#like again I can't stop you. but I can block you

[inbabylontheywept]

Hi there, I love your writing and saw one of your recent answered asks. If you feel like it, could you tell or point us to a story about how you were taught kindness? I worry I have not learned enough kindness.

I actually got out of bed to write this. I saw the ask, and I knew the story, and I knew what I wanted it to be. It's a little fire and brimstone, compared to my other stories, but I think that's an important part. 

My mom was a young woman's leader for our ward and she cared a lot about her charges. One of the girls in her group had parents that were in the middle of a messy divorce, and with the mom reentering the workforce after 15 years, schedules were hectic. So my mom picked up their daughter from school for a while. The daughter only lived a block away from us, so it was a small thing to do for a family going through a very painful change.

Said daughter was fat. She'd been fat since we were all kids and she was deeply ashamed of it. Always trying to fix it. Always reading about and talking about diets. And one day, I was sitting in the back seat, and she was talking with my mom about some documentary she'd seen about the corn industry, and how corn syrup was in everything, and I remember her saying "It's literally poison."

And I just didn't leave it be.  

I said something about if she was sure it was literal, and she said yeah, totally, and I asked her if she knew what literal went, and my mom shot daggers at me through the rear view mirror before changing the topic. They chatted, and my mom told her some stuff about worrying less about food, and I don't remember the details but I know my mom was trying to steer her away from disordered eating. Then we arrived at her house, and she got out, and after that it was just me and my mom in the car. 

And it was awkward. We drove for maybe a half block before my mom said, Babs, what the hell was that, and I said something about how that's not what literally means, and she took me to task for it. 

Who cares what literally means, she said. Her parents are getting divorced. She feels terrible about her body. She feels terrible about everything. And instead of listening to her, you felt the need to point out that you're smarter than her. That you know a word she doesn't. You feel big, putting her down like that? 

I didn't have an answer. We sat there a few moments, silent, before she spoke again. I will never forget how tired she sounded. 

I know she isn't as smart as you, she said. But she's doing the best she can. And you could be doing so much more than this.

There was nothing I could say to that. I saw her face in the rearview a few times on the short ride home, and she wasn't sobbing but there were tears going down her face. I think she sat in the car twenty minutes after pulling in, just trying to get her composure back. I checked on her from the living room window like ten times. I can't remember the last time I felt like that huge of a piece of shit.

My mom is a gentle woman. She cried over worms with me. She hardly ever yelled, and she apologized after she did. That conversation caved my skull in like a cinder block dropped from a skyscraper. And I deserved it. 

I know it's probably not the tumblr way to encourage shame. But I have found it useful anyway. I think it is useful for me, to have a specific moment of knowing what failure looks like and feels like.  Missing the person to pick out the part that would make me look good, missing the big view of their life, missing the idea that what they need is not necessarily to be right. Too may misses.

There are a lot of stupid things that have crawled to the tip of my tongue, only to get stopped by the memory of my mom saying you could be doing so much more than this. 

I will not make her say that a second time.

[alchemistc]

Based on my own post from earlier this evening because I can't stop thinking about it.

vanilla

He doesn't mean to see it. He swears. It's just - Tommy's laptop is right there and Buck's is all the way in the office and if he doesn't look up the lifespan of a Cecropia moth right now he's going to forget about it for a month only to remember in the middle of something vitally more important than watching Planet Earth reruns.

So he twists the thing around from its spot on the side table, boots it back up, types in Tommy's password (pA$$word3, because no one would ever guess that he'd be both so lazy and so creative in his laziness), and watches Firefox boot itself up. It's an older laptop, and Tommy doesn't take great care of it - case and point, he didn't even close out of his tabs, they're all still there, and - well. Shit.

That's the most ridiculous dildo he's ever seen.

Biggest, too.

Jesus.

Buck immediately forgets 100% of what he was doing.

And - and looking up Tommy's history is absolutely a line crossed - there's no reason for him to fucking spiral just because there's a bright purple dragon something on the screen with a base as wide as Buck's thigh. There's no reason why he should -

He clicks the search history and regrets it pretty immediately.

That kills two hours.

He has three more until Tommy's off shift, and now everything is worse. Because.

Okay so.

Like.

They have a pretty healthy sex life, Buck thinks. A year into Tommy and Buck Part Two and they still can't keep their hands off each other. And - so, like, sue him for preferring all the boring stuff he never really got to enjoy long term - the way he knows Tommy goes a little crazy when they're lying on their sides and Buck can just slip right in and press his lips to Tommy's shoulder, tuck his hand under Tommy's where he's got it on his chest, curl their fingers together and just breath into each thrust. Sue him for liking it when they're face to face and Tommy's looking up at him with the pads of his fingers tracing the shell of Buck's ear and he can see the love love love in his eyes, see the way his tongue curls out Buck's name like a prayer. Sue him for his fantasies always drifting to that sunny afternoon in their bed, Buck on his belly and Tommy everywhere around him, over him, inside of him, humming useless nothings into Buck's ear while the sweat from their skin eased the chafe of being pressed together from pelvis to collarbone.

Buck picks up his phone. Watches the familiar name ring out one, two, three - answered on the fourth ring.

"Am I not kinky enough, do you think?" Buck asks, and gets a drawn out moment of silence.

"Nope," Ravi says, and the call drops.

And who else is he gonna call, really? Hen and Chim? (Hard no, they nipped that in the bud back when Buck and Tommy were still in Part One) Maddie? Another line too far, but this one he doesn't feel like crossing today. Eddie? If he'd even pick up?

Buck dials out again.

Ravi picks up on the second ring. "Buck, I love you man, but I get a front row seat to your little love fest at least once a week, four hours a night. I am not equipped or willing to help you with your sex life."

Fair. That's fair. Boundaries are important. Ravi does an excellent job of setting his up and announcing where they are.

"It's just I found something in Tommy's browser that -."

"Absolutely not. I'll block your number for twenty-four hours."

"Right. Cool. Sure thing." Buck breathes.

"Talk to Tommy, if you're freaking out about it." Ravi caves, just a bit. "Every time. I say this every time, and it always works, doesn't it?"

True. On both accounts. When did Ravi become his go to guy?

(When he started picking up the phone whenever Buck called. When he came to Buck with his own shit and didn't apologize for it.)

"Yeah. You're right. I'm gonna talk to him."

"We're still on for Friday, right?"

Buck has to search his memory to figure out what he's referencing. Tommy's taking Ravi to the farmers market over in Venice Beach that Buck refuses to go to on principle because Sherri's Treats aren't even homemade. She gets the baked goods from Costco and decorates them with store brand icing.

"Talk to Tommy," Buck throws back, just to be a brat, and Ravi sighs.

"Touche."

He's still freaking out when the call ends three minutes later, and he doesn't want to have to pull this trigger.

Except. Like. It's still there. Right on Tommy's screen. Watching him.

The phone rings six times.

He's contemplating how ridiculous it is to leave a voicemail when Lucy answers with a groggy "'lo?"

"Am I not kinky enough?" Buck asks, and gets the start of a cackle and then a long, slow pause.

She's gonna hang up on him. She's absolutely going to -

"It's ten-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, Buckley."

And it sure is.

God, this would never have happened if he hadn't started an update on his phone mid-episode.

"Walk me through it," she continues, all business, all of a sudden, and so Buck tells her, grateful for her hums and uhuh's as she starts her day. Buck talks over the sound of her brushing her teeth, and pouring her coffee, and absolutely doesn't mention that he thinks she should probably have better sleeping patterns while he spirals about Tommy being unsatisfied with the sex they have.

"Gonna break bro code here a little to tell you you have literally nothing to worry about there. Seriously. You're getting gold stars every night, I promise you."

"He's been looking up gimp suits and gags, Lucy!"

She's quiet on the other end, for a moment.

Then she starts laughing.

Again.

Which is a great feeling for Buck. He loves it when Lucy laughs at him.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. Honey those aren't for you."

Well, now he's kinda mad at the implication that Tommy would -

"Not for Tommy, either," she interrupts, like she knows where that spiral leads. "I forgot what time of year it was. This is new for you."

"What's new for me?"

He can picture the sly grin on her face as she pours something into a bowl - milk maybe. Then cereal.

God, what a psycho.

"Tommy and an army buddy of his have had this escalating prank war going on for like...seven, eight years? I don't know, I wasn't here at the start of it, but I guess it started as the most heterosexual man you've ever met trying to be a good ally to his newly out buddy and sending a set of butt plugs to the only address of Tommy's he had available."

Weird. But not the weirdest thing he's ever heard. "Which was?"

"Oh, Harbor. Yeah. Got it his first week there. So now every year on the anniversary they try to send each other shit at work that should technically be grounds for a sexual harassment claim from their coworkers. Last year Tommy got a fully custom furry suit. Dude probably dropped thirty grand on that thing."

He shouldn't ask. He definitely shouldn't -

"It was a horse. Because of his big fat -."

"I get the picture, thanks."

"So yeah. It's coming up on time for them to push a boundary a little too far and actually have someone complain about it, this time. They won't stop until one of them gets a write up."

It's kinda funny. Kinda sweet, too, in that really weird way military men are with each other. Irrationally, Buck kinda wants to slew foot the guy for being an unintentionally massive flirt.

Straight dudes are the literal worst at allyship, in the weirdest ways possible.

"He's out of state, so don't go getting territorial, Buckley."

Never gonna live that down.

"But seriously though? Back to the original point. Which is you freaking out that Tommy is unsatisfied in your sex life. Number one: talk to him. You guys are the actual worst. Always gotta have a second opinion before you bite the bullet and do the normal thing. Number two: I know too much. And I know you have nothing to worry about. Number three: when he gets home I want you to record his reaction when you turn the laptop screen on him like a spurned wife and send it to me. I'm having a bad day. I could use the entertainment."

"You just woke up."

"And had to talk an old coworker down from a ledge about how satisfying his sex life is with a current coworker. Bareback, no lube, just wake up and go."

"I think this also counts as sexual harassment."

"You started this conversation with 'am I kinky enough' so I'm not super concerned."

By the time he gets off the phone with Lucy he's very firmly on solid ground. And also wondering exactly how much Tommy actually talks about their sex life when he's not around. Tommy keeps things pretty close to the vest. He can't imagine he's going around bragging about that time he started crying when Buck hit his prostate right as he licked into his mouth and slid a hand up his arm to link their fingers together.

Maybe in less detail.

Something about seeing God, maybe. That seems more like his style.

---

Tommy has a routine, when he gets home from work. Keys hung up, jacket on the coat rack, duffle tucked into one of the cubbies of his makeshift mud room. Shoes under the bench, two minutes of head scritches for Goose as she meows her way down the hall to greet the only man she'll ever love.

(Buck's super cool about the fact that Tommy's breakup cat hates him. Totally chill.)

When Goose has had her fill and darted off to go bounce off the walls of the office, Tommy likes to amble in to whatever room Buck is in and drape himself across Buck's back for a moment, mouth pressed to the knob of Buck's spine, hands roaming for a moment before he manages a greeting.

He's making risotto for dinner when he hears the lock click in the front door.

He's ignoring Lucy's text reminding him to get a reaction shot.

He listens to Tommy talk back to Goose like he understands every "mrow" listens for the shuffle of socked feet down the hall, listens to him pad across the kitchen tiles, braces himself for the dead weight of Tommy against his back.

Tommy's got a hand halfway up his shirt when he mumbles into Buck's ear. "So I hear we have something to talk about."

"Ravi snitched."

"Ravi still thinks I'm the sensible one, of the two of us."

Buck snorts. Tips his head back against Tommy's shoulder and basks in the moment while Tommy buries his nose behind Buck's ear.

"Before I say anything else, I know you said I can use your laptop whenever I want but you should know I definitely snooped where I shouldn't and jumped to some wild conclusions. Which Lucy has already cleared up on your behalf, because apparently we're both too chicken shit to have a conversation without using a lifeline."

Tommy stills. "I didn't close out my browser session last time, did I?"

"You did not."

"And Lucy told you about the horse costume Dom sent me last year."

"She sure did. She very specifically called it a furry suit, though."

Tommy blows out an exasperated breath against his neck. "And you were freaking out because...?"

"I thought maybe you were bored with the sex we have."

That gets Tommy going. He pulls free just to get enough leverage to spin Buck to face him, hands on his hips and eyes catching Buck's like if he doesn't see Buck's eyes in the next five seconds he'll do something crazy, and Buck doesn't really know how he got so lucky but he's not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it's a furry.

"Evan. Please understand when I say this I'm not exaggerating. Our sex is life altering. I want to have slow, quiet, vanilla sex with you until the day I die."

"Which won't be for like another fifty years."

Tommy hums. "I'm gonna be popping Blue Chew when I'm ninety-five and have two bum hips."

"Oh, so I have to do all the work?"

"Why do you think I dated younger?"

Buck has to kiss him about it. And then he has to pull back and duck his head to remind Tommy of the part he blazed right past. "Full disclosure, when I said I snooped I meant I went into your search history."

Tommy's chuckle shakes them both. "I figured. You go back far enough to find the single porn link in amidst all the shitty plastic used actuators for sale on eBay?"

"I'm not a masochist, Tommy." Figures he'd get so frustrated looking for a part to fix the rattling in the Jeeps dash he'd want to rub one out. Usually takes him more than a single video, though. Probably he'd decided he'd feel too guilty to actually get off until he had the part ordered.

Tommy shifts his weight a bit. Wedges a knee in between Buck's legs. His eyes get that sparkle to them that means he finds Buck to be an adorable menace. "How married to the risotto are you?" he asks, hands shifting from Buck's hips to behind his thighs.

"Not - not terribly." It had been a distraction from thinking about Tommy's army buddy, mostly. The recipe still isn't perfected and even though Tommy's complimented it every time, Buck can tell it's missing something and Tommy is just letting him figure it out on his own.

"Maybe we could order in and I can show you how satisfied I am with your service."

"We - that's definitely an option. On the table."

"How about this very sturdy counter, instead?"

They haven't done it somewhere not-the-bed in months.

Their knees aren't gonna thank them for it.

Buck has to attempt to ignore Tommy mouthing at his neck to remember if there are enough ice packs in the freezer for the both of them, right now.

"Yeah - yep, let's do that instead."

Tommy gets both hands under his ass and lifts.

He doesn't quite swoon over the move, anymore, but it still makes him more than a little giddy.

"Wait, did you decide on the dildo over the gimp suit, because if you're escalating at the same rate as your friend I think -."

"Can we talk about Dom after I get my satisfaction scores in, please?"

"Shutting up now."

"I don't believe that for a second," Tommy says, and then shuts him up with his mouth anyway, just for good measure.

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `fix you, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: dean accidentally hurts you on a hunt, and he can't forgive himself. word count: 1015 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The tension still sits comfortably in the air, as if you’re supposed to expect more. More fighting. More bloodshed.

The noise had thinned out, the last of the attackers either dead or had scattered.

You had been back to back with Sam, Dean leading in front, clutching his gun, holding it out in front of him as everyone scours the rooms for any potential threats.

Sam moves slightly to the right, examining hidden corners and blind spots. You move closer to Dean.

“Dea-”

As you step toward Dean, a figure lunges from the shadows behind him. He reacts instinctively—turns, swings hard—

His fist connects with your face before either of you realise what’s happening.

You hit the ground with a thud, causing both brothers to turn around and properly look at you. “Shit,” Dean gasps; Sam rushes to your side, completely stunned.

“What did you do?” Sam exclaims, kneeling down beside you as he helps you lift yourself up. Dean stares down at you, pure consternation floods his face as he tries to wrap his head around what he had done.

He clenches his jaw, dropping to his knees, joining Sam in aiding you. You sit up, clutching your face. The throbbing hot pain pulses through your nose, the pain striking down your neck and your shoulders. You pull your hand away, revealing the pool of blood trickling down your wrist. Dean reaches his hand out to touch you, and you flinch.

Dean’s eyes widen as he examines your face, the terror glazing over your eyes sending a shiver down his back. He can’t figure out why he did what he did—but it surely broke his heart.

“Y/N—” He begins, and you hiss at the stinging pain jolting through your face. Tears stream down your face, unsure whether it’s because of Dean or the fact that your nose feels like it’s shattered from the inside.

“—I didn’t know it was you. I would never-”

“Give her some space, Dean.” Sam hushes, and he backs up. He stares at you, his breath shallow, eyes flicking between your trembling body and the blood running from your nose. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

The silence is heavy yet again, but this time it’s soaked in something bitter. Dean doesn’t look like himself, though. He clenches his jaw so tightly it might crack; his fists curl at his sides, and his eyes are glassy.

Sam suggests that they should take you back to the Impala, and Dean reluctantly agrees.

-

The motel room is too quiet. Your nose is finally bandaged up, a dull ache radiating from your cheekbones and down your neck. The injury itself isn’t the problem, it’s Dean’s face that flashes in your mind as he turned and hit you. The blank instinct. The power. You can’t stop replaying it.

You’re curled up in bed, the comforter completely covering your body as you lay with your eyes shut. Sam is finishing cleaning himself up after the hunt, washing away the remains of dried blood and dirt.

Dean walks in, the door opening and shutting quietly as he shuffles his boots on the cheap carpet. You don’t even bother to move.

He pauses. “Hey.” His voice is low.

You don’t respond.

“Y/N,” he starts, moving closer to you. He pulls a chair out from the table, sitting close enough to you where you can’t avoid him.

“I didn’t know it was you. God, I—I thought you were one of them.” You can hear the guilt in every syllable.

He exhales, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I’m going for a drive. Call me if you need me.”

-

It’s well past midnight when you find yourself unable to sleep. The thoughts keep replaying in your head. Dean isn’t one to apologise with words. Him distancing himself from you tells you more than what you need to hear.

The Impala’s headlights are shining into your window, the voile blocking the harsh lights from the outside, yet you just know it’s the Impala. You get up, throwing a zip-up hoodie over your shoulders and make your way outside.

Dean sits in the driver’s seat, his head tilted back and his eyes shut. The engine hums gently below him, Led Zeppelin barely coming through the speakers. You tap on the window, startling him awake. He reaches for his gun, but relaxes once he sees that it’s you.

“Can we talk?” You ask him, and he looks at you, eyes rimmed red and cheeks flushed a light crimson.

“Of course.” He opens the car door, shutting it behind him. You lead him back to your motel room, allowing him to step inside before you lock the door behind you.

Dean sits on the edge of your bed, his hand ruffling through his hair as he looks up at you. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Dean,” you begin, catching his attention. “But you terrified me. The way you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t even look. The force behind it was…” You trail off, noticing that he’s watching every single movement in your eyes. He’s locked onto yours. “You really hurt me, Dean.”

“I know, sweetheart. I���m really, really sorry. Truly. I would never ever lay a hand on you like that—ever. I promise you. I’ll be more careful next time.” He admits his wrongdoing, his hands fidgety. He rubs a hand over his face.

You stand there above him, yet all he does is look at you. He opens his arms.

“Can I have a hug?” He asks, and you nod. You fall into his arms, his grip tight and forceful like he doesn’t want to let go.

He can’t let go.

He plants a kiss on your temple, rubbing his hand across your back to soothe you. Make you feel safe. Loved.

And to let you know that he’s sorry.

The weight of everything begins to melt away, the hundreds of questions fleeing your brain. You allow yourself to be wrapped in his warmth, believing that it was a onetime mistake.

And it will be.

[youthguk]

Vestiges: Finale | jjk (m)

Some scars are carved too deep to heal.

 jungkook x reader | exes to lovers 

warnings: angst, explicit content (minors dni), hurt/comfort, second chance romance, addiction (depicted respectfully), betrayal, manipulation, themes of grief, guilt, and healing,  mild physical violence, trauma-related dialogue

wc: 8k

part 1

"Grief doesn’t announce itself," you'd whispered once, fingers tracing patterns in the condensation of your bedroom window. "it erodes in silence."

The memory hits Jungkook like a physical blow as he sits across from you now, watching your trembling fingers trace the rim of your coffee cup. The café around you both feels simultaneously too loud and impossibly quiet, a discordant symphony of clinking cups and muffled conversations that can't quite drown out the thundering of his own heartbeat.

Your confession hangs in the air between you, each word a shard of glass suspended in time: "I was pregnant."

The world stops spinning.

Three syllables. That's all it takes for everything Jungkook thought he knew to crumble like wet paper in his hands.

"When?" The question scratches its way out of his throat, barely audible over the ambient chatter of the café.

You don't meet his eyes. Your fingers twist the napkin in your lap into a tight spiral, then release it, then start again. "Six years ago."

"Six—" The word breaks in his mouth like glass. "Why didn't you—"

"Tell you?" Your laugh breaks apart before it even fully forms, crumbling into something closer to a sob. "When? Before or after you accused me of—"

Your voice cracks, and the sound splits him open.

The question he needs to ask sits like lead on his tongue. He can barely force it past his lips: "The baby...?"

Your eyes squeeze shut, and he watches a tear trace its way down your cheek. The sight of it makes his chest cave in.

"Gone," you whisper, and the word echoes in the space between you like a gunshot. "I lost... I lost our..."

You can't finish. You don't need to.

Jungkook's chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, the sound making both of you flinch. His legs feel like they're made of water, but somehow they carry him toward the door.

"Jungkook—" Your voice follows him, pleading, broken.

He doesn't turn around. He can't. If he looks at you now, he'll shatter completely.

The winter air hits his face like a slap as he stumbles onto the street. His feet move without direction, carrying him through crowds of strangers who don't notice—or politely ignore—the way his shoulders shake with each ragged breath.

One block. Two. Three.

But no matter how far he walks, he can't outrun the truth that's carved itself into his bones: somewhere in the past, there was a heartbeat. A future. A child that was half him and half you.

And now there's just this: empty hands and six years' worth of grief he never knew he should have been carrying.

The winter air slices through his jacket like brittle glass as he stumbles forward. His feet catch on uneven pavement, each step a desperate attempt to escape the echo of your words.

"Not real," he mutters, his breath clouding in front of him. "Can't be real."

The city writhes around him in a blur of neon signs and taxi horns. A couple laughs somewhere nearby, the sound piercing through his fog like a needle. Their happiness feels obscene.

His vision swims as your voice plays on repeat: "I was pregnant... I was pregnant... I was—"

"Shut up!" he snarls into the night, earning startled glances from passing strangers. His knees give out and he slams against a brick wall, the rough surface scraping his palms raw. The physical pain is almost a relief.

His trembling fingers fumble through his pockets, muscle memory seeking comfort. They brush against familiar shapes: the dented cigarette pack, the small bottle that promises oblivion.Relics of battles he thought he was winning.

The pills rattle softly in their container as he grips them, leaving crescent-moon indents in his palm, but he doesn't take them — not yet.

Your face flashes behind his eyelids: the way your fingers had twisted in your lap, how your voice had cracked on the truth he should have known. The memory rips a sound from his throat that's half-laugh, half-sob.

"Six fucking years," he chokes out, pressing his forehead against the cold brick. "Six years of hating you, and all this time—" His fist connects with the wall before he can stop himself. Pain blooms across his knuckles. Six years carrying a version of the story that was never true.

A businessman in an expensive coat swerves around him, muttering "Watch it, buddy."

Jungkook barely hears him. His feet are moving again, carrying him deeper into the maze of streets that seem to pulse with the same rhythm as the grief in his chest. Every step feels like walking on broken glass, every breath tastes like ashes and regret.

The truth follows him like a shadow he can't outrun, whispering: There was a child. There was hope. And he destroyed it all because he couldn't trust you enough to ask why.

His feet carried him through the winding streets without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding him through the maze of sodium-lit sidewalks and shadowed alleyways. The city's nighttime symphony - distant sirens, tipsy laughter, the hollow echo of footsteps - blurred into white noise against the storm in his mind.

When his knuckles finally met the weathered blue paint of their door, the impact sent tremors through his already-shaking frame. He swayed slightly, vision swimming, as footsteps approached from inside.

The door creaked open, spilling warm light onto the welcome mat. Sora stood there, drowning in an oversized cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder, her dark hair escaping from a messy braid. Her eyes widened, taking in his disheveled state.

"Jesus Christ, Kook," she whispered, reaching for him instinctively before catching herself, hands hovering inches from his trembling shoulders. "What happened?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but his throat closed around the words. Behind Sora, Taehyung's familiar silhouette appeared, lean and rigid with tension.

"For fuck's sake, Kook," Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his hair, voice caught between frustration and concern. "It's the middle of the night."

Jungkook tried to laugh it off, to conjure up some semblance of his usual sharp-edged charm. "What, can't a guy visit his—" The facade cracked, splintered, shattered. His next breath came out as a strangled gasp.

The world tilted dangerously. His fingers found the doorframe, gripping it like a lifeline as his legs threatened to give out. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.

"She was pregnant," he choked out, the words burning his throat like acid. "All this time, she was— I never knew— I didn't—"

His knees finally buckled. The impact with the floor barely registered through the numbness spreading through his limbs. A broken sound escaped him - not quite a sob, not quite a scream - as he curled in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees.

"Shhh, hey, breathe with me," Sora murmured, kneeling beside him. Her hand found his back, rubbing gentle circles. "Just breathe."

Taehyung remained frozen in the doorway, his posture rigid with a tension that seemed to go beyond mere concern. His silence spoke volumes - years of watching his best friend spiral, of picking up the pieces, of carrying a weight that pressed heavier on his shoulders with each passing day.

But now...

Now there was only this: a man shattering on their doorstep at midnight, while guilt and grief tangled together in the shadows, and six years of carefully constructed walls began to crack, threatening to reveal truths that some had fought desperately to keep buried.

Dawn bleeds through gossamer curtains, painting Sora and Taehyung's living room in watercolor golds, but time feels suspended in amber – viscous and heavy. Each passing second drips like honey, too thick to measure, too stubborn to move forward.

Jungkook's body is a sculpture of defeat on their couch, one knee pulled to his chest like a shield. The untouched tea on the coffee table sends wisps of steam into the air, dancing with dust motes in the morning light. The TV drones on, a meaningless symphony of morning show chatter that might as well be static.

"Your tea's getting cold," Sora murmurs, her footsteps whisper-soft against the hardwood. Her fingers ghost over his shoulder, barely there, like she's afraid he might shatter at her touch.

Pain throbs behind his eyes, beneath his ribs, a living thing with teeth and claws. It's not the kind of ache that aspirin could touch – it's grief wearing his skin, making a home in the hollow spaces where hope used to live.

The plate Sora sets before him – golden toast, fruit arranged like jewels – might as well be cardboard for all he cares. Her smile is fragile as spun sugar when she says, "You got some rest. That's... that's something, right?"

His response is silence and a thousand-yard stare, eyes fixed on some point in space where maybe, in another universe, things turned out differently.

The scoff that cuts through the quiet is sharp enough to draw blood. Taehyung materializes in the kitchen doorway, all bed-head and barely contained fury in a wrinkled t-shirt.

"One fucking day," he spits, each word dripping venom. "She walks back into your life for one day and you're—"

"Tae." Sora's voice could freeze hell.

"What, we're just going to pretend this is okay? That he wasn't finally getting his shit together before she—"

"Now what?" Jungkook's voice is sandpaper rough, but steady as a knife's edge. His eyes lock with Taehyung's. "Now I'm remembering how to feel something besides numb?"

"You were destroying yourself last night."

A laugh escapes Jungkook's throat, brittle as dead leaves. "I've been destroying myself for six years, Tae. I just got better at hiding the debris."

Sora's fingers find his knee, an anchor in the storm. His next words fall like stones into still water: "She was carrying my child. She lost our baby. And where was I? Too busy burning bridges to notice she was drowning."

The muscle in Taehyung's jaw jumps. Silence stretches like a wire between them.

Jungkook turns to Sora, voice cracking like thin ice: "Thank god she had you. When the rest of us were blind, you... you saw her."

Sora's eyes shimmer with unshed tears, fingers tightening on his knee.

"She could be lying," Taehyung mutters, gaze fixed on the floor.

"She's not." Two words, flat as a blade.

"Just leave it buried, Kook. What good can come from—"

"Buried?" Jungkook rises like a thundercloud, bare feet silent on the rug. "Like how she buried her grief alone? Scared and pregnant and fucking abandoned because I couldn't—" His voice splinters. "Because I wouldn't—"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"I don't deserve forgiveness," he whispers to the empty air. "Not for this."

Sora's voice is soft as rainfall: "You both deserve peace, Kook. Maybe that's where forgiveness starts."

Taehyung turns away, shoulders rigid, something dark and unreadable flickering across his face like shadow-play.

But Jungkook, lost in the labyrinth of his own regret, doesn't catch the way his best friend's hands clench and unclench at his sides, or the guilt that writes novels in the tense line of his spine.

Not yet.

-

The phone screen flickers to life, Sora's name burning through the darkness of your room. Your heart stutters - it's been days of deafening silence since your confession, days of wondering if you've shattered what little remained between you and Jungkook.

The message is simple, devastating in its brevity:

Sora: Can you meet him? He's not okay.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling like autumn leaves. A dozen responses materialize and dissolve: "Where is he?" "What happened?" "Is he safe?" But what emerges instead is a hollow ache in your chest, an echo of six years' worth of unspoken words.

When you open your contacts, his name feels like a ghost - Jeon Jungkook. The empty space where his number should be mocks you, a reminder of all the walls you've built between then and now. The irony tastes bitter on your tongue.

Outside your window, Seoul shivers under winter's grip. Streetlights blur into watercolor smudges through the frost-kissed glass, while wind howls a mournful melody through narrow alleyways. You pull your coat closer, not against the cold, but against the weight of what's to come.

The café wraps around you like a worn sweater - all cinnamon-scented air and soft jazz playing somewhere distant. You sink into a corner booth, fingers wrapped around a rapidly cooling cup of whatever Sora ordered for you. The porcelain doesn't warm your hands anymore, but you hold on anyway, needing something solid to anchor you to this moment.

The door chimes and the world stops breathing.

You don't need to look up to know it's him - your body remembers. It's in the way your heart forgets its rhythm, the way your lungs seem to shrink, the way every cell in your being suddenly remembers its capacity for both healing and hurt.

When you finally raise your eyes, the man before you isn't the polished creature from the wedding. This Jungkook is raw around the edges, like something carefully constructed has been stripped away. His scarf sits askew, his coat hanging wrong, as if he's forgotten how clothes are supposed to fit. But it's his eyes that undo you - dark and deep and hollow, like someone has reached in and scooped out all the light, leaving behind nothing but shadows and sleepless nights.

He slides into the seat across from you with a grace that feels more like surrender than strength. His gaze catches yours and holds, searching for something - recognition, perhaps, or absolution.

Your mouth opens but produces no sound. The silence stretches between you like spun glass - beautiful and breakable.

"Hi," he breathes, and oh - his voice. His voice still sounds like home and heartbreak woven into a single syllable, like every dream you've tried to forget and every memory you couldn't bear to keep.

"Hi," you whisper back, the word hanging delicate and heavy between you, like a bridge neither of you is ready to cross.

The clink of porcelain against wood makes you flinch. Your coffee sits untouched, a mirror-dark pool reflecting fragments of fluorescent lights above. The ambient chatter of the café feels distant, muffled, as if you're underwater and everyone else is speaking through layers of glass.

He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. You notice how his hands – those familiar artist's hands that once painted galaxies across your skin – tremble slightly as he stirs his coffee. The spoon scrapes against ceramic, a discordant note in the quiet symphony of your shared discomfort. Something in the careful way he holds himself makes your heart clench – there's a fragility there you've never seen before.

"You..." His voice catches, gentle and rough like worn velvet. Your eyes meet across the table – a collision of past and present – before his gaze skitters away like a startled animal. "You look..."

The unfinished sentence hangs between you, heavy with possibilities. You watch as his fingers curl around his mug, white-knuckled, anchoring himself to something solid. You see it all – how gently he speaks, the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes dart to yours and away. Something broken in him mirrors your own past self. "He's just now learning how grief tastes," you think. "But I've had six years to grow used to the bitterness."

"Different," he finally manages, the word falling soft as snow, tender in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your lips curve into what might be a smile, if smiles could bleed. "So do you."

And god, he does. The Jungkook you knew burned like a supernova – all wild dreams and endless possibilities. This man before you... his light has gone nova, collapsed in on itself, leaving behind something beautiful but infinitely more haunted.

"Work?" The question tumbles from your lips like a defense mechanism. Better to discuss spreadsheets and profit margins because 'how are you?' feels like a cruelty you’re not ready to inflict — not when the answer is sitting so plainly in the slump of his shoulders.

He laughs – a hollow sound that doesn't reach his eyes. "The company's thriving. Investors throwing money at us. Should be popping champagne, right?" His fingers drum against the table, a nervous staccato. "Everything I wanted."

"But?" The word is barely a whisper.

"But success tastes like ash when there's no one..." His voice cracks, splinters. "Sometimes the apartment gets too quiet," he says, voice rough. "I turn on the shower just to hear something. Then I sit on the floor and wait for the noise to fill the room."

Your heart breaks so quietly you wonder if he can hear it.

His hand reaches across the table, hesitant yet determined, and you let him take yours. His touch is impossibly gentle, as if he's afraid you might shatter. "Jungkook-ah..." you breathe.

His thumb traces constellations on your skin with infinite tenderness, mapping territories he used to know by heart.

The space between you vibrates with something electric and ancient, like disturbing the dust of a long-sealed tomb. His fingers against yours summon ghosts you thought you'd laid to rest, awakening muscle memory your body never quite forgot. The tenderness of his touch burns worse than any fury could - it tastes of might-have-beens and never-weres, of dreams that died too young to have proper graves.

You withdraw your hand with deliberate slowness, seeking refuge in the familiar curve of your coffee mug, though its warmth has long since bled into the winter air.

"Are you..." He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing, his voice soft and careful. "Is there someone...?"

"His name is Minho." The words feel like betrayal on your tongue. “He’s good to me.”

Something flickers in Jungkook's eyes – a star dying in real time. "Good," he whispers, but his grip on your hand tightens infinitesimally. "That's... that's good."

You want to tell him how Minho's touch never burns quite right, how his kisses don't taste like coming home. But you don't. Some truths are better left buried.

"I'm sorry," you breathe instead.

His eyes find yours, dark and deep as midnight, filled with a tenderness that breaks your heart. "I never stopped thinking about us, about you," he confesses, each word precise as a blade, soft as a caress. "Not for a single day."

The truth of it splits you open, clean as lightning.

"Walk with me?" He's already standing, offering his hand like he used to – before the world went wrong. His touch remains gentle, inviting rather than insistent. "It's cold, but..."

You take it without hesitation, because some habits are written in bone. Because your body remembers the choreography of loving him, even if your mind knows better.

Outside, winter wraps around you both like a shroud, and you wonder if the cold might finally numb the ache of what could have been.

You see him again on a Thursday. Neither of you admits that Sora's cryptic text about the new gallery opening was just thinly-veiled matchmaking.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, voice catching slightly on the lie. The winter light streaming through the café windows turns his skin to alabaster, makes the shadows under his eyes look like bruises.

The café wraps you both in its quiet symphony - the soft clink of ceramic, the whisper of pages turning, the gentle hiss of the espresso machine. Through frost-laced windows, bare branches paint stark calligraphy against a pearl-grey sky. Your hands tremble as you cradle your untouched latte, warmth seeping through your palms like a ghost of comfort.

"Tell me about your work," he says, leaning forward slightly. His coat - the same one from last time - hangs loose around his shoulders like borrowed armor. His hair falls in his eyes when he moves, and your fingers itch with the old instinct to brush it away.

"The winter exhibition..." You trace the rim of your cup, watching ripples form in the cooling coffee. "It's smaller than we planned. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just chasing shadows, you know? If maybe I should've chosen something... safer."

He watches you with that intense focus that always made you feel like the only person in the world. Like your words were precious things worth collecting.

"I sat through a board meeting yesterday," he confesses suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. "Stared at the wall for twenty minutes straight, wondering what would happen if I just... walked away. Left it all behind."

"What stopped you?" The question slips out before you can catch it.

His laugh is a broken thing, all sharp edges and hollow spaces. "What else do I have?" The words hang between you like icicles - beautiful, fragile, dangerous to touch.

The silence that follows feels like an old friend - comfortable in its discomfort, familiar in its pain. You both wear your pretenses of 'moving on' like ill-fitting clothes, too tight in some places, too loose in others.

When it's time to leave, your fingers brush against his as you reach for your coat. The contact is brief - barely a heartbeat - but electricity crackles through your veins, awakening muscle memories you've spent years trying to forget. Neither of you acknowledges it. Neither of you pulls away. Some touches speak louder than words ever could.

The pasta’s overcooked. You were distracted.

Across the table, Minho twirls his fork through the overcooked strands, his perpetual half-smile playing at his lips. "The venue downtown, the one near the park? They canceled my set," he says, filling the silence between bites.

"But hey, remember that artist I told you about? The one who does those incredible murals? She's looking for collaborators."

You make a soft sound of acknowledgment, wine glass already half-empty. Your mind drifts to calloused fingers hovering over wet paint, to dark eyes studying your canvas like it held secrets.

"That café owner finally paid me for the piece," Minho continues, his voice a gentle stream you're barely wading in. "In cigarettes, if you can believe it. Guess that's the bohemian life for you, right?"

"Mmm," you manage, taking another long sip of wine. The crimson liquid catches the light, and suddenly you're thinking of the way Jungkook's fingertips had trembled near your canvas, like he was afraid to touch something so raw.

Minho's eyes find yours across the table. "You've been somewhere else lately," he says softly, reaching for the wine bottle. The liquid gurgles as he tops off your glass. "Where do you go when you drift away like that?"

"Just tired," you murmur, watching condensation bead on your glass. "The studio, you know..."

"The wedding's still on your mind?" His voice is gentle, curious - free from accusation.

Your shoulders lift in a half-shrug. "It stirred things up."

He leans back, chair creaking slightly. "You've been in your studio more. The paintings..." His eyes search your face. "They're different now."

Something in your chest constricts. "You said you wanted me to paint more."

"I did." His fingers drum against the table. "But I didn't expect it to put that shadow in your eyes."

You trace patterns in the condensation on your wine glass. "I thought I was numb," you whisper. "I thought I couldn't feel anything anymore."

His hand slides across the table, palm up - an offering. You place your fingers in his, and his touch is everything it should be: steady, warm, safe. But your traitor skin remembers different fingers, remembers the electric current that had sparked through you when Jungkook's hand had brushed yours reaching for tea cups.

The memory burns: his presence in your studio, how the air had grown thick with unspoken words, the way his gaze had traced your throat as you stretched to reach the kettle. You'd felt more alive in that moment of almost-touching than you had in years of being held.

So you smile at Minho, soft and steady, while your heart screams in your chest. You let him hold your hand while your skin burns with the memory of another's touch. Because sometimes lies are kinder than truth, and right now, kindness is all you have left to give him.

-

Snowflakes dance through the city lights, transforming concrete into crystalline art. The streetlamps cast halos in the falling snow as you check your phone again. His message still glows there: "Meet me?"

"Why am I doing this?" you whisper to no one, watching your breath spiral into the night air. But you already know - it's the way he'd said your name on the phone, like a secret he'd been keeping.

The Han River stretches before you, a ribbon of black silk under starlight. Your boots crunch through fresh snow, leaving a trail of memories in your wake. The winter wind bites through your wool coat, grounding you in this moment that feels almost dreamlike.

And there he is - Jungkook, a silhouette against the railing, snowflakes catching in his dark hair like stars.

"Here." You start unwinding your scarf, but he catches your wrist.

"Don't," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the river below. "I just needed..." His voice trails off into the space between heartbeats.

The night wraps around you both like a familiar blanket as you walk. Somewhere above, a saxophone weaves melody through the snowfall, each note hanging in the air like frozen time.

"Remember when we used to walk here?" His voice carries the weight of unspoken stories. "After... everything. I'd stand right here, watching the fog roll in, wondering if I could just... fade away with it."

The words hit you like shards of ice. Your chest constricts, heart drumming against your ribs.

He turns to face you, streetlight painting gold across his features. You see worlds in his eyes - regret, longing, and something softer that makes your breath catch.

"I thought..." Your voice wavers. "I always thought you hated me."

"Hate was easier," he breathes, fingers finding yours in the dark. "Hate meant I didn't have to feel everything else."

His touch sends electricity through your veins - gentle, questioning, devastating. Snowflakes melt on your eyelashes as he steps closer, close enough to count the freckles scattered across his cheeks like constellations waiting to be mapped.

Time slows. His hand traces the curve of your jaw, fingers trembling against your skin. Each touch writes poetry you thought you'd forgotten how to read.

Your world narrows to the space between heartbeats. His breath ghosts across your lips, not quite a kiss - a question mark hanging in the winter air.

When his lips brush your jawline, your universe splinters. He maps the column of your throat with reverent touches, like a pilgrim finding his way home.

"Jungkook..." His name escapes like a prayer.

"Tell me to stop." His voice breaks on the words.

"I-" You try to speak, but truth tangles in your throat. "I can't."

His forehead rests against yours, sharing breath in this fragile moment. "Let me remember," he whispers. "Just for a moment."

Your fingers clutch his coat even as you shake your head. "There's someone else," you manage. "I shouldn't... we can't..."

The world freezes. Jungkook's eyes search yours, reading novels in your silence. Then slowly, carefully, like handling broken glass, he steps away.

Winter rushes back into the space between you, but your skin remembers his touch like a brand.

"Let me walk you home," he offers softly.

And because some things never change - because trust runs deeper than time - you nod.

-

Jungkook stares at his reflection in the chrome-and-glass building that houses TechVision, his company's logo glowing against Seoul's twilight sky. He has channeled his pain into building TechVision - now one of Seoul's fastest-growing startups - though the cost is written in the shadows under his eyes, in the way his shoulders carry an invisible weight. Success, it seems, is a poor substitute for peace.

Pushing through the revolving doors, he enters the building that has become more familiar than home. Success has given him something else: a razor-sharp attention to detail, a need to understand the mechanics of things that seem to make no sense. Perhaps that's why he can't let go of that night, of the inconsistencies that nag at his consciousness during late-night coding sessions.

Later that morning, during their daily briefing, Minseok studies his face. "When did you last sleep properly?"

The same drive that has helped him spot market patterns and predict technological trends now turns inward, dissecting memories with clinical precision. He's learned that in both business and life, nothing is ever quite what it seems at first glance.

Jungkook's laugh is hollow, echoing against the minimalist walls. "Sleep is for those who are not haunted by the inconsistencies in their past."

The soft clink of silverware against porcelain plates filled the air of the upscale restaurant. Not Jungkook's usual scene, but tonight demanded something different. Something sacred. He'd chosen this corner table deliberately - where shadows danced at the edges of candlelight, where whispers couldn't carry.

Through the frosted windowpane, your silhouette materialized like a watercolor painting coming to life. The winter light caught in your hair, turning each strand to silver. Your fingers traced the edge of the wine list, and something in that gesture made his heart stutter - the way you held yourself now, like porcelain that had been broken and mended with gold.

"I ordered the Cabernet," you said when he slid into his seat, your voice carrying the warmth of autumn leaves. "Still your favorite?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "You remember."

"Some things stick." A pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Like paint under fingernails."

"Tell me about your art," he said softly, letting the words float between them like paper boats on still water. "I saw your name in the gallery listings."

Your eyes lit up, though your voice remained careful. "They want a whole collection. Something about 'raw emotion translated through abstract forms.'" A self-deprecating laugh. "I'm terrified of ruining it."

"You never could," he murmured, and the honesty in his voice made you look up sharply.

"The company's growing," he offered, when the silence threatened to swallow them whole. "Endless meetings, endless deadlines. Sometimes I catch myself talking to an empty apartment at 3 AM."

"Still working too hard?" Your eyes softened with understanding. "Some things never change."

"Some things do," he whispered, watching the candlelight dance across your features.

The waiter appeared and disappeared like a ghost, leaving plates that neither of you really saw. The old pain was still there, but it had transformed - no longer a knife between ribs, but more like a faded photograph, edges worn soft with time.

"I need to ask you something," Jungkook said finally, his voice barely disturbing the air between you. "About that night."

Your hand froze mid-reach for your wine glass. "Jungkook..."

"I believe you," he rushed to say, fingers twisting the napkin in his lap. "God, I believe you. I was just too blind with hurt to see it before."

"Please," you whispered, "I can't-"

"The video," he pressed gently. "The timing. It was too perfect, wasn't it?"

Your knuckles whitened around the stem of your glass. "I felt... violated. Not just by what happened, but by not knowing. By the gaps in my memory."

"You were drugged," he said, the words like ice between his teeth.

"We fought that morning," you said, your voice distant, lost in memory. "Over something stupid. Paint splattered on your suit, maybe? I thought... I thought we'd fix it tomorrow."

"And then Sungwon texted."

Your breath hitched. "He said you'd be there. At the club. Said Sora was coming too." A bitter laugh. "I should have known. You both hate clubs."

"I remember the lights," you continued, each word dragged from somewhere deep and dark. "The bass vibrating in my chest. Sungwon bringing me something pink and sweet. Then... static. Nothing. Until that video of me with... with..."

"Stop," Jungkook breathed, reaching across the table. His fingers found yours, warm and solid and real. "It wasn't your fault. "

"I'm going to find him," he said, voice like velvet over steel.

"Don't," you pleaded, fingers tightening around his. "What if... what if there's worse? What if he..."

"Then we face it," he said simply. "Together. No more carrying this alone."

You didn't speak, but your hand remained in his, warm and trembling and alive. The candle between you flickered, casting shadows that seemed less dark than before. And for now, in this moment of shared breath and understanding, it was enough.

-

Neon signs dripped their electric rainbows across rain-slick streets as Jungkook's footsteps echoed through Busan's nightlife district. His phone's blue glow illuminated his face, the address burning into his retinas after weeks of obsessive searching. The apartment building loomed before him like a forgotten monument to broken promises, its walls exhaling decades of cigarette smoke and whispered regrets.

Metal groaned as the door inched open. Sungwon's expression morphed from irritation to horror in the space of a heartbeat, like watching a man realize he's stepped off a cliff. His fingers scrabbled at the door, but Jungkook's palm slammed against it with enough force to rattle teeth.

"Ah, hyung," Jungkook's voice carried the softness of a lullaby twisted into nightmare. "Aren't you going to welcome me properly?"

Sungwon's back hit the wall with a dull thud, his attempted smile fracturing at the edges. His eyes darted between Jungkook and the hallway like a trapped animal searching for escape. "J-Jungkook-ah... I didn't... I mean, what brings you—"

"Let's talk about that night at the club," Jungkook purred, each word dipped in honey-coated venom. His steps were measured, deliberate - a wolf circling wounded prey. "Tell me why you chose her."

Sungwon's throat bobbed. "I don't... which night—"

"The night," Jungkook's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "you took her to the club sor some reason. The night some stupid videos destroyed everything I loved."

"Please, I swear I never—I just recorded—" Sungwon's words tumbled out, desperate and raw.

"Why?" The single syllable carried the weight of years of pain.

Sungwon's shoulders slumped, defeat written in every line of his body. "The gambling debts... they were crushing me. When the offer came..."

Something dangerous flickered in Jungkook's eyes. He pulled out a thick envelope, letting it land on the grimy floor with a heavy thud. "Ten times whatever they paid you. But lie to me again," his fingers ghosted over Sungwon's jaw, "I’ll take your fucking jaw with me when I go."

The name fell from Sungwon's lips like a death knell: "Taehyung."

The world tilted on its axis. Jungkook's breath caught in his throat as memories of brotherhood and betrayal collided. His brother in all but blood. The betrayal tasted like copper on his tongue.

"He knew about the debts," Sungwon continued, words spilling like blood from a wound. "Said he'd make them disappear if I just... God, I'm sorry. I only filmed it, I swear. Made sure she got home safe. Nothing else."

"You're sorry?" Jungkook's laugh was hollow. "You drugged her. Set her up. And you're sorry?"

"It was just the drink, just one kiss on camera. I made sure—"

Jungkook's fist connected before conscious thought could intervene. The satisfying crunch of cartilage, the spray of crimson across dingy wallpaper - it wasn't enough. Could never be enough. His knuckles sang with each impact, a symphony of retribution until his lungs burned and his vision blurred.

In the aftermath, silence fell like ash after a wildfire.

"Pray I never see you again, hyung," Jungkook's voice was steady despite the tremor in his hands, " because if I do, there won't be enough pieces left to identify."

The door slammed behind him with the finality of a coffin lid. Blood dripped from his knuckles, marking his path down the corridor like breadcrumbs leading to the next chapter of his vendetta. One piece of the puzzle had fallen into place - now it was time to burn down the rest.

-

Streetlights bled into ribbons of neon as Jungkook's car sliced through Seoul's midnight arteries. His knuckles, a constellation of purple blooms and crimson crescents, whitened against the leather steering wheel. The taste of copper lingered on his tongue with each ragged breath, but his mind had never been clearer - like shattered glass finally arranged into a grotesque mosaic of truth.

His phone was already pressed to his ear before he could second-guess the impulse. “Sora?”

A pause. “Jungkook?”

“I need you to do something.”

Sora’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah. I just… I need you to go see Y/N. Like, now.”

She didn’t ask why. Just agreed. She always did

The Kim residence materialized from the darkness, its gates standing sentinel like ancient guardians. When Taehyung opened the door, his smile - that same smile that had witnessed countless shared secrets and brotherhood - now seemed to crack at the edges, a porcelain mask finally showing its flaws. The smile withered under Jungkook's thunderous gaze.

“Bro, you look like shit. What—”

“I saw Sungwon.”

"Ah," Taehyung's voice scraped against the silence, "Our little rat's been singing, has he?"

“Why did you do it?” Jungkook’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. It cracked something open in the silence. “What did she ever do to you?”

“You need to calm the fuck down—”

“No.” Jungkook took a step closer, jaw clenched. “You’re gonna talk. You’re gonna explain to me why you set up the girl I loved more than my own life. And maybe—” he swallowed the venom down like bile “—maybe I’ll try not to break your fucking face.”

Something dark flickered behind Taehyung's eyes before he spat, "Love?" His laugh crackled like breaking glass. "Do you know what it's like to love someone you can't have? To watch Sora slip further away while you lived in your golden tower?" His fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair. "Your parents made it so simple - break you two apart, and they'd give me everything. The wedding, the house, the life Sora deserved."

Understanding crashed over Jungkook like a wave of acid - his parents' thinly veiled contempt, their sudden peace after the breakup, their calculated blindness to his descent into darkness. 

Taehyung's voice turned honey-sweet with poison."You should have seen how eager they were. 'He loves her too much,' they said. 'Even infidelity might not be enough.' But we proved them wrong, didn't we?"

Blood roared in Jungkook's ears as he whispered, "Her tears, the baby we lost, our future - all worth it for your perfect little life?"

"Tae?" The broken syllable shattered the air like a gunshot. Sora stood frozen in the doorway, you beside her, both witnesses to this unraveling of trust. Her face crumpled like tissue paper in rain. "How could... what did you...?"

She turned to you, her voice threaded with anguish. "Oh god, what he did to you... because of me..."

Your hand found Sora's shoulder, but your eyes blazed into Taehyung with the intensity of a supernova. The fury in your gaze matched the inferno burning in Jungkook's chest.

"Sora," Jungkook's voice gentled, like speaking to a wounded bird, "he's nothing but a parasite who feeds on other people's money and trust. Please, both of you - go. What happens next... not for your eyes."

____________________________________________________________________________

"I need you to know something," you say, your fingers fidgeting with the loose thread on your sleeve. "I ended things with Minho."

His eyes snap to yours, a storm of emotions crossing his face. You press on before he can speak.

"Not for you. Not for anyone but myself." Your voice drops to barely above a whisper. "The weight of pretending... it was suffocating me."

Jungkook sits perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble. Then, ever so slowly, his expression transforms - like watching dawn break after the longest night. His eyes shine with unshed tears, holding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"You..." His voice cracks. He reaches for you with trembling hands, fingertips ghosting across your cheeks as if you might dissolve under his touch. "God, you're really here."

"Jungkook-" you start, but he cuts you off.

"Please," he whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. "Let me try again. Let me be the person you deserved back then."

Words fail you. The ache in your chest - six years of unspoken longing - threatens to overwhelm you. You manage a small nod, and his answering smile is brighter than any sunrise.

"I was blind," he murmurs, thumb tracing your jawline. "So caught up in my own pain that I couldn't see what they were doing to you. Never again."

You lean forward first - or maybe he does - and then you're kissing like you're rediscovering a forgotten language. His hands tangle in your hair as yours find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him closer.

The kiss deepens slowly — almost shy, at first. Until it’s a language of its own, a conversation between mouths that never forgot how to say each other’s names in silence.

Jungkook’s hands are steady now, reverent, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he’s peeling back time. His eyes meet yours as he lifts the fabric over your head, and in them is something so achingly gentle it nearly breaks you.

“I’ve missed you like this,” he whispers, palms trailing down your arms, your waist, like he's trying to relearn the map of you. “I’ve missed everything.”

Your fingers work open the buttons of his shirt slowly, watching how his breath catches when your knuckles graze his skin. He leans into your touch like it’s holy. When the fabric falls away, he looks like memory and myth — familiar yet devastatingly new, sculpted in shadows and gold lamplight.

When he lowers you onto the bed, it’s with so much care you nearly cry.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like a man who still can’t believe you’re real. Your back arches when his lips find your collarbone, your sternum, the swell of your breast. He lingers there, tongue circling your nipple as his fingers knead the other with the kind of worship that says, I never stopped loving you.

You’re already wet for him. Of course you are.

Your body responds to him like it remembers — like no time has passed, like no pain ever existed, like it was made to be touched by him.

He murmurs things into your skin — soft, fractured things. “So beautiful,” he breathes, lips dragging down your stomach. “So perfect, always. You were always mine.”

You whisper his name like it’s the only word you know.

When his mouth finds you, you’re already trembling. His tongue moves slowly at first, teasing, tasting, savoring every gasp you give him. He doesn’t stop until your hips are twitching beneath his mouth, your thighs wrapped tightly around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair.

And when he comes up, eyes heavy, mouth slick with you, he kisses you again — lets you taste the way he worships you.

“I need to feel you,” he says against your lips. “All of you.”

You nod, pulling him down on top of you, legs parting easily, welcoming.

He presses in slowly — carefully — like he knows this is something sacred.

You both gasp at the stretch, the heat, the impossibility of finally being whole again.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, nails dragging down his back. “I forgot… how good this felt. How right you feel.”

He groans, forehead pressing against yours, holding still just long enough to let you adjust, his hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious.

“I’ll go slow,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you whisper. “It’s never too much. Just... don’t stop.”

He begins to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, every roll of his hips drawing a moan from your throat. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, but it's the whispered I love yous, the yes, right there's, the I missed you so muchs that turn it from sex into something else.

Something you haven’t felt in years.

Your legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper, closer. His lips find your neck again, your shoulder, his hand slipping between you to rub soft circles on your clit — and you come fast, crying out into his mouth, clinging to him like he’s the last real thing in the world.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, gasping your name like it’s salvation. He doesn’t pull out — not yet. Just collapses against you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

And neither of you says anything for a while. You just hold him. He presses kisses to your damp cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“Years,” he murmurs finally, lips brushing your forehead. “We lost so many years.”

“But not this,” you say softly, your fingers tracing the curve of his spine. “We didn’t lose us.”

.

,

well, this is it. the story is now fully yours 🖤thank you for waiting and for your patience.

taglist: @cendrineee @nooooooooonnneeeeeee @gyeomibearr @ermno97 @estyshitposts @meggomeeeggo @slut4jeon @jk97bam @joonwater @annpeachy @ericawantstoescape @jkemmi @navixfr @emixlyn @whatthefsposts @cherricherryy @mar-lo-pap @dna2723 @5sosfam-directioner-psycho @lachesismoonmist @ianeaniee @spreadmysushi @carriereadsbooks @tatzzz-25 @parkinglot-nights @hamsss @cherryminnie95 @floweryjeons @rachie-wong

[eufezco]

hi, can I request an angst+ smut with joel? after breaking up on bad terms, you met him on a random event and you hook up with him? I love your writing 😍 it’s amazing!

maria convinced you to go to the new year's eve party. you wanted to argue, you had a dozen reasons ready, joel and every memory of what happened between you being there was just the biggest one. the idea of being in the same room, breathing the same air, was enough to make your stomach ache. it would be easier to just stay home, to pretend the party wasn’t happening at all.

but the thought of having a night to have fun with the people you cared about softened something inside you. and who knows, maybe the old man wouldn't even show up.

the place was nicely decorated, the lights were soft, warm, tables were pushed to the sides to make room for dancing, and the laughter of everyone filled the space. and what was best, he was nowhere to be found. you walked further inside, the air smelling of wood and something sweet someone must’ve baked specially for the night. you let yourself breathe, maybe you’d worried for nothing.

you poured yourself a drink and joined a group. you’d been on patrol with them a few times. they welcomed you easily, sliding aside to make space, pulling you into whatever story they were laughing about. across the room, someone caught your eye. ellie with dina and jesse. when she caught you looking, you smiled but she didn't smile back, she just pressed her lips into a thin line and looked away.

you tried to rejoin the conversation with your group but all you could think about was the way ellie looked at you. and then in the worst moment possible he appeared, standing just a few feet away, looking tired in that way he always did. his dark eyes scanned the room, until they found you. you rolled your eyes and he clicked his tongue.

you tipped your glass back, finishing your drink in one long swallow. joel looked for tommy. —you told me she wouldn't be here, —tommy just shrugged his shoulder and added a she's part of the community, you can't keep avoiding each other forever. joel huffed.

you avoided each other for the night, successfully. you caught each other looking a couple of times and each time you pretended it didn’t happen.

after midnight, you decided it was time to go home. you said goodbye to tommy and maria and walked out. but then you heard it, the sound of a pair of boots crunching behind you. it was that man, the one who had been bothering you for days. you told tommy about him a couple of times, trying to make it clear how uncomfortable you were, but it hadn’t stopped him.

you kept walking, your pace just a little faster, trying to make it seem like you were just heading home. you heard him calling your name, telling you to stop and talk to him for a second, and by the sound of his voice, he was also drunk as fuck. you breathed as you told yourself it was fine, that you could just get to your place, and then it’d be over. the sounds of the boots on the snow grew louder, closer to you and you turned around.

—i suggest you back off, —joel’s voice dropped even lower. he stood there between you and the man, his posture wide, blocking any path forward. —you sure don’t want to make this a problem, —he added.

you could tell he wasn’t used to being talked to this way.

—just wanna talk to her for a bit, yeah?

when he tried to step forward, his chest met joel’s. joel pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was holding back, controlling something inside him.

—come on, you're not even together anymore, why you care?

he tried one more time and his chest met joel’s again, but this time, he used his weight, pushing against joel’s body, and for a second, joel stumbled back. joel’s eyes burned with something darker. it wasn't just the push, it was the persistent idea behind it. the idea that this man was still trying to force his way past him, still trying to get to you, trying to force you onto something you clearly didn't want. he clenched his jaw so hard you thought his teeth might crack.

joel shoved him off his shoulders with a force that sent him stumbling back. —i said, back off, —joel grunted, his index finger pointing directly at the man. his eyes moved between you and joel, weighing his options. he mumbled something under his breath, something indistinct, before turning to walk off.

you turned around to continue your way to your house but you still heard boots crouching the snow. this time was joel. you exhaled sharply through your nose, feeling the irritation. without stopping, without even looking back, you said, loud, —are you gonna follow me to my house too?

—just making sure you get there in one piece.

you rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see it. —i don't need your help, joel. i didn't need it then, and i sure as hell don’t need it now.

for a moment, there was only the sound of your boots and his, the snow crunching underfoot. you expected him to say something back, but he didn’t, he just kept walking behind you, silent.

—i said i don't need your fucking help, —you snapped, turning sharply on your heel to face him.

—what makes you think i wanna be out here playin' your fuckin' babysitter instead of inside the party? —he shot back, his voice angry.

—then go. no one asked you to come after me. you never did anyways, —you turned around before he could say anything else as you walked toward your door, digging into your pocket for your keys with shaking fingers from the cold. but you could still feel joel behind you, not too close, just there.

—yeah, well… you never ask for anything. that’s the problem.

you paused, your hand resting on the door, the lock still closed. you clenched your jaw, the familiar bitterness creeping back in and slowly turned your head to look at him. you didn't say anything, just threw him a glance that easily could've killed him. joel stood there, a few feet away, face unreadable, breath visible in the cold air.

you shook your head and unlocked your door. —if i have to ask, ain't fuckin' worthy.

—that what you think? that we weren't worthy?

you opened the door and before you could take a full step inside, joel was already there right behind you, pushing through the threshold like he belonged there. you turned to look at him, standing inside your house. except for the occasional time maria sent him to fix something, joel hadn't been here, in your new home, the one tommy assigned you when you decided to leave the one you shared with joel and ellie.

—yeah, of course i think we weren't fucking worthy. that's why i left.

joel slammed the door behind him angry, making you turn around, eyes wide, disbelief written all over your face. —no, you left because that's what you do, because it's easier that than dealing with anything real. —you were shocked. the audacity of him barging into your home and throwing accusations around.

—you think i left because it was easy? do you even hear yourself right now? —you took a step toward him, fists clenching by your sides, —i left because it was suffocating being around you, because ellie didn't want to know anything about us 'cause of what we did and you decided to push me away too.

—i didn't know how to deal with it, okay?! i didn't know how to fix us! i know i didn't do enough but damn it, i was trying. i was trying and you just walked away like i meant nothing to you.

you froze, staring at him. you could see it now, maybe for the first time. the pain, the regret, the frustration and there was a finally a quiet understatement. the silence between you both grew heavy.

—leave, —you said, low but clear.

joel blinked, —leave? no, —he stated.

your brows furrowed, what did he mean no? —you don't get to say no. this is my home. you don't get to...

joel stepped forward, his hands came up, rough, cupping your face like he still had some right to touch you, like nothing had happened. and he leaned in fast, pressing his lips against yours. your hands connected with his chest to push him and you palm met his face with a clean slap.

his cheek burned where your hand had landed but he didn't touch it, joel just stood there, breathing hard, jaw clenched. your chest rose and fell, every breath sharper with fury. you just looked at each other for a few seconds in silence. you should've screamed, shoved him out the door, slammed it behind him. but instead, goddamn it, you reached for him. grabbing the collar of his jacket, you yanked him down and kissed him.

it wasn't gentle, it wasn't sweet, it was all teeth and breath and desperation. your hands dug into the hair at the back of his head. your back hit the door, breath catching as joel pressed your body with his against the wood behind you. his big hands slid around your waist.

—you're a fucking asshole, —you muttered against his mouth.

—i know, —he whispered back. his fingers started working on the buttons of your coat and you let him.

—this doesn't fix anything, —you stated, also unbuttoning his coat.

—i know, —he repeated.

you pushed the heavy coats from each others shoulders. joel's hands slid beneath your shirt, lifting it with urgency. you raised your arms and let him pull it over your head, your lips connecting again with him immediately after. your fingers moved to his belt, working on the buckle with impatient hands.

joel knelt in front of you with a grunt, the kind that reminded you of the years between you and him. this old man. he looked up at you as he unzipped your jeans and slid them down your hips. you steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as he helped you step out of them and then he stood again. your fingers moved to the buttons of his flannel as joel's hand found the base of your neck, not squeezing, just there, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw as he kissed you.

you undid each button one by one and when you pulled it open, your eyes dropped. you bit your lower lip at the sight of his tummy.

joel turned you around, face against the door of your own house, your back meeting his chest. he pulled his cock out of his underwear, giving himself a few pumps before lining himself up against your aching entrance. shit, it's been months since he was this hard it almost hurt. you parted your legs, ready for him, and gasped when joel finally pushed himself inside you.

his forehead came to rest against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. for a moment, neither of you moved. then, he started rocking his hips back and forth and you closed your eyes, moaning a fuck, joel was so thick and it had been a long time. you squeezed your eyes tighter, feeling his pace grow faster, needier. your body pressed against the door, its surface cold against your skin, a reminder of the winter outside. you tried not to moan too loud because the door wasn't that think and though most of the town was at the new year's party you never really knew.

but oh if joel wasn't fucking you good. he had pushed all your hair to one side to move his mouth to your ear. —i know you've missed me. i can feel it. this pussy is made only for me, —you nodded to every word, even though you were too lost in the pleasure to fully comprehend what joel was saying. with each thrust of his hips, he mumbled something dirtier. —those boys you've been seeing... —his blood boiled only at the thought of another man touching you. —they can't fuck you like this, can they? i bet they can't make your pussy clench like this, —he said through gritted teeth.

you shook your head, too gone to even thought about answering. he grunted, satisfied. you pressed your palms flat against the wood of the door, feeling how your legs started to weaken. you felt joel's hand cover yours, finger threading through yours as his other arm went around your body to help you and stay on you feet.

you threw your head back as the orgasm hit you, resting it on joel's shoulders. your free hand went to the one he had around your body and squeezed it. joel came a few seconds later, spurting heavy loads of his cum inside you. you swallowed, trying to ease your throat that felt dry from all the moaning. joel didn't move, still pressed behind you. the hand he had laid over yours against the door, moved with yours and also wrapped around you body, hugging you tightly now with his both hands.

he kissed your cheek, his mouth close to your ear, —you good?

you nodded, —you?

—yeah, i think.

you stayed like that, joel still inside you, arms around you, like he didn't want to let go and maybe he couldn't. the silence was heavy, only your breathing filled the space. maybe tomorrow you'd go back to hating each other, to cold glances and pretending like once you hadn't known every inch of each other, body and soul. but right now, you didn't complain, just let yourself lean back into his chest.

[keithyp00]

♡.﹀﹀ Don't Tempt Me ﹀﹀.♡

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: rivals?-to-lovers, romantic tension, slow burn, action, banter, fluff, angst, emotional growth, swearing, physical combat training, unresolved sexual tension, swearing, post-trauma discussions, flirting, kissing, possessive!Bucky, reader getting injured

Word Count: 2.2K

Author Note: Hi guys! Thanks for all the kind messages and tags on my last story! Sorry I'm posting this one so late but I was hanging out with friends all weekend so it was worth it. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, he smiled at you just to piss you off.

You'd been warned. Not that he was dangerous- not anymore- but that he was difficult. Quiet. Cold. Resistant to orders. Still figuring out where he belonged. You understood that. You respected it, even.

What you didn't respect was the cocky little smirk he gave you on day one of combat training.

You stood in the middle of the gym, arms crossed, boots planted wide. You watched him approach like he had nowhere to be, eyes half-lidded and mouth curled into something smug.

"Let me guess," he drawled, stepping onto the mat, "you're the one Stark warned me about."

"I'd be flattered," you said flatly. "But Stark thinks warning people is a waste of breath."

His smirk deepened. "He said you were a waste 'a pain in the ass with a left hook like a truck.'"

You lifted a brow. "And he said you were a reformed assassin with trust issues and a martyr complex."

His jaw twitched.

Bingo.

"Don't worry, Barnes," you added. "I'm not here to fix you. Just teach you how to stop getting stabbed in the ribs."

His grin returned, lazy and infuriating. "That type of training happen often?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

You dropped into a stance. He mirrored you.

The room went quiet. You lunged first. You fought three rounds that morning. You won two. He won one. But the one he won? He grinned afterward. The cocky kind. The kind that said I know I'm good and I know it annoys you.

You were sweating, panting, pressing your knuckles into a bruised rib when he leaned over with a smile on his lips, and said nothing.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

And Bucky Barnes, damn him, smiled wider. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached.

The next punch you threw nearly broke his nose.

~~~~~

That was six months ago.

Six months of shared gym sessions, smartass remarks, trading bruises, flinging insults like knives, pretending the tension between you wasn't slowly, painfully evolving into something electric.

Every look. Every touch. Every shove on the mat that left one of you staring up at the other- panting, sweating, hearts pounding too loud- was another unspoken do something about it.

Neither of you did. Until now. Today, everything goes to hell.

You're late. You storm into the gym half a minute past seven, hair still damp from a shower, tugging your sleeve down your arm as you cross the floor. Bucky's already there. Of course he is. Stretching. Calm. Annoyingly smug.

"You're late," he says, not even turning around.

"You're alive," you shot back. "Color me shocked."

He stands. Turns. Smirks.

You ignore the twist in your stomach.

"You're in a mood," he notes, stepping onto the mat. "What'd I do now?"

You throw your bag to the side. "Breathe."

He chuckles. "Can't help that, doll."

You square up. He follows. His steps are slow, deliberate. He' s gauging you. He always does. Predicts your next move before you can even make it. You hate it. You crave it.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you again?" You ask.

"You gonna cry when I win this time?"

You lunge.

The fight isn't clean. It's fast. Brutal.

There's frustration under your skin- tight, pulsing- and you know he feels it too. Every strike is sharper than it should be. Every block is harsher. You're both pissed. At each other. At yourselves. At whatever's been building for too long without breaking. He grabs your arm mid-swing and twists. You counter. Legs tangle. You both go down hard.

You land on top of him. Chest heaving. Palms flat on his shoulders. And he's smiling. That same goddamn smile from the first day.

"Still think you can take me?" He pants, voice low and mocking.

Your hands tighten around his shirt. You glare. You hate him. You don't hate him. You want to scream.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you snarl.

And this time- He doesn't smile. He flips you. Pins you. And kisses you. It's not gentle. It's desperate.

It's everything you've bitten back in six months- every look, every word, every bruised morning when you touched the place he hit you and smiled because it meant you were worth fighting.

His hands are on your jaw, your waist, your hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You bite his lip and he growls. He presses closer, deeper, until you're sure the floor will split open under you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Dazed.

"I warned you," he whispered.

You shove him off. Then yank him back. And kiss him again.

~~~~~

Hours pass.

Somehow, you make it out of the gym. Somehow, you make it upstairs. To your room. To your bed. To his body warm and heavy against yours, tracing scares and biting laughter into your neck. You don't sleep. You talk.

He tells you about the nightmares. The guilt. The days he looks in the mirror and still expects to see blood.

You tell him about the pressure. The fear of letting people in. The reason you fight like your life depends on it- because once, it did.

When sleep finally finds you, you're tangled in sheets and each other. And you're smiling.

~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up alone.

Your heart sinks. But there's a note on your nightstand.

"Didn't want to wake you. Got called early. I'll see you at 7 sharp. Don't be late this time, smartass."

You smile. It's your turn now. "Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you." You whisper it to the empty room. And grin.

~~~~~

The note burns a hole in your nightstand all morning.

You read it five times. Memorize the way his handwriting slants, sharp and confident, like the man himself.

You're not late. You're early.

When he walks into the gym at 6:59, your arms are already crossed. He sees you. He smiles.

You almost punch him again just for the hell of it.

But instead, you say, "You left without saying goodbye."

He tosses his bag to the side. "Didn't want to wake you."

"I would've forgiven you."

He grins, stepping onto the mat. "You forgive me for kissing you?"

You raise a brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If you do it again."

His smile drops. Then he crosses the mat in three steps, presses a hand to your waist, and kisses you like it's already been months since the first one.

You let him.

You let him take his time. Let him relearn your mouth, your breath, your heartbeat pressed to his chest like a promise.

When you finally break apart, the gym feels warmer. Brighter. Like something settled between you, the storm giving way to something quieter. Steadier.

You don't fight that day. Not with fists, anyway.

But the fire's still there. Always.

~~~~~

Later that week.

You're out on a recon mission. Standard procedure. Simple target. Easy in, easy out.

Until you trip a wire.

You manage to leap back just in time, narrowly avoiding a spike of shrapnel meant for your neck. It clips your shoulder instead. Burn, sting, sting. Nothing deep. Just a mark.

Still-

By the time you limp back to the quinjet, Bucky is pacing the loading ramp like a caged animal.

He sees the blood on your arm. He snaps.

"Who did that?" He demands.

"Just a misstep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Relax, Barnes, it's a scratch-"

"Don't tell me to relax when you walk into my sightline bleeding."

You pause. Stare.

"Your sightline?" You echo, pulse ticking.

His jaw is clenched. His fists, tighter.

The he says, voice low: "I almost lost my mind when I saw you come through the trees. You weren't answering your comms. You weren't responding."

"I didn't-" you swallow. "The wire must've fried the mic. I wasn't ignoring you."

He shakes his head, stepping closer. "You don't get it," he says. "You never fucking get it. You matter now. You matter to me."

The silence that falls between you is thick. Heavy.

Then you whisper, "Try me."

And that's it.

He kisses you again, harder this time. More desperate. His metal hand on your jaw. Your fingers in his jacket. It's less about passion and more about please don't do that again.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged, he says it again: "You matter to me."

This time, you believe him.

~~~~~

That night.

He doesn't take you back to your room.

He doesn't take you to his either.

He takes you to the roof.

You sit in the quiet. Side by side. Wrapped in a shared blanket. HIs hand brushes yours and you don't pull away.

Below, the city glows.

Above, the sky is clear. Stars like freckles. Familiar. Infinite.

"I hated you," you say softly.

"I know."

"You were arrogant."

"I was."

"And smug."

"That too."

You glance at him. "Still are."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "You still push my buttons."

You turn to him. "What happens now?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you with something serious in his eyes. Not fear. Not regret.

Hope.

"Now," he starts, "we try."

Your throat tightens. "You sure?"

"No." He reaches for your hand. Threads your fingers together. "But I want to be."

You squeeze his hand. Hard. Grounding. Real.

"Okay," you whisper. "Then we try."

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feel like you're fighting anything.

Except maybe sleep.

~~~~~

You were never good at being vulnerable. Neither was Bucky.

So maybe it's poetic that your first mission after becoming something more than biting insults and stolen kisses starts with both of you pretending you aren't terrified of what you might lose.

You're packing light. Comms, knives, a Glock, a couple of zip-ties. Enough to finish the job clean.

But Bucky's watching you like you're made of glass.

"Seriously," you matter, holstering your sidearm. "You're hovering."

"I'm not."

"You're literally standing in my light."

"I'm watching your six."

"We're in a hangar."

"Could be threats."

You raise an eyebrow. "Are the lockers gonna jump me?"

He doesn't smile. Just crosses his arms and says, "I didn't sleep last night."

You freeze. The zipper on your gear bag half-done.

"Why not?"

He looks away. "Had a dream. You didn't come back."

The air stills between you. Quietly, you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers together. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and say: "Then stay close."

~~~~~

The mission: Buenos Aires, Argentina

A weapons auction run by a Hydra offshoot.

You and Bucky are posing as buyers.

You're in a slit-legged silk dress, a thigh holster underneath. He's in a black suit with no tie, hair slicked back, expression unreadable.

You've never seen him like this.

But it's the way his hand lingers on your hip that lights a fuse beneath your skin.

"You're staring," you murmur as you scan the auction room, crowded with men in suits and women with clipped accents and greedy eyes.

"Can't help it."

You look up. "Because I'm hot?"

He smirks. "Because I know what's under that dress."

"Focus, Barnes."

"You started it."

~~~~~

Everything goes wrong at exactly 11:17 p.m.

Someone recognizes you. And ex-Hydra handler you left bleeding on a rooftop two years ago.

There's shouting. A gunshot. Then chaos.

You duck behind a table, return fire, heart hammering. The room's a blur of panic and smoke grenades.

Then you hear it:

"Y/N-!"

Bucky.

You spot him across the room, shielding you with his body as bullets ricochet off marble and glass. His eyes find you. Wild. Terrified.

"You okay?"

You nod. "You?"

He doesn't answer. Just pulls you into him and barrels toward the exit.

~~~~~

Outside, later.

You're bleeding. Again. Shoulder wound. Again.

"Of course it's your shoulder again," Bucky mutters as he presses gauze to the wound in the quinjet. "It's like a beacon for bullets."

You hiss through your teeth. "It's not that bad."

He glares. "You almost died."

"I didn't."

"Because I got to you in time."

You blink. His voice is raw. Quiet. Like it costs him something.

Then, softer: "I can't go through that again."

You say nothing. Just reach up and cradle his face with your good hand.

"Then don't let go."

He turns into your palm. "Promise me something," he whispers.

You nod.

"When this mission shit is over- when it's quiet again- I want you to stay."

"Stay where?"

"With me."

~~~~~

Two days later: Brooklyn. His apartment.

You've never been here.

It's small. Clean. Sparse. Like no one's lived in it for long.

You recognize the signs of someone who never planned to stay.

But then he lets you in.

He shows you the bookshelf. The record player. A photo of him and Steve, tucked behind a dog tag.

You linger at the window. "You really meant it?"

He nods, standing behind you.

"Stay?"

"Yeah."

"Even if I'm bad at this?"

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "So am I."

You lean back into him. "I want to try."

"You already are."

"Then keep me," you whisper.

And he does, right there in his arms.

[tangledbea]

Creatures and Races from Tangled the Series

Specifically, the ones featured in my picker wheel.

Hyper-Intelligent Animal

Are you an animal sidekick in Tangled? Then you're hyper-intelligent! Hyper-intelligent animals appear in most -- if not all -- episodes.

Ghost/Spirit/Poltergeist

Whether they have a mind of their own like Ruth or a mindless need to protect the Moonstone, ghosts are real in this series! Ghosts/Spirits/Poltergeists appear in S1Ep13 "The Wrath of Ruthless Ruth" and S2Ep24 "Destinies Collide Part 2."

Uumlaut

Don't let the cute face fool you, this critter is a swarm waiting to happen! The uumlaut appears in S1Ep15 "The Way of the Willow."

Demon/Warlock

There can be only one Big Bad in this series! (Unless you landed on Demon/Warlock on the picker wheel, in which case you're one, too!) Demon/Warlock appears in several episodes -- any featuring Zhan Tiri/Enchanted Girl, primarily in season three.

Disciple of Zhan Tiri

Two of the three known Disciples got a nifty green spirit form! The Disciples of Zhan Tiri appear in S1Ep18 "Painter's Block," S2Ep19 "Mirror, Mirror," S2Ep20 "You're Kidding Me!" S2Ep21 "Rapunzeltopia," and S2Ep22 "Lost and Found."

Sneeze Weasel

Never trust Lance to find you a critter based on a crayon drawing Eugene made. Sneezy the sneeze weasel appears in S2Ep04 "Goodbye and Goodwill."

Slayer Wolf

How is a slayer wolf different from a regular wolf? It's bigger, I guess? More vicious? Anyway, slayer wolves were given a specific name, so they made the list! Slayer wolves appear in S2Ep05 "Forest of No Return."

Pupshroom

The Forest of No Return: where food eats you! Pupshrooms appear in S2Ep05 "Forest of No Return."

Drexes

A spider-bat creature big enough to eat a person! Drexes appear in S2Ep05 "Forest of No Return."

Bird Fae

Not only are they mysterious fancy people who inexplicably live in the middle of the woods and serve tea that turns people into birds and use mushrooms as patio furniture, they also vanish into a shower of sparkles when their tea set is destroyed. You can't convince me they're not fae. The bird fae appear in S2Ep06 "Freebird."

Kirlok

It's like a bear, but with way more horns! It also comes in adorable cub size! Kirloks appear in S2Ep08 "Keeper of the Spire," and S3Ep15 "Race to the Spire."

Lorb

The natives of Terapi Island, Lorbs are the leaf people with German accents. For some reason. The Lorbs appear in S2Ep09 "King Pascal," S2Ep11 "Happiness Is..." S3Ep12 "Islands Apart," and very briefly in S2Ep12 "Peril On the High Seas."

Mermaid

I'm sure you know what a mermaid is, but just in case you don't remember Seraphina, specifically... The mermaid appears in S2Ep10 "There's Something About Hook Foot."

Vodnik

They come in salt water and a light blue fresh (or frozen?) water variety! Vodniks appear in S2Ep10 "There's Something About Hook Foot," and S3Ep15 "Race to the Spire."

Mirror Doppelganger

It's like the real you, but an evil monster verson! Mirror doppelgangers appear in S2Ep19 "Mirror, Mirror."

Eyeball Spider

Not actually an eyeball, but with unfortunate markings that makes it perfectly suited to hide in otherwise empty skulls. Eyeball spiders appear in S2Ep22 "Lost and Found."

Werewolf

Though Tangled's werewolves have their own lore behind them that's different from what we usually think of, that's still a person transformed into a ferocious wolf! Werewolves appear in S3Ep04 "Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?"

Undead

These skeletal undead act as a sort of security system against thieves. There's only one way to stop them (and it's not a head shot, they'll just pull themselves back together again). The undead appear in S3Ep05 "The Lost Treasure of Herz der Sonne."

Sea Serpent

This mama will do anything to protect her eggs, including sinking your two-masted ship! The sea serpent appears in S3Ep08 "The King and Queen of Hearts".

Dragon

The dragons in Tangled hold the unique property of being able to transfer physical features and abilities to those they care about! Dragons appear in S3Ep11 "Pascal's Dragon."

Illusionary Wish Person

Wish on a coin and throw it into the well, but the person who appears won't have a shadow. The illusionary wish person appears in S3Ep12 "Islands Apart."

Giant Disembodied Hand

We don't know what this thing is, but it's aggressive and doesn't like Eugene! Fortunately, it can be defeated with a little hand-to-hand combat. The giant disembodied hand appears in S3Ep15 "Race to the Spire."

Giant Mole

Completely blind, this creature lives entirely underground and relies on her sense of hearing to navigate. She carries her baby on her back or head. The giant moles appear in S3Ep16 "A Tale of Two Sisters."

Embodiment of a Celestial Gem

Once upon a time, a single drop of sunlight fell from the heavens... If you possess the celestial gem, you gain incredible powers based on a heavenly body. The embodimets of a celestial gem appear through the entire series, since Rapunzel is one the whole time, with varying degrees of her power awakened.

[treatbuckywkisses]

aww ur favorite so far im even more excited to dive in now😭

BUCKYS POV MY BABY OMG 

The opening scene as a fucking fight I'm ill:(

Omg?????? The opening of the loop?????? Stop by now I'm just imagining like him hearing her cinematic scream when he fades out IM GONNA BE SICK.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse. FUCK I DIDN'T WANT TO BE RIGHT IM SO SAD NOW SHUTUP 

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here. Hehehe in a loop 

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story. OH HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT HER IM SO VIOLENTLY UNWELL

It’s the one thing he gets. oh baby:( 

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief. Full body chill my nipples are hard you're insane 

All of his thoughts and he's thinking something must be wrong with HIM for this I need to hold him so badly :(

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with. I'm just gonna go cry now 😭 

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer. Whooooo is he texting ✋🏻

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing? STOP IT NIKA I CAJT HANDLE THIS ANYMORE WHY ARE YOU PUTTING MY BABY THROUGH THIS

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life. I'm speechless 😶 in shambles rn you have no mercy 

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"OHMYFUCKUNGGOD YOURE JOKING IM SO UNWELL YOU ARE OSNSGAHBSLSNSHHA IMAGINE ME RIPPING OUT ALL MY HAIR AND SCREECHING SO INSANELY 

I'm scared, I feel so alone, I don't want to die ........what a punch in my heart 

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice. GOD THEY ARE MADE FOR EACH OTHER I AM DOWN IM INJURED GET A MEDIC I CAN'T TAKE IT 

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again. this is absolutely freaking criminal actually how dare you.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there. GIVE HIM A BREAK DAMMIT MY POOR BABY JUST NEEDS TO BE HELD AND IT NEEDS TO BE SATURDAY FOR FUCKS SAKE

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN NIKA.

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible." WITTY BABY HES STILL IN THERE THATS MY BABY !!!!!!!!!!! LET HIM OUT

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green. All I can think about is when they held hands and I'm sick to y stomach🥺🥲

Them talking to each other through the house im so emotional 😭 

So this was INSANE??????????????? I feel like I got inside knowledge but I know NOTHING at the same time😭 so extremely thankful for Bucky's pov but feeling sooo terrible for my baby😭😭😭 the pain he's feeling and the confusion he's going through this is so cinematic and theatrical I'm so obsessed with this and you I love you I'm begging for something good to happen 😔

time after time [7]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 11.1k

chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

seven: spellbound

The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.

"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.

He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.

"You alright?" Sam repeated.

Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk."

He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.

"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.

"You’re a squatter."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."

Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."

"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."

People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.

"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.

"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."

"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.

"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."

"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"

"Pretending?!"

"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.

"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"

"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"

"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."

You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."

"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"

"Must be nice to get to forget things."

Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.

Do it, then.

But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.

"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.

"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."

"Who did, then?"

You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"

Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"

You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."

He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."

"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."

"Then why don’t you try to find out?"

"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."

"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."

"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"

"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."

"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."

The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.

"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."

* * * * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Darkness.

.

Darkness and pain.

.

.

The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.

.

Something like a bright light.

.

.

And then—

* * *

Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.

He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—

A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.

He doesn’t find any.

Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.

And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.

He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.

Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.

When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.

Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.

Maybe a shower will help.

It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.

This is real.

The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.

He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.

His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.

"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"

You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.

He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.

Then again, you usually have that effect on him.

Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.

It’s the one thing he gets.

He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?

Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.

He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.

It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.

He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.

But it’s strange.

Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.

This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.

He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.

This is real.

Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.

The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.

She’s hungry, then.

Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.

There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"

"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."

The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.

"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.

Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."

Really; he’s used to it by now.

Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.

Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.

* * *

Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.

There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.

He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.

It’s been a weird day.

That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.

The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.

He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.

Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.

Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.

"—only scream when there’s good reason."

"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."

"You’re no fun, Bucky."

He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.

The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.

If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.

Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.

"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."

Take them out now.

"—makes Barnes cranky."

"You forget he’s always cranky."

This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.

They might be dangerous.

He swallows.

One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.

Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?

It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.

So easy.

"Any time, Buck."

Breathe out.

The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.

With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.

He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.

Сбой.

No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …

Another fight.

The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.

This is what he was made for.

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

It fires into thin air, instead.

The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.

Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.

There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.

A little too perfect.

There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"

There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.

There’s something wrong with him.

Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—

He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.

Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.

Even though he just got shot.

Again.

He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.

So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.

There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.

But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?

Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.

He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.

This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.

Right?

"This is impossible," he whispers.

His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.

* * *

One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.

His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.

Third time’s a pattern.

The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.

Everything feels the same.

No one’s done laundry.

It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.

"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.

Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.

He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.

You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.

The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.

"You look like shit."

You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.

"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.

You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."

You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.

One more.

He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.

The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.

He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.

There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.

Everything is exactly the same.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.

He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.

There never is.

Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.

Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?

The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.

Like he’s usually looking at you.

Desperate.

It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.

The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.

He really should’ve known better from the start.

* * *

He needs to talk to you.

He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.

But she’s got time powers.

He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?

Месть.

Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.

Then how?

"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."

Neither of us is.

His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.

When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.

Fuck you, Barnes.

And then it happens again.

Clearly, he’s losing his mind.

It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—

No, you’re not.

His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.

You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.

Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.

Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?

Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.

It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.

Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?

That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.

And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.

You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.

"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."

There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.

"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.

Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.

You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—

"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"

"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.

"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.

"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.

He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?

"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.

Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.

"Talk to me, Buck."

He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."

Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.

"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"

Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"

And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday," Sam says.

"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."

He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."

He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"

"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.

Just deserts, don’t you think?

"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.

He’s never felt less like joking.

"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"

Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."

"I think she knows something."

"But that’s a good thing, right?"

Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.

"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.

"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"

Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."

Yes. You do.

"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."

Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.

But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.

And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.

He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.

He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.

And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.

"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.

* * *

"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"

Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.

"I’m good," he says blankly.

Are you?

Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.

She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.

On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.

In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.

"You sure?"

Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.

Talk to me.

"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.

You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.

It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.

He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.

It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.

"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.

"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.

And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …

Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.

A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.

The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.

Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.

Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.

It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.

"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.

You didn’t do that yesterday, either.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?

He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.

How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.

The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.

The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.

"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."

"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"

She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"

He frowns. "Something like that."

She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."

Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.

"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."

He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.

Or the numerous head wounds.

"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"

Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.

"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."

He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"

She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."

And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.

It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.

His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.

14:47.

What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.

* * *

He throws his punches a little harder each day.

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.

"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.

"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"

So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.

"Two o’clock."

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.

A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.

But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.

No. You’re too perfect.

Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.

His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.

Your silence is deafening.

"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.

There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.

He’s never hated it more.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.

He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.

He asks, Like this?

And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.

It’s Friday again.

Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.

Maybe he was wrong.

He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?

Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.

Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.

His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."

He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.

"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"

"Buck?"

For a second, everything screeches to a halt.

He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.

He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.

The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.

The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.

Keep trying, it says.

It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.

Talk to her, it says.

He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.

Or day, rather.

His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.

"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.

You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.

"What do you think?"

Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.

You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.

Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.

Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?

Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.

You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?

By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.

He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.

"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.

"That I’m stuck in a time loop."

A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"

Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

No. "Humor me."

He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.

How long ago was March?

"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.

"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.

To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.

"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."

"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"

Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.

And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.

He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.

Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.

"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."

"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"

"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.

It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.

"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.

Bucky’s hands clench into fists.

That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.

Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.

"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.

Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.

Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.

Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?

His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

"She’s not coming."

There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.

It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.

"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.

"Are you sure?" Sam says.

No. "I’m asking as a friend."

As expected, that’s enough.

He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.

He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.

Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.

There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.

.

…

That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.

* * * * *

From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.

And yet you did. Over and over.

I want her out.

It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.

You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.

"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.

On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.

Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.

You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.

Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.

"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.

"It’s not about that and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."

You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.

"I made—"

"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."

"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."

There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.

You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.

It was useless.

"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."

"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."

You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"

"Sure," Sam said.

You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."

You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.

"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.

Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.

That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.

chapter eight

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback

[dirigibleplumbing]

a PSA

no one can stop you from saying "San Fran," but please know that every time a Californian reads it they take 50pts of psychic damage

[bitchthefuck1]

every time a new season of a Popular Show™ that I actually follow drops i'm newly reminded of how god awful 90% of the discourse on this site is

[nihiltism]

very funny situation I'm in where I got notifications of not one but Two concerts happening in like, 5 months, both in the sameish location and 3 days apart from each other. I would die

[stillarandom-radfem]

Me: "Calling women by misogynistic slurs and wishing rape and/or death upon them is anti-feminist behavior regardless of your reason for doing so, including them being attracted to men. Also, domestic abuse and rape are the fault of the abuser/rapist, not his victim(s). This is basic feminism 101; even most libfems grasp this, and that's like first grade training-wheels feminism, so you, as a radfem, should have no problem with understanding it."

Some of y'all: "Homophobe! How dare you! *wishes death on me.* *wishes rape on me.* *wishes domestic violence on me.* Btw, anything bad that happens to you is your fault for being attracted to men, you *misogynistic slur*!"

Me:

Them:

Me: *blocks you* "K. Bye, Felicia!"

[asterisque]

//btw apologies for the bad english, i swear i'm doing my best!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ranvwoop]

still posting d/mp is like so depressing for the amount of people who you see still supporting that guy . hi guys I've been offline for three years i sure hope that my favourite gamerboy didn't horrifically abuse his platform

[stereax]

woohoo spiraling out of control right now (what else is new really I've been fucked up and spiraling for weeks now) and trying to figure out reasons not to delete my tumblr and discord and myself along the way

but you know. talking about myself on my blog automatically means I'm attention seeking and fishing for pity right? should just shut up and stick to the news eh, it's all I'm good for :D

anyway if you need me I'll be in the corner reliving the past, coming to terms with reality, and trying to convince myself I'm not the problem despite every indication to the contrary ✌︎︎

[tetranymous]

Don't let anybody convince you that 1080p is "low resolution" for a video file.

It's a scheme created by Big Screen in an effort to sell you more pixels!