#advance Happy Independence Day | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theetherealbloom · 3 months ago

Text

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.2

Chapter Two: Hold On For Dear Love

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, War, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing,

Word Count: 10.1k

A/N: Chat, I am giving the reader a super vague background, like it won't matter too much, lol. You’re here for the vibes, and so am I ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ So this entire fic isn’t gonna be overly complicated, I don’t think this is the fic for that. I mean, they put sharks in the Colosseum, so… we’re going to take some liberties here and there for funsies. It’s fanfiction, it’s supposed to be fun :> ALSO YA’LL I GOT INTO A GROOVE. I wasn’t planning on updating til next week but the words kept coming to me and suddenly I’m done with chapter two hehe. AND YES YES SHUSH NEXT CHAPTER IS SMUT. MAYBE. Ok enjoy girlies heheh.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Hymn To Virgil by Hozier

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

SENATOR THRAEX’S PARTY — DAY

The grand villa was alive with music, laughter, and the heady scent of roasted meats and spilled wine. Senators, high-ranking officials, and Rome's wealthiest citizens mingled among trays of fruit and platters of delicacies, their voices filling the air with a cacophony of conversation and self-indulgent boasts. Courtesans draped in sheer silks wove through the throng, their laughter as light and false as the smiles of their patrons.

You stood to the side, partially hidden in the shadow of a marble column. The position offered a semblance of privacy while giving you a clear view of the room. You made mental notes of the faces present—senators, generals, and merchants, all drunk on wealth and power. Their alliances and rivalries played out in every guarded glance and overly polite toast.

Senator Gracchus approached you with a goblet of wine, his face etched with age but kind. “You look like a soldier observing a battlefield,” he remarked dryly.

You smiled faintly, accepting the drink. “It feels like one. Though I’m not sure which side I belong to.”

Gracchus chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “In Rome, one must always choose a side, my dear. Even if that choice is to appear invisible.”

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted. “Ah, the daughter of misfortune graces us with her presence.” Senator Thraex’s saccharine tone drew the attention of those nearby. He strode toward you, his beady eyes alight with thinly veiled mockery. “I was just telling Gracchus how tragic your loss must have been. Your poor parents—what a terrible end.”

Your jaw tightened, but you forced a polite smile. “Your concern is appreciated, Senator. They are at peace now.”

Thraex clasped his hands, feigning sympathy. “Still, such a pity. A young woman like you, left all alone in this cruel city. Surely by now, you should have found a husband to protect you from its dangers?”

The words stung, though you refused to let it show. Keeping your tone steady, you replied, “I fear my reputation for independence precedes me. Not all men wish to marry someone who refuses to play the meek lamb.”

Gracchus coughed into his goblet, poorly disguising a laugh, while Thraex’s smile faltered. “How... peculiar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “Though perhaps not surprising. It would be difficult to find a suitor for one so... outspoken.”

The room seemed to hum with energy as Thraex’s face, darkened with irritation from your earlier remark, shifted into a mask of forced hospitality when his gaze landed on a man entering the crowd—a towering figure wrapped in silk and jewels, his presence as commanding as it was enigmatic. You followed Thraex's movement as he moved to greet the man, a name rippling through your thoughts: Macrinus.

You had heard whispers of him before. A former gladiator who had fought for his freedom, now a powerbroker in Rome. He supplied food, wine, and oil for the empire’s armies, manufactured weapons, and even maintained a stable of gladiators. His name carried weight, his connections extending into the darkest corners of Roman politics.

As Thraex approached Macrinus, his false charm returned, his arms spreading wide. “Macrinus!” he greeted, his voice dripping with exaggerated warmth. He clapped the man on the shoulder with an enthusiasm that bordered on theatrical. “I knew the provinces could never contain you.”

Macrinus accepted the embrace with a faint smirk, his dark eyes scanning the room with calculated ease. “I’m just here for the games,” he replied, his tone casual, though there was a hint of something sharper beneath the surface.

Thraex chuckled, his grip lingering on the man’s shoulder. “Ah well, you won't be disappointed. Rome has all the games that men like you like to play.”

“Men like me, cracks men like us.” Macrinus shot back, his grin widening. “I know nothing happens in Rome unless you… tasted it first! ”

Thraex laughed at the jab, the sound too loud to be sincere. Their exchange continued, a dance of veiled threats and mutual amusement. You lingered at the edge of the room, doing your best to blend into the shadows, your ears straining to catch every word.

Thraex handed Macrinus a gilded chalice of wine, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “What's this we hear about you being interested in standing for an election to the senate practice?”

Macrinus stiffened, his surprise poorly concealed as he let out a dry chuckle. “Me? You know, I don't even know how to use an abacus,” He sipped his wine before adding with a wry smile, “but I do understand that… it's customary for your guests to make wagers at these affairs.”

Thraex’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile didn’t falter. “How large a sum did you have in mind?”

Macrinus tilted his head thoughtfully, the jewels around his neck catching the light. “A thousand gold aureus?”

Thraex’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Two,” he countered smoothly.

Macrinus glanced at the courtesan draped over his arm, as if seeking her approval. The woman gave a slight nod, and Macrinus shrugged, turning back to Thraex. “Denarius,” he said simply, the single word carrying enough weight to silence Thraex for a fleeting moment.

Macrinus walked away with an easy swagger, leaving Thraex standing alone with his forced smile slipping into a scowl. The flash of irritation on his face, so quickly concealed, didn’t escape your notice.

You couldn’t suppress a small smirk of your own as you turned your attention elsewhere. Rome’s elite might dress themselves in finery and smiles, but it was clear that every word exchanged tonight was a thread in the intricate tapestry of power. Threads you were determined to unravel.

The air in the grand hall shifted, thick with anticipation as the crowd clustered toward the edges of the room. The glint of opulence—golden goblets, silk-draped tables, and jewels adorning the guests—clashed against the dark reality of what was about to unfold. Your eyes lingered briefly on a figure across the way: a man, bound in chains, sitting quietly. There was no fear in his expression, only a smoldering anger that made you uneasy.

The sound of clapping drew your attention back to the center of the room. Senator Thraex, ever the showman, raised his voice above the murmur of the crowd. “Stand back! Stand back!” he called, his tone a mix of authority and delight.

You stepped aside, blending into the edges of the gathering, as the spectators parted to form a circle. The twin emperors, Caracalla and Geta, lounged decadently on their perch, surrounded by concubines who laughed and whispered among themselves. Their indifference to the gathering's undertones was maddening.

Thraex turned toward them with an exaggerated bow. “My emperors,” he began with a grin before addressing the audience. “Lords, ladies, senators—tonight, for your entertainment... the art of combat!”

Excited gasps rippled through the room, the revelers’ reactions equal parts anticipation and bloodlust. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Thraex gestured dramatically toward the two men brought forward—one was the same figure you’d seen earlier, still brooding but now standing tall.

“And now,” Thraex continued, “the barbarian, versus from my own stable, the mighty Vijay!”

The crowd erupted into applause as Vijay, a towering figure in a yellow tunic, was escorted forward. His opponent, the gladiator from across the room, now squared his shoulders and met Vijay’s gaze.

“It is your gladiator?” Emperor Geta asked, his tone laced with mild amusement, as he glanced at Macrinus.

Macrinus inclined his head respectfully. “It is, your Majesty.”

Chains were removed from both men, their freedom feeling more like a death sentence. Thraex began to set the terms. “Three rounds, hand-to-hand—”

But Emperor Caracalla’s voice cut through. “Swords!” he barked, his grin wicked.

The room fell silent.

“We want swords. A fight to the death!” Caracalla continued, his voice rising with glee. “No quarter to be offered, or given!”

Thraex hesitated, his expression faltering for a moment, but the guards stepped forward, placing swords into the gladiators’ hands. You felt your stomach twist as the two men began circling one another.

The gladiator of Macrinus spoke first, his voice calm but edged with pleading. “Brother, come now. Let us not kill each other for their amusement.”

Vijay’s only response was a roar as he lunged, his sword slicing through the air. The next moments were chaos. Blades clanged as they met, sparks flying from each blow. The room seemed to shrink around the violence as tables splintered and decorations toppled.

The climax came when Vijay’s sword slipped from his grasp in the scuffle. The other gladiator seized the opportunity, driving his blade into Vijay’s chest. A sharp gasp escaped you as the larger man crumpled to the marble floor, his blood pooling beneath him.

The victor tossed his sword to the ground with a clatter, breathing heavily, his face and tunic spattered with blood. Around you, the crowd erupted into applause and cheers, their delight in stark contrast to your quiet horror.

“Remarkable!” Emperor Geta exclaimed, standing as he clapped his hands. He approached Macrinus with an approving nod. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Macrinus replied smoothly.

Geta then turned to the gladiator, studying him with newfound interest. “From where do you hail?”

The man said nothing, his jaw set, his silence defiant.

The tension in the room grew thick. Even you found yourself leaning forward, curiosity mingling with unease.

“Speak,” Geta commanded sharply. When no answer came, his impatience boiled over. “I said speak!”

Macrinus stepped in quickly, bowing his head. “Your Majesty, he is from the colonies. His native tongue is all he understands.”

The gladiator finally raised his head, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “The gates of hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy is the way: but to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

The poetry stunned you, the eloquence jarring against the brutal spectacle that had just unfolded. Around you, the room fell silent for a beat before Caracalla broke into a laugh.

“Poetry!” the Caracalla declared, grinning as he turned to Macrinus. “Very clever, Macrinus. Very clever indeed.”

Macrinus bowed slightly. “To amuse you is my only wish, your Majesty.”

“We are amused,” Geta said, though his gaze remained fixed on the gladiator. His voice rose as he addressed the room. “And we all look forward to seeing your poet… perform in the arena.”

“As do I your majesty's.” Macrinus gestured to his guard. “Viggo,” he said softly, and the guard stepped forward to escort the gladiator out of the room.

As the crowd began to disperse, murmurs of excitement rippling through the air, you remained rooted in place. Your eyes followed the blood trail left by Vijay’s body as it was dragged away. The victor—dripping in another man’s blood, yet unbowed—disappeared through the doors, his haunting words lingering in your mind like a ghost.

LUCILLA'S VILLA — LATE AFTERNOON

The villa of Domitia Lucilla stood as a serene contrast to the chaos of Rome—a sprawling sanctuary of pale stone walls and gardens heavy with the scent of roses and citrus. The late afternoon sun stretched shadows across the courtyard as you entered, the weariness from Senator Thraex’s debauched gathering weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Lucilla awaited you, standing poised near a column. Her cream stola shifted with the breeze, but her sharp gaze was unwavering, as if she had been expecting this moment.

“You’ve returned,” she said, warmth in her voice tempered by the gravity of her expression.

“I have, my lady—”

She waved off the formalities with a flick of her wrist. “Enough with that. How many times must I tell you?”

“Habit,” you replied with a faint smile, though it lacked its usual brightness.

Her lips twitched with amusement, but concern quickly took its place. “And how was Senator Thraex’s gathering? As intolerable as I feared?”

You sighed, the grotesque excess of the night flashing briefly in your mind. “More wine than wit. And blood, of course. Always blood.”

Lucilla’s mouth tightened, her brow furrowing just enough to betray her displeasure. She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Rome devours itself with spectacle. It leaves nothing but emptiness behind,” she murmured.

You nodded but didn’t speak. The heaviness of her words settled heavily on you because they were true.

“And Thraex himself?” she pressed, tilting her head.

You hesitated. “He made his usual jabs about my… unmarried state. Feigned sympathy for my family. And spent an inordinate amount of time with Macrinus, the arms dealer. It seemed more calculated than casual.”

Lucilla’s eyes narrowed slightly, her mind already turning. “Macrinus does not waste his time on frivolities. If Thraex is courting him, there’s more at play.”

“Something to do with the games tomorrow, perhaps?” you suggested. “He seemed eager for them.”

Lucilla’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s possible. His ambitions are endless, and I fear his alliances will be the ruin of many.”

“Rome always finds a way to drag us into its mire,” you muttered bitterly.

Her hand on your shoulder tightened briefly, reassuring. “Then we tread carefully. But not tonight. Tonight, we focus on what lies ahead. The senators will convene soon, and General Acacius is to join us.”

You huffed a soft laugh, though it carried a trace of exasperation. “A grand gathering in his honor, and he doesn’t bother to attend the festivities.”

Lucilla arched a brow, her expression turning sly. “Were you hoping he would?”

Heat rushed to your face, and you fumbled for a response. “I—no, of course not. I just thought it odd.”

“Mm.” Her tone was noncommittal, but her knowing smile made you glance away.

Before you could dwell on your embarrassment, Lucilla turned down another garden path, leaving you to follow. It was there, amid the soft hum of cicadas and the golden haze of the late afternoon, that you saw him.

Marcus Acacius sat beneath a pergola, his broad shoulders bent slightly over a parchment, a quill poised in his hand. A goblet of wine sat forgotten beside him, the scene unexpectedly tranquil for a man of his reputation.

Lucilla glanced over her shoulder with a smirk. “It seems you’ll get your wish after all.”

Your stomach twisted at her words, but before you could form a protest, she disappeared around the corner. Left to your own devices, you took a steadying breath and approached. The crunch of gravel underfoot drew his attention, and he looked up, his dark eyes softening as they met yours.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return,” he said, his voice low and warm, though a flicker of relief betrayed him.

You tilted your head, folding your arms as you came closer. “And I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the party was meant for you.”

Marcus chuckled, setting down his quill. “Crowded rooms filled with drunken senators and empty promises hold little appeal. I prefer the quiet.” He gestured to the bench across from him. “Join me?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the unspoken tension between you filling the air. But then you sat, folding your hands neatly in your lap.

“The games tomorrow will be particularly… extravagant,” you said, glancing at the parchment. “I’m to serve as a healer for the event.”

His brow furrowed. “You’ll be in the arena?”

“Not in it,” you replied quickly. “But close enough.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “It’s barbaric. They celebrate death, and you’re left to mend what’s left behind.”

“It’s Rome,” you said with a shrug, though the bitterness in your voice was unmistakable.

“Does it not anger you?” His voice was steady but insistent, his gaze searching yours.

You hesitated before answering. “Every day,” you admitted quietly. “But anger doesn’t heal. It doesn’t save lives.”

His hand moved, resting near yours on the table—not touching, but close enough that the space between felt charged. “You do more than heal,” he said after a moment. “You remind us of what’s worth saving.”

The sincerity in his words made your breath hitch. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“I only do what I can,” you said finally.

“And it’s enough,” he replied, his voice firm.

Silence settled between you, but it was not empty. It was heavy with questions left unasked, with the unshakable feeling that you knew him from somewhere beyond this life.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.

You raised an eyebrow, half-amused. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled faintly. “A truth.”

You studied him, the edges of recognition tugging at your mind. “Have we met before?”

His hand stilled, his expression unreadable. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s the way you look at me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like you know something I don’t.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly, “Perhaps I’m just trying to understand you.”

“And do you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lingered on yours, as if he were searching for something—something hidden behind the words you didn’t say. His jaw tightened, and then relaxed, his hesitation drawing out the silence until it felt like the whole garden held its breath.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting an amber glow across the courtyard. The scent of citrus blossoms drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of oil from the bronze lamps. You and Marcus sat across from each other, the heavy quiet between you punctuated by the distant hum of the city below.

“I think,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, “that you’re not as much of a mystery as you’d like to believe.”

You said nothing, the truth of his words settling over you. He wasn’t the first to try to understand you, but he was the first whose attempt didn’t feel like an invasion. Still, you kept your silence, hoping it would shield whatever he thought he saw.

Marcus leaned back slightly, his gaze unwavering, though his tone softened. “You wear your defiance like armor. It suits you, but…” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Even armor cracks under enough weight.”

Your chest tightened. There was no judgment in his voice, just quiet understanding, and that somehow made it worse. You turned your eyes to the horizon, watching as the light bled into dusk.

“And you?” you asked at last, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “What cracks your armor?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tightening as he looked away. For a long moment, you thought he might deflect or let the question fall unanswered. But then he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, the facade of the unshakable general slipping.

“The things I’ve done,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “The wars. The lives I’ve taken. I tell myself it was duty. For Rome. For honor. But when I close my eyes…” His hand curled into a fist on the table, the scarred knuckles white with tension. “I see their faces. The ones I killed. The ones I couldn’t save. Sometimes, I think that’s all there is left of me. Blood and ghosts.”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. You felt the sharp sting of his pain as if it were your own, and it stirred something deep within you—a desire not to fix him, but to let him be broken without shame.

“There’s more to you than that,” you said softly, surprising even yourself with the conviction in your voice. “Let the brokenness be felt, Marcus, until you reach the other side. There is goodness in the heart of every broken man who comes right up to the edge of losing everything he has.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those fierce, commanding eyes—betrayed a flicker of something fragile. “And if the edge is all that’s left?”

You shook your head. “Then you find your way back. One step, one breath, one choice at a time. You’ve already come this far.”

A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. “You sound certain.”

“I am,” you said simply. “Because I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen men lose everything and still find the strength to rebuild. You’ve endured so much, Marcus. And yet, here you are.”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the air between you felt impossibly heavy, as though the weight of both your pasts had settled there. But then, something shifted—just a fraction—and the tension eased.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “How does someone like you—someone who speaks of goodness and second chances—end up in a place like this?”

You let out a soft laugh, though it held no humor. “A long story,” you said, your tone laced with irony.

He smiled faintly. “I’ve got time.”

The simplicity of his statement caught you off guard. You studied him for a moment, searching for any trace of mockery, but found none. He was patient, steady, like a man who had weathered every storm and learned to endure the waiting.

You hesitated, then began to speak—not all at once, but in fragments. You told him of the choices that had brought you here, the moments of defiance and loss that had shaped you. He listened without interrupting, his focus unbroken, as though each word mattered.

When the story faltered and the silence crept back in, Marcus spoke again, his voice gentle. “You’ve carried much on your shoulders.”

You shrugged, your gaze fixed on the table. “Haven’t we all?”

He nodded, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps. But not everyone carries it as well as you.”

The compliment startled you, and you looked up to find him watching you with something like admiration. It wasn’t romantic, not yet—but it was real, and it unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite name.

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’d like to.”

Something in his tone—a quiet sincerity, unadorned by pretense—made you pause. You realized, with a small jolt, that you wanted to know him, too. Not just the general, but the man beneath the armor.

“Maybe,” you said finally, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “If you’re patient.”

His smile widened, just a little, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I’ve learned to be patient,” he said. “For the right things.”

And as the night deepened and the stars began to dot the sky, you found yourself wondering if, perhaps, this was one of them.

The room was dark, the faint glow of torchlight from the grilled window casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. Lucilla stood beside you, her sharp eyes trained on the guards below as they exchanged shifts. She watched silently, her body tense but still, until the last of them disappeared around the corner.

With a soft sigh, she turned back into the room and extinguished the candles one by one. The light died away, replaced by the cover of darkness. Outside, a guard’s voice called up, noting that she must be retiring for the evening.

You remained quiet, holding the lamp as Lucilla adjusted her robes and pulled up the hood, the fabric obscuring her features. The air felt heavier now, laden with unspoken tension. She glanced at you, her gaze sharp even in the dim light.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

You nodded and pulled your own hood over your head. The warmth of the lamp in your hand was a small comfort against the chill of the night.

Lucilla stepped closer, her hands gripping your forearm briefly as she said your name. “You must know,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, “if you do this with us, there is a possibility that we may be discovered. And the penalties—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupted gently, meeting her gaze. There was no hesitation in your voice.

She studied you for a moment longer, then nodded, a faint flicker of respect passing over her features. Without another word, she turned toward a small shrine tucked into the corner of the room.

Kneeling, she rolled back a slab of marble with deliberate care, revealing a narrow passage that led downward. The air that seeped out was cool and damp, smelling faintly of earth and stone.

Lucilla motioned for you to follow, and you descended after her, the spiral staircase winding tightly into the depths. Your lamp cast shifting shadows on the walls, and the faint echoes of your footsteps seemed louder than they should have been.

The tunnel at the bottom was carved with care, though the stone showed its age. Lucilla moved through it with practiced ease, her robes brushing against the walls as the passage widened and opened into a massive underground catacomb.

You stopped short, your breath catching at the sight. The vaulted ceilings arched high above you, their grandeur almost otherworldly. This place was built for eternity, every detail a testament to early Roman splendor. Statues of gods and long-dead ancestors stood sentinel, their marble faces solemn in the lamplight.

Lucilla’s steps slowed as she approached a series of crypts. Each one was marked with the bust of a family member, their likenesses carved into the stone. She stopped before the bust of Marcus Aurelius, her father, and laid a hand on its smooth surface.

“Father,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both reverence and sorrow, “protect us and guide us.” Her fingers lingered for a moment before she turned away, her expression unreadable.

You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words escaped you. There was a sacredness here that felt unshakable, a weight you couldn’t quite explain.

ANTECHAMBER — MINUTES LATER

The air in the antechamber felt thick, like the weight of centuries pressed down upon you all. Torches lined the stone walls, their flickering light casting wavering shadows on faces lined with tension and purpose. The damp chill of the underground space only added to the solemnity of the moment.

Lucilla moved forward with practiced grace, her head held high despite the gravity of the meeting. The first man stepped into the torchlight, his wiry frame and sharp features softened only by the faint trace of a smile.

“Gracchus,” Lucilla said warmly, extending her hands. “Old friend.”

Gracchus clasped her hands briefly, his grip conveying both respect and concern. “My lady. I wish we were meeting in better times.”

Lucilla’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The sun shone once—it will shine again.”

Gracchus raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking into a sardonic smirk. “And what in heaven’s name does that mean?”

Before Lucilla could answer, a low, resonant voice emerged from the shadows. “It means hope, Gracchus.”

You started slightly, your heart skipping as a figure stepped forward. Marcus Acacius. The flickering light caught the edges of his armor, making it gleam like liquid fire. His presence filled the room effortlessly, his broad frame and steady gaze commanding attention.

Gracchus let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh yes. He is shiny.”

Marcus didn’t react to the jest, but his eyes flicked between Lucilla and Gracchus before settling briefly on you. His gaze held for a beat too long, making your pulse quicken.

“Did I startle you?” he asked, his tone smooth but edged with faint amusement.

You straightened, tightening your grip on the lamp you carried. “Not at all,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.

The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips, but he turned his attention back to Gracchus, his expression growing serious. “We want to take back the city. To restore Rome to what it should be.”

Gracchus’s expression darkened, doubt creeping into his voice. “An exciting venture. When?”

“On the final day of the games,” Marcus replied firmly.

Gracchus raised a skeptical brow. “How?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the tension clear as he measured his words. “My army waits for my command at Ostia. Five thousand soldiers loyal to me will enter Rome. I intend to arrest our emperors in front of the crowds at the Colosseum for their crimes against the Senate and the people.”

A long, heavy silence followed. Gracchus exchanged a wary glance with Thraex, who stood silently in the background. The two senators appeared burdened with years of cynicism, the spark of belief long extinguished.

Lucilla broke the quiet, her voice sharp and resolute. “We cannot continue to see Rome damaged, sliding further into corruption and decay.”

Thraex snorted softly, folding his arms. “Does he want to be Emperor?”

Marcus’s gaze sharpened as he shook his head. “I am a soldier, not a politician. Rome will be yours to administer and—”

Gracchus interrupted him, his tone cutting. “Your father spoke of returning power to the Senate. But that was a generation ago. Much has changed. The people haven’t seen hope for years, and—”

This time, Marcus’s voice rose slightly, his frustration bleeding through. “Rome is not yet ready to be a republic, but with time—and guidance—a vote by the people, for the people, would mean—”

Lucilla placed a steady hand on Marcus’s arm, quieting him. She turned to Gracchus, her voice calmer but no less determined. “Rome can live again. Do we have your support, Gracchus?”

Gracchus hesitated, his gaze shifting to you, then back to Marcus. Finally, he nodded slowly, his voice soft. “Lucilla, you are the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. He had my loyalty, and so do you.”

Lucilla allowed herself a small smile. “A political answer, but good enough. Senator Thraex?”

Thraex hesitated, his eyes flickering to you. He seemed to brace himself before speaking. “Politics follows power, my lady. Take back what is rightfully yours, and the Senate will support you.”

The room seemed to exhale as the senators gave their tentative agreement, but Gracchus’s gaze lingered on you. His voice softened. “I vowed to your parents I would take care of you. To give you a life beyond this... chaos.”

Your grip on the lamp tightened as you met his gaze, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “There is no point in life if the future of Rome is nothing but an abuse of power and position.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Marcus’s expression shift. His gaze rested on you, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he were seeing you in a new light.

The torches flickered, their flames casting light on faces filled with determination and shadows that hinted at the dangerous road ahead. You glanced at Marcus once more, and his eyes caught yours, a faint, unspoken understanding passing between you.

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY

The air around the Colosseum is alive with a chaotic energy that hums through the sprawling crowd. The great amphitheater towers above, its shadow sprawling across the dusty streets. Vendors shout over one another, selling honeyed dates, roasted nuts, and cheap wine. Children dart between the throngs, their quick fingers snatching at coin purses while wide-eyed newcomers marvel at the spectacle before them.

As you approach the towering Capitoline Arch, your eyes lift to the imposing statue of General Marcus Acacius atop a marble plinth. The sunlight gleams off the bronze plaque beneath, bearing the inscription: ACACIUS, VICTOR AFRICAE.

You pause, a faint sigh escaping your lips as you take it in. The statue is majestic, carved with precision to capture his strength and valor, but there’s something about its stillness, its perfection, that feels wrong. The man you’ve come to know is far more complicated than the warrior immortalized in marble.

Pulling your hood closer to shield yourself from prying eyes, you make your way toward the entrance of the Colosseum.

Outside the massive arena, the crowd is dense, funneling into the arched entrances like water forced through narrow channels. The scent of sweat, baked bread, and dust clings to the air.

A wagon lumbers past, its wheels creaking as it pulls into the rear gates of the Colosseum. The iron gates groan shut behind it with a finality that makes you shiver.

Your eyes catch on one of the gladiators stepping down from the wagon. He is broad-shouldered, with a grim expression and scars that tell stories of survival. Recognition flickers in your mind—he was at Senator Thraex’s gathering, one of Macrinus’ men.

For a moment, his gaze meets yours, sharp and searching. You quickly turn away, the weight of his stare lingering like a brand on your skin.

COLOSSEUM UNDERCROFT — DAY

The undercroft is a world unto itself, hidden beneath the grandeur of the arena above. The air here is damp and stale, filled with the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and the earthy musk of the animals kept for the games. Torches line the stone walls, their flames barely cutting through the heavy gloom.

You step carefully, the hem of your robe brushing against the uneven stones beneath your feet. Around you, the sounds of preparation echo—metallic clangs of swords being sharpened, the low murmur of prayers whispered by gladiators, and the distant roar of the crowd above, a constant reminder of what waits beyond.

A sudden shout breaks through the noise, and you flinch instinctively, your hand tightening around the lamp you carry.

“Keep moving!” A guard barks, shoving a gladiator forward.

You press yourself against the wall to let them pass, your eyes following the line of chained men as they march toward their fate. The air feels heavier here, thick with despair and the metallic tang of blood that never quite fades from the stone.

The main chamber opens ahead, a cavernous space carved from the bedrock, with a stone memorial spanning two centuries etched into one of the walls. The names carved there seem endless, a testament to the lives given—or taken—beneath this roof.

You step into the room, your eyes searching for Ravi, the healer who has been your closest ally in this grim underworld. He is leaning over a battered table, his thick canvas coat bristling with the tools of his trade—scalpels, needles, and small bottles of tinctures.

Ravi glances up as you approach, his dark eyes meeting yours. He nods, his expression weary but kind. “You’re late,” he says, his tone more teasing than reproachful.

“I was delayed,” you reply, setting the lamp down on the edge of the table.

Ravi straightens, his hands covered in the telltale stains of his work. “Delayed by a statue, no doubt,” he says with a smirk, nodding toward the hallway you came from.

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Not just the statue. The entire crowd outside could rival an army.”

He chuckles softly, but his humor fades as his gaze shifts to the tools laid out before him. “It’s a mad world out there. And in here. They’ll call it glory, but we know better, don’t we?”

You nod, your fingers brushing against one of the bottles of tincture on the table. “How many today?”

“Too many,” Ravi replies grimly. “It always is. But if we don’t patch them up, they’ll be thrown back into the arena like lambs to the slaughter.”

You glance toward the memorial wall, the endless names a stark reminder of what happens when healing is no longer enough. “And yet they cheer,” you say softly, more to yourself than to him.

Ravi follows your gaze, his expression hardening. “They cheer because they’re too far away to hear the screams. From up there, it’s just a show.”

A heavy silence falls between you, the weight of his words settling in the space like a tangible presence.

Finally, Ravi breaks it, his voice quieter now. “You could have been anywhere. A villa in the hills, a proper clinic, somewhere far from all of this. Why here?”

You meet his gaze, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “Because someone has to be.”

Before Ravi can respond, the distant blare of a cornu horn echoes through the chamber, its mournful call summoning the combatants to the arena.

Ravi exhales, shaking his head. “That’s our cue.”

You nod, grabbing the lamp and turning toward the corridor. “Let’s hope today isn’t worse than the last.”

Ravi follows, his canvas coat swaying as he moves. “Hope’s in short supply here,” he mutters. But then, as if to lighten the mood, he adds, “But if anyone can keep these bastards alive, it’s us.”

A faint smile pulls at your lips as the two of you head toward the chaos waiting above. The sound of the horn grows louder, blending with the roar of the crowd—a noise as relentless as the tide.

The roar of the Colosseum was muffled slightly where you and Ravi stood in the shadow of the lower arches, but the sight above was impossible to ignore. Caracalla and Geta had already taken their places in the royal seats, their expressions imperious yet lacking true command. The crowd’s response to their arrival was lukewarm, tepid applause barely rippling through the masses.

Ravi glanced at you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They can’t even fake enthusiasm for their own Emperors. Telling, isn’t it?”

You nodded grimly, shifting your gaze to the arena floor where the fight’s Master of Ceremonies stood, clearly tense. He gestured sharply to the musicians, prompting them to play a fanfare in a desperate attempt to rouse the audience.

Through the giant copper horn mounted on a stand, his voice bellowed, “Citizens of Rome! These sacred games are held to honor the victory of Rome over the barbarians of Numidia—”

You winced at the crude remark, the words cutting through the air with their arrogance.

“And to honor Rome's legionary commander, General Justus Acacius!”

At the mention of Acacius, your eyes instinctively sought him out. There he was, emerging in white and gold, a gleaming figure against the harsh backdrop of the Colosseum. His presence was magnetic, commanding without effort. He moved with the same purpose he always did, though you could sense a tension in his posture, a reluctance masked by the pageantry.

Lucilla followed close behind him, her chin lifted with practiced grace. When the Master of Ceremonies announced her name—“Lucilla, the daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius!”—the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, a stark contrast to their earlier indifference.

Beside you, Ravi let out a low whistle. “They still adore her.”

“They always will,” you murmured, watching as she ascended to the royal seats under the guise of honor, though you knew better. The two Centurions flanking her were not mere escorts but guards, a subtle display of control that would escape the average onlooker.

From this distance, it seemed she embraced the accolades, her every gesture perfectly measured. But you caught the slight flicker in her expression when she glanced toward Acacius.

“You honor us with your presence. Speak to the plebeians, Acacius,” Geta commanded, his tone laced with condescension.

You held your breath, sensing the reluctance in Marcus’s stillness. He exchanged a look with Lucilla, brief but telling, before his gaze swept across the crowd, searching. When his eyes found yours, something in his demeanor shifted—resolve, perhaps, or a need for grounding.

Finally, he rose, stepping to the railing as the crowd quieted, anticipation thick in the air. His voice, deep and steady, carried over the expanse with ease.

“I am not an orator, nor a politician,” he began, the simplicity of his words a sharp contrast to the pomp surrounding him. “I am only a soldier. Real heroism is not the stuff of games.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confusion and intrigue mingling as Acacius’s words sank in.

“It reveals itself to us only in the service of life itself,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “I have seen bravery in men during war, and from women, too—bravery that does not falter in the face of fear but rises to meet it. And even, once, in this arena.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Though his gaze never left the crowd, you felt as though those words were for you alone.

“If you pray,” Marcus’s voice deepened, his tone almost pleading, “pray that the gods will deliver us bravery like that. Because Rome needs it now.”

The silence that followed was profound, the kind that held more weight than applause. Then, slowly, the crowd erupted, their cheers cascading through the Colosseum like a wave.

You watched him step back from the railing, his expression inscrutable as he returned to his seat. But as the applause thundered on, his eyes found yours again, and in that brief moment, you saw it—something unspoken yet unmistakable.

Ravi nudged you gently, breaking the spell. “He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

You nodded, your heart still pounding. “Better than they deserve,” you said softly, though your thoughts were far from the Emperors.

The tension in the Colosseum was recognized as the opening ceremony came to an end. Caracalla and Geta clapped from their royal seats, their applause mechanical and devoid of genuine enthusiasm. Below, the Master of Ceremonies stood nervously, his voice amplified by the great copper horn.

“From the South Gate... fighters from the stable of Macrinus of Thysdrus!”

Your gaze darted to the southern entrance, where the gladiators emerged into the blinding sunlight. You recognized one of them—Hanno of Numidia—whose name Ravi had told you earlier. The crowd greeted them with scattered boos and jeers, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the arena itself.

Hanno walked with measured steps, his expression stoic as he led the small group to the center of the arena. His shoulders bore the weight of more than just the armor; you could see it in his eyes.

“And from the stables of our Emperors Caracalla and Geta themselves: Glyceo the Destroyer!”

The eastern gates creaked open, revealing a towering figure clad in ornate armor, seated atop a great white rhino. The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers, the noise reverberating through the stone walls. The rhino trotted with surprising agility, its hooves kicking up clouds of dust as it carried Glyceo with the ease of a seasoned warrior.

From your vantage point, you saw the glint of weapons strapped to the rhino’s side—an axe, a sword, a mace, and a bola. Glyceo reached for the mace, gripping its heavy handle with a confidence born from countless victories.

The first gladiator dared to challenge the beast, stepping forward with his sword raised. He attempted to dodge the rhino’s charge at the last moment, but the creature’s speed and precision were unmatched. The horn struck him with brutal force, sending him flying across the arena before the rhino finished him off with a savage thrust.

Your stomach churned as the body was tossed aside like a ragdoll. The crowd’s cheers only grew louder.

Hanno stood still, his gaze fixed on the carnage. Then, almost imperceptibly, he crouched and scooped a handful of sand from the arena floor, letting it sift through his fingers. The gesture was hauntingly familiar—a ritual Maximus had performed before every fight.

Beside you, Ravi murmured, “Do you see that? He remembers.”

You glanced at Lucilla in the royal box, noting the flicker of something in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or sorrow. But she quickly masked it, her face hardening as she turned back to the arena.

The rhino charged again, this time with Glyceo’s mace raised high. Hanno sidestepped at the last possible moment, but the rhino’s horn clipped him, sending him sprawling. Dust clouded the air as the beast wheeled around, disoriented by the sunlight.

Hanno was quick to act. He flung the remaining sand into the air, creating a bright, blinding curtain that obscured his movements. The rhino charged again, unable to see clearly, and slammed full force into the arena wall. Glyceo was thrown like a ragdoll, his body hitting the stone with a sickening thud.

The rhino staggered, its massive frame reeling as it struggled to regain its footing. Hanno retrieved his sword and advanced on Glyceo, who was already scrambling to his feet. Their blades met in a clash of steel, sparks flying as Glyceo’s superior strength began to overwhelm Hanno.

You leaned forward, gripping the stone railing as Glyceo delivered a brutal series of blows, forcing Hanno to his knees. The crowd chanted, their bloodlust palpable.

Lucilla gasped, turning away, her hand trembling as it gripped the edge of her seat. Even Macrinus, who had been watching with a calculating gaze, shook his head slightly.

Glyceo raised his short sword, poised to deliver the final blow. He paused, turning to the royal box for approval.

“Shall we spare his life, brother?” Geta asked, his tone mockingly casual.

Caracalla shrugged, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some blood.”

Geta ignored him, his attention shifting to Lucilla. “Lucilla, shall we show mercy?”

Lucilla hesitated, her voice trembling. “Mercy.” The word was barely audible, choked with guilt and something deeper.

Geta stood, raising his fist. The crowd fell silent, holding their breath as he slowly extended his thumb upward, granting Hanno his life. The Colosseum erupted in cheers, but the celebration was short-lived.

“No,” Hanno said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

The crowd stilled, murmurs of confusion rippling through the stands.

“No mercy,” he repeated, his tone resolute.

Geta’s face twisted in disbelief. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses—”

“I will not accept mercy,” Hanno interrupted, rising to his feet despite the blood dripping from his wounds. He turned to the royal box, his gaze unwavering. “I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy.”

The crowd erupted in chaos—laughter, jeers, and shouts of encouragement mingling in a cacophony of sound.

“Fight on, then, fool, and die,” Geta spat, his face reddening with embarrassment.

Glyceo lunged, his mace swinging in a wide arc. Hanno ducked, his movements fueled by desperation and fury. With a final burst of strength, he seized his fallen short sword and drove it into Glyceo’s abdomen. The mighty gladiator staggered, his expression one of shock before he collapsed, lifeless, into the sand.

The crowd roared its approval, chanting Hanno’s name as he stood victorious. From the royal box, Macrinus smiled, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. You couldn’t help but watch Hanno with a mixture of awe and apprehension, your heart pounding as the weight of the moment settled over the arena.

COLOSSEUM HOSPITAL ROOM — NIGHT

The dim light of flickering oil lamps cast wavering shadows on the rough stone walls of the makeshift infirmary. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt herbs clung to the air like a heavy shroud. Ravi moved methodically among the injured, tending to other gladiators with a calm, steady hand.

You were left alone with Hanno. He sat on a wooden stool, his posture tense despite the exhaustion etched into his features. A deep, jagged wound marred his upper arm, the torn flesh angry and raw. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, drawn to the scent of blood and sweat.

You crouched beside him, your hands deftly inspecting the wound. “This needs to be cleaned and stitched up,” you murmured, glancing up at him briefly. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable.

He broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

You paused, meeting his gaze again as you answered, giving your name. You nodded toward the other side of the room. “That man over there is Ravi. We’re both doctors—or as close to it as you’ll get here. More men die of infected wounds than in the arena itself.”

Hanno tilted his head slightly, watching you as you prepared the tools of your trade. “This is going to hurt,” you added, your tone both matter-of-fact and soft.

You handed him a small pipe, its carved edges worn smooth from use.

“What’s this?” he asked, examining it with mild suspicion.

“Devil’s breath and opium,” you explained. “For the pain. Breathe it in.”

Hanno hesitated for only a moment before placing the pipe between his lips. He inhaled deeply, his expression neutral as the sharp, bitter taste hit his tongue. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing steadied.

“The effects are different for us all,” you said gently, noting the way his features softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.

When his eyes opened again, they were hazy, unfocused. “Your voice…” he muttered, blinking at you as if trying to place something familiar.

“What about it?” you asked with a small smile, distracting him as you began cleaning the wound.

“It’s… nice,” he replied, his words slow and slightly slurred. “Kind.”

You gave a soft chuckle, focusing on the task at hand. “Don’t get used to it. This part isn’t going to feel so kind.”

He took another draw of the pipe just as you began stitching the torn flesh with catgut. The needle pierced his skin, and he hissed through clenched teeth, coughing as a puff of opium-laden smoke escaped his lips and drifted into the air between you.

“Where’d you learn your trade?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.

You kept your focus on the stitches, your hands moving with practiced precision. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got a light hand,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glanced up briefly, the corners of your lips quirking. “You don’t strike me as someone who hands out compliments easily.”

The faint flicker of the oil lamp threw warm shadows across the stone walls of the infirmary. The low hum of muffled groans and whispered prayers filled the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood and herbs. His dark eyes, hazy from the drug, remained fixed on you as you worked.

“I don’t,” he murmured, his voice soft and slow. “But I’ve had enough wounds stitched up to know the difference between butchery and care.”

The corners of your lips quirked upward, and a soft chuckle escaped you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” he said, his tone unusually earnest.

Your laugh echoed softly in the quiet room, and his lips curved in response. Hanno was inebriated now—high on the devil’s breath and opium. He looked at you, his gaze almost childlike in its wonder, as if the haze had stripped away some of the weight he carried.

“What we do in life echoes in eternity,” you said suddenly, your voice a mix of reverence and melancholy.

The words hung in the air, timeless and heavy. You paused, your fingers stilling over the bandage.

Hanno blinked, as if chasing a memory. “I feel I know those words…”

You smiled faintly, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t take credit for them. They’re written on a tomb here, over the bones of a gladiator.”

He let the words sink in, his gaze distant but thoughtful. You returned to your work, your hands moving with practiced precision as you tied off the final stitch and smoothed the bandage over his wound.

“There,” you said, leaning back to admire your handiwork. “I think that should hold.”

Hanno’s eyes drifted to his arm. He reached out, almost absently, and ran his fingers across the crude stitches. His touch was featherlight, as if testing the reality of it.

You stood, gathering your tools and reaching for the pipe still clutched in his hand. But before you could take it, he brought it to his lips again, inhaling deeply. The motion was slow and deliberate, his dark eyes fixed on you through the curling smoke.

You paused, watching him, but said nothing. After a moment, you gave a small nod and turned back to pack away the rest of your supplies.

“Why did you let me take another hit?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer now, as if the opium was tugging him toward vulnerability.

You glanced over your shoulder, your expression unreadable. “Because sometimes, we need the pain to go quiet for a while.”

Hanno held your gaze for a long moment, his lips curving into a faint, lopsided smile. “You understand more than most,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond, but the weight of his words lingered. As you turned back to your work, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time.

He said your name a tender echo in the quiet room. “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?” you asked, not turning around.

“That what we do in life echoes in eternity.”

You stilled, your hands tightening slightly around your tools. Finally, you turned to face him, your expression thoughtful. “I think… the choices we make, the lives we touch—they ripple outward. Whether it’s eternity or just a fleeting moment, I think it matters.”

Hanno’s gaze didn’t waver, even through the haze of the drug. “You matter,” he said, his voice low but steady.

The words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you could only stare at him. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a small smile. “Rest now, Hanno. You’ll need your strength.”

He didn’t protest, but his eyes lingered on you as you turned away, your heart inexplicably heavier and lighter all at once.

LUCILLA’S VILLA – EVENING

The villa shimmered under the moonlight, its alabaster walls soaking in the silver glow. Marble columns cast long shadows across the flagstones, and the air hummed with the gentle chorus of cicadas. Somewhere in the gardens, the delicate aroma of night-blooming jasmine mingled with the faint tang of the sea breeze.

You stood at the edge of the terrace, a delicate glass of spiced wine cradled between your fingers. The cool air kissed your skin, but it couldn’t chase away the heat simmering beneath—an ache born of exhaustion, frustration, and something you dared not name. The day had unraveled like a tragedy, the gods watching with cruel amusement as you struggled to hold it together.

Behind you, the sound of soft footfalls broke the stillness.

“You stand there as though the weight of Rome rests on your shoulders,” a voice drawled, smooth and familiar.

You turned, finding Lucilla leaning against the stone archway, her golden hair catching the light of the lanterns flickering nearby. She regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and knowing—Lucilla had a way of reading people like scrolls, unrolling their secrets with unnerving ease.

“Does it not?” you replied, attempting a wry smile, though it faltered before it could fully form.

Lucilla stepped closer, her movements fluid, regal. “Rome’s weight has crushed stronger people than us,” she said softly, joining you at the balustrade. “The key is learning when to carry it—and when to set it down.”

You scoffed, swirling the wine in your glass. “And how often do you set it down?”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Far less than I should.” She glanced at you from the corner of her eye. “But I’m not the one standing out here, staring at the stars as though they hold the answers.”

The faint humor in her tone was a lifeline, grounding you. “If the stars do have answers, they’re not sharing them with me,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Lucilla’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a hand lightly on your arm. “The answers aren’t in the stars,” she said. “They’re in here.” She tapped lightly against your chest, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve already carried so much. Don’t forget you’re allowed to put it down—just for a while.”

Her words settled over you like a balm, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eased. You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of distant laughter interrupted, drawing both your gazes toward the villa’s golden glow.

Lucilla sighed, stepping back. “The night calls,” she said, her tone laced with resignation. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lucilla,” you replied, watching as she disappeared into the shadows of the villa, her presence leaving an unspoken promise of strength in its wake.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the night’s hum. You exhaled, leaning against the wood, letting the day’s exhaustion seep into your bones. But the solace was short-lived.

“Finally,” a low, gravelly voice murmured from the shadows.

You startled, your hand flying to your chest. “Marcus!” you hissed, your heart pounding. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped forward, his broad frame illuminated by the flickering lantern light. His tunic was slightly disheveled, and his dark curls fell across his brow, softening the hard planes of his face. Yet his eyes—those piercing eyes—held a fire that made it impossible to look away.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Not tonight.”

You crossed your arms, more to steady yourself than to rebuff him. “And you thought sneaking into my quarters was the solution?”

Marcus’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve been on my mind all evening,” he said simply, the weight of his confession hanging between you. “Do you know how maddening it is? Seeing you, hearing you, but never being close enough?”

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, trying to keep your composure. “Marcus, this—whatever this is—it's dangerous. You know that.”

“Danger is nothing new to me,” he said, stepping closer. His presence was magnetic, and you found yourself rooted in place as he closed the distance between you.

“Marcus…” you began, but your voice faltered as his fingers brushed against yours, tentative and fleeting.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will. But if you don’t—”

The unspoken promise in his words sent a shiver racing down your spine. You opened your mouth to protest, but instead, you found yourself tilting your face toward his touch as his hand cupped your cheek.

“I’ve seen you fight for others, care for them,” he said softly, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw. “Let me fight for you. Let me care for you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” you said, your voice trembling.

“I do,” he countered, his forehead nearly touching yours. “And I’m asking anyway.”

His breath was warm against your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance, your mouth meeting his in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and surrender.

The world fell away in that moment, the chaos and the danger replaced by the warmth of his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that left you breathless.

You pulled back, your chest heaving, your hands clutching the fabric of his tunic. “This doesn’t make the world any less dangerous,” you said, your voice barely audible.

“No,” he agreed, his gaze locked on yours. “But I’d burn the world to ash just to feel the heat of you.”

His words sent a shiver through you, a dangerous mix of devotion and desire. And as he kissed you again, softer this time, you realized that perhaps the fire he promised wasn’t something to fear—but something you’d already been consumed by.

251 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

The Holiday Spirit

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You don't have much reason to enjoy the holidays until a generous man walks in the door.

Character: Captain Syverson

Day Thirteen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - i just can't wait until the holidays are over

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You watch the snow gather at the corners of the large window pane with dread. The longer it falls, the more your anxiety rises. How on earth are you supposed to get home? Not too mention the more important question, how are any customers supposed to get in the store?

Your phone jingles at the very thought, your manager calling as if she could hear your silent plea for rescue. You grab your phone but don't answer until the fourth ring. You don't want her to know you've been doom scrolling the weather forecast.

Gloria greets you without formality, "what's it look like there?"

"Um, bad," you answer honestly. "Snowy."

"I mean customers. What are the numbers?"

"Oh..." you blink and look around the empty shop. "I think most people are staying home. There hasn't been anyone since I started."

"What about the walkway? Have you shoveled it?" It's as much an accusation as a question. "They won't come in if they can't get in."

You wish you had the courage to mention that it isn't just the sidewalk, you haven't seen car drive by in over an hour. Those you can see are parked and not going anywhere as the snow piles over their windows. You frown and again, look at the windows in horror.

"Go out and clear it and maybe you'll sell a few pieces. No point having the lights on if you're not doing anything," she snips.

"Meredith closed up across the street--"

"I don't care what that old crone did. Get out there. The shovel's in the back room." She commands.

"Okay," you agree meekly.

You know you shouldn't be such a pushover but you need this job. Even if it isn't much. It's a small independent shop that sells candles, lotions, and random nicknacks. You're not really sure what to call it.

You hang up and go into the backroom and grab your coat. It's not the best. A sherpa thing you go used at the Good Will. Your boots are a couple years old and you can tell. You wear three pairs of socks just to keep your toes from hurting as bad.

You pull on your thin gloves and grab the shovel. You approach the front door and gaze through the glass. Look at it! You'll be lucky if you don't get lost.

You go to push through the door. You have to shove your shoulder into it just to get outside as the wind blows angrily. The door slams behind you and you plant the shovel into the thick snow as you look around. Ugh, where do you even begin?

This time of year is always too much. Who decided the holidays needed to be in the middle of winter? It's not fair, but life just isn't.

You scoop up the snow bit by bit. Your muscles ache as you try to heave into out of the way but as the powder builds, it's only more and more difficult to do so. As you final get clear of the door, you look back and see a new blanket of white. It doesn't matter, you'll be outside all night if you try to keep it clean.

You work your way across the store front as the sky continues to dim. It never really got light as the sun stayed hidden in the clouds. You put your head down against the swirling flakes and you grip the shovel tight. You groan and grunt each time you lift it.

"Now what they got you out here doing all this for?" A grizzly voice draws your head up and you bat your lashes as snow catches in them. You stare up at the burly man in his heavy brown coat and black toque. His beard is sparkling with flakes.

"Um, I... work in there," you nod to the store. "Gotta make sure people can get in."

"Y'all should be at home," he tuts.

"It's just me," you shrug.

"That's a shame. Damn big shame," he shakes his head, "lady like you shouldn't be out here in the cold."

"Well, it's my job, I guess," you say.

"Here," he puts his hand on the handle of the shovel, "you go in. Get warm."

"Oh, no, I couldn't--"

"Do you know what my mother would do if she knew I just walked on by a little lady like you struggling in the snow?" He argues.

"I... thank you, that's too kind. But, you probably have somewhere to be."

"I'm just walking," he assures you. "I like the snow."

"Oh, right, uh..." you let go of the shovel reluctantly. "Thanks, I... I feel bad."

"Don't. I feel bad seein' ya shiver your nose off. Go on."

You scrunch up your mouth guiltily and push your shoulders up. You back away step by step as you stare at him. It's been a while since you met a single person who wasn't demanding or just downright rude. Maybe holiday cheer isn't dead.

You retreat inside with a sheepish smile and let out a brr as the door swings shut behind you. You rub your hands together then peel of the wet gloves. You tuck them into your pocket and unzip your jacket. You go to the back room and chew your lip.

You're not the Christmassy type or whatever other special occasions are going on. You hate it all. It's too shiny and loud. Too greedy the way people will argue over something as simple as a three-wick candle or face scrub.

What family you do have aren't very cozy. You haven't talked to either of your parents in two years and your sister never really answers your texts. It's just you and it isn't so bad. Other people just make things complicated. Without them, you have the control.

You put your things away and tramp back out to the till. You can see the snow flying through the windows. The man effortlessly throws chunks of it out of his way. Somehow, he looks even bigger from there.

You feel awkward, especially with no one else around. You go to a shelf to distract yourself, turning the jarred candles label out to appear busy. The bell above the door jingles and you look over your shoulder at the man. He pauses before he enters to shake the shovel off then leans it against the wall.

He looks around as you retreat from the candle display and watch him. There’s not much for him here. You’re sure he’ll be off soon enough. He rubs his hands together then strips off his mitts. He slips them into his pockets and gives a curious glance over the table of bath bombs and salts.

“You know,” he brushes his fingers over his beard so some of the melting snow falls away, “I’m looking for a gift.”

“Oh? Well, we have lots here,” you keep your distance. You’re not sure you believe him. He’s probably just humouring you. “Thanks again for shoveling. You know, you don’t have to stick around. Actually...” you peer through the windows again, “should probably head out sooner than later.”

“I got time,” he argues. “She’s real pretty. Girl I’m buyin’ for. So she probably wants somethin’ smells pretty too.”

“Right, uh...” you twist your fist around a finger. You might as well get a single sale. It’s more than you hoped for. “We have some nice seasonal candles. Apple crisp, or candy cane, oh, the fruitcake is kind nice.”

“You like candles?” He asks.

“Sometimes. I don’t get the big ones.”

“Ah,” he comes closer and you make room for him to browse. He picks up a smaller one and sniffs it. It looks tiny in his beefy hand. All of him sticks out among the dainty aesthetic of the boutique. “Mm, caramel brulee.”

He reads the side and his eyes scan the shelves again, “what else do you like? Think maybe you know best.”

“Oh, um, I...” you have to stop yourself from saying you don’t shop here. It’s too expensive. You get the discounts on dupes down at the mall. “Bath bombs are popular right now. Especially these snowflake ones. Oh and, we sell hot chocolate bombs. Those are edibles, these ones aren’t.”

You point to the table as you pass him. He follows. You laugh nervously at your own lame joke.

“Makes sense. I like hot chocolate. It’s the perfect weather for it, huh?”

“Yeah, it is,” you agree.

He comes to stand beside you as you gesture to the merchandise. You’re not used to that. The rare customer is a bit oblivious to physical space but more often they stay around the other side of the table. He’s right there.

“Face masks too. It could be a little self-care kit if you wanted,” you suggest.

“Mm, it does sound nice,” he says. “You think it’s a good present?”

“Well, I get paid to sell this stuff,” you shrug, “but yeah, it’s hot bath season.”

“Makes sense,” he nods.

You step back and give him space. He hums and circles the table as you go back to the counter. You check your phone. *Extreme Weather Warning*. You should call Gloria back and let her know. If the county says you should go home, you’ll insist on doing so.

“Cherry blossom or... vanilla coconut?” The man asks.

“Hm, vanilla,” you smile at him then quickly look at your phone again. You type out a text to Gloria.

He surprises you as he approaches and puts down a selection of items. The candle, a few bombs, some face masks, a shampoo bar, one of the little lotion and balm kits, and a spa headband. It’s a lot and it’s all very cute.

“Think that’s good, don’t you?” He asks.

“I think so,” you scan each item. “A very special lady indeed.”

“Sure is,” he taps his fingers on the counter as his eyes bore into you. “I’m Sy, by the way...” he reads your name tag aloud and you’re surprised until you remember you’re wearing it.

“Sy,” you repeat back. “Need a bag? Sorry, we’re all out of wrap or I’d offer that.”

“Bag is just fine, think my girl’s easy to please. She appreciates the simple things,” he grins and grips the edge of the counter.

“Alright,” you unfold a paper bag and gently place the items inside. “I hope likes it all. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Me too,” he takes out his card and swipes.

The machine dings and the receipt prints. You tear it off and hand it over, sliding the bag across the counter. He takes the slip of paper but leaves the purchase as it is.

“Um, did I forget something?” You search the countertop, worried something rolled away.

“It’s for my lady,” he gently nudges the bag back across the counter.

“What?” You frown, confused.

“S’for you, sugar. So you can warm up tonight.”

“Tonight? Sir--”

“Sy,” he insists, “best get home before the storm gets worse.” He turns to look out the windows. “No one coming out in this. Might as well close down.”

“Sy, this is very nice of you but I’m fine. My boss wants the store open--”

“Your boss?” He turns back to you and tilts his head, “ain’t a good one if they aren’t thinking about you gettin’ home safe.” He stares you down and looms over the counter, “’sides, a lady’s only boss is her man. So you go get your coat and things and we’ll be off.”

“Sy, that’s... that’s not—I'm not your lady--”

“Not?” He narrows his eyes. “I know you ain’t got another man, you wouldn’t be here if ya did.”

“I-- no—but--”

“You come with me or I stay,” he crosses his arms and leans his elbows on the counter. He plumes a snarl out of his nose, “up to you, but you’re not goin’ out in this alone, sweet thing. Need me there to dig ya out, don’t you?”

You flinch and shake your head, “I don’t-- I don’t know you--”

“Sure ya do, I’m Sy,” he grins. “And I know you. You’re the most pretty girl I ever seen.”

You stare at him. He’s as formidable as the heaps of snow building outside the shop. As dangerous as the patches of ice forming on the road. He is a storm in man’s clothes. He’ll bowl you over just as easily as those winds.

Just like the blizzard blowing in the street, you can’t escape him.

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x readaer #sand castle #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #december daze #navy and roo's sleepover

210 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

Text

Cleantech has an enshittification problem

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

EVs won't save the planet. Ultimately, the material bill for billions of individual vehicles and the unavoidable geometry of more cars-more traffic-more roads-greater distances-more cars dictate that the future of our cities and planet requires public transit – lots of it.

But no matter how much public transit we install, there's always going to be some personal vehicles on the road, and not just bikes, ebikes and scooters. Between deliveries, accessibility, and stubbornly low-density regions, there's going to be a lot of cars, vans and trucks on the road for the foreseeable future, and these should be electric.

Beyond that irreducible minimum of personal vehicles, there's the fact that individuals can't install their own public transit system; in places that lack the political will or means to create working transit, EVs are a way for people to significantly reduce their personal emissions.

In policy circles, EV adoption is treated as a logistical and financial issue, so governments have focused on making EVs affordable and increasing the density of charging stations. As an EV owner, I can affirm that affordability and logistics were important concerns when we were shopping for a car.

But there's a third EV problem that is almost entirely off policy radar: enshittification.

An EV is a rolling computer in a fancy case with a squishy person inside of it. While this can sound scary, there are lots of cool implications for this. For example, your EV could download your local power company's tariff schedule and preferentially charge itself when the rates are lowest; they could also coordinate with the utility to reduce charging when loads are peaking. You can start them with your phone. Your repair technician can run extensive remote diagnostics on them and help you solve many problems from the road. New features can be delivered over the air.

That's just for starters, but there's so much more in the future. After all, the signal virtue of a digital computer is its flexibility. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing complete, universal, Von Neumann machine, which can run every valid program. If a feature is computationally tractable – from automated parallel parking to advanced collision prevention – it can run on a car.

The problem is that this digital flexibility presents a moral hazard to EV manufacturers. EVs are designed to make any kind of unauthorized, owner-selected modification into an IP rights violation ("IP" in this case is "any law that lets me control the conduct of my customers or competitors"):

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

EVs are also designed so that the manufacturer can unilaterally exert control over them or alter their operation. EVs – even more than conventional vehicles – are designed to be remotely killswitched in order to help manufacturers and dealers pressure people into paying their car notes on time:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

Manufacturers can reach into your car and change how much of your battery you can access:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

They can lock your car and have it send its location to a repo man, then greet him by blinking its lights, honking its horn, and pulling out of its parking space:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

And of course, they can detect when you've asked independent mechanic to service your car and then punish you by degrading its functionality:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2024/06/26/two-of-eight-claims-in-tesla-anti-trust-lawsuit-will-move-forward/

This is "twiddling" – unilaterally and irreversibly altering the functionality of a product or service, secure in the knowledge that IP law will prevent anyone from twiddling back by restoring the gadget to a preferred configuration:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

The thing is, for an EV, twiddling is the best case scenario. As bad as it is for the company that made your EV to change how it works whenever they feel like picking your pocket, that's infinitely preferable to the manufacturer going bankrupt and bricking your car.

That's what just happened to owners of Fisker EVs, cars that cost $40-70k. Cars are long-term purchases. An EV should last 12-20 years, or even longer if you pay to swap the battery pack. Fisker was founded in 2016 and shipped its first Ocean SUV in 2023. The company is now bankrupt:

https://insideevs.com/news/723669/fisker-inc-bankruptcy-chapter-11-official/

Fisker called its vehicles "software-based cars" and they weren't kidding. Without continuous software updates and server access, those Fisker Ocean SUVs are turning into bricks. What's more, the company designed the car from the ground up to make any kind of independent service and support into a felony, by wrapping the whole thing in overlapping layers of IP. That means that no one can step in with a module that jailbreaks the Fisker and drops in an alternative firmware that will keep the fleet rolling.

This is the third EV risk – not just finance, not just charger infrastructure, but the possibility that any whizzy, cool new EV company will go bust and brick your $70k cleantech investment, irreversibly transforming your car into 5,500 lb worth of e-waste.

This confers a huge advantage onto the big automakers like VW, Kia, Ford, etc. Tesla gets a pass, too, because it achieved critical mass before people started to wise up to the risk of twiddling and bricking. If you're making a serious investment in a product you expect to use for 20 years, are you really gonna buy it from a two-year old startup with six months' capital in the bank?

The incumbency advantage here means that the big automakers won't have any reason to sink a lot of money into R&D, because they won't have to worry about hungry startups with cool new ideas eating their lunches. They can maintain the cozy cartel that has seen cars stagnate for decades, with the majority of "innovation" taking the form of shitty, extractive and ill-starred ideas like touchscreen controls and an accelerator pedal that you have to rent by the month:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

Put that way, it's clear that this isn't an EV problem, it's a cleantech problem. Cleantech has all the problems of EVs: it requires a large capital expenditure, it will be "smart," and it is expected to last for decades. That's rooftop solar, heat-pumps, smart thermostat sensor arrays, and home storage batteries.

And just as with EVs, policymakers have focused on infrastructure and affordability without paying any attention to the enshittification risks. Your rooftop solar will likely be controlled via a Solaredge box – a terrible technology that stops working if it can't reach the internet for a protracted period (that's right, your home solar stops working if the grid fails!).

I found this out the hard way during the covid lockdowns, when Solaredge terminated its 3G cellular contract and notified me that I would have to replace the modem in my system or it would stop working. This was at the height of the supply-chain crisis and there was a long waiting list for any replacement modems, with wifi cards (that used your home internet rather than a cellular connection) completely sold out for most of a year.

There are good reasons to connect rooftop solar arrays to the internet – it's not just so that Solaredge can enshittify my service. Solar arrays that coordinate with the grid can make it much easier and safer to manage a grid that was designed for centralized power production and is being retrofitted for distributed generation, one roof at a time.

But when the imperatives of extraction and efficiency go to war, extraction always wins. After all, the Solaredge system is already in place and solar installers are largely ignorant of, and indifferent to, the reasons that a homeowner might want to directly control and monitor their system via local controls that don't roundtrip through the cloud.

Somewhere in the hindbrain of any prospective solar purchaser is the experience with bricked and enshittified "smart" gadgets, and the knowledge that anything they buy from a cool startup with lots of great ideas for improving production, monitoring, and/or costs poses the risk of having your 20 year investment bricked after just a few years – and, thanks to the extractive imperative, no one will be able to step in and restore your ex-solar array to good working order.

I make the majority of my living from books, which means that my pay is very "lumpy" – I get large sums when I publish a book and very little in between. For many years, I've used these payments to make big purchases, rather than financing them over long periods where I can't predict my income. We've used my book payments to put in solar, then an induction stove, then a battery. We used one to buy out the lease on our EV. And just a month ago, we used the money from my upcoming Enshittification book to put in a heat pump (with enough left over to pay for a pair of long-overdue cataract surgeries, scheduled for the fall).

When we started shopping for heat pumps, it was clear that this was a very exciting sector. First of all, heat pumps are kind of magic, so efficient and effective it's almost surreal. But beyond the basic tech – which has been around since the late 1940s – there is a vast ferment of cool digital features coming from exciting and innovative startups.

By nature, I'm the kid of person who likes these digital features. I started out as a computer programmer, and while I haven't written production code since the previous millennium, I've been in and around the tech industry for my whole adult life. But when it came time to buy a heat-pump – an investment that I expected to last for 20 years or more – there was no way I was going to buy one of these cool new digitally enhanced pumps, no matter how much the reviewers loved them. Sure, they'd work well, but it's precisely because I'm so knowledgeable about high tech that I could see that they would fail very, very badly.

You may think EVs are bullshit, and they are – though there will always be room for some personal vehicles, and it's better for people in transit deserts to drive EVs than gas-guzzlers. You may think rooftop solar is a dead-end and be all-in on utility scale solar (I think we need both, especially given the grid-disrupting extreme climate events on our horizon). But there's still a wide range of cleantech – induction tops, heat pumps, smart thermostats – that are capital intensive, have a long duty cycle, and have good reasons to be digitized and networked.

Take home storage batteries: your utility can push its rate card to your battery every time they change their prices, and your battery can use that information to decide when to let your house tap into the grid, and when to switch over to powering your home with the solar you've stored up during the day. This is a very old and proven pattern in tech: the old Fidonet BBS network used a version of this, with each BBS timing its calls to other nodes to coincide with the cheapest long-distance rates, so that messages for distant systems could be passed on:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FidoNet

Cleantech is a very dynamic sector, even if its triumphs are largely unheralded. There's a quiet revolution underway in generation, storage and transmission of renewable power, and a complimentary revolution in power-consumption in vehicles and homes:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

But cleantech is too important to leave to the incumbents, who are addicted to enshittification and planned obsolescence. These giant, financialized firms lack the discipline and culture to make products that have the features – and cost savings – to make them appealing to the very wide range of buyers who must transition as soon as possible, for the sake of the very planet.

It's not enough for our policymakers to focus on financing and infrastructure barriers to cleantech adoption. We also need a policy-level response to enshittification.

Ideally, every cleantech device would be designed so that it was impossible to enshittify – which would also make it impossible to brick:

Based on free software (best), or with source code escrowed with a trustee who must release the code if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

All patents in a royalty-free patent-pool (best); or in a trust that will release them into a royalty-free pool if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

No parts-pairing or other DRM permitted (best); or with parts-pairing utilities available to all parties on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best);

All diagnostic and error codes in the public domain, with all codes in the clear within the device (best); or with decoding utilities available on demand to all comers on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best).

There's an obvious business objection to this: it will reduce investment in innovative cleantech because investors will perceive these restrictions as limits on the expected profits of their portfolio companies. It's true: these measures are designed to prevent rent-extraction and other enshittificatory practices by cleantech companies, and to the extent that investors are counting on enshittification rents, this might prevent them from investing.

But that has to be balanced against the way that a general prohibition on enshittificatory practices will inspire consumer confidence in innovative and novel cleantech products, because buyers will know that their investments will be protected over the whole expected lifespan of the product, even if the startup goes bust (nearly every startup goes bust). These measures mean that a company with a cool product will have a much larger customer-base to sell to. Those additional sales more than offset the loss of expected revenue from cheating and screwing your customers by twiddling them to death.

There's also an obvious legal objection to this: creating these policies will require a huge amount of action from Congress and the executive branch, a whole whack of new rules and laws to make them happen, and each will attract court-challenges.

That's also true, though it shouldn't stop us from trying to get legal reforms. As a matter of public policy, it's terrible and fucked up that companies can enshittify the things we buy and leave us with no remedy.

However, we don't have to wait for legal reform to make this work. We can take a shortcut with procurement – the things governments buy with public money. The feds, the states and localities buy a lot of cleantech: for public facilities, for public housing, for public use. Prudent public policy dictates that governments should refuse to buy any tech unless it is designed to be enshittification-resistant.

This is an old and honorable tradition in policymaking. Lincoln insisted that the rifles he bought for the Union Army come with interoperable tooling and ammo, for obvious reasons. No one wants to be the Commander in Chief who shows up on the battlefield and says, "Sorry, boys, war's postponed, our sole supplier decided to stop making ammunition."

By creating a market for enshittification-proof cleantech, governments can ensure that the public always has the option of buying an EV that can't be bricked even if the maker goes bust, a heat-pump whose digital features can be replaced or maintained by a third party of your choosing, a solar controller that coordinates with the grid in ways that serve their owners – not the manufacturers' shareholders.

We're going to have to change a lot to survive the coming years. Sure, there's a lot of scary ways that things can go wrong, but there's plenty about our world that should change, and plenty of ways those changes could be for the better. It's not enough for policymakers to focus on ensuring that we can afford to buy whatever badly thought-through, extractive tech the biggest companies want to foist on us – we also need a focus on making cleantech fit for purpose, truly smart, reliable and resilient.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/26/unplanned-obsolescence/#better-micetraps

Image: 臺灣古寫真上色 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Raid_on_Kagi_City_1945.jpg

Grendelkhan (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ground_mounted_solar_panels.gk.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

429 notes · View notes

fima11 · 5 months ago

Note

YOUR ART IS SO CUTE AUGH…….. love the way u draw scarabia it makes my heart go 💗💗💗💗💗💗

I am curious if you have any Scarabia HCs… mayhaps Jamikali HCs?

Thank you!!! <333333

tbh I don't have many headcanons for Scarabia, but imo that's the chillest dorm, even with all the parties. Like, have you seen their dormitory? I wouldn't act up if I lived in a comfy place like that too.

But jamikali. Uhhhh

this is my own sort of turkish palace tv drama. More under the cut. It's gonna be long.

I like to imagine their relationship developing after a nice piece of timeskip (despite most certainly having feelings for each other in college), when they finally learn how it is to live apart from each other, growing out of their destructive behaviors at least for a bit.

My main headcanon and maybe the most delusional one that Kalim would mature up with time, getting more independent when Jamil leaves, though without losing his canonic positivity - in fact just growing up.

While Jamil learns how is it to be simplier and less demanding towards other and himself, traveling alone, not setting down anywhrre for too long. Though the main thing is that they cannot in fact forget each other, and break the attachment despite getting used to each other's absence, and their feelings finally getting some particular shape - and it's impossible to fully let go, no matter how hard they (mostly Jamil) try ;)

I rarely think of a particular reasons that could bring Jamil back to Asim household, though I have one little au concerning this matter which includes long distance between them with no communication, and even some kids, so I may share it one day. so I just keep it on the level of flat concept - Jamil returns after traveling, to either serve again or for Viper family matters.

I love to imagine Jamil's confusion and shyness at the sight of even more confident Kalim after a period of being apart from each other, and Kalim being happy to finally make Jamil look at him differently, which he consciously or subconsciously has been keeping as a goal all the time.

For some reasons I feel like Kalim would take lead in their relationship because he seems bolder to me when it comes to making decisions - Kalim just knows what he wants :/

So it's a hard for Jamil to process all the non-casual compliments, gifts and obvious advances (but not rejecting them, still afraid of his own feelings), just like in this post. Under these circumstances I believe Kalim is the one who attached the most, just because I love crazy devotion and loyalty :P (and Jamil is too used to lie to himself to admit his attachment aloud.)

It's a strange concept, but mostly it's just a huge headcanon I always keep in my head when I draw them - an emotional bond that just won't break, no matter if there's distance, time or silence between them.

It's hard for me to imagine them trying each other out during college years - too many predicaments and prejudices, they are too used to each other, and for their relationahip to work out they both need time to emotionaly mature up and... just have a rest from each other.

Anyway loving them endlessly.

it would be easier to just list the goddamn headcanons but I always talk too much I am so sorry

#ask #anon #also Kalim gives the craziest fairytale romance book prince compliments ever and Jamil unironically enjoys them. he told me himself #also I think Kalim can't keep his hands to himself and always seeks physical contact #and Jamil gets crazy flustered by it just because he is Jamil and he probably can't react normally on anything #I hope that makes some sense #art #sketch #jamikali #kalijami #TYSM ANON <3333333 #no normal illustrations but a lot of text again #well I guess that's what blog's for #twst #twisted wonderland #scarabia

406 notes · View notes

angelremnants · 2 months ago

Text

Heat Waves l J. B. Barnes

PART THREE.⠀FADING IN THE HEAT OF YOU

summary : After years of manipulation by Hydra, Bucky Barnes must find his place in a world that has long moved on without him. With you, an independent and unwavering agent by his side, he reluctantly embarks on a transformative journey of recovery in Wakanda. Amid the kingdom's vibrant culture, your connection to Bucky deepens as he confronts personal demons and embrace the healing process. Bucky learns to welcome the warmth of new beginnings, understanding that even after winter's cold grip, the sun can shine through. Inspired by Heat Waves by Glass Animals.

pairing : James ''Bucky'' Barnes x f!reader

warnings : Mature (18+—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT), trauma recovery, emotional tension, mild angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, explicit sexual content, graphic descriptions, pwp (porn with plot—lot of it actually), oral sex (female receiving), unprotected penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it!), praise/degradation kink, creampie, mutual orgasms, soft dom!bucky/sub!reader, strong language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 21.4k

author's notes : Here we are at the final part of this piece! Despite the horrendous headache I earned from spending way too much time staring at my laptop, it truly has been a blast writing this. For my fellow horny adult readers, here's a little treat to end this chaotic year on a good note—of course, it is mandatory to read the first two parts to understand the context of the following chapter.

Minors, it's not for nothing that I ended the last part on their kiss; please do not engage with this post and be mindful of what you choose to consume on the internet.

Once again, wishing you all a Happy New Year and nothing but amazing things for 2025! With this, I’m officially signing off from writing for the year. It's been an amazing first month here; thank you for all of the constant love and support, dear readers, and I hope to see you soon—next year, probably. :p

(ao3 version)

The days in Wakanda passed in a tranquil rhythm, starkly contrasting to the chaos that had defined much of Bucky Barnes’ life—the relentless missions, the disorienting bursts of violence, and the weight of a mind that was never fully his own. The serenity was almost disarming here, a world away from the harsh clang of metal restraints or the suffocating darkness of Hydra’s labs. The Vibranium-powered chamber, nestled within the heart of Shuri’s state-of-the-art lab, became a sanctuary of sorts. The air was tinged with a faint metallic scent, mixed with the earthy undertones of the herbs Shuri kept in small jars nearby. A soft, rhythmic hum filled the space, blending seamlessly with the occasional chirp of holographic interfaces. The walls shimmered with subtle hues of blue and gold, their glow casting intricate shadows on the sleek, obsidian floors. Touching the chamber’s surface revealed a surprising warmth, a testament to the dynamic energy harnessed for healing. It was a marvel of Wakandan brilliance—walls glowing faintly with soft hues of blue and gold as the nanotechnology worked tirelessly to stabilize Bucky’s brain activity. The hum of advanced machinery was oddly soothing, a constant reminder of the healing taking place within.

You accompanied him daily, sitting quietly on a sleek chair Shuri had graciously provided. She often teased you about your devotion and, more recently, had been ecstatic upon finally hearing what had transpired between you and Bucky. Her teasing was relentless, but there was an unmistakable warmth behind her words, a genuine happiness for the bond you were building. The moments in the chamber were both heavy and hopeful. The technology was doing its job, methodically erasing the remnants of Hydra’s mental conditioning. Still, progress was not without its challenges.

Bucky sat in the center of the chamber, his expression neutral but his fingers twitching ever so slightly. The faint glow of Vibranium circuits danced along his temples, tracing patterns that seemed almost alive. Despite his stoic demeanor, you could see the strain etched in his features—his jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his neck taut with tension. His fingers twitched restlessly against his thighs, and every so often, his brows would knit together in a fleeting moment of anguish that he couldn’t entirely suppress—signs of an internal battle raging just beneath the surface.

“You okay in there?” you asked softly, your voice barely breaking the quiet hum of the room. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees as you studied him.

His eyes flickered open, the piercing blue momentarily dulled by exhaustion. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice low and rough. “Just... takes some getting used to.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” you said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. It earned you the faintest curve of his lips—a victory in itself.

As the treatments progressed, Hydra’s influence faded bit by bit, but the process was not without its setbacks. There were days when fragments of his past would resurface—flashes of missions, orders barked in harsh tones, and the cold detachment of the Winter Soldier. On those days, he was quieter, his silence heavy with unspoken pain. You knew better than to push him, but you also refused to let him face it alone.

When the sessions ended, you would walk together back to your room. The atmosphere during these walks often shifted—sometimes quiet and contemplative, with the two of you lost in your thoughts, and other times filled with light conversation, your voices carrying softly in the cool Wakandan air. On rare occasions, you’d catch him smirking at one of your quips, a fleeting glimpse of the man he was becoming, unburdened by the past. It had become a shared space over time, a place where he felt safe enough to let his guard down. The bed was a modest size, but neither of you minded the closeness. On good nights, you’d lie tangled together, his arm draped over your waist as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. Small kisses were exchanged—gentle and unhurried, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you shared.

One night, as the glow of the moon filtered through the sheer curtains, you turned to face him. His eyes were closed, but you could tell he was awake. “Penny for your thoughts?” you asked, your voice a soft murmur.

He cracked one eye open, a hint of amusement flickering in his gaze. “They’re not worth that much.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, nudging him lightly. “I’ll even throw in a nickel.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and for a moment, the tension that so often clung to him seemed to dissipate. He cracked an eye open, giving you a small, playful smirk. “It’s a secret.”

“A secret, huh?” you raised an eyebrow. “You can’t keep secrets from me. You know that, right?”

“Oh, I think I can,” he shot back, his voice low and teasing. “It’s one of those ‘too dangerous to know’ things.”

You snorted. “Dangerous? You’re telling me you—the super soldier who fought Nazis and got cryogenically frozen—have a secret too dangerous for me?”

He gave you a wink, and you couldn’t help but giggle. “Alright, maybe it’s not dangerous. Just… weird.”

“Now I’m curious,” you said, leaning in. “Tell me, or I’ll take the nearest pillow and suffocate you with it.”

He sighed dramatically, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Fine. I was just thinking how weird it is to be here with you. To feel... I don’t know, normal for once. Not like the guy who’s been stuck in the past, just... me.” He shifted a little, his gaze growing soft. “Feels nice. Kinda like it that I can be more than just a weapon.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “Bucky, you’ve always been more. You were never just that guy. You’re this guy,” you said, tapping his chest lightly with your finger. “The one I’m hanging out with right now. The one with way too many cute smiles and a bit of a dorky side.”

“Dorky?” He raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a highly trained, super soldier with zero dorkiness. I’m all edge.”

You snorted, reaching out to poke his side. “Uh-huh. Totally no dorkiness. Zero. Zip. Nada.” You grinned as he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Seriously though,” you said softly, “You’ve always been more than that. And you deserve everything. Even if it’s just hanging out with me, doing absolutely nothing but being adorable.”

His face softened, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe what you were saying. “How do you do that? Make me feel like I actually deserve this?”

You leaned in close, your noses almost brushing as you whispered, “Because you do, Bucky. You really do.”

Before either of you could say anything more, you couldn’t resist. You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing his in a soft, teasing kiss. It started gentle, just the lightest touch, both of you savoring the moment like you were testing the waters, but his lips were warm and inviting, making it impossible to pull away. The kiss deepened slightly, and you felt the heat grow between you, soft and steady, as you moved closer to each other.

His hand gently cradled the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. You melted into his touch, your own hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. You both pulled each other closer, a quiet giggle escaping from you as his lips were soft and gentle but full of a quiet hunger. His kiss was slow, deliberate, as if he was trying to savor every second, and you did the same, taking your time as you enjoyed the sweet closeness.

When you finally pulled away, your lips tingling from the kiss, you both exhaled in unison, breathless. Your foreheads touched, and you closed your eyes for a moment, just basking in the quiet intimacy.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire but still that familiar playfulness in it, “you’re making this very hard to resist.”

You smiled, still a little dizzy from the kiss, and giggled softly. “I’m not trying to make it hard, but I’m not complaining if you’re enjoying it.”

He chuckled softly, eyes darkening with something more. “You’re trouble.”

“Good trouble, I hope,” you whispered, your voice low and playful, your lips brushing over his again in another gentle kiss.

His grip on you tightened, the playful softness quickly giving way to something far more desperate, more urgent. This time, there was no teasing—only the raw, unspoken need between you. His kiss grew hungrier, his lips pressing harder against yours, as though he couldn’t get enough, as though he was trying to pull you inside him. His hand slid down your back, cupping your waist and tugging you closer, the heat between you building with every movement. The tension snapped, and the kiss became frantic, your bodies instinctively responding to each other. You felt every inch of him against you, the pulse of his heartbeat matching the erratic thrum of your own.

You eagerly matched his pace, your hands threading into his hair, tugging him closer, your bodies so pressed together you felt like you might melt into one another. He groaned softly, the sound low and thick with need, and you felt a shiver of desire race through your body in response, your pulse quickening, heart pounding in your chest. His lips moved against yours in a way that made your head spin—delicious, dizzying. His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, making you arch into him, your body reacting to each touch like it was the first. The air between you was thick with heat, your breaths shallow, as if neither of you could catch your breath long enough to slow down.

His hands moved lower, his fingers gently brushing along the silky straps of your pajamas, his thumb lightly grazing over the delicate laces of the top. He tugged softly at the string, teasing it with gentle pressure, his fingers brushing your skin, sending a jolt of warmth through you. It felt like he was trying to strip away the barriers between you, his touch slow and deliberate, each movement sending a shiver of anticipation through your body.

His hands slid to your waist, tugging you even closer, and you could feel his chest rise and fall with each ragged breath. The heat from his body pressed against you, making you feel like you were burning alive in the best way possible. The kiss deepened once more, more urgent now, your lips parting as you both gasped, the desperation for more building, an almost frantic need to feel every part of each other. Your tongues met in a frantic, eager dance, tasting and exploring as if the world around you had vanished. All that mattered was the overwhelming sensation of his lips, his body, the way his touch made your skin tingle with every inch of contact.

The room around you seemed to fade away entirely, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the undeniable pull of his body. Every shift of his hands, every soft groan, every caress made your own body ache, and you pressed even closer, feeling him everywhere. You felt him hard against you, the desire between you so palpable it was almost suffocating, but in the best way possible.

Finally, when you pulled away, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath, you both stayed close, foreheads resting against each other, completely breathless. The world was spinning, and your hearts were thundering in your chests as you tried to find some semblance of control.

He blinked, still a little dazed. “Well, that wasn’t dangerous at all.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, your lips curling into a grin. “You looked pretty dangerous there for a second.”

He snorted, the warmth of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m always dangerous,” he said, but there was a playfulness in his voice now.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Dangerous, but still a dork.” You tucked yourself under his arm, letting him pull you close. “I’m not complaining though. You’re my dangerous, dorky soldier.”

“You’re lucky I like you enough to endure being called a dork,” he muttered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I’m the lucky one?” you teased, poking his chest. “I think you’re the one who’s lucky, getting to be my dork.”

And with that, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer as you snuggled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you like a protective cocoon. His embrace was grounding and comforting, the kind of closeness that made everything else in the world feel insignificant. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, each thud a soft, reassuring reminder that he was here, with you, in this moment. It was the perfect lullaby—a steady, familiar sound that eased the lingering tension in your muscles and settled the storm in your mind.

As you lay there, tangled together, the quiet of the room seemed to stretch around you, the outside world no longer exists. The soft rustle of the sheets, the faint hum of the air around you—it was all drowned out by the feeling of his arms around you, his warmth sinking into your skin. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the motion soothing and rhythmic, syncing with your own as you relax deeper into him.

Moments like these, simple and unassuming, felt like everything. The rush of emotions, the heated exchanges, the tender kisses—all of that had led here, to this fragile, perfect stillness. Nothing had to be said; there was no need for words when everything you needed was already here, in the quiet intimacy between you. You could feel the gentle weight of his body against yours, the way he was holding you as if he never wanted to let go, and it made your heart swell with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room.

In that space, time didn’t matter. The worries, the fears, and the complications of life all faded into the background, swept away by the gentle closeness of your bodies and the connection you shared. The comfort of his presence made you feel safe, like you could face anything as long as you had him by your side. The world could be falling apart outside, and it wouldn’t matter, because, in this moment, everything was just right.

As you nestled deeper into him, you could feel his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your back, the tenderness of the gesture sending a ripple of warmth through you. You smiled softly, not needing to say a word, just enjoying the simplicity of being here with him, knowing that no matter what the future held, this—this moment—was enough. The peace you felt in his arms was more than just physical; it was emotional, something deeper that neither of you had to speak aloud to understand.

For now, you don’t need anything more. Just this—just him—was everything.

⠀

The sun had set, casting the room in a soft, dim light. The gentle hum of the Vibranium chamber’s machinery was the only sound, a comforting presence that usually helped Bucky unwind. But tonight, the air felt heavy, thick with something unspoken. Bucky had been quieter than usual—more withdrawn. Your room felt colder somehow, despite the warmth of the lights.

Finally, you found him sitting in front of his mirror, his eyes locked onto the new arm Shuri had designed for him. It was sleek and polished, almost flawless—a work of engineering genius. But as you watched him, you could see something deeper in his gaze, something unsettling. There was no joy in his eyes, no relief, just an unmistakable unease that twisted his features. The arm—meant to be a symbol of progress, a new beginning—felt like a foreign object in his hands. It wasn’t part of him yet.

His fingers traced the cool surface of the metal, like he was trying to understand it, maybe even willing it to feel like it belonged. But his expression was far from peaceful. His lips were drawn tight, his jaw set, like he was fighting something deep within himself. His old arm—the one that had been corrupted by Hydra, the one that had caused him so much pain—sat beside him on the table, abandoned and broken. It was rusty, its edges chipped and scarred, a stark contrast to the sleek, polished new design beside it.

You leaned against the doorframe, your gaze lingering on him, but you didn’t rush in. His assigned room always felt so foreign to you; like a place too hallowed for you to penetrate in it. You knew Bucky had his moments of solitude, and though it was often hard to watch him retreat, you had learned to give him space when he needed it. But this time was different.

Normally, when he retreated into himself like this, you’d hear from him in a few hours—just a quick text or a call, a simple ‘I’m okay’ or ‘I’ll be back soon.’ It was his way of checking in, of making sure you knew he wasn’t disappearing into the darkness for good. But today… today had been different.

The entire day had passed without a single word from him. You’d checked in, and tried to give him some time to process whatever it was that had him on edge. But as the hours ticked by, that familiar knot of worry began to tighten in your chest. When he didn’t reach out by midday, you started to feel the unease settling in, creeping into the back of your mind. By the time the sun started to dip behind the horizon, the silence felt deafening.

You tried to shake it off, tried to convince yourself that he just needed more time. But now, standing in the doorway, watching him sit there as though lost in thought, you knew something had shifted inside of him. It wasn’t just the arm—it was more than that. It was like the weight of his past had caught up with him all at once, and he couldn’t escape it. He wasn’t just holding onto the broken arm. He was holding onto everything it represented: the missions, the manipulation, the memories of bloodshed and betrayal. And now that he was faced with a new, clean slate, it was too much. Too overwhelming.

You stepped into the room quietly, taking a deep breath before speaking, but your voice felt unsteady. "Bucky?"

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers continued to trace the arm absentmindedly, like he was trying to feel something—anything—that would make it real. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his head lifted slightly, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if to shake off the thoughts that had been consuming him.

"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice tight, the words coming out clipped and distant.

But you knew that tone, the one that was just a little too flat, just a little too guarded. The tone he used when he was shutting everyone out. And you could feel the walls going up before your eyes, higher and faster than ever before.

"You’ve been distant all day, Buck’," you said softly, but with an edge that you couldn’t suppress. "You didn’t give me any sign of life. It’s not like you. And now this…" You gestured toward the arm, your heart heavy. "You’re not fine. You’re avoiding something, and I think you know it."

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze was still locked on the new arm, but now, it seemed like he wasn’t seeing it at all. His mind had drifted somewhere else, somewhere darker. His silence only deepened the worry that had been building in your chest all day.

“Hey…” you pressed, taking a step closer, your voice softer now. “I get it. I do. This… this isn’t just about the arm, is it?”

Finally, his eyes met yours. But instead of the usual warmth or the flicker of his familiar, sardonic smile, there was nothing. Just emptiness. He was holding onto something, and it was suffocating him.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly, a vulnerability you rarely saw in him. "I can’t just let go of it. It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s… it’s all I am."

You felt your heart ache for him, but the frustration simmered just below the surface. You couldn’t let him do this again. You couldn’t let him spiral back into the darkness.

"Yes, you can," you replied firmly, your voice unwavering. “You are not just limited to big muscles and a metal arm. You are Bucky Barnes, sacred White Wolf by the royal Wakandan family. You don’t have to carry the past with you. Not anymore.”

He flinched at your words, his brow furrowing in pain, but you didn’t back down. "You’re letting your past control you. It’s all you’ve known, all you’ve remembered, but it doesn’t have to be all you are. You’ve fought so hard to get here, James. Don’t throw that away just because you’re scared of who you’ll be without it.”

He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away, shut you out completely. But he didn’t. His eyes were filled with pain, his fists clenched at his sides as if holding onto something—something deep inside him—that he couldn’t let go of.

"You don’t understand," he muttered, his voice strained. "You don’t know what it’s like to be nothing without it. To be this… broken thing, struggling to hold it together. I don’t even know who I am anymore."

You took a step forward, meeting his gaze with a fire of your own. “I do understand,” you shot back, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension. “I’ve been there too, James. I’ve had to fight my own demons, too. But you don’t get to hide behind them. Not anymore.”

He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling with every shallow breath, and you could see the war raging inside him. He was so damn close to breaking, so close to letting go of everything that had been keeping him from healing. But you couldn’t let him. Not now.

"You’ve been through hell," you continued, taking another step closer. "But it doesn’t have to be your excuse to keep living in it. Not when you have the chance to get out of it. And if you keep holding onto your old identity, if you keep letting it define you, then that’s all you’re ever going to be."

His jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he might lash out, the frustration and pain in his eyes threatening to spill over. But instead, he sank back into the chair, his gaze dropping to the floor. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to face it.

“Bucky…” you breathed, your voice gentler now but still firm. "I’m not asking you to forget your past, but you have to let it go. You can’t keep holding onto the weight of it. You’ve carried it for so long, but it’s destroying you."

He was quiet for a long time, his head hanging low, his hands gripping the armrest like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. You could see his struggle, could feel it radiating off of him, but you weren’t going to back down.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly, but with a strength that only made him flinch harder. “I’m here. But I won’t watch you drown in this. You don’t have to do this alone. But I need you to let me help.”

You could feel the tension in the room thickening, the weight of Bucky’s silence pressing down on both of you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his eyes cast downward, his jaw clenched, as if he were trying to suppress the storm inside him. The words you had said earlier—words of hope, of strength—hung in the air between you both, unanswered. And despite your best intentions, you could see it in his eyes: nothing was getting through to him right now.

He was retreating inward, walling himself off from everything and everyone.

It was a painful realization. You could tell that pushing him any further at this moment would only send him deeper into that dark, quiet space. You could see the pain and frustration building in his chest, the way his breath came in short, shallow bursts as if he were holding onto something. He was barely there, barely present. He was a soldier still fighting his war inside his head.

You wanted so badly to reach him. To break through, to remind him of the man he was, the man he could still be. But at that moment, you knew that forcing the conversation further wasn’t going to do either of you any good.

“James…” you whispered softly, your voice barely audible, your heart breaking at the sight of him so far away. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

He didn’t respond, and you could feel the frustration bubbling under your skin, but you forced it down. Instead, you took a deep breath, your gaze softening, your mind racing. He needed space, but not isolation.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” you insisted, your voice quieter, gentler now. “You need time to process this, I get that. But I’m not leaving you alone. Not this time.”

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. It was the same withdrawal, the same pattern he’d fallen into so many times before. The same fear of being a burden, of pushing everyone away.

You stepped back a little, taking a breath before speaking again. “I’ll be in the hot springs if you want to talk. I’m not leaving. But I won’t force you to say anything before you’re ready.”

You made your way toward the door, your eyes lingering on him for just a moment. There was a part of you that wanted to stay, to keep pressing, to tell him how much you cared, how much you hated seeing him like this. But you also knew that pushing him now would only make things worse.

“I’ll be there when you’re ready,” you said one last time, voice steady but laden with emotion. “Just… please don’t shut me out. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. But you could feel the weight of his pain, the quiet struggle within him. It was clear he wasn’t ready to talk, but the ache of the silence between you was unbearable.

You walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind you, but you didn’t walk far. You stayed just outside, leaning against the wall. You wouldn’t give him more space than he needed, but you also wouldn’t let him slip away into the shadows again. Not tonight.

You would wait for him. And when he was ready—when he decided to talk—you would be there. Even if it took time.

⠀

Bucky couldn’t shake the feeling of unease, the gnawing discomfort in his chest that only seemed to deepen the more he thought about the new arm, about the memories that rushed in uninvited. His fingers still felt like they were brushing against the old, corrupted one, the weight of it lingering in his mind like a specter.

He needed to move. Needed to feel his muscles burn, to get lost in the motion until he didn’t feel the weight of everything pressing down on him. So, he found himself heading to the training room, the soft hum of the facility an almost soothing contrast to the turbulence in his mind.

The room was empty except for a few training dummies and equipment. Bucky didn’t bother with the warm-up. He started immediately, hitting the punching bag with a series of calculated strikes, his focus entirely on the rhythm of his fists meeting the bag. The training room was almost too quiet, save for the dull thud of Bucky’s fists slamming into the punching bag. His body was drenched in sweat, his muscles aching with the relentless repetition. He wasn’t here to perfect his technique; he was here to escape. The rhythmic pounding was all he could focus on, the only thing that helped drown out the memories clawing at the back of his mind. Each strike was like an attempt to knock them away, but no matter how hard he hit, they always came back.

His new arm—the one Shuri had designed for him—felt wrong in his grasp. It was sleek, smooth, and polished, a cutting-edge piece of technology meant to represent his chance at a fresh start. But every time his metal fingers tightened, all he felt was emptiness. The weight of it was there, yes, but it wasn’t the same weight that had always been with him. The Winter Soldier’s arm had been a part of him, a constant reminder of the life he’d led, the things he’d done, and the man he’d become because of it. This new one—this shiny, clean prosthetic—felt like an alien extension of himself, like something else he had to learn to control. And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like something he could trust.

With every punch, the frustration built. His muscles burned and his breaths came in sharp gasps, but it wasn’t enough. He was trying to outrun the ghosts of his past, the shadows that lingered even in the light. The memories of the Winter Soldier, of the pain he had inflicted, of the people he’d hurt—they were always there, just beneath the surface. No matter how much he tried to ignore them, they were waiting for him. And tonight, they felt louder, more insistent.

The bag swayed from his last punch, and his new arm slammed into it again. But this time, something felt off. He felt a sharp pang in his shoulder, then a light grinding sound. His gaze snapped down, eyes widening when he saw the small metal shard fall to the floor.

"Damn it," he muttered, flexing his fingers. His heart dropped into his stomach as the reality hit him. The arm wasn’t just unfamiliar. It was already falling apart.

He stepped back, pulling his arm away from the bag, and his eyes flicked to the broken pieces scattered across the floor. It felt like the final straw. The thing he’d hoped would be a symbol of his redemption, the key to moving forward, was now a reminder of how little control he had over his own life. His fists clenched, and his breath quickened as the frustration boiled over.

“Damn it,” he growled again, slamming his arm against the wall. The loud crash reverberated through the room, and a jolt of pain shot up his arm as the pieces rattled.

His mind was a blur. Why couldn’t this just be easier? Why couldn’t he just accept that he was allowed to heal? He looked down at the arm again, the new, clean metal reflecting the harsh light. The Winter Soldier’s arm had been worn and chipped, like him. It had scars, a history—his history. But this new arm was pristine, unmarked, and it felt like it didn’t belong to him at all. It was too perfect, too far removed from the chaos of his life.

I’m not that man anymore, he thought bitterly. I can’t be.

But then, a deeper part of him whispered something darker. What if you still are? What if the real you is just a mask, and you can’t outrun what you’ve done? The voice echoed in his mind like a chilling reminder. He didn’t know who he was anymore. He’d spent so much time buried in the shadows, pretending to be something he wasn’t, that he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be him.

The silence in the room stretched, and he stood there, looking at the arm like it was something he couldn’t comprehend. He tried to move it again, flexing his fingers, but the weight felt all wrong. It was like trying to wear someone else’s skin.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories that were surfacing once again—the violence, the bloodshed, the whispers of Hydra calling him “Soldier.” His fists clenched harder, and for a moment, he thought he might throw the arm across the room just to feel something again. Something that wasn’t this emptiness gnawing at him.

And then he heard a voice, calm and teasing, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

From the doorway, a voice broke through the tension like a crack of sunlight through storm clouds. “You’ve got quite the temper, White Boy.”

Bucky’s body tensed, and he snapped his head toward the door, only to find Shuri leaning casually against the frame. Her arms were crossed, and her gaze was fixed on the broken pieces of his vibranium arm scattered across the floor.

“I could hear you all the way in my lab,” she said, her tone teasing but light. “I thought maybe you were wrestling a rhino. But no, you’re just here throwing a tantrum. Very dignified.”

“Not in the mood, Shuri,” Bucky muttered, his voice low and taut. He turned away, crouching to collect a twisted piece of vibranium.

“Oh, really? Because it sure looks like you’re in the mood for breaking things,” she quipped, ignoring his obvious dismissal as she stepped into the room. Her sharp gaze landed on him, assessing. “You’ve been stomping around like an elephant all day, and now you’re trashing my tech? I should charge you for this. Vibranium doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

Bucky huffed, irritation flashing across his features as he stood, clutching a broken panel in his hand. “It’s not just the arm,” he muttered. His voice dropped as he added, “It’s everything.”

Shuri arched an eyebrow. “Everything? You mean the global crisis, the existential dread, or the fact that you haven’t really laughed in approximately 84 years?”

He shot her a look, but she continued unfazed, stepping closer. Her teasing tone softened just slightly, enough to convey she wasn’t entirely joking. “You think destroying the arm I built for you is going to fix ‘everything’? Hate to break it to you, but vibranium isn’t a substitute for therapy.”

He bent down to pick up a piece of his shattered arm, his movements stiff and deliberate. “It’s not just the arm,” he repeated quietly, his voice strained. “It’s everything. I’m not who I used to be, but I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be either.”

Shuri tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of exasperation and something softer. “It’s just a tool, Soldier. It’s not a chain. It doesn’t define you any more than your past does.” She crouched next to him, taking the piece from his hand with practiced ease and examining it. “But you—you’re holding onto all that weight like it’s part of you. That’s the problem.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s not that simple.”

“Oh, but it is,” she replied, crouching down to examine the broken piece in her hand. “Simple doesn’t mean easy, though. Trust me, I’ve met plenty of stubborn people—T’Challa included—and you’re giving them all a run for their money.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension between them easing slightly as Shuri adjusted the mechanisms in the damaged arm with precise, practiced movements. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer but still unwavering. “In Wakanda, we say, ‘The river does not stop flowing because the stones are heavy.’ You’ve been carrying those stones for too long. Let them go. The river keeps moving. So should you.”

He swallowed hard, her words striking a chord somewhere deep inside him. “It’s not just me,” he said quietly, the words heavy with guilt. “I’ve hurt her, Shuri. I keep pushing her away, and I don’t even know how to stop.”

Shuri straightened, placing his arm back into its rightful place on his body. Her gaze softened, but her tone remained firm. “Well, you’re not pushing her away because you want to. You’re doing it because you’re scared. Scared of letting her see the parts of yourself you still haven’t forgiven. But that’s not fair to her—or you.”

He shook his head, the self-doubt tightening around him like a noose. “I’m not good enough for her. She deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Shuri’s eyes narrowed, and she placed her hands on her hips, her posture radiating authority. “Stop it,” she said sharply. “You’re not a machine, Barnes. You’re the White Wolf. A brother.” Her voice softened as she added, “To us.”

That made him look at her, his expression caught between disbelief and gratitude. Slowly, he stood and turned toward her.

She looked at him again, an expression of affection mixed with irritation. “Now go find her before I start charging you rent for all this moping around. You’ll figure it out. Just don’t wait too long, you might lose your chance.”

Bucky stood there for a moment, torn between the self-doubt that had plagued him for years and the glimmer of hope that maybe—just maybe—he could get it right.

He finally exhaled, feeling a little more grounded than he had in days. “Thanks, Shuri,” he said, his voice quieter, softer than usual.

She grinned, the familiar, teasing glint returning to her eyes. “I know, I’m amazing.” She patted him on the shoulder, giving him a look that was both playful and a little bit of a challenge. “But next time, don’t break anything. That’s my job.”

He smirked back, feeling a flicker of his old self return. “I’ll try to keep my punches to the punching bag next time.”

After a brief hesitation, Bucky raised his right arm across his chest in the Wakandan salute, his other fist resting over his heart. The motion wasn’t rushed; it carried weight, respect, and a silent acknowledgment of everything Shuri and Wakanda had done for him. “Thank you... for everything.”

Shuri’s expression softened, her usual teasing replaced by a rare warmth. After a moment, she mirrored the gesture, her fists crossing her chest as she gave him a nod. “Always, White Wolf.”

As he turned to leave, Shuri called after him, her grin back in full force. “And Barnes? If I find out you two are sneaking around breaking more things, don’t come crying to me when the Dora finds out.”

He smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

She shrugged, her tone mock-innocent. “What can I say? I’m rooting for chaos.”

She added a moment later, “Also, please burn everything you two touch when you’re done, I don’t want any germs to spread around.”

“Oh go milk a goat, princess.”

⠀

The roar of the quad echoed against the trees, the sound tearing through the stillness of the Wakandan evening. Bucky leaned into the curves of the dirt path, the wind tugging at his hair and brushing against his skin. For the first time in years, he felt… free. There was no mission, no orders, no lurking specter of his past to weigh him down. It was just him, the open trail, and the quiet promise of finding you at the end of it.

The sky above blazed in shades of gold, orange, and deep lavender, the sun dipping low to kiss the horizon. The air smelled of earth and blossoms, cool and fresh as he neared the edge of the springs. He slowed the bike, eventually stopping at a rocky clearing. Cutting the engine, he swung his leg over the seat and glanced around, catching sight of faint steam rising in the distance.

The hot springs looked like they belonged in another world—hidden by tall, jagged rocks and lush greenery, with clear, crystalline water reflecting the fiery hues of the sky. Steam curled lazily above the surface, mingling with the golden light of the setting sun. The soft sound of water trickling over smooth stones mixed with the gentle rustle of leaves. It was a sanctuary, untouched and serene.

Bucky stepped closer, boots crunching softly on the gravel. That’s when he spotted you.

You were partially submerged, your back to him, the warm water lapping at your shoulders as the steam swirled around you. Your hair clung to your damp skin, the curve of your neck illuminated in the fading light. You hadn’t noticed him yet, lost in your own world. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure if he should interrupt. But then, his boot scraped against a stone, the sound startling you.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, and let out a small yelp. “Bucky!” you exclaimed, water splashing as you shifted to face him. “You scared me, idiot!”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to. Thought you’d hear me coming.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the corners of your lips twitched. “You stomp around like a cat burglar and expect me to notice?”

Before he could respond, you scooped a handful of water and flung it at him. He flinched, the cold droplets splashing across his face and shirt. “Hey!” he protested, laughter creeping into his voice.

“Serves you right!” you shot back, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He crouched at the edge of the spring, cupped his hand, and sent a wave of water your way. You shrieked, diving to avoid the worst of it but laughing as droplets hit your arms. The brief, playful battle continued until you both surrendered, your chest heaving from laughter and his smile softer now, lingering as he watched you.

Eventually, you swam to a shallow corner, leaning back against a smooth rock. You looked up at him, the teasing fading into something quieter. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, then with a wry smirk, he shrugged off his jacket and boots. He stood there for a moment, eyeing the water, before pulling off the rest of his clothes, leaving only his pants. “Well, I don’t usually make a habit of getting into hot springs with people, but,” he raised an eyebrow, “this seems like a good exception.”

He stepped into the warm water, the heat soothing his stiff muscles almost immediately. The spring was a natural wonder, the water bubbling gently around them, steam rising in soft curls into the evening air. It felt like a small piece of paradise, the perfect end to a long ride.

“Comfy?” you asked, your voice soft, a teasing hint in it. You leaned back, resting your arms on the stone edges, your fingers trailing lazily through the water.

Bucky sank into the water beside you, his eyes drifting over the lush, serene landscape. “More like 'just what the doctor ordered,'" he muttered, a relaxed smile spreading across his face. "Should’ve joined you sooner."

“You had to take your sweet time,” you teased, a playful glint in your eye. “What’s that old saying? Better late than never?”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “If I were you, I’d be glad I showed up at all, dove. Wouldn’t want you to get lonely, right?”

Your eyes flickered over to him with a smirk. “Oh, I can handle being alone. I’ve spent enough time by myself to know how to make the best of it.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back against the rock, allowing the water to envelop him. “And how’s that working out for you? Trying to find peace in the middle of all this chaos?”

For a while, you both didn’t speak, the silence comfortable as the golden light dimmed into twilight. It was you who broke the stillness first. “You didn’t have to come looking for me, you know. I know I proposed it to you, but you could’ve just waited for me back there.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze on the rippling water. “I know. But I needed to get out of my head. And… I wanted to be with you.”

You nodded in comprehension, regarding him while holding a certain warm glint in your eyes that was only reserved for him. Silence was king again, only battling its place with the sound of water rippling around them. The peaceful surroundings almost seemed at odds with the weight of the conversation, but Bucky could tell it wasn’t just the air that had gotten heavier.

You were quiet for a moment, glancing up at the sky as if considering his question. “It’s not easy, by the way,” you said softly as he looked at you in a questioning manner. “Finding peace in the chaos. But... it’s better than the alternative.”

“The alternative being what? Pushing everything down and pretending it’s all fine?” He asked with a raised brow, clearly skeptical.

“Isn’t that what we all do, at least a little?” You turned toward him then, your voice steady. “We all try to convince ourselves we’re okay when we’re not.”

There was a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. A recognition. “I know that feeling.” His tone was low, quieter than it had been before. The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the steam swirling around.

He looked down at the water, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure what was going on inside his head, but you could feel the shift in the atmosphere. There was a weight to the silence, something shared but unspoken.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck on a loop, you know?" Bucky's voice was low, rougher than usual. "I keep thinking I can outrun the stuff I’ve done, but it never works. It just keeps catching up with me, no matter how fast I try to go."

You let his words hang in the air, taking a moment to think. The weight of his admission wasn't lost on you, but you knew better than to rush in. After a long pause, you spoke softly, but with purpose. "You don’t have to outrun it, Bucky. You don't have to keep pretending it’s not there." You turned toward him, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that almost felt like an anchor. "The only way forward is through it. It won’t go away just because you avoid it."

Bucky exhaled slowly, as though the weight of his thoughts had finally found a crack. A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. "Great. So now I’m supposed to just... accept being a walking disaster, huh?"

You chuckled, though it was light. "Well, I did tell you once that you were a work in progress, right? Like my suitcase that I was unpacking," you teased, but your tone was softer now. "This is the same thing. You can’t face your fears head-on, it takes time. Doesn’t mean you’re stuck with them forever either."

Bucky let out a small snort, shaking his head. "So I’m just like your suitcase, huh? Full of emotional baggage and in desperate need of unpacking?"

He smirked, but the playful edge was gone, replaced by a quiet sincerity. "Guess that makes me a little less scary, huh? If I’m just another project in your life." He leaned back slightly, his fingers skimming the water’s surface. "But I get it. It’s not about forcing myself to be something I’m not. It’s just... finding a way to live with all of it."

Unable to resist the pull of him, the rawness of his words grounding you, you slowly moved from your place in the water, your legs brushing against his as you slid into his lap, facing him. You rested your hands gently on his shoulders, a quiet comfort you hoped he’d feel as much as hear.

"You're not a project, James," you said, your voice calm but firm, making sure he understood. "Not some thing to fix or unpack. You’re a person. You’ve always been more than whatever anyone else has tried to define you as." You held his gaze, your fingertips grazing lightly along his shoulder, warmth and reassurance radiating through your touch.

"I’ve seen you," you continued, your voice softening but not lessening in conviction. "And I’ve seen you fight. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Not just physically... but emotionally. Mentally. You’re not broken, you’re just... learning how to heal."

He looked down, a faint laugh escaping him. "Learning how to heal, huh? Sounds like you’re writing a self-help book." He glanced up at you, a smirk dancing on his lips, but it didn’t hide the flicker of something deeper in his eyes.

"Maybe I should," you said with a smile, your hands still gently massaging the muscles of his shoulders. "But seriously... You’ve done things. Things you’ll never be able to undo. But that doesn’t make you less of a person."

Bucky’s eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as your words sank in. He let out a deep breath, his voice quieter now. "I don’t know if I’ll ever really be... free of it. Not completely. Not the way you’re free."

You hesitated, your fingers pausing mid-motion as the silence between you deepened. The weight of his admission settled around both of you. "I don't think anyone's ever truly free of their past. I’m not," you said carefully. "I still think about everything that happened to me from time to time. It’s inevitable, like Mother Nature every thirty days of the month,” you let out a small laugh at your comparison before sobering up, “But I remember that I’m in a better place, surrounded by better people; just like you are, and just like you should."

He looked up at you again, the vulnerability in his eyes making his usual guarded demeanor seem so far away. "I don’t want to hurt you," he muttered, his hands coming up to rest gently on your waist.

"You won’t," you assured him, your voice barely above a whisper. You slid your hands down his arms, taking a steadying breath before continuing. "I’m not afraid of what you’ve been. I’m... here, because of who you are now."

His hands tightened on your waist, his eyes searching yours. "And who am I now?" His question was soft, almost a plea for reassurance.

You gently smiled as you leaned in closer, your chest resting lightly against his. "You’re someone who is trying. Who wants to be better—to do better. Someone who’s been through hell and still has the strength to stand up. And most importantly, you are whoever you decide to be. That’s who you are."

Your heart thrud at the closeness, and you looked at him with affection. "Remember when you fixed my watch?" you asked quietly. "I couldn’t do it. I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t fix it. And then you showed up. And just like that, you fixed it for me. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to."

Bucky’s expression softened. He didn’t answer immediately, just watching you, as though absorbing your words.

"You didn’t need to fix the watch," you murmured, your fingers mindlessly tracing his biceps in a comforting manner. "It was perfect already, even when it was broken. I would’ve still worn it, because I love it. It’s been with me for so long." You took a slow breath, gathering your thoughts. "But you fixing it... it gave it new life. Now it’s working as it should. But either way, I would have cherished it, no matter its state."

You looked up at him, your eyes steady and sincere. "My point is, you’ve never been broken, James. Not like you think. You’ve always been someone worth fighting for. Whether or not you’re still battling with your faults, you’re someone worth having in life. And I—" you hesitated, your voice catching slightly as your heart fluttered in your chest. You could feel the weight of the moment, the vulnerability of the words you were about to share. "We love you either way. All we want is your well-being and for you to be able to enjoy life... normally."

Bucky froze, his breath catching in his throat as your words settled around him, heavy and real. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat feeling louder, faster. It was as though the world around him had stilled, his thoughts racing even faster than his pulse. He could’ve sworn he heard you almost say something else. The almost I love you had hung in the air for just a moment, lingering in the space between you, almost like a secret you hadn't even realized you were about to share.

His gaze locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, his expression unreadable as he took a tentative step closer. The distance between you felt like a chasm, even though you were standing just feet apart. "You… you said 'we love you,'" he repeated softly, his voice almost trembling as he tasted the words, his heart soaring at the sound of them. "But—" His voice faltered for a second, the vulnerability creeping into his tone. "Did you mean it? The love part?"

You swallowed, feeling the tension in the air thicken like a tangible weight, and your heart skipped a beat. The way he was looking at you, with hope and uncertainty swirling in his dark eyes, made your chest tighten. You nodded slowly, almost as if to reassure both him and yourself, the depth of your feelings suddenly rising to the surface. "I do," you said, your voice quiet but steady, though you could feel the tremor in it. "I meant it. You’re loved, Bucky. By me. By all of us."

Bucky’s expression softened, but there was something more there now, something raw and unguarded, like a window had opened to a part of him he hadn’t let anyone see in a long time. His breath was uneven, but his eyes never left yours, as if searching for something he hadn't known was there. He took another step closer, and you could feel the heat from his body now, the closeness almost suffocating but comforting in the same breath. "Say it again," he whispered, his voice low, barely a rasp. "I need to hear you say it... for me."

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his request, a nervous flutter of emotion stirring inside you. You didn’t hesitate, not this time. "We love you, Bucky," you said, your voice barely above a whisper but full of sincerity. Your lips felt dry, but you licked them briefly before continuing. The words felt real now, like a promise. "You’re so much more than you think."

He closed his eyes for a moment, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he let the words wash over him. You could hear him breathe out a silent sigh, his chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you had just shared. When he opened his eyes again, they were darker, more intense. His gaze was fixed on you with such depth that it felt as though he could see straight through you. "No," he said softly, shaking his head, the words almost a plea. "Say it for yourself, for you. Say it the way you feel it—just I."

Your heart raced even faster at the way he asked, with such raw sincerity and quiet desperation that you could almost feel it in your bones. You smiled softly, your breath catching in your throat, your body suddenly alive with the emotions you’d kept hidden. You nodded, feeling the air between you shift as you finally spoke the words you’d been holding back.

"I love you, Bucky," you said again, the words feeling easier this time, flowing from you with a newfound certainty. The tension that had knotted in your chest loosened as the truth settled into the space between you both. "I love you for who you are, all of you."

Bucky’s eyes softened even more, and it was as if something inside him unraveled, like a thousand little walls he'd built up were slowly crumbling. His breath caught, and for a brief moment, he didn’t know whether to smile or to just hold you and never let go. But there was still something more he needed—still an ache that wasn’t quite satisfied.

"One more time," he urged, his voice low and tender now, a softness that you hadn’t heard before. "Say it for you, please."

Your chest tightened, your pulse quickening once more, but this time, there was no hesitation. The warmth of the moment—the sincerity of his need—was too much to hold back. You laughed softly, a sound of pure happiness, as the words came so naturally, like they had always been there, just waiting for the right time.

"I love you, James Buchanan Barnes," you whispered, your heart feeling full in your chest, the weight of it all pressing down gently but with great significance. "You’re worth loving, and you always have been."

Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity of his gaze making your pulse race even faster. His face softened, the tension in his jaw easing as a smile tugged at his lips. "God," he whispered, his voice barely audible now, a mixture of awe and relief. "That’s all I needed to hear. You have no idea how much that means to me."

You laughed again, a joyous sound that filled the room, and in that moment, everything felt right. For the first time, it wasn’t just the weight of his past, or your past, that filled the space—it was hope. Real, raw, shared hope, woven together by the truth of your words and the vulnerability of this moment.

Bucky stepped closer, his hand moving gently to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your skin as if memorizing the feel of it. "I’ve waited so long to hear that," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You’ve no idea how much you’ve healed me already, just by saying those words."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours.

The air was thick with tension, the steam from the hot spring rising around you like an enveloping fog, as your lips finally met his. It was different this time—so much more intense, raw, and consuming than any kiss you had shared before. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer as your body pressed against his chest, your heart pounding in your ears. The warmth of the water surrounded you both, but it did nothing to ease the heat building between you.

Bucky groaned against your lips, his hands gripping your waist as if he needed something solid to anchor him. The feel of your body so close to his sent shockwaves through him, stirring something deep inside that he had buried for far too long. His fingers dug into your skin, not painfully, but with a desperation that mirrored the intensity of his emotions. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, racing, as if he was finally allowing himself to surrender to the moment.

As the kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with a fierceness you hadn’t expected, but it felt right. He was more than just the man you had been comforting; he was a man who had finally allowed himself to feel, to let go. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entry, and you parted your mouth for him, letting him explore. His taste was intoxicating, his scent even more so—the mingling of the hot spring water with the natural musk of his skin.

You couldn’t help but moan softly into the kiss as he pulled you further onto his lap, your legs straddling his hips, the heat of his body and the water surrounding you making you feel dizzy. The closeness, the sheer intimacy, made everything else fade away. There was nothing in the world except for you two, wrapped in each other’s arms. His hands slid up your back to your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tugging you closer, if that was even possible.

Your body pressed fully against his, the water around you barely enough to hide the way your bodies aligned. You could feel the tautness of his muscles beneath his shirt, the strength in his grip, and the hardness of him against your hips, sending a rush of heat straight to your core. Bucky’s lips trailed down your jaw, leaving a trail of soft kisses, before his mouth found the sensitive spot on your neck. He kissed you there with a hunger that made you gasp, his teeth grazing your skin before sinking in just enough to mark you, a soft bite that sent a shock of pleasure straight through you.

You arched into him, gasping as the sting of the bite faded, leaving behind a heated throb that pulsed between your legs. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer as his lips moved from your neck to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire, and his words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hands slid from his shoulders down to his chest, fingertips grazing the hard muscles beneath the fabric, urging him closer, wanting more. His own hands moved lower, tracing the line of your spine, before dipping to your hips, gripping them firmly and guiding you against him, making you feel every inch of his body as he shifted beneath you. The water around you sloshed with each movement, the heat of the spring adding to the fevered temperature between you both.

Bucky pulled away slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. His lips were swollen, and his eyes were dark with desire, but there was something else in them too—a vulnerability that took you by surprise. "I need you," he muttered, his voice raw, as he ran his hands down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before moving to the soft skin of your thighs. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

The confession made your heart race, your body trembling with the intensity of his words. You leaned down, pressing your lips to his again, deeper this time, your hands sliding beneath his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. The sensation of his muscles flexing under your touch, the way he responded to your every movement, made your head spin.

You kissed him again, this time with a tenderness that matched the rawness of the moment, before moving down to his neck, your lips trailing over the tender skin there, finding the spot where his pulse raced just beneath the surface. His grip tightened around you, pulling you even closer, his teeth sinking gently into your shoulder as he groaned your name, the sound low and throaty, like a plea for more.

The heat of the moment continued to rise, and you could feel yourself losing control, caught in the wave of passion that surged between you and Bucky. His hands were everywhere—caressing, exploring, pulling you closer, never once letting go. His lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made you gasp, your body arching into him as if it couldn’t get close enough.

But amidst the chaos of it all, you felt a pull to reality—a sense of practicality trying to claw its way through the haze of desire. You pulled away slightly, gasping for breath, and your fingers brushed against his chest, trying to make him pause, but he wouldn’t. “James…” you managed to whisper, your voice shaky from the intensity of everything. “We should head back, we’re—”

His lips were on yours again before you could finish the sentence, devouring you in a kiss so intense, you couldn’t remember what you’d been trying to say. His hands slid lower on your back, pressing you even closer as he kissed you with a ferocity that took your breath away.

“No,” Bucky’s voice was a soft growl against your lips, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you firmly in place. “Not yet. I want to enjoy this a little longer. Just... just a bit more.” His words were barely more than a whisper, but the conviction behind them made your pulse spike. His mouth found the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth scraping lightly over your skin, making your body tremble in response.

You tried to pull away again, trying to ground yourself, to remember the outside world. “But we’ve been out here too long, James—” Your protest was interrupted as he pulled you back into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands slipping beneath the water to press you more firmly against him. The heat of his body, the way he moved with you, was more than you could resist.

His lips broke from yours for a split second, just enough for him to look into your eyes, his expression fierce with an emotion you hadn’t seen before—desire, yes, but something more. “I’m not ready to go back yet,” he whispered, his hands sliding to your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there. “I want to stay here. I want to savor this... savor you.”

His words were like a spell, wrapping around you, making you forget about everything else but him and this moment. Your body was already responding to him, the closeness, the warmth, the way his lips trailed over your skin, biting gently in all the right places. You wanted to protest again, to make sense of everything, but his hands were firm on you, coaxing you to surrender to the moment, to give in to the sensation of being with him in this way.

“I want all of you,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse with desire, and you couldn’t deny the pull. You didn’t want to leave either—not just yet.

His lips were everywhere—on your neck, your jaw, your lips. The heat from the water around you only amplified the heat that was building between your bodies. You could feel his heart racing, his pulse quickening, as he pulled you even closer, his hands roaming over your back, gripping you with a desperation that matched your own. Every touch, every movement, sent a jolt of electricity through you, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter anymore. It was just you and Bucky, the water, the heat, the closeness.

But as his lips moved to your collarbone, your heart raced, and your mind screamed to slow down. “James,” you gasped, your hands trembling as they gently rested against his chest, pushing him back slightly. “We... we can’t keep going like this here. We need to stop.”

Bucky paused, his lips still hovering near your skin, his chest rising and falling with the same rapid breath as yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but there was hesitation in his touch, as though he’d heard you but wasn’t ready to let go of the moment. “I know,” he murmured, his voice ragged. “I don’t want to either, but I think… we’ve already crossed a line.” His hands slowly lowered from your back, though he didn’t pull away entirely.

You both sat there for a moment, the sound of your breathing the only thing that filled the space between you, the water gently lapping around you both. The heat was still there, but now it was mixed with a new awareness—an understanding that you needed to pause before things went too far.

“Yeah,” you whispered, looking up at him with wide eyes, your chest still rising and falling rapidly. “We should head back, before we... before we don’t stop.” Your voice was breathless, a little shaky, but the weight of what you were saying hit you both at the same time.

Bucky looked at you, his eyes dark with desire but also with understanding. His fingers brushed a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, a small, almost regretful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re right,” he said softly, the intensity still there, but tempered by something else now. “Let’s go back.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, your foreheads resting gently together as you both tried to steady your breaths. The closeness, the heat between you, was still undeniable, but you knew this was the right decision. The moment had been perfect, but it wasn’t meant to go any further—not yet, at least.

With a deep sigh, you pulled away slowly, the weight of the spring around you feeling suddenly heavier, colder. Bucky moved carefully, making sure you were both stable as he stood up, offering his hand to help you out of the water. His touch was gentle, yet there was still a lingering sense of connection, as though you were both tethered together by something deeper than just desire.

“I guess we should head back before either of us changes our minds,” you said with a soft laugh, trying to break the tension, though your body still thrummed with the echoes of what had just transpired.

Bucky chuckled, though it was softer now, tinged with a hint of amusement. “Yeah, let’s not test our willpower any further.” His hand was warm in yours as he guided you out of the spring, both of you walking back toward the shore in silence, the night air cool against your heated skin.

As you both dressed up, the shared intimacy of the moment lingered, and even though you had stopped before things went too far, there was an unspoken promise between you—one that neither of you needed to say aloud. For now, you were content to simply be with each other, knowing that whatever came next would be something to look forward to in its own time.

⠀

Bucky's quad hummed beneath you as you rode back to the palace, the cool night air brushing against your face. The ride was quiet, save for the low rumble of the engine and the occasional rush of wind. You couldn’t help but notice how tense the atmosphere felt, how his body seemed to stiffen every time you moved a little too much, every time your hands brushed against his back and the wet fabric of his pants. The echoes of the passionate moment you'd just shared were still alive in the air between you, both of you carrying the weight of what had almost happened in the hot spring.

You let your mind wander for a moment, grateful that you’d decided to take that walk to the spring earlier. If you hadn’t, if you’d just taken the vehicle straight there, you would’ve missed the chance to burn off some of that nervous energy, and maybe you would have been less clear-headed about how far things had gone. Your sharp mind had worked in your favor for once.

As you neared the palace, the road began to feel longer, more like an obstacle, the silence in the air stretching between you both. You could feel the muscles in his back and arms shifting beneath your hands as you held onto him, the way he unconsciously tensed, still caught in the pull of your shared kiss. Every moment, every second of the ride, the tension built, and you could sense it from the way his shoulders were tight, his grip on the handlebars firm.

When you finally reached the palace, you didn’t speak, your heart still racing from the closeness you’d just shared. You moved to slide off the bike, instinctively heading toward your apartment, ready to slip into the comfort of your own space, but Bucky’s hand on your wrist stopped you.

"Wait," he said, his voice low, a slight roughness to it. "Come with me."

You turned to face him, surprised by the intensity in his eyes, but there was no hesitation in his expression, only an invitation.

"I... I thought we were going back to my place."

He smirked, a small, teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips, and stepped closer to you, his hand brushing against the small of your back. "Let’s go to mine tonight."

The simple words hung in the air between you, an unspoken understanding passing between the two of you. The tension was thick, but there was something in his eyes that made it impossible to turn down.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you nodded.

Bucky's invitation to his room was not something you had expected. You were used to seeing his stoic and somewhat guarded nature, and the idea of him letting anyone into his personal space was a huge leap. He had always been a man of boundaries, of keeping his emotions and his life hidden away, so to be invited into the very space where he let down his guard, where he was himself, was a startling realization. You knew this was significant.

His apartment had been a sanctuary for him, a place where he could just exist without anyone prying into his past, into the layers of himself he kept hidden. You could see it in the way he moved through the space, a careful tension in his every step. Even the way he approached you now, his gaze softening just a fraction, revealed how much this meant to him. He wanted you to be there, to witness him in his most vulnerable state.

Your initial surprise was quickly replaced by a quiet thrill, a subtle rush that spread through you. You followed him in silence, taking in the unfamiliar yet comforting warmth of his apartment. It felt different from the cold, distant image you’d once had of him. It was his space—quiet, lived-in, but somehow alive in a way you hadn’t expected.

You felt the weight of that hesitation. This wasn’t just any invitation; it was an opening of the door to parts of himself that no one else had seen. The space beyond that door represented everything he kept hidden—his history, his emotions, and his sense of safety. It made your heart race with both surprise and something else, something exciting. You knew this moment wasn’t to be taken lightly.

“C’mon in,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, tinged with uncertainty. He stepped aside, allowing you to pass through the threshold first, though his eyes didn’t leave you, constantly gauging your reaction as if unsure whether this was the right move. The room was dimly lit, a little lived-in but comforting, a far cry from the cold, controlled demeanor he often presented to the world.

You followed him in, the tension palpable between you. He closed the door behind you, a soft click that seemed to echo louder than it actually was. Bucky moved across the room in a way that suggested he was still processing the weight of his own decision. His movements were a little fidgety, his hands occasionally brushing his hair back or adjusting his jacket as if trying to find a sense of calm in this moment of vulnerability.

You took a moment to take in your surroundings, but your thoughts were interrupted when Bucky cleared his throat and turned to face you. His eyes flickered briefly toward the bathroom, and he shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair.

“Uh, you can hit the shower first,” he suggested, his voice unusually soft, as if the request was somehow awkward. He was trying to be polite, to give you space, but you could tell he was still on edge. “I mean, you probably want to… you know. Relax. After tonight. I kinda ruined the purpose of the springs.”

There was an undeniable gentleness in his tone, an openness that wasn’t typical of the Bucky you knew. The small gesture felt like an invitation not just to the shower, but into his world, into a space where he had allowed you in, even if only for a brief moment. You could sense that this wasn’t just a casual offer; it was him trying to make you comfortable, to let you see him, just a little bit more, without the weight of expectations. His fidgeting only highlighted how much this meant to him.

As you stepped into the bathroom, you noticed the smallest details—the familiar scent of his cologne in the air, the slightly rumpled towels, the faint imprint of someone who lived here alone, yet never truly alone. It was a stark contrast to the polished exterior Bucky always presented to the world. And then, off to the side, you spotted it: a small wardrobe tucked into the corner of the bathroom. It was an unexpected but telling detail, a discreet little corner of his private space. The wardrobe wasn’t large, but it was enough for a few essentials—simple shirts, sweatpants, maybe a pair of shorts.

You rifled through the clothes, choosing a shirt that looked comfortable—soft cotton, slightly faded, with the familiar feel of something well-worn. You paused for a moment, then put back on the panties of your swimwear. The top, though simple, felt like a piece of him—just a little more access into his world.

After you showered, the warm water easing away the tension from your muscles, you emerged to find that Bucky had given you the space to refresh without hovering, as if he wanted to ensure you felt welcomed but not intruded upon. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes briefly lifting from the floor to meet yours when you reappeared, his gaze full of unspoken thoughts.

It was then you noticed it—the strawberry chapstick, sitting casually on the bathroom counter. You smiled softly, a warmth spreading through you. He always carried it. The same one you had used countless times, its sweet scent now filling the air as you applied it to your lips. You found it strangely intimate, almost as if you were claiming a piece of him, too. The realization that he carried it with him—just like the little details of his life he kept hidden—made you feel closer to him in a way words couldn’t express.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, everything about the moment felt different—charged in a way you couldn’t quite place, but it was undeniably there. You felt more like yourself, yet more a part of him than you had before. The shirt you wore, his shirt, hung loosely around your frame, carrying his scent, his presence, and the weight of his trust. The fabric wrapped around you like a protective shield, but there was something more intimate about it, something that made your heart beat a little faster.

As you moved back into the room, you could feel the air shift. Bucky, who traded his wet jeans for comfortable sweatpants, immediately eye-tracked your every step as you approached him, and there was a slight hesitation in his gaze as it lingered on the shirt you wore. The way his eyes moved—slowly, deliberately—told you everything you needed to know. His pupils had dilated, and his breath hitched. He seemed to be holding his breath, almost like he didn’t want to make a move, yet the tension between you was palpable.

He let out a soft exhale, the words coming out as a low murmur. “You smell like me,” he said, his voice rough, almost like it wasn’t even meant to be heard. It was a simple statement, but there was a rawness to it, a possessiveness that made your pulse quicken.

Your smile was soft but teasing as you met his gaze. “I guess it’s not so bad, then,” you teased gently, running your fingers through your damp hair. There was a playfulness to your voice, but beneath it, you could feel the warmth building between you two, the same warmth that had been growing since the moment you walked into his room.

Bucky’s lips curled slightly at your words, but there was a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes. He took a slow step toward you, his hands lightly brushing against your arms. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, and he noticed it immediately, his lips twitching in a smile.

“Can’t say I mind it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, as if something had shifted inside him. His hands were gentle, almost reverent as they cupped your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “You’re everything, you know that?”

The tenderness in his voice, the vulnerability that had slipped through, made your heart swell, but before you could respond, his lips brushed lightly against yours. The kiss was sweet at first, soft and careful, as if he were testing the waters. But as his lips moved against yours, something changed. You could feel the intensity building between you both, the undeniable chemistry drawing you in. It wasn’t just passion—it was a raw need to connect, to solidify the bond that had been quietly forming since the moment you met.

When his lips pulled away, his breath was shaky. His eyes searched yours, and it was then you noticed the flicker of something darker in his gaze. He shifted closer, his chest almost touching yours, and his gaze dropped to your lips again.

Then, in a movement that felt both reckless and inevitable, he kissed you again. This time, the kiss was deeper, hungrier. His lips were firm and urgent, demanding, but there was still something tender in it—something that sent your pulse into overdrive.

But it wasn’t just the kiss. As his lips moved against yours, you felt it—a subtle taste of something sweet, something familiar. The hint of strawberry lingered on his lips, and it was a small, but unmistakable sign that you had left your mark on him. The chapstick, the same one you always used, had made its way onto his lips. The sensation, the sweetness of it, broke something inside him. It wasn’t just the taste, it was the fact that you had left a part of yourself with him. It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

He pulled away with a sharp intake of breath, his forehead resting against yours. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer to him. “God, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick with both amusement and something more primal.

You smiled, a soft laugh escaping your lips, but before you could speak, he kissed you again—this time, it was no longer sweet. There was an edge to it, a desperation that you hadn’t felt before. His hands tightened around you, pulling you even closer, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His lips were insistent, almost frantic, as if he were trying to erase the distance between you.

The moment Bucky kissed you again, the air between you seemed to crackle with an intensity that was nearly impossible to ignore. The chemistry that had been building since the first stolen kiss in the hot springs now flooded over you in waves, each touch more urgent, more desperate than the last. His lips pressed against yours with an insistent hunger, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from you for even a second. His hands, which had been gentle before, now gripped you with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. You responded just as fiercely, your hands running through his hair, tugging him closer, wanting more, needing more.

"You're driving me crazy," Bucky muttered between kisses, his voice rough, as if the weight of everything between you had hit him like a tidal wave. "I can’t stop thinking about you. About this. You’re all that’s in my brain."

Every word that came from his lips was a jagged edge, a reflection of the tension and desire that had been steadily building between you both. You smiled against his lips, teasing him, your voice low and seductive as you whispered, “I think you like this loss of control.”

His reaction was immediate. His body tensed beneath you, his grip tightening as though he was trying to anchor himself to reality, but the pull of you—your body against his, the heat between you both—was too much. "God, you're... I don’t even know how you do this to me," he groaned, his voice shaking with desire. He kissed you again, harder this time, his lips moving with an intensity that matched the pounding of your heart.

You felt the shift in him, a kind of desperate need, and you pushed back against him. The momentum of your body pressing into his was enough to have him falling back onto the mattress. You quickly straddled him, your thighs sliding over his as you positioned yourself on top of him, feeling the hard outline of his arousal beneath you. The sensation was intoxicating, a rush of heat that only intensified the ache in your core. You could feel him—his breath quickening, his heart pounding beneath his chest—and you knew that everything between you both had changed.

Bucky’s hands moved up your thighs, stopping just shy of the hem of your shirt, and for a moment, the heat of his touch lingered there, like a promise of what was to come. His eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made your pulse race. He watched you as you moved, his eyes following every motion you made, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if he couldn’t believe you were here, straddling him, so close—too close, yet not close enough.

"I need you so much," He growled, his hands finally reaching the waistband of your panties, his fingers trembling with restraint, as if he was trying desperately to hold on. "I can't wait any longer."

But you weren’t ready to let him rush this. Not yet. Slowly, you slid your body down his, pressing your chest against his as you placed your lips to his ear. "Then don’t," you whispered, your voice husky, taunting. "Don’t wait. Don’t hold back."

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer, his lips crashing into yours once again, the kiss now feverish, urgent. You could feel the tension between you, thick and palpable, as if everything that had been simmering beneath the surface was about to boil over. The sensation of his hands on you—caressing, pulling, guiding you closer—made everything inside you tighten, your body reacting to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. The heat between you both, which had once been confined to the springs, was now multiplied tenfold, and you could feel it in every kiss, every touch, every breath that left your lips.

As Bucky's hands slid under the waistband of your bathing suit’s underwear, pulling it down, the sensation of his clothed skin against yours sent a jolt through you. The vulnerability of it—the fact that you were both shedding the last bit of armor between you—made your heart race even faster. But you didn’t stop him. You let him pull away your swim bottom, your skin now bare against his covered one, and the sensation of his fingertips slowly coming up and grazing over your chest underneath your shirt made you gasp. His touch was possessive but gentle, like he was savoring every inch of you, learning you, mapping you out in ways that only deepened the connection between you.

You responded by pulling his shirt off, your hands slipping over the smooth, taut muscles of his chest, feeling the way he trembled under your touch. His body was just as hard as you remembered, and just as perfect. You could feel his heartbeat underneath your fingertips, the steady rhythm mirroring your own. His breath hitched when you traced the lines of his chest, and for a moment, the world outside of this room no longer existed. There was only the heat between you, the fire that was growing hotter by the second.

"I can’t—I can't stop," Bucky whispered against your lips, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you closer, the need in his voice impossible to ignore. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

You could feel it, though. The way his body reacted to every touch, every press of your skin against his. The way he tensed and shuddered when your lips met his neck, trailing soft, heated kisses down the column of his throat. It was everything—the raw need, the tenderness, the way your body seemed to be in perfect sync with his.

"Let go, baby," you breathed against his skin, your lips brushing over the sensitive skin of his jaw. "You won’t bite. Not unless I want you to."

He let out a soft, strained laugh, the sound full of desire and disbelief. "I think you know I do."

The intensity was mounting. Each breath felt heavier, each touch more urgent, and when you slid your hands lower, to the waistband of his sweatpants, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he helped you, his fingers tracing over the curves of your back, slowly pulling your shirt up in the process with trembling hands. You helped him pull off his pants, the movements slow, deliberate, as you both got closer, the anticipation building to an almost unbearable point.

You moved to kiss him again, the fire between you two finally igniting completely as you pressed your body against his, your lips tasting the faintest hint of strawberry chapstick—an innocent reminder of earlier. It was a small thing, a simple detail, but it was enough to send Bucky spiraling. The sweet, familiar taste of it on your lips was the breaking point for him. He kissed you deeper, harder, the need in him raw, his hands desperate now, pulling you against him as he let go of every last bit of control.

The room was charged with electricity, the air thick with tension, as Bucky looked at you, his gaze dark and predatory. His hands, which had been so careful before, were now eager, exploring the soft curves of your body as if he couldn’t quite believe you were here, in front of him. His eyes traced every inch of you, as though committing your bare skin to memory, and when they finally met yours, you saw the heat there, the raw hunger that burned behind them.

"God, you're stunning," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with a mix of awe and desire.

You didn’t say anything, just let him look, let him admire you in the way that made your pulse race. He wasn’t in a rush, he didn’t want to rush this. His hands lingered on your skin, fingertips grazing over your waist, up your back, trailing over your collarbones and neck. He seemed to take his time, savoring every touch, every inch of your naked skin, as if trying to imprint the feeling of you onto himself.

Then, slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against the delicate skin of your shoulder. The sensation was enough to make you gasp, but what followed took you by surprise—a sharp, teasing nip on the soft flesh of your neck. You shuddered at the sensation, your body responding to him instantly. Bucky pulled back just slightly, watching your reaction as a devilish smile curled on his lips.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice soft and tender, though his eyes betrayed the fire that burned in him. But he was too impatient, he couldn’t wait for an answer and his mouth was immediately back on your skin, trailing down your collarbone, over your chest, as he left another mark—a small bite—just below your breast. You mewled softly, unable to hold back the breathless sounds that escaped your lips. The sensation was both pleasurable and painful in the best way, and it only seemed to fuel his need for you more.

He didn’t stop there, though. As his lips and teeth traveled down your body, each mark he left sent a shock of pleasure through you, each bite more intoxicating than the last. He was claiming you, marking you in a way that left you breathless, your body trembling beneath his touch. His hands were steady, holding you securely as he made you lean back slightly, his strength keeping you from tipping over, anchoring you to him as his mouth moved lower.

"Bucky..." you gasped, your hands trembling as you reached for him, your body arching into his touch. But he didn’t let up, his lips moving with purpose, each bite making your pulse quicken, each mark drawing you closer to the edge.

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot as he moved to your other side, his hands moving to your thighs, squeezing them gently. "I need to see all of you. Need to know you’re mine."

When his lips reached your hip, he paused for a moment, savoring the moment. Then, with careful deliberation, he bit down, slow and purposeful, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped you. The pressure of his teeth on your skin was both deliciously painful and overwhelmingly pleasurable, making you gasp and shudder as the heat between you grew more intense. His grip on you tightened, holding you firmly in place as your body arched into him, craving more of his touch.

You gasped as he trailed his mouth down to your stomach, another bite, this time at your side, just below your ribs. The sensation sent a ripple of desire coursing through you, and you couldn’t hold back the soft mewls that escaped your throat. Your fingers dug into his hair, the pleasure of his touch combined with the intense marks he was leaving on you sending waves of heat flooding through your body.

Bucky’s hands reached the outline of your thighs, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin, and the warmth between you both grew even more intense. His lips didn’t stop their slow trail, leaving heated marks all along your body, each one igniting a fire inside you. His breath was shallow, almost frantic, as he finally pulled away from your skin just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark with need. “Sweetheart, I want—no, I need to taste you. I've never needed anything so bad,” he muttered in a low, urgent tone, the words laced with desperation as he continued to mark you, his mouth finding the soft flesh of your breasts. The intensity of his touch, coupled with his raw hunger, had you gasping in pleasure, unable to suppress the waves of need crashing over you.

Bucky’s teeth grazed your skin again, the sharp sting followed by the deep heat of his kiss. Each bite, each press of his lips sent a shudder of pleasure through you, leaving you gasping and arching against him. Your body was burning with need, each sensation building into something overwhelming. You could barely comprehend the words slipping from his lips as his teeth sank into your skin once more, the intensity of his touch clouding your thoughts. “Please, let me just…” he asked, his voice rough with desire. But the only coherent thought you could form was a soft, breathless protest, “Bucky—I can’t... I’m too heavy...” You barely recognized the words as they left your mouth, but the guilt lingered, even as you felt his hands tighten on your hips, his movements never ceasing, even in the face of your doubt.

Bucky growled at your protest, the sound low and almost animalistic as it rumbled from deep within his chest. He didn’t hesitate, his hands tightening around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly, settling you above him. With a growl, he slid further back into the bed, pulling you along with him until you were completely positioned over him, your sex now mere inches apart from his face. His breath was ragged, his eyes burning with an intensity that had only grown since the moment you’d stepped into his room.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said with a rough voice, filled with both desire and frustration. “I don’t care about that. I'll make you feel so good. I promise I'll be gentle. Let me eat this sweet cunt, let me make you come on my tongue until you're senseless...” His hands traced the curve of your hips, pulling you down ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Let me do what I want,” he pleaded, his lips almost touching yours, the words a desperate whisper. Despite the way his body was reacting, he still waited for your answer, though it was clear he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.

You hesitated for a moment, the intensity of the moment clouding your mind, but then, your initial judgment failed as your eyes caught his that were burning with need, and you finally felt the weight of his words sink in as a shiver passed through you. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you finally nodded, giving in to his demand. The moment you did, his grip on you tightened, and with a low, urgent growl, he surged forward, crashing his lips to your lower ones with a fierce, primal hunger.

As Bucky's hands continued to explore the contours of your body, his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your hips, pulling you closer to him. The warmth of his breath danced across your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your gasp of surprise had barely escaped your lips before it transformed into a moan of pure, unadulterated desire. The sensation of his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin was almost too much to bear, and you felt your body arching towards him, craving more.

His mouth was a masterful instrument, teasing and tantalizing your entrance with gentle, probing kisses. The heat of his tongue as it delved deeper, tasting the very essence of your being, was intoxicating. You could feel your body responding, your muscles tensing and relaxing in a rhythmic dance, as if beckoned by the symphony of sensations he was creating.

Bucky's groan of relief was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through every cell of your body, resonating deep within your core. His words, husky and laced with desire, only served to heighten the anticipation building inside you. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice a gentle caress against your skin.

"Fuck, you smell divine…" The way he spoke, as if savoring each word, each syllable, was a testament to the depth of his arousal. "Gonna taste you on my tongue until you're writhing and shaking above me." It was a vow, a pledge to take you to the very limits of your endurance, to push you to the edge of ecstasy and hold you there, suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. The thought sent a shiver coursing through your veins, and you felt your body begin to tremble, your muscles quivering with anticipation.

Bucky's tongue continued its gentle exploration, you could feel yourself becoming lost in the sensation, your mind fragmenting into a thousand different threads of pleasure. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, and your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, beating out a rhythm that seemed to match the pulsing of your very soul. The sensation was akin to being consumed by a raging inferno, each lick and probe igniting a fire that threatened to incinerate every last shred of your sanity. Your body, a tautly strung instrument, vibrated with an otherworldly energy, as if the very notes of pleasure were being played on your skin like a maestro conducting a symphony of desire.

"Fuck, you're so sweet," Bucky groaned, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers coursing through your veins like a shot of liquid adrenaline. "I could eat you out all day, every day, and never get enough."

As he spoke, his tongue delved deeper, tracing intricate patterns across your skin like a cartographer mapping the uncharted territories of your desire. His words coursed through your veins like a river of pure, unadulterated desire. You felt your body respond, your hips rising off the surface like a supplicant offering herself to the gods. You felt his lips, soft and gentle, as they wrapped around your entrance, sucking and pulling with a gentle, insistent pressure that seemed to draw the very marrow from your bones. Your entrance, already swollen and sensitive, throbbed with an aching need, as if beckoning Bucky's tongue to delve deeper, to explore the hidden recesses of your very soul.

"Oh, shit—mmh, Bucky..." you moaned wantonly, your voice a barely audible plea that seemed to hang in the air like a challenge. "So good, need to feel you so bad…" Your hips rose off the surface, offering yourself to Bucky like a supplicant to the gods, and he accepted the offering with a growl of pleasure.

The sensations built and crested, and you felt yourself becoming lost in the moment, your mind fragmenting into a thousand different threads of pleasure. Your body, a finely tuned instrument, vibrated with an otherworldly energy—as if the very notes of pleasure were being played on your skin like a symphony of desire. You were a puppet on strings, danced by the masterful hands of Bucky's desire, and you felt yourself soaring on the winds of ecstasy, unencumbered by the shackles of reality.

Bucky's fingers, deft and skilled, reached up to tease your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers. The sensation was like a jolt of electricity, sending sparks flying through your body like a firework exploding in the night sky. Your breasts, already sensitive, seemed to swell and grow, as if responding to Bucky's touch like a flower blooming in the sun.

"Ride my face," He growled, his voice a low, husky command that seemed to shatter the very foundations of your being. "Take what you need, sweetheart. I want to feel you come on my tongue." His words were a challenge, a dare, and you felt yourself responding, your body and mind acknowledging his dominance.

You lowered yourself back down, your entrance hovering just above Bucky's mouth. His tongue, warm and wet, darted out, tasting your skin and sending shivers coursing through your veins. You felt yourself being drawn to him, your body responding to his touch like a magnet. Your hips moved in a slow, sensual rhythm, grinding your entrance against Bucky's tongue. His mouth was teasing and tantalizing your skin with gentle, probing kisses. The heat of his tongue as it delved deeper, tasting the very essence of your being, was intoxicating.

"What a dirty girl, my filthy slut," Bucky whispered, his words sending a thrill through your body. "You love riding my face, don't you?" You felt a surge of pleasure at his words, your body responding to the dirty talk like a key turning in a lock. You could feel your body responding, your muscles tensing and relaxing in a rhythmic dance, as if beckoned by the symphony of sensations he was creating. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, and your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, beating out a rhythm that seemed to match the pulsing of your very soul.

The sensations built and crested, you felt yourself becoming lost in the moment, your mind fragmenting into a thousand different threads of pleasure. Your body, a finely tuned instrument, vibrated with an otherworldly energy, as if the very notes of pleasure were being played on your skin like a symphony of desire.

Your hips bucked and twisted, grinding against his face as you sought to extract every last ounce of pleasure from the experience. "Oh, god, Bucky," you moaned, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're killing me, your mouth is—oh, fuck." As you rode him, you felt your hands instinctively reach out, gripping his hair with a fierce intensity. You pulled his head closer, feeling his tongue delve deeper and deeper into your entrance. Your hips bucked and twisted, grinding against his face as you sought to extract every last ounce of pleasure from the experience.

And then, when you gazed down at Bucky, you saw it. His body, tense and coiled with desire, was unconsciously thrusting up into the air, his hips bucking with a rhythmic intensity that seemed to match the pulsing of your own heart. His eyes, closed in ecstasy, seemed to be pleading with you, begging you to take him, to ride him, to make him yours.

The sight of him, so lost in his own desire, was like a spark to dry tinder. Your body, already aflame with pleasure, seemed to ignite with an even greater intensity. You felt your grip on his hair tighten at the sight, your hips grinding down against his face with fierce, unrelenting pressure.

In an instant, you were coming, your body arching and convulsing as the pleasure seemed to shatter the very foundations of your being. Your grip on Bucky's hair tightened, your hips grinding down against his face with a fierce, unrelenting pressure. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, and your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, beating out a rhythm that seemed to match the pulsing of your very soul.

As the sensations slowly began to recede, you felt yourself collapsing back onto Bucky, your body exhausted and spent. But instead of holding you close, Bucky's arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place as he slowly began to kiss your cunt. His lips, soft and gentle, brushed against your sensitive skin, sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

"Good girl," Bucky whispered, his voice a low, husky possessiveness that seemed to shatter the very foundations of your being. "You’re my good girl. Forever and always, mine." His words were a claim, a statement of ownership, and you felt yourself responding to them, your body and mind acknowledging his dominance.

His hands, warm and caressing, stroked your thighs, holding you steady as he helped you ride out the ecstasy with his mouth. You felt his tongue, gentle and probing, as it delved into your depths, tasting and savoring the remnants of your orgasm. The sensation was exquisite, a gentle and soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

You laid there, catching your breath, and you couldn't help but notice the tension in Bucky's body. His chest was heaving, his eyes were closed, and his cock proudly jutting against his abdomen. You reached down, your hand slowly descending to his crotch, and Bucky's eyes snapped open. He watched, his gaze intense, as you wrapped your fingers around his shaft.

His hips began to buck, his cock twitching with each movement, his body trembling with anticipation. "Oh, fuck yeah—just like that," he whispered, his voice trembling with desire, and his words barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing. He lets out a low, husky moan, his eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. His breathing grew more ragged, his chest heaving with each stroke, his muscles tensing beneath his skin. The air is filled with the sweet scent of desire, the sound of your heavy breathing, and the gentle friction of skin on skin.

Your touch was like a spark to dry kindling, igniting a flame of passion that threatened to consume them both. Bucky's hands reach out, his fingers grasping for your hips, pulling you closer. "I love the way you touch me," he admitted, his voice filled with adoration, his words dripping with sincerity. "You always know just what to do to drive me crazy, to make me lose control."

You continued to stroke him, and his body began to tremble, his muscles tensing, his skin growing hot and slick with sweat. His eyes snap open, burning with intensity, his gaze locking onto yours, his pupils dilating with desire. "Ride me," he growls, his voice low and husky, his words filled with urgency. "Want to see you bounce on me, want to feel you—please, sweetheart."

You felt a rush of heat course through your body at his growled plea. The intensity in his eyes, the raw need in his voice, it all combined to ignite a fire within you. Without a second thought, you moved to straddle his hips, taking a moment to line him up with your slick entrance.

As you slowly sank down, taking him inch by delicious inch, stars exploded behind your eyelids and you let out a ragged moan. He stretched you so perfectly, filling and completing you in a way that stole your breath. Your hands braced on his firm chest as you rolled your hips, working him deeper. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, holding on tight.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. "So fucking tight, so good. Never want to be without you, sweetheart."

You set a slow, sensual pace, rising up until just the tip remained before dropping back down. The drag of him inside was exquisite, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins. He began to thrust up to meet you, matching your rhythm. Each downward press of your hips brought him deeper, his cock kissing your sweet spot and sending you spiraling further toward the edge.

Your hips gradually moved faster, enjoying the sound of your flesh slapping together filling the air, and the smell of sweat and sex hanging heavy over you. His hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin and pulling you down harder onto his cock, his touch burning with intensity. "I love you," he growls, his voice filled with emotion, his words dripping with sincerity. "I love the way you make me feel, the way you touch me, the way you ride me like a filthy animal. My little Silver Fox."

Hearing him calling you by your newly given title made you feel unknown things you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. You responded in a low, throaty moan, your body moving in perfect sync with his, your breasts jiggling with each movement. "Love you too," you said in an urgent tone, your voice barely audible over the sound of your heavy breathing. "Love the way you fill me, the—ugh, the way you make me feel like I'm the only person in the world—fuck, Bucky, right there, right there!"

Bucky groaned under his breath, eyes squeezing shut in ecstasy as your velvety heat enveloped him like a tight glove. "Deeper," he growled, his voice dripping with need and urgency. "That's it, angel, take all of me."

His large hands gripped the yielding flesh of your ass, kneading and spreading you open wider. The burning intensity of his touch left searing fingerprints on your skin. "Yes, just like that," Bucky moaned, head falling back in bliss. "You're so unbelievably tight. I can feel you milking me."

Pleasure built to a fever pitch between your joined bodies, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust and caress. He fought to keep his rapidly unraveling control as you clung to him, urging him on. "I-I'm almost there," he panted against your neck, hips starting to stutter. "Gonna fill you up, make you mine..."

"Please, do it," you gasped, nails scoring down his back. "I'm yours, Bucky, all yours. Come inside me, give me everything."

With each slow, deep thrust, the pleasure mounted higher, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Bucky seemed to sense it, his mouth trailing down to your neck, teeth and tongue working the sensitive skin.

"Come on angel," he growled, the low timbre of his voice sending sparks skittering through your nerves. "Come for me, let me feel you..."

Tilting your hips, he changed the angle, each long drag of his softening length hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. Your hands scrambled for purchase against his sweat-slicked back as the tension wound tighter and tighter.

"Bucky!" You keened his name, thighs trembling and toes curling as your orgasm slammed into you. Waves of ecstasy crashed through your system, your inner muscles rippling around him. You could only hold on for dear life as Bucky worked you through it, his mouth and hands never ceasing their delicious torture.With a guttural groan, he joined you and finally crested that peak. His cock twitched and jerked as thick ropes of his seed pulsed deep into your welcoming heat. "I love you," Bucky whispered fervently, voice raw with emotion. "I love you so much it hurts." His powerful body shuddered through the intense waves, holding you flush against him.

In the aftermath, Bucky’s lips still burned with the intensity of the kiss, each movement a reminder of how deeply he cherished you. His hands, now tender and reverent, cupped your face as if he were afraid that if he let go, you might slip away. The kiss had been more than just a physical expression—it had been an outpouring of all the words he struggled to say in the moments before. At that moment, there were no walls, no masks, just the raw vulnerability of two people who had found a haven in each other.

Bucky pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath still coming in short, heated gasps. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and exposed, his love for you shining in them like a lighthouse in the dark. "You're incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, the words reverberating through your heart. He was still breathless, but his gaze never left you. "I’m glad to have found you."

There was something about that phrase, about the sincerity in his voice, that made your chest tighten with affection. He wasn’t just happy to have you in his life—he was grateful, deeply grateful, as though you were the one piece that had finally fit into the puzzle of his life. His past, filled with darkness and confusion, had finally given way to this, to you.

As you lay there, your bodies still intertwined, the world outside seemed to vanish. The noise, the chaos—everything melted away, leaving only the two of you in this perfect, fleeting bubble of peace. Making love with Bucky had always been more than just physical—it was a sacred act, a melding of souls. There was a quiet reverence in how he touched you, a tenderness that spoke of both healing and a love that had been earned over time.

Every caress, every movement between you, felt as though it was binding your hearts together in the most intimate way possible. It wasn’t just a union of bodies��it was a union of everything you both were, everything you had endured and learned, and everything you had yet to discover about each other. In those moments, time itself seemed to slow, the world outside no longer mattered as you existed together in your perfect reality.

In the silence that followed, you rested against him, your hand tracing lazy patterns over his chest as you both found your rhythm in the stillness. You knew, without a doubt, that no matter what challenges awaited you—what demons from his past or the threats from the outside world—this was your blissful reality. You had found something pure, something that transcended the struggles of your pasts, something that you both would fiercely protect.

As he held you close, his arms wrapped securely around you, the weight of his devotion felt like a quiet promise. No matter what came next, you would face it together. This love—this connection—was something that would endure, and in the deepest corners of your heart, you knew that no matter how the world changed, this moment, this perfect, stolen peace, would always belong to the two of you.

⠀

The morning after, the soft rays of dawn filtered through the thick trees, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. The air was thick with the scent of earth and warmth, a stark contrast to the chaos that loomed over the horizon. You stirred in the quiet, Bucky’s arm still wrapped around you, his steady heartbeat a comfort against your back. The feeling of him close, his body tangled with yours, felt almost surreal—like you were still in a dream, still wrapped in the cocoon of the night you’d shared.

But even as you lay there, the world outside was shifting. The gentle hum of Wakanda’s advanced technology, the soft whispers of nature, and the quiet buzz of anticipation all spoke of something inevitable. Something you both knew was coming.

Bucky's breath was slow and rhythmic, but as if sensing the change in the air, he shifted behind you. His hand slid to your waist, fingers brushing your soft skin as he murmured your name.

"Good morning," you whispered, your voice raspy and soft from sleep as you turned to face him. He was watching you now, his eyes tired but intensely focused, as if his soul had already started preparing for what lay ahead.

He cupped your cheek with a tenderness that felt like a promise, grounding himself in the fleeting tranquility before the storm. "Morning, sweetheart," he replied with a slow, content smile. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw before he leaned down to press his lips to your forehead, a kiss of comfort, of love.

The warmth of his touch lingered, but that peaceful moment didn’t last long. The silence of the room shattered with the sudden crackling sound of a communication coming through from the nightstand nearby, urgent and clipped. The voice on the other end was frantic, struggling to stay calm.

"The Avengers are needed," it said, the words tight with the gravity of the situation. "Thanos is coming. Prepare for battle."

The tension in the air shifted instantly. Bucky’s muscles tensed under you, his eyes narrowing as the weight of the message sank in. You could feel the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breath changing as he pulled away slightly, his face hardening with resolve. The love that had filled the room moments ago was replaced by the cold reality of the war ahead.

"Guess the calm didn't last," you said softly, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling in your chest. You knew what was coming, had known since the moment you heard the first whispers of Thanos’s name. Still, hearing it so directly made everything more real, more urgent.

Bucky’s lips pressed together in a tight line as he swung his legs off the side of the bed, the shift in his demeanor stark. There was no hesitation in his movements now, no sign of the tenderness from just moments ago. He was already preparing, mentally, for what lay ahead.

"Stay close," he said, his voice low and commanding, as he reached for his gear. The weight of his words carried more than just a request—it was a promise, an order. You didn’t need to be told twice. Without a word, you joined him in dressing quickly, racing down your room to pull on your tactical gear, your heart racing as the sound of distant engines began to reverberate through the walls.

You shared one last lingering kiss as you met up again, a silent promise between you both to be safe. His eyes were filled with determination, but there was something more—something that spoke of his desire to protect you, to shield you from what was coming. You could see it in the set of his jaw and the way he held your gaze, as if trying to imprint this moment into his memory.

When you arrived at the Wakandan command center, the familiar faces of the Avengers were already there, gathered around, discussing their plans to defend Wakanda against the coming invasion. T’Challa stood at the forefront, his regal presence commanding the room. Queen Ramona and Okoye were strategizing on the tech and military fronts. The tension was palpable.

The calm was gone, replaced by a sharp urgency as you both made your way out of the room. Outside, the air felt charged, the energy of Wakanda buzzing as the people there prepared for the oncoming storm. You knew what awaited you—a battle that would determine the fate of everything.

The command center was already alive with activity when you arrived. The Avengers were assembling, and despite the chaos, there was a sense of focus in the room, each member already falling into their role. T’Challa stood at the center, his regal posture unwavering, his face a mask of determination.

"We stand together," T'Challa said, his voice strong and calm. "Wakanda will not fall."

The gravity of his words settled in your chest as you stood with Bucky. The world felt like it was teetering on the edge, a precipice from which it might never return. But, in that moment, you found yourself holding onto him, drawing strength from his presence as the world outside continued to swirl in chaos.

Just then, you caught the familiar, bright-eyed face of Shuri as she approached, her usual playful demeanor tempered by the weight of the situation. She paused for a second, her gaze shifting from you to Bucky.

"Well, well, look who’s back from the shadows," Shuri teased, but there was an underlying softness in her words, a recognition of the storm coming. "You two ready to help us kick some ass?"

Bucky smirked, his usual stoic self, but there was warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. "We’re ready."

Shuri grinned before quickly growing serious again, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she scanned the battlefield preparations. "Good. I’ve made some adjustments to the tech. We’ll need everyone on their toes." Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, her expression softening. "You two stick together out there, okay? We’ll need all the help we can get." She placed a hand briefly on your shoulder in a gesture of support, one that felt like a promise.

You gave her a small nod, the weight of the coming battle settling into your bones.

Bucky’s hand squeezed yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as the sound of distant engines filled the air. The Avengers were assembling outside, each gearing up, preparing to face the war that loomed over them.

As you stood there, trying to steady your racing heart, Bucky’s attention shifted to Shuri. Without a word, he raised his hand, placing his fist over his chest—the Wakandan salute. It was an unexpected gesture, one that you had never seen from him before. Shuri blinked in surprise before a proud smile slowly spread across her face.

"Looks like the White Wolf is finally embracing his new pack," she teased, her voice warm with pride and amusement.

You couldn’t help but be surprised, your eyes darting between them as the significance of the moment hit you. Bucky, the Winter Soldier—once a weapon of destruction—now stood before Wakanda, acknowledging them in a way that was both powerful and humbling.

Bucky’s face softened, his usual stoic expression giving way to something more vulnerable, something sincere. "Wakanda has shown me a new way," he said quietly, the words more weighted than anything he had said before.

The warmth between them, the bond forged not just in battle but in trust, was palpable. Shuri nodded, her gaze flickering between you and Bucky. "You two are ready," she said with certainty before turning her focus back to the preparations. "Let’s make sure Wakanda stands strong."

Bucky squeezed your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, grounding you in the moment. Together, the two of you stood ready to face the coming storm—no longer just soldiers of war, but symbols of the redemption, loyalty, and fierce love that had bound your hearts.

As the first tremors of the impending battle rumbled through the earth beneath your feet, you and Bucky found a moment of stillness. The chaos of the command center, the preparations for war, seemed distant, fading into the background as the two of you stood together, hand in hand.

Bucky’s gaze was steady, but there was something vulnerable in the way his eyes held yours. His face, usually so hardened by years of pain, was softened by the quiet strength of his love for you. You both knew what was coming, knew the war would demand everything of you, but in this fleeting moment, you had each other.

His hand reached up to cup your cheek once more, the touch gentle yet firm, grounding you both. The weight of the world seemed to fall away, if only for a breath.

“We’ll come back,” Bucky whispered to you, his voice a soft promise, raw with the emotion he rarely allowed himself to show.

You didn’t need words to understand. You could feel it—his determination, his love, his devotion. And with a tender smile, you pressed your forehead to his shoulder, your hearts beating in time as the warmth of your connection enveloped you both.

Without hesitation, Bucky leaned in and kissed you. It was a kiss that spoke of everything—of battles fought, of victories won, of losses endured. But most of all, it was a kiss that said, no matter what happens, we’re together.

When the kiss finally broke, you remained close, his breath mingling with yours, his forehead resting against yours for a long, silent moment. The air around you seemed to shimmer with a quiet promise, like the calm before the storm. And as you stood there, holding onto him with everything you had, you realized that this was your peace. This was your love. And nothing, not even the coming battle, could take that away.

Outside, the sun broke through the cold, its light streaming across the Wakandan sky, casting a soft, golden glow on the landscape. It was a moment of warmth, a stark contrast to the winter that gripped the world. The chill in the air seemed to melt away for an instant, as if the very earth was holding its breath. It felt like a sign—one of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, light could find its way through.

But beneath that fragile warmth, danger lurked. The wolves and foxes would show no mercy to those who dared to stand in their path. In the distance, the swirling gusts of white and silver began to merge—symbols of two warriors whose fates were as intertwined with the cold as they were with the people who had given them new names.

Winter was coming, and this time, it was theirs to face.

PART ONE. l PREVIOUS PART.

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

taglist : @stilleobjection — @the-fandoms-onceler — @zyra-7 .

⠀⠀

189 notes · View notes

gaysindistress · 11 months ago

Text

What if Simon didn’t listen when Price told him to apologize to his girl before she does go off and find herself a better man? - part two

a/n: I know John isn’t American but I kept picturing him as Joe from SIX and honety Gibs from NCIS and I couldn’t stop myself. I sincerely apologize that this John is American-grumpy-hot-military-older man coded (not really). Also I know it took a month and I’m so sorry 🙈 I got so busy at work but it’s here! Enjoy!!

Warnings: smutty smut smut, phone sex

non-mcu masterlist

part one

Taglist: @going-to-ikea-for-the-fries @calicocat45 @whos-fran @vonev @yyiikes

The situation at hand is tricky to say the least. Waiting around and trying to be careful of everyone’s feelings will push you away. On the other hand, he’s wanted to show you the love that you deserve and now is his chance.

Fuck Simon.

Fuck him for treating you like a safety net and like you’re replaceable. Fuck him for letting you shoulder the burden of your relationship and expecting you to always be at his beck and call. Fuck him for lying to you instead of having the balls to just be honest about why he wanted to break up. Fuck Simon Riley for saying that you could find a better man and expecting you to not listen to him for once.

“I want a lot of things,” he starts and takes a moment to choose his words, “I might be a gentleman but I’m a selfish man. I won’t take what’s not offered but you’d be hell bent to find me sharing my life with others. If you say that it’s over and mean it, well then love, I’ll be the most selfish man you’ve ever met when it comes to you. Im not some young lad anymore; I’m settled in my life and now that things are stable I want someone to share it with. I’ll follow your lead when it comes to how we share it but just know that I don’t want something casual or even friendship.”

You’re still resting your chin on his shoulder, listening to his every word as hope begins to fill your eyes. It’s the last sentence he whispers as he gazes down at you that causes your breath to hitch;

“I’ll love you until my lungs give out.”

And this man Delivers. The capital d is not a typo. John Price understands that you’re an independent person and he respects that. That’s not to say that he doesn’t spoil the absolute shit out of you and ensures that you are happy in every facet of your life imaginable.

The dogs are being wild today and overwhelming you? As soon as he gets home, he’s taking them out on a walk and giving you instructions to go have yourself a nice hot bath. Dinner is already taken care of so no need to worry about that. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the quiet.

He’s been on deployment for a couple weeks and the loneliness is starting to creep in? You will be getting at least two check in texts a day and a call or FaceTime if he can before you go to bed. You should also expect some sort of care package to be on your doorstep weekly. This could be anything from flowers to your whole ass Amazon cart, all you need to do is say you miss him and he’s got you covered.

Things have been a little tense between the two of you? Well get ready because you’re going to be doing a check in that night where the two of you talk about whatever is going on. If it’s something small like you’re both stressed from work and a weekend getaway is needed, he’s already got that planned. If it’s something that needs more work, he’s ready to dive right into it and figure it out.

Still true to his internal word, nothing physical happens between you two at first. He wanted desperately to kiss you when he told you he would love you until his last breath but he didn’t. Disgusted by the enormity of his craving for you, John vowed to wait until you asked for his physical affection. Of course this meant he wouldn’t give into any of your advances until you told what you wanted.

After that night, you began the long and arduous process of breaking down John’s resolve. While it may have been unspoken, you knew what he wanted but you weren’t going to give into him so quickly. It started with closing the distance between you two. Instead of sitting on opposite ends of the couch, you’d lay your feet in his lap or move just close enough to trail your fingers over the back of his hand. Only would you move to sit beside him if he slung his thick arm over the couch’s back and beckoned you closer. Then you would take every opportunity possible to cuddle into his side and slyly skirt your hands across the waistband of his sweats when you wrapped your arms around him. If you were in the kitchen together, you were always just out of his grasp. His fingers could grasp at the back of your shirt but never fully grab you. You’d swiftly slip around him if he moved behind you but not before brushing your hands over him in some way.

Eventually you grew bolder and began to shower with the door propped open. You’d said it was so the dogs could still see you but John isn’t stupid. He knew that you wanted him to catch a glimpse of your body through the foggy glass doors. But here’s the thing; he’s not Simon. Simon would’ve joined you and fucked you on that glass door like your life depended on it but not a captain price.

No no no. John Price is going to make you say those three little words, ‘I want you’, before he touches you even if it means leaving on for a mission without so much as a chaste peck on the lips. No amount of sly looks and sneaky touches is going to convince this man to give into you.

He starts beating you at your own game though. his bedroom door is suddenly always cracked open making it so that you can hear every rumbling moan and gasp of your name when he fists his cock at night. You no longer feel the waistband of his underwear when you wrap your arms around his am waist during your cuddles. Instead your fingers find the thick trail of hair that disappears under his sweatpants. Speaking of which, John knows about grey sweat pants and he exploits that turn on every chance he gets. Soon it goes from just wearing them low on his hips to forgoing boxers (as mentioned above) and sometimes he even ‘forgets’ his shirt. The memory of his thick bare chest on display alone is enough to make you clench your legs together.

When he finally does have to leave for work, he presses a light kiss to your temple and tells you to be careful. It goes without saying but John makes your promise anyways. Eases his old heart as he likes to say. If only he would go easy on yours…

Nearly every photo, FaceTime, what have you, this man is bare chested with lidded eyes and a knowing smirk on his face. He knows that you’re frustrated with the way things have played out; namely his departure with no memorable moments. He’s already become an expert in you, knowing what your body langue means, what your blushes mean, and most importantly, what your words truly mean.

Probably about a month in to this mission is when it comes to a climax. Your hands were doing nothing to ease the ache between your legs and your toys were making it worse. It was as if your body knew that it was you instead John rubbing small circles into your clit late at night. You’d tried nearly everything you could think of aside from finding someone in a pub and telling the older captain about your dilemma. While you two weren’t anything more than roommates with feelings at this point, it still felt wrong to find someone else to help you out. With only one person that your body wanted and nothing you could do about it, you settled for being sexually frustrated and irritable.

John is finally able to get some alone time to call you and actually talk to you. Settled into some poor excuse for a cot, he makes himself comfortable as he waits for you to pick up. It makes maybe a few rings before your tight voice comes through with a short ‘hello?’

He wants to chuckle and fails to suppress it, “Well hello to you too, love.”

Immediately you sigh when you recognize his voice, “oh John it’s you. How are you?”

“Been better. What’s been going on with you?”

You let out another deep sigh, pausing to answer as you contemplate what to tell him.

“What is it, love? Something bothering you?”

“I…I’m just….im just irritable,” you attempt to pass off as the full truth but John knows you better than that.

“Irritable you say?”

You can hear him shuffle around on his end and it causes your legs to cross to even think about him. God it’s beyond annoying to be this turned on over just hearing him move around, let alone hear his voice right now.

“I’d say a relaxing day is in order,” he teases with a low pitched sultry tone, “find some relief in a massage maybe.”

Relief.

The word feels hot as it washes over your brain and invokes images that would make a nun curse under her breath.

You snort at his suggestion. In that small noise, he finds all the answers he needed; you’re about to break and murmur those three sweet words.

“No appeal to that, love?” He asks and you can just hear the smirk he’s wearing. “A massage isn’t the relief you’re looking for though is it? You need a different type of relief, isn’t that right love?”

That bastard.

You hear him shuffle again and you swear to god you hear the sound of a belt coming undone.

“Talk to me. Tell me how I can help.”

If you weren’t needy before, you must certainly are now. You feel pathetic, a bitch in heat with the way your body starts to react to his simple words. Practically mumbling you attempt to tell him to fuck off but it doesn’t sting as much as you’d hoped. John laughs off your feeble attempt at hiding the true reason you’re in a mood.

Instead of adding flame to fire, he stays quiet.

It takes 40 agonizing seconds of silence for you to groan his name out of frustration. The captain only hums his acknowledgment that you spoke.

Phone sex isn’t new to you by any means however there’s something about this time that causes you to falter. There’s something about the way he initiated it but is allowing you to lead where it goes. There’s something about the way he knew what you needed within seconds. There’s something about the way your body seems to know that it craves his without ever touching.

“Yes,” you mumble while your cheeks burn and your body sings at the thought of getting what it truly desires.

John chuckles under his breath and the sardonic sounds causes your eyes to squeeze shut.

“Be a good girl for me and slip your hand into your panties.”

Your hearing dulls to a muffled tone as your hand follows his instructions. Barely does your ears register the sound of skin on skin, a slick hand taunting an impossibly hard cock. Your name comes out as a groan when you tell him to continue.

“Fuuckkk, love. Tell me are ya wet?”

“S…soaked.” You sigh as you roll your clit with your fingertips.

He lets out a string of curses as his hips buck up into his hand and his cock throbs from his slow pace.

“I want you to keep rubbing your clit and fuck yourself with your fingers,” the captain orders you, “and dont try to hide any of those pretty sounds.”

You mumble a weak ‘okay’ as you work your clit in small circles, feeling yourself become even more wet.

Strings of curses fall from his lips as he listens to your desperate cries of pleasure. The sounds of his thrusts get louder and louder in time when you bury two fingers in and become to fuck yourself like he told you to. It feels better than all of your other attempts but it’s not enough.

Nothing will be enough until you can feel John’s cock deep inside of you. Until you can feel his hips rut against yours and his hoarse moans in your ear. Until you feel the burn that his facial hair will give you when he eats you out like a starved and neglected dog. Until you feel his warm speed leak from you after he’s worked you through several of your own orgasms.

The thoughts of what is to come push you over the edge and you moan out his name in an absolutely pornographic manner. It stirs something disgustingly powerful and sinful deep in his gut when he hears it. He can only imagine the beautiful display of pleasure and bliss that you’ve come as you lay panting post orgasm.

You can only imagine how stunning he looks with his sweats pulled down to his mid thigh, his bare chest rapidly rising and falling while his stomach is painted with his own cum.

“John?” You whisper after your breathing has returned to normal(ish). “When are you coming home?”

His lips turn up in a smirk at your word choice, “missing me more than you let on, now are ya love?”

“Yeah it’s lonely without you here. you can’t leave on another deployment like this without fucking me before.”

“I promise it won’t happen again, my love.”

#john price imagine #john price x reader #john price #john price smut #captain price x reader #captain price #captain price smut #price x reader #cod price #price #price smut #captain price imagine #price imagine #cod x reader #cod smut #call of duty imagine #call of duty #call of duty smut

539 notes · View notes

randomshyperson · 11 months ago

Text

Five Times Carol Danvers Kisses You

Summary: The five times Carol Danvers kisses you until you two finally get together.

Warnings: Mentions but nothing explicit, a lot of fluff, mutual pining (and typical angst of trope), best friends to lovers, pre-canon-compliant (takes place before Carol is taken), kissing, happy(ish) ending. | Words: 4.836k

A/N-> As mentioned on this blog before, I absolutely love the dynamics of "Five Times Something" and after watching The Marvels I became obsessed with Carol Danvers, and here I am with something about my beloved blondie. It's short and sweet, and I didn't want to write anything too angsty but you can get hints of what's to come from the canon (Dr.Lawson being a Kree in disguise and what will happen to Carol). But the fic doesn't address this directly and ends up with a happy scene. Let's all live in denial.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

One.

“This is not a place to raise a child” was the justification your father used when he left. Funny enough, he didn't take the child, you, away from all the high-tech military weapons that he described as inadequate for a child to grow up around.

His lost, it what your mother said, an easy smile on her lips while she offered you a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. She still had some grease on her jacket and a lot of dust on her hair but she looked beautiful. That was just how things were for Wendy Lawson.

And because she was the best mom anyone could ask for, or at least that was what you would perceive it with your limited references of healthy families. She was the best because she would let you sit around while she worked for the Shield, casually teaching you advanced engineering like it was the same homework you had from secondary school.

That was the only life you knew: Afternoons of trying to stay out of the way of Shield Agents and their big weapons until you were old enough to have a gun yourself.

But before that time came, some of them worried you weren't having a decent childhood. Away from guns at least.

You don't know which of the Agents suggested to Doctor Lawson the kart track, but you wish you could thank them. Your mother, as the busy cientist she always has been, was not available to be around all of the evenings you wished to spend there but she trusted your independence to use the bus after school. Besides, you had the impression that there were always Shield Agents keeping an eye on you no matter where you went.

Só for three whole years, that old place was your favorite. You would run out from the classroom with the first ring of the bell to get to the kart track as fast as you could, and for all those three years, you were also the best runner there.

Of course, it cost you some bloody noose and bruised hands. Especially with sore losers little boys who were very unpleased to be second placed by some random girl. There were also the parents, who would whisper not very lowly on how absurd it was to let an unsupervised little girl in such a violent activity.

As luck would have it, someday you were no longer the only little girl around.

The Danvers were local, and you always thought there were only three of them. The grumpy father and the loud and popular sons. But one day, the one with the warmest smile, the youngest son brought someone with him.

His little sister's name was Carol. She had her blonde hair tied down and she looked ready to punch anyone who gave her a hard time. All the Danvers kind looked the same to be fair. Blonde, strong and angry.

Unlike her brother and their free pass to do as they please, Carol was constantly reprimanded by her father. Even there, in front of the whole crowd and runners, he would scream and pinch her ear, adding to the fury that shone behind Carol's little blue eyes.

The other children would whisper just like their parents but growing up with spies and secret agents gave you this second nature to sneak in and out of places without being noticed. You weren't supposed to hear some of the adults whispering how Mr.Danvers drank more than he should or how his older son was leaving next summer for the army with a purple eye he didn't get in the training. You weren't supposed to but you did.

So the next time Carol crashed a car with one of the other runners, you messed up your perfect record to help her.

Her dad screamed again, as usual. But he left, muttering she could find her way home since she was so clever and Carol had those thick tears in her eyes that made them bluer, so you were helping her before you could give a second thought to it.

She didn't mind that you took her hand and brought her to the administration lobby. She's more interested in knowing how the hell you knew how to get there in the first place.

When you told her you grew up with spies she laughed thinking you were joking. You decided to tell her more stories in the hope it would distract her from the pain of the cuts she got in her legs from the crash.

It worked.

Carol had colorful patches on both her knees when you two sneaked out of there to the bus stop. You could take her home if she wished because you knew a lot about public transport but Carol smiled and said she could do it alone; Her dad was often not around and with soldiers brothers, she knew a lot about doing things by herself.

Yet, she appreciates the gesture and the thought. Her bus should be here in 25 minutes so you sit next to her and let your healthy knee brush her bruised one.

“My name is Carol Danvers by the way.”

You have to chuckle at her line.

“I know who you are, Danvers.” You retort with an easy smile. She looks up with curiosity. You chuckle again. “You know your name is on the scoreboard, right?”

She laughs, almost shyly. You don't know that yet but Carol is not the best at making friends. Especially girlfriends because apparently, every girl hated how not 60s girly behavior she acted on as much as any boy.

You didn't mind. If anything, it kinda made you like her more.

“You didn't have to do that back there you know?” She starts over, fingers tugging at the bandaid you put above her knee. “Lose the race to check on me.”

You shrug, eyes on the road. “No worries. There'll be other races. Besides, you're the only real competition I get there. If you're not participating, what's the fun in winning?”

Carol's cheeks grow a little hotter, but you're both too young to know it has nothing to do with the sun above your heads. You offer her a smile and she gets up to signal to the bus.

But before she leaves, she turns to you again.

It's quicker than her crash that morning, the thank you little peck on your right cheek but is as meaningful as losing a three-year Invictus status on a track race for someone.

Carol nearly flees the scene once she catches the first glimpse of surprise in your expression. You were caught off guard, that's all. But all you can do is laugh to yourself as you watch her run to her bus.

Tomorrow, when you are back here, you'll find Carol so you can share your lunch with her. Today, you would walk home with no clue why the spot she kissed was tingling.

-&-

Two.

Shield Academy is not the army.

It is, as the name suggests, an academic program for the gifted-minded. It's a place where a child who grew up surrounded by the brightest minds on the planet can get it easily.

Well, of course, there's a lot of studying and tiring exams that you wouldn't describe as easy but when taking everything into consideration, the only place a brainy - or huge nerd as Carol would call it - could end up was there.

So while you had big dark blue sweaters with the Shield logo on them, Carol had worn out public school uniforms.

But she was doing okay. In fact, if anyone asked you, even though you were the nerd one in that friendship, for you, Carol was quite brilliant. She had a quick mind and such a strong, well, everything. She was as clever as she was kind. She was passionate about anything she cared for and she was easily your favorite person.

The kart track gave space for the public library and the green plains behind Shield Academia as you two grew up. Carol would take her bike from across town and spend the whole day after school in those green yards with you. Often, she had a football with her while you had a book.

And while you tried to escape your Shield colleagues, Carol would find her spot at your side. She would watch those training agents and wish to be like them, while both of you knew she would follow her brothers to the military when the time came.

But for now, you're sixteen. And Carol has been your best friend for almost 6 years now. You're not sure if friends have anniversaries or if it's something reserved for dating, and since you're not gonna ask any of the agents around, especially not Doctor Lawson, you just assume is okay to get Carol a gift.

She had been wishing for a walkman for so long - she had three already, all broke down during some of her naughty antics, from jumping into the reservation without remembering to take them off her backpack to get into a fight with older kids who thrown her stuff just for the fun of it. So yes, she had those before and she loved music but somehow she always ended up breaking them so you thought maybe because you were the one gifting it, she would be more careful.

You were right of course, but that's hardly the point.

Carol started to act strange after the gift. Even days later, during movie night at her house, she got quiet, which is definitely not a Carol Danvers kind of attitude, so you started to wonder if the present was a good idea at all.

That of course, until Carol clarified the whole thing.

“I got you something too. For, hum, the anniversary thing.”

You pinched her ribs, the nearly shy behavior was such an odd thing to testify that was actually terrifying you. Carol has been your best friend for way too long for that or anything to be awkward between you two.

But then again, adolescence makes everything weird.

You don't open the gift very graciously. Because you were in the middle of movie night, of course, hands full of popcorn butter and Carol was being weird and suspect that you just wanted to put an end to it.

You chuckle at her worn-out team jacket there.

“So your gift to me is your jacket?” You asked with a confused frown, watching your friend struggle with her words the next moments.

“No, I mean yes. But not, just that.” She starts and it's quite the scene. Carol Danvers not being able to talk when that's all she does. “It's my favorite jacket. I… really like it.”

“Do you want it back then?” You suggest with a confused laugh but Carol shakes her head immediately, her cheeks rosy.

“God, no, that’s not…” she takes a deep breath. “I like the jacket, a lot, but not as much as I like you. So I thought, maybe if I can give you something that I really like, it will mean…”

“Oh, I get it.” You say with a smile, holding the jacket against your chest as Carol switches the weight in her foot. “Thank you, blondie. But you don't have to give me your favorite stuff to show me you like me. You don't have to give me anything at all really. Perhaps, all you have to do is say it and I'll believe you.”

Carol nods, shallowing dryly, and without missing a beat, she repeats her words from before: “I really like you.” It's nearly a whisper, and the way she struggles to hold your gaze tells you everything you need to know.

You smile, aware of the warmth spreading in your cheeks and ears.

“I really like you too, Carol.” You tell her and with no hush, you put her jacket on. The blonde in front of you takes a shaky breath once the jacket is properly around your body. You're distracted with the new outfit to take notice of the new dark shine her eyes hold. “Gotta admit it, Danvers, I could totally worm the athletic style. I mean, I look super cool don't I?”

But your question goes unanswered. Carol moves forward, her hands grab the collar of the gifted jacket and just like the first time, she kisses you quicker than you can manage to process.

Her lips are dry against yours because she's nervous. Trembling and terrified. You pull away, and Carol has her eyes closed tightly, breathing unevenly.

You take a deep breath and lick your lips to moisten them a little and the second kiss is much better.

There's this soft noise she makes when you move your mouth but the second you feel her tongue on your lower lip, there's noise around you two.

As if getting electrocuted, Carol jumps away just in time for her evidently drunk father to stumble inside the garage.

Carol is not eight anymore, but she's the only one left in that house. Her older brother taught her five different ways to break someone's noose, but Carol still shakes like the leaves if her father is around with his harsh words and angry looks.

This time, however, he takes a long glance at you both. The guilty looks, accelerated breathing, and he just laughs.

The only thing he says is a slur that makes Carol flinch. Then he turns his back and climbs the stairs to his bedroom, passing out in the hallway before he can make it through.

“Carol, I-” You try but she forces a smile and nods at the door.

“Please go.” She asks. “I have to take him to bed and you don't have to stay.”

“But-”

“Please.”

You leave. And Carol doesn't bring up that night for the next two years.

-&-

Three.

Graduation means Army. More specifically, the Air Force because of course Carol Danvers wants to fly away from everything and everyone.

“Not everyone.” She frowns when you tell her that. Then she smiles, legs brushing yours at the back of her truck. “I would love to have you up there with me.”

You chuckle, giving her shoulder a little bump with your own.

“Sorry Blondie, you know I hate planes.” You joke but the shine in her eyes is deeper now.

“What about spaceships?” She insists it.

You sigh into the night, pensive for a second.

“Well, Mom would probably love it if I ever suggest anything that involves flying.” You say, breaking into a chuckle as your hand moves to the leg you have bent in that position, which allows you to trace your fingers toward your ankle. “Of course, anything other than my secret little Pegasus.”

Carol gives a compliance smile at the mention of the secret tattoo you got on her seventeenth birthday but continues to watch you in silence.

The stars are shining bright above you two, and the parked truck gives as much privacy as one could get in that neighborhood. If you and Carol weren't girls, people would make conclusions.

Perhaps they’ll do it anyway.

“What would I even do up there, Danvers?” You ask her because Carol is so passionate about flying that you're starting to wonder if she is able to see a whole different world up there that you can't.

This time, her hand finds you before her lips. She brings her fingers to yours resting on the truck and locks them. She gets closer and closer and gives you all the time in the world to push her back.

But she's Carol, and she's beautiful and she's your best friend. Why wouldn't you want to kiss her?

There's tongue this time. Hesitant at first then curious, until finally hungry. Of course, Carol Danvers is a good kisser, this asshole.

You break apart, to complain with a husky tone that is unfair but Carol only chuckles before kissing you again. And again. Until somehow you end with your back against her truck, painting into her mouth.

And Carol is seventeen years old and she's a huge virgin like you who really wants this to change tonight. Not just that, of course, but she's still a teen and that's exactly what she chooses to say in order to make this less life-changing than it is.

Because sleeping together as a way of ending high school without the V Card has a completely different meaning than sleeping together because you really want to ruin a friendship.

You swallow at her suggestion, aware that the heat in your veins doesn't cover for the way your heart just broke inside your chest.

But you smile and tell Carol you love her, making sure it sounds platonic. Just to hurt her just as much.

It works, but she kisses you anyway.

-&-

Four.

Maria Rambeau is the most incredible person you have ever met. She's clever and fun and kindhearted. It's so easy to love her and it comes so naturally, that you can't really blame Carol.

You also have no right to be jealous, you tell yourself.

After all, Carol asked more than once for you to at least consider following her to the Air Force. You both had military families, so it made sense for her that you both ended up following the same path.

You were not entirely excluded from that, of course. But unlike Carol with her soldier training, you had medical classes. And while she and Maria learned to shoot people, you learned to heal them.

That of course until the third year, when Carol's training moved to space crafting and yours moved to biological charts. The Pegasus was not the only military project available for you, and being home was good but every time you caught a glimpse of the empty fields near the station, you remember afternoons with Carol and the lack of her ache a hell lot inside your chest.

But visiting her at the base and then at a local bar was a bittersweet occasion.

Because time went by and Carol made a new friend. A lovely and brilliant and apparently less confused woman new best friend. Maria who made her laugh and blush and was such a great company that you couldn't hate her no matter how much the jealousy burned inside your veins.

Somehow, no matter how many dove eyes Carol threw at Maria, she didn't catch them. Immune to her charm entirely. You kinda wished she would teach you that.

The last free week you had was spent visiting Carol and ending up in a bar. But Maria's night was continuing with a good-looking soldier somewheres else, so yours and Carol's would continue with cheap drinks.

It was probably common sense, not to mix alcohol with feelings but you and Carol clearly skipped that class.

You ended up pressed behind the bar's wall in a messy attempt of drunken make-out with your former best friend.

Carol tasted like beer and the army's year changed her. Even drunk, she knew her way around a woman's body now and you had to force your stupid brain to stop wondering about who she had been practicing with. Perhaps Maria was not immune to her charm as you thought she was.

Just as things were getting out of hand, that is, it was probably against some army rules to have sex behind one bar in the military area, Carol pulled away.

She looked so good like that, with messy hair and flushing cheeks, her lips swollen due to the whole thing.

But her eyes were so sad. And you couldn't push the alcohol and the lust away to have clear thoughts on that.

“We can't do this again.” She declares with a seriousness that makes you swallow hard. “I can't.”

She stumbles away and you nearly slip down the hall on your shaky legs. Carol is looking for her car keys but she will definitely fall asleep on the seat.

To be fair, you kinda wished that night would end in her car seat, just in very different scenarios.

“Why not, Danvers?” You manage to question once the anger pushes a little of the alcohol away. Carol sighs tiredly. “Why?” You almost scream and she stops in her tracks, turning to give you a hurt look.

“I can't do this again, okay?” She retorts and she's drunk but she's so hurt. You can see it in her eyes and it kills you to think it is something you have done it. “I don't have the strength in me to get over you again”.

Your world freezes for a whole second. Your mouth is bitter suddenly.

“O-over me?” You repeat her words, confusion mixing with the pain you feel growing in your chest. “When… When were you under me?”

The question is the best of what your drunk brain can come up with but it's enough for Carol to understand.

She lets out a sad chuckle. “C'mon, Lawson. How could you not know? Everyone did. Even my dad, especially my dad.” She corrects herself then, bitterly before taking a deep breath. “It's past. It doesn't matter anymore. We are no longer kids, messing around with things we don't understand. I know what am I. And I know we shouldn’t. I won't jeopardize our friendship again for someone I cannot have.”

There are tears in your eyes, and Carol has the fucking worst timing in the world because your brain simply can't catch up with the meaning of this conversation with all the booze in the way.

“Carol, what are you even saying?”

She just smiles, giving a nod to the bar.

“Let's get inside, I'll get you a cab back to your hotel.”

She doesn't let you question further and the next morning, when the hangover barely allows you to open your eyes, Carol says the worst thing you did last night was try dancing with a Statue.

-&-

Five.

Doctor Lawson has been acting strange lately. She says it's work stress when she returns your calls and ignores your advice about her retiring.

You use your mother's stress as an excuse to come home, and it seems ridiculous that you have to invent reasons to see Carol, but she gives you no choice. Things have been very strange between you in recent months.

The house is a mess, and it's the first time you've worried about the possibility of dementia.

Strange phrases, disconnected words. You think about calling the head of Shield when you put Dr. Lawson to bed after making her some hot tea, but you end up calling Carol.

Your former best friend brings her old truck into your garage.

"Hey, blondie." She hugs you first at the greeting, and you sigh with satisfaction at the contact. You almost forget the stress of the whole meeting with your mother. "It's good to see you."

"I missed you." Carol says with a smile, squeezing you tighter before letting go. "What happened? You sounded worried on the phone."

You sigh before telling her everything you saw, standing there leaning on Carol's truck in the dim light of the garage. It's her turn to sigh when you finish.

"Good thing I brought beer." She comments, getting a laugh out of you.

You don't even notice the time passing that night, but it's like being back in senior year, sitting side by side in the back of Carol's truck, forgetting the world around you for a moment.

When the case of beers is about to run out, you've said almost everything you have to say. Carol thinks she needs to add something more.

"I know the circumstances aren't the best but... I can't say I'm sad." She begins, looking straight ahead, a half-full can of beer in her hands. "With the possibility of you coming to live here again, I mean. I've kind of hated Washington since you left. And Shield too, for taking you away."

You giggle shyly at this and don't know what to say to Carol, so you just decide to hug her. But you're a bit dizzy after the third beer and miscalculate your approach. You end up too close to her face and can see almost in slow motion how the blue darkens or how Carol chokes on her breath.

"I'm sorry, I-" you begin in a hoarse voice, but she doesn't let you finish. The beer can slips out of her hand as she uses both to pull your face towards her.

It's an intense, messy, and passionate kiss. Carol swallows all the sighs that escape your lips as she presses her mouth to yours. Her tongue doesn't ask for passage. You melt against her and try your best to match her energy, suddenly feeling very dizzy, unrelated to the beer.

Her hands move from your face to your neck and down to your waist. Carol mentions pulling you onto her lap, but the balcony lights flicker on and she grunts as she pulls away.

You're still blinking spellbound at the whole thing, trying to catch your breath as she stands up, adjusting her hair.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have done that." She mutters more to herself than to you, hoarse and upset. You swallow dry. "I'm so stupid."

"Carol."

"You're so fucking stupid, Carol Danvers, I swear to God." She ignores your call, continuing to curse quietly to herself. You frown, but end up looking at the porch; your mother has woken up and looks just as lost as before and you really need to check on her.

When you get out of the truck, you touch Carol on the shoulder, and she turns around almost in despair.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I'm leaving-"

"Carol, shut up." You cut her off and don't let her say another word.

She shuts up immediately. "I really have to get back inside, and make sure my mom doesn't turn on any water or store the cat in the fridge again." You chuckle apologetically, stroking her cheek. "But I need you to understand that this isn't a mistake, an accident or a thoughtless act after a few beers. At least it isn't and it never was for me. We need to start talking to each other."

Carol nods quickly, swallowing as she looks down at your swollen lips. "Yeah, talking is good."

You smile, and hear the sound of the cat in the house and think you'd better start running. "Later, okay?"

"Later."

But your mother doesn't have dementia. She's not even allowed in a regular hospital. Shield is strangely private about everything, but you're practically coerced into signing confidentiality papers about the current state of Dr. Lawson, who seems to miraculously improve after spending an hour in a room with other agents.

Carol is the only person you can talk to about things, and she has news of her own.

"Maria is pregnant." She tells you, with a twinkle in her eye, without waiting for you to finish absorbing the news. "And she wants me to be the godmother!"

You're happy for Maria, especially perhaps because she's seeing that handsome soldier and she and Carol have nothing going on. Also, you need to tell Carol that you can go back to Washinton now that your mother is better.

"Oh, I thought..." The blonde hesitates as she hears the news, trying not to look upset by forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I thought you'd decided to stay."

You're having breakfast in the living room of your house, Dr. Lawson is working upstairs. You swallow the bitter feeling of hurting Carol again.

"I would, for Mom. But why would I stay in Louisiana?" It's a rhetorical question because you both know very well what would make you stay. Carol laughs sadly, looking down. You get tired of pretending. " I would stay for you. I would stay for... us."

She looks at you in silence, a conflict of emotions on her face. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't just give up your career for a friendship-"

"Carol." You cut her off seriously, and she choked on her sentence, her eyes as tearful as yours. You give her a small smile, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. "You know that's not what I'm saying."

She swallows dryly, and despite reaching out to take your hand, she insists; "I'm gonna need you to say it."

"God, you're such an asshole." You gasp with emotion, laughing as tears of happiness escape yours and her eyes. Carol also laughs but waits. "Okay, Danvers. You've got me. I'm completely, irrevocably in love with you. I have been for a long time, maybe since the first time I saw you. And I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."

Carol almost knocks over the coffee table when she moves in to kiss you but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#carol danvers x reader #carol danvers fics #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel imagines #captain marvel #marvel imagines

459 notes · View notes

roosterforme · 9 months ago

Text

Covering the Classics Part 11 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: When Anna hits rock bottom, she knows she needs to figure out how to put herself back together. But she also knows that leaving Kevin behind once and for all will require her to give up the only thing she wants from him. Maybe a shot at happiness with Bob would have been worth it.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, 18+

Length: 4400 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more!

If this wasn't rock bottom, Anna didn't want to know what was. She spent Sunday night laying on the floor next to her bed alternating between crying and hyperventilating. Apparently she couldn't do both at the same time, because her body kept giving each activity its full attention before switching again. When she finally started to fall asleep around three o'clock, her ribs were aching so much, she didn't see how she would be able to teach in a few hours. But it didn't matter. She wouldn't be going to campus anyway.

When she woke up at six, she crawled to her computer and emailed everyone in her classes, informing them that she would not be in today and to work through the syllabus independently until their next class with her. All of the other professors pulled this kind of thing all the time, but she still felt guilty which triggered more tears. If Kevin somehow cost her a full time tenure position along with her happiness, she didn't know what else she had that he could possibly take from her.

When she thought about Bob, it hurt so badly she had to run to the toilet. And when she thought about Advanced Calculus and Advanced Physics, it hurt almost just as much. She was in love with so many things in San Diego, but she'd dragged her past here along with her even if she didn't want to acknowledge that fact. She'd brought this dark shadow along that tainted everything and left her wondering if she could fix any of it at this point. If she could even figure out how to start.

As she hiccupped alone in her bathroom, she knew she needed to mentally backtrack to New Jersey for the first time in a long time before she could focus on San Diego. When she crawled back toward her bed, she located her phone and found the contact information for her lawyer's office. It was late enough on the east coast that someone answered after one ring, and soon Anna had to use her scratchy, raw voice to try to communicate.

"When will my divorce be final?" she managed to ask as she propped herself against the wall. She left herself hungry every day, and she was living in this tiny room simply so she could pay these people to help her sort out her life, but the response she got was not ideal.

"Ms. Webber... your husband still has three days left to comply, but he has not done so yet."

Anna wanted to scream, but her throat felt like it was constricting. Why wouldn't he just let her have the one thing she wanted? She wasn't asking for anything extra, just the thing she worked so hard to make her own. She didn't even care about all of the money. But he wouldn't let her have it. Even though she didn't want to fight for anything else in the house, he still wouldn't comply. He was making hundreds of thousands of dollars now, and she wanted none of it back, but he knew that her manuscript was the one thing meant something to her. He would happily drag this out until she had nothing left.

She knew she needed to wait it out. It was her fault she hadn't filed sooner. She let Kevin's words destroy her even when she knew he was sleeping with Alyssa. She let him convince her that she needed him for way too long. "What happens in three days?" she finally asked.

"If he doesn't comply, then you can restructure your end of the divorce agreement, and we can try again."

Anna knew what that meant for her, but she didn't know if she could pull the trigger. Restructure it? There was only one thing she could remove. Kevin would come out clean as a whistle, and she would lose everything she hadn't already.

-----------------------------

When Bob knocked on the door at seven in the morning after barely sleeping at all, Jessica looked concerned when she opened it, and Jake looked annoyed. "What's wrong?" she asked, reaching out and running her hand along his stubbled cheek. "Why haven't you shaved? Why do you look so upset?"

"Why are you even here?" Jake called from the kitchen where he was cooking breakfast in his uniform.

"I need to talk to you," Bob croaked, and Jessica pulled him inside and gently guided him toward the couch. She rubbed his back and didn't rush him as he sat there, and Jake even stopped turning to glare from in front of the waffle iron.

"Did you know Anna's married?"

Bob could tell by the sharp intake of breath and the way Jessica's hand came to a screeching halt on his back that she had no idea.

"She's what?"

"Married," he repeated without any feeling whatsoever. The handful of hours he'd spent around her were some of the best of his life, but he would have never let his friends try to push them together if he'd know. He should have let her keep him in the friend zone when she tried to let him know that's what she wanted. Mutual attraction be damned, she'd made marriage vows to someone else. He just wished he would have known.

"No," Jessica said adamantly. "How? She's got no rings, and she said she lives alone. She mentioned an ex before, but I'm virtually certain he's still in New Jersey. She... struggles with certain things, and if she was married, someone would be helping her make ends meet. I don't know where you came up with this, but no."

Bob took his glasses off and set them down on the arm of the couch while he ran his hands over his exhausted eyes. "Jessica. She told me she was."

"Well," his friend said as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, "I'll ask her about it at lunchtime today. There must be some sort of miscommunication."

"I don't think so," he groaned softly. "We... slept together, and those were her parting words as she ran out of my house."

"You slept together?!" Jessica practically shrieked.

"It's about damn time!" Jake called from the kitchen, clanging his spatulas together and whooping loudly.

But Bob was shaking his head and staring at the floor through his slightly fuzzy vision. He had his phone in his hand all night, trying to decide if he should call or text her, wondering if she went home to climb into bed with her husband. Scared that this was the reason why she squeezed herself into her apartment door before closing it abruptly when he drove her home.

"I should have backed off when she friend zoned me the first time. I should have never believed that I could be with a woman like her." A woman that inspired the best poetry he'd ever written in his life. A woman who made him want everything.

It finally dawned on Bob that there might be an irate husband in his future, and he would just have to take whatever came his way. Because there wasn't a chance that Anna didn't have her spouse wrapped around her fingers. Even if she had a lapse of judgement when it came to Bob, Anna's husband would know how good he had it and want to fight for her. Bob would just have to take it on the chin.

When Jessica kissed his cheek and whispered, "I'll try to sort this out," he just nodded with his shoulders slumped and his elbows digging into his thighs. But there was nothing to sort out. Anna would never be his, and now he would have to pay the price for the way she told him she was married about an hour too late to take it all back. Honestly, he never thought accidentally sleeping with a married woman was something he would ever have to deal with in his wildest dreams, and now that he was forced to do it, he was getting pretty mad.

-----------------------------

Anna managed to give her Classics lecture on Tuesday morning with a sore throat after screaming into her pillow off and on for most of Monday afternoon. She hadn't eaten in days, and if anyone noticed her puffy, red eyes, they didn't mention it to her. She had quizzes to grade and reports to read, but when she went back to her office, the overwhelming scent of bread from the cafeteria made her gag.

There was a pack of peanuts in her desk along with a room temperature can of ginger ale, but she had no appetite yet. She was just in survival mode until she decided what to do when Kevin's time was up. Until she worked up the courage to talk to Bob and apologize.

He was the sweetest man she had ever known, and her lapse of judgement was going to cost her any chance with him in the future as well as her friendships. In fact, none of them were ever going to want to speak to her again, and that's what she deserved. If she would have just been honest with Bob, she wouldn't be in this mess. But San Diego was like a balm for her senses, making her feel normal where she knew she wasn't. Maybe Bob would have been willing to wait a few more months until she figured out her next steps. Maybe he would have accepted that she was legally separated from Kevin if her husband would just sign the fucking paperwork.

Tears were burning her eyes again just as someone knocked on her office door. She sat perfectly still, silently begging them to go away, praying that everyone would leave her alone until she could sneak out and go home later.

"Anna?"

She knew that voice so well, and she was shocked to find that it sounded more concerned than angry.

"It's just us," came the second voice, and without another thought, Anna was on her feet, wrenching the door open as she started to sob. "Oh, Anna," whispered Jessica as she collected her into her arms.

Anna stood in the middle of her tiny office and cried and cried in Jessica's arms while her other friend studiously locked the door and dimmed the lights before reaching for the box of tissues on the shelf. "Here," she whispered, and Anna accepted a wad of tissues from her.

She tried to mop at her face, but it was a lost cause. Jessica pushed the loose strands of her red hair back from her eyes as she said, "Anna, we're here for you, but I think we need to talk. For real."

"We have some... concerns."

Anna tried to take huge gulps of air into her burning lungs as she gasped, "I'm really not okay. I hurt Bob."

Her friends looked at each other before Jessica said, "I think it's time you backtracked a little bit. Maybe all the way back to New Jersey."

"I hated it there," she told them immediately, wiping at her eyes as she sat on the edge of her desk, bracing herself for the interrogation to come.

Advanced Calculus eyed her sympathetically before a look of steel locked in her gaze. "Are you married?"

Anna nodded slightly, cringing as she pictured Kevin's face. "Technically, yes."

"Anna!" Jessica exclaimed. "You slept with Bob!"

They knew. They knew everything. Bob told them, and they knew what she'd done. She cradled her forehead in her hands and said, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I hate Kevin. I don't think we were even married two years before he started cheating on me. I'm trying my best to divorce him, but he just won't fucking let me."

"What do you mean he won't let you?" Advanced Calculus asked, cutting off Jessica before she could screech again.

"He is ruining my life," Anna whispered, finally starting to feel more anger than anything else. "Like an idiot, I've let him ruin my life. I put him through medical school. I dropped out of Princeton to work two jobs to put my husband through medical school." Her voice faded into a soft yet harsh whisper. "Kevin promised he'd take care of me after that so I could finish my Ivy League PhD. But then he started cheating on me because I was always tired and boring and no fun. Because all I was doing was working to pay his tuition for four years straight while he fucked another medical student between classes. I caught them having sex in my car."

"No," both women gasped at the same time. But she just nodded as the memories she had tried so hard to keep at bay since she moved to California came roaring back.

"That's not a marriage," Jessica practically growled, reaching out for Anna's hand that she hadn't even been aware was shaking. "Not really."

"You're right," Anna agreed. "I'm a joke." She honestly felt like one. Images of Bob's face and the memory of his kind voice flooded her system. The way he looked at her and touched her felt like love. The things he wrote about her had her almost convinced he could love her back.

"You're not a joke, Anna," her friend told her. "You're a smart, capable woman who should have come to her friends months ago with all of this information."

"I hate Kevin!" Jessica shrieked before biting down on her own fingertips, and it was so comical, Anna might have laughed if she was in a better frame of mind.

"Yes," Advanced Calculus agreed. "Kevin sounds like an asshole. But you know who isn't an asshole? Bob. But right now, he kind of feels like one."

Anna closed her eyes as the tears started welling up faster. "I tried so hard. You have to believe me. But Bob is perfect. And he didn't think I was boring. But I wasn't planning on falling in love ever again."

"You love him?" Jessica snapped loudly. "You love him? Because Bob thinks you are in a loving marriage with your spouse!"

"Jessica, go sit in the desk chair and calm down," the other woman commanded, and Anna watched the petite, bespectacled blonde stomp around her desk. "Now, Anna, why didn't you explain this all to Bob before you rocked the man's whole world and then ran off into the night like Cinderella?"

"I freaked out," Anna whispered, swallowing hard. "He's the perfect man. He did everything exactly right, and he was exquisite." She looked down at the floor as she said, "I haven't been touched like that in years. Like I was worth something. I'm not even thirty yet, and my husband ditched me for someone else while actively bankrupting me." She was mortified by what she was telling them, but she couldn't stop herself now. "Kevin always said I should dye my hair, and he loved it when I wore makeup. But Bob... he likes my hair and my freckles. He likes the books I read. He thinks I'm smart." She felt her face warm up as she thought about his poems. "We had sex, and then he was looking at me, and he started talking about us. I can't be an us with someone when I can't shake Kevin."

Anna could practically feel Jessica freaking out in the chair behind her, but she kept her eyes on the floor. "If you need help with Kevin or money for a lawyer or something-" Jessica said, but Anna cut her off.

"No. I'm fine. But he's going to force me to decide if I'd rather have my freedom or my self worth. And right now, I can't decide what I want to let him get away with when he already took so much."

"Hey," her much calmer friend said softly, and Anna finally met her eyes. "We're here for you. Anything you need, okay? But I need you to promise you'll talk to Bob. The sooner the better." Then Anna watched her reach for her tie dye lunch box which she apparently brought in with her and pulled out one of her fancy containers. "Bradley made you some hummus, and I packed you crackers and veggies to go with it. Please make sure you're eating. And please talk to Bob. I need to go teach Differential Equations, but I'll text you later. Jess, you have Physics III in fifteen minutes."

Anna received two hugs that she barely returned, and when the two women were gone, she sank into her chair and managed to eat some of the hummus without gagging. Then she texted Bob, because if nothing else, she needed him to know how sorry she was for running out on him. How sorry she was for all of it.

---------------------------

Anna wanted to talk to him on Thursday evening. Bob had to fight the urge to offer to pick her up on campus and save her from having to take an Uber to his house, especially after the few details that Jessica told him about her finances. She confirmed that Anna was married. She also promised him that there was no angry spouse waiting to jump him in the In 'N Out parking lot. She also told him that he needed to give Anna a chance to clear the air. So he agreed. He was free on Thursday. It wasn't like he'd been doing anything except going to work and coming straight home all week, even avoiding Suzanne as much as he could. And he wasn't going to break his promise to Jessica, even though Nat told him to delete Anna's number.

Bob sat in his living room, staring at his new bookshelf in disgust. He'd let himself fall into a fantasy where he imagined someday Anna's books would get mixed up with his on the shelves. Where all of her dog eared novels would live alongside his pristine ones. He'd been subconsciously thinking about it since he met her.

His insides were churning with anxiety. Part of him wanted to scream at her that none of this was fair to him, but the other part knew that no matter what, he still didn't want to see tears in her brown eyes. He couldn't let her take all of the blame for this anyway. He'd even told Jessica that she pushed a little too hard and that she shouldn't do that again in the future.

When there was a knock on his door, it was hard for him to stand up. How was he supposed to do this? He dragged himself across his living room to his front door and carefully opened it to find Anna with the saddest expression imaginable on her face. She looked somehow smaller and paler than she should. She looked like she hadn't slept. And that's when Bob realized he must look the same way to her.

"Hi," she whispered, brown eyes darting around his face nervously. She held out a small bouquet of blue flowers and the books she had borrowed in his direction, and Bob noticed her hands were shaking. "Um, I got these for you. They look like the flowers on the cover of the Whitman poems, and I thought of you when I saw them at the store."

"Anna," Bob groaned as he took them from her along with the books. He moved out of the doorway so she could come inside, and somehow he still couldn't decide if he was angry at her or not.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, turning to look at him once she was halfway across the room. There were several feet of space between them, but he could smell her hair. She was wearing the jeans she wore last time she went to the Hard Deck. He knew what that shirt felt like between his fingers. He could tell she was trying not to cry as she said, "I'm just really sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me you're married?" he snapped, unable to hold back. He knew his tone was harsh as he added, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I should have been divorced by now!" she practically shouted, and Bob was instantly more soothed by that sentence than he should have been. "You think I want to be married to the worst man I know?" He had so many questions already, but something told him to just let her keep going. "That's why I'm here. In San Diego. He was supposed to sign the papers so I could get on with my ridiculous life, but he won't!" She sucked in a deep breath before she said, "And it's eating me alive knowing what I kept settling for when you exist! Knowing that I could have been with a man like you."

Her lips were moving like she was shivering, and her eyes were wide and watery. Red blotches covered her freckled cheeks, and Bob just knew she was going to panic again. She made a helpless noise and rushed forward, ready to run, but this time he caught her in his arms, the books and flowers falling to the floor. He let her struggle for a few seconds as she cried, but he held on tight.

"Anna," he said softly. "You can't keep running."

Her body slumped against his. She looked up at him as he held her, and a few seconds later, she let her cheek come to rest against his chest. She nodded against him as she whispered, "I don't really have anywhere to go anyway."

-------------------------

Bob kept his distance while also somehow always being nearby. Anna knew he was probably expecting her to vanish again if he turned his back for too long, but she was too mentally and physically exhausted to move from his living room couch while he fixed some tea. It was getting dark outside, and it was nearly impossible to try to think about anything other than Sunday night when she felt truly free for the first time in years.

Similar thoughts must have been on Bob's mind, because he was still occasionally looking at her like he used to. Then his cheeks would turn pink, and he'd duck his head before showing her a completely neutral expression. She took the mug of tea he handed her and whispered, "Thank you," as he sat down as far away from her as he could. She cleared her throat as she looked into her drink and said, "You're one of the kindest, most generous people I've ever met." She forced her gaze to his face. "I'm sorry I took that for granted. And I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you and the ladies."

Bob nodded but didn't speak for a minute. His voice was as gentle as always as he eventually said, "I'd like it if we could talk."

"Yeah," she agreed softly now that she felt like the fight inside her was gone and the tears had finally dried up.

"Where's your husband?"

She pictured Kevin standing in the perfect kitchen in the beautiful house on the cul-de-sac. "In New Jersey."

"Right," Bob replied in a reassuring tone. "You said you should have been divorced by now, so does that mean you don't want to be married to him?"

"I hate him," she whispered, back to staring into her mug. "And I'm sure he hates me, too. No, I don't want to be married to him any longer."

"You're separated?" he asked softly.

Anna shrugged, wishing more than anything that she could scoot a little closer to Bob and feel his hand on hers. "Not legally. He won't sign anything."

"Right," Bob repeated again. "Would it be too much for me to ask what happened? Because I really don't understand. I'm trying, but I'm still so confused, Anna."

Her brain was screaming at her to start crying again, begging her to fall apart or hyperventilate, but she didn't even have the energy for it. She took one long sip of her perfect cup of tea before setting it aside and turning to look at him. Even now, he had sympathy in his eyes. Whether that was because he now knew she and Kevin weren't really together or because he was always this sweet, she couldn't say. But he was everything she wanted and would never have again.

"The short version is that I put him through medical school while he cheated on me. The long version is that he used up every bit of my money, let me work myself ragged, prevented me from finishing my PhD at Princeton, belittled me, and flaunted his extramarital relationship in my face. It was humiliating knowing he was cheating. It's humiliating eating sandwiches and peanuts for every meal now. But the worst thing is that he is holding my manuscript hostage, and no matter what I do, he won't let me have it back."

"Jesus, Anna," he gasped, making the slightest move like he wanted to reach for her before pulling back.

She slowly stood, and he looked up at her, trying to gauge what she was going to do, but she just looked down at him as she tucked her shaking hands behind her back. "You're perfect," she whispered. "You're Sky Writing. You're the handsome man from the bookstore who smells like tea and soap. You're Bob, the guy my friends knew I would fall in love with as soon as I met them." She took a step back, barely able to handle how he was looking at her like she still mattered. "But I don't know how to be an us with you. I know that's what you want, but I never wanted to fall like this again. I tried my best not to. I can't do this with Kevin's shadow behind me all the time. And I'm just really sorry I let it go as far as it did. Because now that I know so much about you...."

That's when the tears arrived, and that's also when Bob stood up. "Anna, I feel like-"

When he cut himself off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air for a few seconds, she took one long, last look at him and whispered, "I'm going to go." He didn't stop her from stepping over the flowers, walking out the door, and heading to the end of his street where she waited for a ride as the night air made her shiver, and her tear streaked cheeks finally started to dry again.

----------------------------------

Oh, they both fell for each other. I'm not sure if Bob feels better or worse now. Kevin is an absolute dick, and we will hear from him in the next chapter. Keep fighting, Anna. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 12

@thedroneranger

@theamuz

@cherrycola27

@katiedid-3

@yuckosworld

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-magnolia

@avaleineandafryingpan

@t-nd-rfoot

@eddiemunsonreader

@wintercap89

@the-fever-of-mankind

@sio-ina-bottle

@lovingperfectionsblog

@daisydont-lie

@sappy-seresin

@birdy-bat-writes

@cutelittlefakejourneys

@cottagecori

@fandom-princess-forevermore

@sotalife

@novastories

@xoxabs88xox

@rileyanntoinette

@mannsachds

@midnightmagpiemama

@greatszu

@zetasaturno99

@lovingrobertfloyd

@taytaylala12

@captain-fandomwriter58

@grxcisxhy-wp

@hobireasns

@wolfquake23

@paintlavillered

@seitmai

@noonenuts

@amiets2

@imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog

@lonelysoul50

@sweetwhispersofchaos

@cruelmissdior

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@angelbabyange

@eternallyvenus

@sgt-barnesveins

@kmc1989

@libbyaller

#bob floyd x oc #robert bob floyd x oc #robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd fic #robert floyd imagine #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd fanfiction #robert floyd fanfiction #robert floyd fic #robert floyd x oc #robert floyd #top gun imagine #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #roosterforme #covering the classics

371 notes · View notes