.

Sam, who has to sneak away and step out on the front porch for a second at the look of pure adoration Bucky sends his way once he's done running his flesh and bone hand along the carefully crafted leather spines of his brand new books, taking advantage of his nephews making a show of bringing their own gifts to their Uncle Bucky to calm the wild beat of his heart against his ribcage. (And if he pointedly ignores Sarah's knowing look on his way out, it's nobody's business.)

Finally, Sam. Who sucks in a sharp breath that same night when mismatched arms pull him into a strong embrace just as he's about to leave Bucky with a fluffy pillow and a warm quilt on the couch, the softest of thank yous dropped directly in the shell of his ear, two words that have never sounded so tender, echoing in his head long after he retreated to his own room.

[sleepyangelkami]

INDISPOSED d.winchester

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 2.1K

DEAN WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - you always seem to feel more than upset when you're sick. luckily for you, dean's always by your side when you fall ill, no matter the time.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - sick!reader, illness symptoms, flu, dizziness, aches, reader's a little emotional, eating?, crying, mention of reader's lonely past, non-sexual nudity, kinda crybaby!reader, (1) use of y/n, slightly ooc dean, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

there's seemingly a tell tale sign of when you're feeling extra poorly, and that's the feeling of water beginning to pool in your waterline.

you couldn't help the dramatics that would take over your body, much less when you find dean sitting in your bedroom, assuring you that it was alright that he'd come home early from his hunt. "you shouldn't have to leave sam alone 'cause of me." you were a sniffling mess at your desk, for two reasons, one being that you were upset and the second being that your nose was so stuffed you could hardly breathe.

"sammy's fine to figure out the rest of this one, baby." dean was sitting on your bed, girly covers and throw pillows surrounding him. "and i don't have to do anything, i'm choosing to be here." dean's voice was all low and soft, the voice he used when you were upset which was seemingly more often than you'd thought.

you heard him shuffle across the room to where you sat on a brown, tattered chair.

he crouched down so he was eye level with you. "come on, sweetheart, you know you're just upset 'cause you feel all sick." his hand was gently tracing your thigh, soothing you from your sniffles. "think you just need to lay down, yeah?"

you mumbled something that he didn't quite catch with a nod.

he waited momentarily but you hadn't made any decision to move. "y/n." your eyes snapped up to meet his. "come lay down."

"okay." was your sheepish response.

dean didn't often call you by your name, he cast it away with all the lovely nicknames he'd picked out for you personally. nobody was baby but his car, until he'd met you. it came so easily, that soft way of loving.

when dean had you finally beneath the blankets, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, half-comforting and half-trying to gauge your temperature.

"where are you going?" your hand reached out for his lower arm.

dean turned down to look at you, a smile softly reaching his lips. "just getting your medication, baby, i'll be back, don't worry." and this time, the kiss pressed against your forehead was purely because he felt like it.

dean was well aware of your inability to take care of yourself. now, he was in no way calling you a nuisance, he just wished you cared for yourself as much as he did. with that being said, he did always love being able to care for you, it was a way that was so different than having to take care of sam his whole life. perhaps it was because this, he wasn't obliged to do, it wasn't expected of him.

he loved taking care of you but if anything were to happen to him... he'd like to know you could take care of yourself, too.

when dean returned to the bedroom, you were passed out asleep against the sheets. the man couldn't help but stop in his tracks.

you were a chatty person, awfully bubbly at times. and dean loved that about you, listening to you babble on about something and when he didn't catch a word he'd ask you to repeat what you said, it was always funny watching as the gears turned in your head, trying to remember.

sometimes you swore you talked so much that you tuned yourself out.

dean didn't though, he listened to every word that spilled from your lips.

but you were chatty with everyone you were close to. god forbid you ever went on a road trip with he and sam.

but with him you could be quiet at times, you still got shy and nervous around him which always made him coo, there was something sweet at the fact you could be so different behind closed doors, so yourself.

and seeing you like this, your lips drew into a pout and pink staining your ill cheeks, well it was rather nice, he thought.

he hated to be so evil as he was to wake you.

"sweetheart." the mere whisper of the name as his hands came down to soothe your arms was enough to have your eyelids peeling open. "sweetheart, c'mon, you gotta take your medicine."

a half-whine fell from your lips as he sat you up against the bed, sitting too so that you could lean yourself against him. dean was suddenly aware of how much hotter your body had gotten. he hadn't been gone long, just a trip to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and the medication he needed, though it'd taken him a while to find it. he had a bad habit of leaving things in strange places and forgetting about it.

he handed you off the capsules and then the glass of water.

"how're you feeling, honey?" the back of his palm pressed against your right cheek then slightly down your top, to your chest. he was like a concerned mother. "you're really hot."

"thanks." you quipped, leaning your hot forehead against his arm and sipping the water he'd given you.

he rolled his eyes at your remark, obviously taking your sickness more seriously than you were. "'m serious, you can't have blankets."

"dean!"

"no."

"dean, 'm cold." you nuzzled yourself further into dean's warm body, a dark grey hoodie coated his form along with black sweatpants, not his usual attire.

"you're not cold." he took your face between his two hands. "you're sick." pressing a kiss against the tip of your nose. you fought the words 'sap' to come from the back of your scratchy throat. "you can have the blankets but i have to take this off, then." you felt him gently pull at the shirt you'd stolen from him, clad on your body.

"deal." you mumbled, feeling a wave of dizziness hit you.

to make matters worse, you shook your head, thinking it would rid of the dizziness.

"hey, don't do that." he steadied your head before taking the glass out from your hands and placing it on the bedside dresser.

you felt his hands on your shirt, slowly pulling it from your frame. you helped by putting your arms in he air, allowing him to pull it off your body and toss it somewhere on the ground.

"want the tv on?" you nodded your head silently as the man rose from his place on the bed, reaching the tv stand where he picked up the remote and switched it on.

aimlessly, you uttered, "my legs hurt." while sliding back under the pretty covers.

he was busy fidgeting with the buttons on the remote. he never did know how to work your tv properly. "'s just cause your sick, it'll go away, baby."

you huffed at his response, laying your head on the pillows while you pulled the blanket close to you. you were cold but it was that sickly cold where you couldn't tell if it was really a chill or perhaps you were so warm that you felt cold, which didn't make a whole pile of sense.

when dean finally climbed back into the bed, your body practically collapsed on top of him.

he laid with an arm behind his neck and the other trailing shapes across your bare back, you lay with your head on his chest, listening to the low tv along with the thumping of his heart.

"are you okay?" you mumbled, voice slick with tiredness. the sickness was weird like that, hitting you suddenly, leaving just as immediately.

dean could have cooed at you. even while you were wrapped up in blankets, sick as a small hospital, you managed to ask him if he was okay.

It was another reason why he liked taking care of you. you took care of each other. "i'm okay."

another hushed mumble. "promise?"

"i promise." he answered honestly, fingers against your skin, moving up and down your back. "get some sleep, 'kay?"

a yawn passed your lips. "okay."

they said sleep was the best medicine, that it cured everything that was curable. well, you weren't sure anyone had said it to you but you just knew that it was said.

you had to beg to differ.

by dinnertime, your temperature was running hot.

earlier was the kind of sick that you could stomach, this was the kind of sick that had you flushed against the headboard of your bed, hands running down your face as you felt your head pound against the back of your eyes.

you could hear dean walk back into the room and you felt guilt soar through your veins.

you knew you were being... difficult to say the least. but you couldn't help it, hot tears gathering at your waterline all over again.

the mattress dipped as dean nudged your arm and you looked up at him with glossy eyes before looking down at the sandwich sitting on a plate in his hands.

"know you said you're not hungry but can you try eat some f'me? 's jam." his tone was all soft and his voice was all quiet. by now, he'd turned off the tv and closed the curtains, noticing how the light had been affecting your eyes. the only light on now was the little lamp sitting on your bedside table so you could actually see your surroundings.

you nodded hesitantly and took the sandwich from him.

dean noticed things about you like nobody else. he very early on found out that you loved jam sandwiches, you loved raspberry jam but you had an awful distaste for strawberry jam so from there on, he never bought strawberry jam on the offhand occurence that you may accidentally use it without looking at the label and get your jam sandwich ruined.

you were halfway through said sandwich when you placed it back on the plate, begging to tear up.

dean immediately took notice of it, taking the plate from you. "wh's wrong, baby? too much?"

you shook your head, sniffling. even the act of shaking your head had you clutching it soon after.

dean tutted, moving your hand away so he could soothe your forehead with a kiss and a gentle movement of his thumb. "poor girl." you heard him mutter under his breath, his brows strewn together in sympathy.

looking up at him, you had those glassy eyes that made his stomach feel almost as nauseous as yours. he didn't have to ask what was troubling you for you answered, anyway, to the silent question behind his eyes. "you're so nice to me."

his heart shattered a little.

it was no supirse that you didn't grow up with much comfort surrounding you and that only got worse as you began to get older. some days, you didn't think you'd ever get the comfort that your body ached for. and then dean winchester walked in, and his one and only goal was to take care of you, was to care for you, was to love you.

so you couldn't help tearing up a little from time to time when you think about the strawberry jam he gave up just for you.

"oh, baby. you're my sweet girl." he pulled you closer to him, putting your forehead against his chest so you could lean your weight on him. "'course 'm nice to you."

he helped you sit on his lap, fully discarding the place wherever his hands could push it to.

then his hands found your body, roaming it with this gentleness yet assertion. you'd put his shirt back on a while ago and discarded the blankets, which he was thankful for. he needed to break your temperature.

you weren't due medication for another two hours and you'd taken all the painkillers you could.

right now, all he could offer was himself.

and that was enough for you.

your arms tightened around his shoulders as you sniffled, tears breaking down your cheeks with a defeated sigh. "hate bein' sick." you uttered, sadness evident in your voice.

"i know, angel, i know." he gently rocked you in his lap, not enough to make your head dizzy but enough to bring you back to the moment, to remind you he was there.

and you stayed like that for seemingly a long time, melting into one another's embrace as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world.

you pressed your flush cheek against the hoodie covering his bare shoulder. the tears eventually dried up and all that was left was your frustrated sighs and mumbles.

"'s okay, sweetheart." he pressed a final kiss to your flushed face. "it'll pass."

and he was by your side as soon as it did.

main masterlist/dean's masterlist

[wulfhalls]

And thus it was. A fourth age of middle-earth began. And the fellowship of the ring though eternally bound by friendship and love... was ended. Thirteen months to the day since Gandalf sent us on our long journey we found ourselves looking upon a familiar sight. We were home. How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend some hurts that go too deep that have taken hold. Bilbo once told me his part in this tale would end... that each of us must come and go in the telling. Bilbo's story was now over. There would be no more journeys for him... save one. My dear Sam. You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be and to do. Your part in the story will go on.

the lord of the rings: the return of the king (2003) dir. peter jackson

[criminalamnesia]

random scenario my brain made up a few nights ago!!

you and bucky and steve had been childhood best friends. when the boys enlisted, you followed close behind, donning white as you learned your role as a military nurse.

after steve’s transformation into the captain, he specifically requested that you and bucky were assigned to stay by his side. although other officials tried to deny him this— they said it would be distracting— steve refused to fulfill his role without the two of you.

although unspoken, you had always had something more with bucky. steve knew, but it didn’t bother him. you were like a sister to him, and bucky was like his brother. he was ecstatic that his two favorite people were finding solace in one another.

and then the train incident happens, and you both lose bucky. it tears the both of you to shreds— all you can do is hold each other and sob, unable to articulate how soul-crushing it is to lose a man you both loved in your own ways.

a month after bucky dies, steve loses you too. it’s really unclear how it happens. one minute you’re there, tending to the wounded, dragging soldiers back toward the medical tents. the next you’re gone, your stained nurse’s cap left forgotten in the dirt.

steve is beside himself. two parts of him have gone, both presumably dead, and he struggles to cope.

he tries sacrifice himself against the red skull, but against his will, is reawakened a century later in a time he doesn’t know with people he doesn’t understand.

but then he starts to heal, starts to let others in again. after all, steve can’t help his kind heart. he empathizes with natasha, comes to understand tony. finds companionship in sam and finally feels like his two childhood friends, although gone, have come back in the form of a redhead assassin and the falcon.

and then he meets the winter soldier and his shadow.

her name isn’t known to shield’s records. those that have seen her rarely live to tell the tale. natasha is able to offer even less information on her than she is about the brute with the metal arm.

it takes steve aback, how in sync the soldier and his shadow fight. it’s eerie— the soldier tosses up a knife, a hand appears out of the shadows and grabs it. no words spoken, none needed. a deep understanding of one another, the trauma endured and the bond forged making the two into one.

the mask falls from the solider first, and steve swears his heart stops. bucky. his bucky. his best friend, his brother, alive and standing in front of him.

nothing happens for a second— a second that feels like a lifetime to steve as he relives watching bucky fall to his death. to holding you as the both of your mourned a body that would never be found.

the winter soldier extends a hand to the side, and his partner steps out of shadows, placing a knife into his open palm. she had taken to holding back natasha and sam while bucky fought steve. sometime during the fight, she had lost her mask as well.

and steve falls to his knees as you fully materialize out of the dark, shadows receding around you, curling from the tips of your fingers and finally dissipating.

hydra had gotten you, too.

it made too much sense. you and bucky had always had a bond deeper than friends, deeper than lovers, even. you were intertwined so deeply, one could not take a step without the other knowing. (if only the two of you had acted on things sooner).

the one key to bucky’s heart, the one that could influence him even more than steve could, was you. the greatest weakness. hydra capitalized on that weakness, turning you into something that killed instead of something that healed.

stressing your bond with your lover, manipulating it so perversely and making you into two killers, two halves of a whole.

at least you had each other, he thinks.

(he later finds out that having each other was no solace, no escape. it was double the torture— physical and emotional— as they took one’s transgressions out on the other.)

and even though this has happened, that he barely recognizes the two souls standing in front of him, he feels whole again. because you are both alive and seemingly healthy and able to be reached.

bucky tucks the knife into his belt and extends his hand to you once again.

you take it, and the two of you melt away, darkness filling the space you once occupied.