#marvel fanfiction

[deliciousangelfestival]

Only The Lonely - Bucky | Oneshot

Summary: Late at night, the last train is Bucky’s escape from the chaos of his life—quiet and predictable. It’s his only peaceful moment. But when a stranger’s simple kindness interrupts his routine, what starts as an annoyance slowly turns into something unexpected.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Genre: Romance, Action, Comedy, Slice Of Life

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1:00 a.m.

The last train of the night. The final hour before the city sleeps, when the world quiets and only a few remain in motion. Most passengers at this hour are creatures of necessity—night-shift workers dragging their tired bodies home, partygoers sobering up after a wild night, travelers in transit, students cramming for exams, or employees finishing late.

And then, there are the unpredictable ones. The lost souls.

It’s the perfect way to describe him. Bucky.

His job makes his life unpredictable—demanding, stressful, suffocating. Every day feels like it’s crushing him, the weight of expectations pressing down on his chest until it’s hard to breathe. But this train ride, the one just before the clock strikes 1:00 a.m., is his sanctuary.

It’s the only time his mind is blissfully empty. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks is a comfort—steady, reliable, unlike the chaos of his day. He listens to the low hum of the engine, the occasional screech as the train rounds a curve. He likes the way the train sways, how it rocks him gently, as if coaxing him to let go of his thoughts.

Most importantly, he likes being alone.

But tonight is different.

When he steps into the nearly empty car and heads to his usual seat, someone is already sitting there.

Have you ever felt that irritation when someone rearranges your kitchen and you can’t find the salt? That’s how Bucky feels. A simmering annoyance, irrational but undeniable.

He grits his teeth but says nothing. It’s public transportation—he has no right to be mad. Instead, he silently takes the seat across from the stranger, determined to ignore them.

At first, you don’t notice him bristling across from you. You’re relieved to see another person, especially this late at night. You’ve never liked taking the last train—it’s eerie when you’re alone—but it’s cheaper than a taxi, and money is tight. Working as a hotel chef is exhausting, and every penny counts.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was starting to think I’d be the only one on this train,” you say, offering a polite smile, hoping to make conversation.

Bucky doesn’t respond. He barely glances at you, his eyes dark and tired, fixed on the window as if willing the world outside to distract him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set in a silent refusal to engage.

You sense his exhaustion and decide not to push. He’s tired, you think. Maybe next time.

The Next Night. When Bucky steps onto the train, he immediately spots you. Sitting in the same seat as before.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his eyes. Not again.

As if sensing his presence, you look up and wave. It’s a small, friendly gesture. Bucky doesn’t wave back—he just nods, a curt, obligatory acknowledgment. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he also doesn’t want to encourage conversation.

The train ride is quiet, but Bucky’s peace is shattered.

The Third Night. This time, you both arrive at the station at the same time.

You smile when you see him. “Hey! We’re train buddies now,” you say cheerfully as you walk side by side toward the platform.

Bucky scoffs, a quiet, dry sound, but there’s no real malice in it. He glances at you briefly and catches the faint scent of caramel. It clings to you, sweet and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic smell of the train station.

You’re talking about something—your day at work, maybe—but he’s not really listening. He’s too focused on keeping his distance.

Then, it happens.

A loud, unmistakable growl from his stomach.

The sound cuts through the quiet, echoing in the empty station.

You stop mid-sentence, blinking in surprise. Bucky clears his throat, his ears burning with embarrassment. He tries to appear nonchalant, but the redness creeping up his neck betrays him.

You stifle a giggle. “Looks like someone needs a snack.”

Bucky shoots you a glare, but there’s no heat in it. Just the begrudging realization that, for better or worse, you’ve become part of his routine.

You didn’t make a big deal of it—you simply reached into your bag and pulled something out. Holding it out to him, you offered, “Here, you can have this. We made too much in the kitchen today.”

Bucky glanced at the box in your hand. Before he could refuse, you added, “It’s monkey bread.” His gaze softened. It had been a long time since he’d had monkey bread. Hesitating for a moment, he finally took it. “Thank you.”

The sound of his voice surprised you—low and slightly raspy from exhaustion. It made you light up, a warm smile spreading across your face. “You’re welcome.”

The next evening, you boarded the train with a small container of cookies and handed it to him without a word. He didn’t say much, but the quiet kindness in your gesture spoke louder than words.

A few nights later, you offered him a neatly packaged serving of beef Wellington. “I can’t eat all this myself,” you said with a casual shrug. Bucky took it, feeling the warmth of the box seep into his cold hands. He wanted to say something but found himself at a loss for words, so he simply nodded, offering you a faint smile.

Then came fish and chips. “You’ll like this one,” you said, placing the box in his hands before settling into your seat. “It’s fresh.” Bucky chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign to him. He wasn’t used to this—someone thinking of him, sharing without expecting anything in return.

Day after day, you brought something new. Each time, he accepted it, and each time, he found himself looking forward to the brief exchange. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.

“Why do you give me food every time we meet?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he studied you from across the train.

You shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “I just like sharing. Aren’t we train buddies?”

Your simple response caught him off guard. For a moment, Bucky was stunned. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. In your eyes, he was just a friend.

“I owe you,” he muttered, glancing away.

“It’s just extra food,” you said with a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

That was the longest conversation Bucky had with another person, aside from those at his job. He thought only silence could bring him peace, but he realized that having friends could bring him peace too.

Then one day, you weren’t there.

He convinced himself it didn’t matter. Maybe you found a better job. Good for you.

But the train rides felt emptier. No chatter about your coworkers. No light-hearted complaints about your boss. No extra food in hand, given with that easy smile.

Something didn’t feel right.

Bucky found himself standing in front of the five-star hotel where you worked. He recognized the logo from the packaging you used. After asking a kitchen staff member about you, he was met with a puzzled look.

“She’s on the night shift. I’ve never met her,” the staff member said, scratching his head. “But I can ask my manager.”

Bucky nodded. “Thank you.”

Minutes later, the staff member returned, his expression more serious.

“She quit two weeks ago,” he explained. “Apparently, some guy came in and caused a scene—flipped a table, yelled about debt or something. The next day, she quit.”

Bucky’s heart sank. His chest tightened, and breathing felt harder.

Debt?

All this time, he thought you were the bright, carefree soul who brought light into his monotonous life. But now, he realized—you were the one hurting. Hiding behind your kindness.

He swallowed hard. “Thank you… and I’m sorry for bothering you.”

The staff member gave him a sympathetic nod.

Bucky walked out of the hotel, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. I never even asked…

He clenched his fists. He didn’t know anything about you—not your struggles, not your pain. But one thing was clear: He needed to find you.

👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳

Bucky walked into his office during the morning shift—a time when he was rarely seen. Heads turned, confusion spreading among his coworkers as they whispered to each other. Bucky Barnes, the man who thrived in the shadows, was suddenly here in broad daylight.

“Is he… actually here in the morning?” one agent murmured.

“Maybe he couldn’t sleep,” another offered, but their eyes widened when they saw Bucky heading straight for the weapons locker.

The boss, a tall man with graying hair and a perpetual frown, stepped into the room just in time to see Bucky zipping up a weapon bag. His expression shifted from confusion to concern.

“Uhhh… Barnes, where are you going?” the boss asked, his hand resting on the doorframe as if blocking Bucky’s path.

Bucky didn’t pause. He slung the bag over his shoulder, his face unreadable. “Helping a buddy.”

The boss blinked. “Oh…” He nodded slowly, then frowned. “Wait. Who’s your buddy?”

“A train buddy,” Bucky said without missing a beat, securing the bag and striding past him.

The boss opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, watching Bucky disappear down the hall with a perplexed expression. “A train buddy?”

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The basement was cold and damp, the air thick with the stench of mold and oil. The dim light from a single flickering bulb cast long shadows across the concrete floor.

In the center of the room, you sat tied to a chair, your wrists chafed from the rough rope binding you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at the group of gangsters lounging around, their faces hardened with cruelty.

One of them—a tall man with a scar running down his cheek—stood before you, arms crossed. “Your brother owes us a lot of money,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “And guess what? We don’t care where it comes from. You’re gonna pay it.”

Your voice trembled as you shook your head. “I don’t have the money. I told you, I don’t—”

The scarred man sighed, rubbing his temples as if dealing with a stubborn child. “Put her in liquid cement,” he said, his tone casual, like he was ordering a drink. “Then throw her into the sea.”

Your blood ran cold. Panic surged through you, and you pulled against the ropes, your breaths coming in short gasps. “No. No! God, please, no! Help!”

The men laughed, their footsteps echoing as they approached.

Then—darkness.

The flickering light went out, plunging the basement into complete blackness.

“What the hell?” one of the gangsters muttered.

Suddenly, the sound of a struggle erupted—thuds, grunts, the sharp crack of bones breaking. One by one, the gangsters fell. Some screamed in pain; others were silenced before they could make a sound.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your body trembling as the chaos unfolded around you. What’s happening?

Then—silence.

A familiar voice cut through the darkness, calm and steady. “You’re safe. Open your eyes.”

Your eyes flew open, heart racing. You blinked, adjusting to the faint light as the basement door creaked open, spilling in a sliver of light from the stairwell.

Standing in front of you, weapon in hand, was Bucky. His dark hair fell into his eyes, his jaw clenched in determination.

Your breath hitched. “Bucky?”

He moved quickly, crouching in front of you and cutting the ropes that bound your wrists and ankles. His hands were steady, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern.

As the ropes fell away, you flexed your stiff wrists, the lingering ache a reminder of how close you had come to disaster. “Why are you here? How did you find me?”

“Aren’t we train buddies?” he asked, his voice low and steady as if the answer mattered more than he let on.

You blinked, your chest tightening with a mix of relief and gratitude. Despite the chaos, despite the fear, here he was—your train buddy. Slowly, you nodded, a small, trembling smile forming on your lips.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

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Papercuts

Summary : You, a mutant loyal to Magneto, gets transported to a world where mutants don’t exist. As you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start questioning Magneto’s views and start embracing the ideas of your old teacher, Charles Xavier.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x mutant!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, trauma, implied sex (steamy not necessarily smut), cursing. This story spans like 3-4 years so husband! Bucky. pregnancy. Angst with a happy ending. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 11.1K whoops

Notes : The reader has papyrokinesis (the ability to control paper or paper-like objects). The reader isn’t from a specific X-men universe (but it is a universe where the Avengers don’t exist). This story starts shortly after the events of FATWS and ends probably shortly after Thunderbolts*. Also the reader is unaware that Kamala is a mutant.

The battle with the Sentinel raged on around you, fire painting the battlefield in shades of red and ash. The machine’s red eyes locked onto you, marking you their next mutant target. Its metallic hand reached forward, sweeping a nearby building as you narrowly avoided it.

You were fighting for survival— not just for yourself, but for your kind.

You gritted your teeth, raising a storm of paper shards from the remains of nearby books and documents, scattered across the asphalt after an office building collapsed. The paper, sharp as blades under your control, danced in a cyclone around you. You hard red them, willingly shifting its density before sending it surging forward, slicing deep into the Sentinel's armour.

Sparks flew, carving fissures into the robot’s chest. It staggered but didn’t fall. You clenched your fists, commanding the shards to twist and dig deeper, commanding the paper to cut through the wires that kept the mechanical beast together. 

This monstrosity—this beast forged from the depths of human hatred to destroy mutantkind—was living proof of their instinctive hatred. It was all they knew, it was all they could know: fear of the unknown.

Erik— Magneto had trained you for this, shaping your power, your will. He told you that you were a soldier in a war for mutantkind’s survival, and soldiers didn’t ask for peace. They demanded it, fought for it, took it by any means necessary.

The Sentinel lunged, trying to swipe at you. You dove out of the way, landing hard on the cracked asphalt. You spat on the sidewalk, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. Raising your hands again, you summoned more paper, pulling it from the rubble, willing it to swirl around you in a deadly cloud.

But before you could deliver the finishing blow, the Sentinel’s chest began to glow. A low hum resonated through the battlefield, growing louder and louder. 

Shit. It had never done this before.

This was different. This is wrong. What the fuck is happening? What new technology did Trask fit it with?

The air crackled with an overload of energy, the core rapidly heating up.

It wasn’t just preparing another attack. It was self-destructing.

Suddenly, you heard someone shout your name.

Your eyes darted to the side, catching sight of red hair— Jean Grey was fighting to reach you, flying through the air as quickly as her powers allowed.

She was trying to save you.

Jean—your friend. The closest thing you’d ever had to a sister. Both of you had been one of Charles Xavier’s first students, bright young mutants destined to be peacekeepers. You had been a promising member of the X-men, once. Before you lost one too many people. Before you joined Magneto. 

And now, after all you’d done, after you betrayed your X-men, Jean was still trying to save you.

"No!" The cry ripped from your throat like a prayer. You couldn’t let her reach you. Not if it put her in the line of fire.

With every ounce of power you had left, you summoned a protective dome of paper, the fragments swirling and solidifying into an unbreakable barrier around her.

And after all you’d done, you would not let her die saving you.

The explosion that followed was deafening. 

Light, brighter than anything you’d ever seen, erupted from the Sentinel, tearing through the battlefield. The explosion hit you like a tidal wave— and nothing.

You didn’t hurt, you didn’t die.

For a moment, you thought you’d managed to evade it.

Then, reality itself seemed to splinter.

The world dissolved into a blinding whiteness, and you felt as if your body had become untethered. 

You waited. And waited. And nothing happened. It was as if you were stuck in this vast nothingness.

Time lost meaning. You didn’t know if you were falling or floating, if moments or hours passed. All you knew was the unbearable brightness, the feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together creeping up your body as you struggled to feel anything at all.

Then you blinked.

You stood up in an empty field.

What? Where were you?

You looked around to see a big city nearby, studying the lights emanating from towering skyscrapers.

The world around you was eerily quiet, unbothered by war or conflict. The sky was clear, the air was not filled with smoke. There were no sentinels here. 

You blinked again. Where were the ruins? The scorch marks? The desperate cries of mutants fighting for their lives?

You staggered to your feet, scanning the unfamiliar ground beneath you. You breathed in air that didn't taste like poison. This wasn’t Genosha. It wasn’t the ravaged streets of your dimension, where mutants fought tooth and nail for survival.

This place felt... peaceful. It felt safe.

You wandered into the city in search for anything familiar. But there was no Magneto on the news, no Brotherhood, no X-men at all. Instead, the headlines featured someone called Captain America—a man wearing a bizarre bird-themed suit—delivering a speech against a group they called the Flag Smashers. You flipped through the paper, searching for something relevant, but you found nothing. 

Apparently, this was the biggest news here. No human-mutant war, no Sentinel attacks, nothing. Just people going about their lives, blissfully unaware of the struggles that defined your existence.

As you walked, their eyes followed you. Your leather suit drew glances and whispers. 

"Mommy, which Avenger is that?" A little boy tugged on his mother’s sleeve, pointing right at you.

An Avenger? What the hell was an Avenger? Your fists clenched as your eyes twitched, trying to stifle irritation. 

This world—with its strange heroes and its mundane problems—wasn’t yours. 

This wasn’t just another city. This was another universe.

And even if there were no mutants here, it didn’t mean the threats that you faced had disappeared. It meant it was hiding, waiting to strike. If humanity hadn’t yet turned on mutants, it was only a matter of time. 

You’d lived through this before. You’d seen how quickly smiles turned to sneers, how flat hands became fists.

But… where exactly were you?

This wasn’t your reality— you couldn’t let your guard down. Somewhere in this world, there had to be answers about how you’d ended up here, about whether mutants existed here, about how to get back.

You would find those answers. And if this world turned out to be as hostile as your own, you would be ready.

—

It didn’t take long for you to realise that mutants didn’t exist in this world—or if they did, they were quiet. If they did, they stayed unnoticed.

You had no idea where to begin your search for answers until you stumbled across whispers of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra— two intelligence agencies that had collapsed more than a decade ago.

If anyone had ever documented the existence of mutants, it had to be them. So you started raiding the remnants of old Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. bases, hoping to find something, anything at all.

Today was no different.

The Hydra base reeked of decay. Dust and mildew stuck to the crumbling walls, the lights coming in and out of life as they please. Broken computer screens flickered weakly as you wrenched open file cabinets and rifled through stacks of yellowed documents, letting your powers filter through the files for you.

You were determined to find something about the existence of mutants in this world, about the threat of Sentinels. But every file you opened was a dead end. Hydra’s obsession with weapons and enhanced soldiers was evident, but there was no mention of mutantkind at all.

There was, though, mentions of an interdimensional portal, by some guy called Dr. Pym, that could get you back. It was all blueprints, and every file indicated that every test had failed, but it was a start.

“Usually I’d thank you for tearing up old Hydra bases,” a voice said from somewhere in the dark, startling you. “But… something tells me you’re not just doing this for fun.”

You spun around, paper swirling around you like a storm in an instant. A man stepped out of the shadows, his blue eyes locked on you. He was broad-shouldered, clad in tactical gear, and his left arm gleamed under the dim light. Metal. Adamantium?

No, no, you realised, vibranium.

He was one of those soldiers you had seen in the files. 

“What are you?” he asked, eyeing the paper blades spinning in the air. He didn’t call you mutie. He didn’t even seem the slightest bit afraid of your freakish powers.

“I’m not a ‘what,’” you snapped, stepping closer, paper twisting into folded to resemble throwing stars. “You human filth.”

The insult came out before you could stop it, but you didn’t care. He was human, and humans were nothing but enemies.

He raised his hands slightly. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.

You scoffed, laughing bitterly. You knew better.

Your hand snapped forward, and the paper flew toward him in a flurry of precise strikes. He dodged effortlessly, blocking each paper star with his metal arm. You started sending more paper blades his way, but he weaved through them with a superhuman agility.

“I don’t want to fight you!” he called out, but you didn’t stop.

“Liar!” you yelled, your voice brimming with anger and fear. You pushed harder, summoning more paper from the cabinets, each shard sharper and deadlier than the last. He was human, and humans couldn’t be trusted.

The man lunged forward suddenly, closing the distance between you. His speed surprised you, freezing you into place. His metal hand grabbed one of your paper start midair, crushing it. 

He didn’t hurt you, though. He just stood there, breathing heavily.

“What are you after?” he asked, his tone firmer now. “Revenge? Were you one of Hydra’s experiments?”

“I’m not—” you stammered, then shouted, “I’m not an experiment! I’m a mutant. And I don’t want revenge. I want answers.”

The man blinked, his brow furrowing. “What the hell is a mutant?”

You snarled, sending another wave of paper shards at him, but this time his arm shot out sooner, deflecting them like they were nothing more than leaves in the wind. Eventually, a paper star hit its target, drawing blood from the man’s cheeks. “Look, if you want answers, stop trying to kill me,” He said, “I can help.”

Your hands faltered, a storm of paper freezing in midair. One was dangerously close to his throat. “Why would you help me?”

“Because I know how it feels to want answers,” he said simply. “And to not have anyone willing to help.”

His sincerity caught you off guard. You narrowed your eyes, letting the paper shards fall to the ground. “Fine,” you muttered. “But if you try anything—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not stupid.”

You hesitated for a second, before holding out your arm. You introduced yourself, an offer of a truce. 

His human hand shook it, “Bucky.”

And Bucky Barnes wasn’t lying. He led you to a locked section of the facility, using his metal arm to bypass biometric scanners and access restricted files. You kept your distance, watching his every move like a hawk.

But he didn’t betray you— didn’t even seem weirded by your powers or your hostility, as most humans did back in your reality.

As the files began loading on an ancient Hydra terminal, Bucky leaned back on the dusty chair, crossing his arms. “Alright. Now that you’ve got access,” he asked, “what’s your deal? Why’s someone like you tearing apart Hydra bases?”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal to a man you just me. But as the minutes passed in silence, something about his patience wore down your defenses.

“I’m from another reality,” you admitted, your voice low. “A world where humans hate mutants, where they create machines to hunt us like prey. I’m part of a war there, fighting alongside one of the greatest mutants who ever lived—Magneto.”

Bucky tilted his head, “So… these ‘mutants.’ That’s what you are? What makes you different?”

You raised a hand, and the papers scattered on the floor lifted into the air, twisting into intricate shapes before exploding into tiny, adorable confetti. You used to do this a lot, making confetti for the younger kids in the X-mansion, doing it for school events. But now, you could not remember when you last used your abilities for something so trivial— something other than harming or shielding in battle. 

“Powers,” you said bitterly. “We get it from the X gene. Humans built machines to detect this… to help sentinels know who to kill.”

For a moment, Bucky said nothing. Then he exhaled sharply. “No wonder you’ve got trust issues.”

You stared at him, surprised by his bluntness. But there was no judgment in his tone, no fear in his face. Just… understanding.

“You’re really not like the humans I know,” you muttered.

“And you’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” he replied. “Guess that makes us even.”

You didn’t know why, but he made you feel… less alone.

—

You tolerated Bucky now. 

That was the best way to describe it. You didn’t trust him, and you certainly didn’t really like him. He was still human, still a symbol of everything you’d been taught to fear and hate. 

Humans in your world had built the Sentinels. Humans had burned your cities, betrayed your trust, and forced you into war. Sooner or later, you were convinced that Bucky Barnes would show his true colours.

And yet, he kept showing up.

Every time you broke into another Hydra facility, hoping to find evidence of mutant existence in this reality—or more clues on how to get home—Bucky was there. Every time you clashed with local authorities, he intervened. He didn’t stop you or turn you in. He only offered help.

At first, you lashed out, dismissing his assistance as pity, convincing yourself it would only lead to manipulation. “I don’t need your help,” you’d say. 

Sometimes, you’d hiss, shoving past him. “Why are you following me, human scum?”

But Bucky never took your bait. “You need someone to watch your back,” he’d simply say. And then he’d stay until he knew you were safe, matter how much you insulted him, no matter how much you pushed him away.

It was maddening, his patience. The way he could just wait. He was hard to trust, and how could you, when every fiber of your being screamed that humans were the enemy? That trusting them was a fatal mistake, the one Charles Xavier made?

And yet, you can’t help but think he was different.

He never mocked your powers or called you names like "freak" or "mutie." He never flinched, never jumped in fear, not even when your papyrokinesis grew uncontrollable during one of your outbursts, tearing through windows, slicing wires to ribbons. While others would have screamed or run, he just stood there, watching. 

Not afraid— curious.

One night, after another failed attempt at powering up a makeshift portal in an abandoned building, he showed up again. His timing was utterly irritating.

“My sensors detected a power surge,” Bucky said calmly, as if you’d invited him here. “Thought it might be you.”

You sat stiffly against a cracked concrete pillar, arms draped over your knees, head bowed low. 

You had tried again and again, looking at old Hydra blueprints— but the portals didn’t work. The effort left you drained. “I’m just trying to get home,” you muttered. You didn’t have the energy to argue— or even care— that he was here.

Bucky stepped closer. “Still no luck?” he asked.

You shook your head silently, the frustration bubbling in you. All the knowledge, the equations you raided all the Hydra bases for— and you still couldn’t do it. Still couldn’t get back to your world.

There was a long, suffocating silence, broken only by the faint whistle of wind through broken windows. Finally, he spoke again. “Tell me more about your home.”

You looked up at him through bleary eyes. “Why?”

He met your eyes without flinching. “Because I want to understand why you’re so desperate to get back to a place where humans hate you.”

He didn’t sound accusatory, he just genuinely wanted to know you, to understand you. Patient, as always. His presence was infuriating, but it also made it so fucking hard to hate him. You hesitated, your instincts telling you to run, to shut him out, but there was something in his eyes— something that said he wasn’t here to judge.

So, you told him.

You told him about your early days as part of the X-Men, about the dream you’d once believed in: a dream of peace, of coexistence between humans and mutants. You spoke of the friends you’d made— Of Jean. Scott. Ororo. Hank, the others. You told him of the battles you’d fought together. 

For a moment, your voice softened as you talked about your old team— your family.

But then, the tightness in your voice found its way out as you told him how it had all gone wrong. How that dream had crumbled in the face of human hatred. How you’d watched Sentinels tear through your friends, their metallic claws slicing through flesh as though it were paper. How mobs of humans had burned your cities, their shouts of “monster” and “abomination” drowning out the cries of dying mutant children.

“They hated us,” you said bitterly, hands clenching into fists. “No matter what we did, no matter how hard we fought to prove we weren’t a threat, they still wanted us dead. They’d rather destroy the world than share it with us.”

Bucky listened without interrupting. When you finally fell silent, he spoke quietly.

“So that’s when you joined Magneto.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a statement. 

You nodded, “He was the only one who understood. He knew humans would never accept us. For mutants to survive, humans had to die. I believe him. And now…” Your voice faltered. “Now, I just want to go back. There’s still work to do. I left them, Bucky. I abandoned my kind when they needed me most. I can’t—” Your stopped, the words stuck in your throat. 

You expected him to recoil, to tell you how wrong you were, how monstrous you have been for hurting humans. That’s what they all did— between the X-Men and the Brotherhood you were only ever one of two: Soldier or Traitor.

But Bucky didn’t say any of those things. Instead, he leaned back slightly, the faint glint of his metal arm catching the dim neon light. “I get it,” he said quietly.

You blinked, stunned. “You… what?”

“I get it,��� he repeated, “When people push you into a corner, when they make you feel like there’s no way out… you do whatever it takes to survive.” He continued. “Doesn’t make it right. But it doesn’t make you a bad guy either.”

You stared at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. No one in your world had ever said that to you. Not Magneto, who demanded loyalty above all else. Not the X-Men, who felt only betrayal when you left. But Bucky… he saw through that.

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He let out a quiet, almost cynical laugh. “Trust me, I’ve seen monsters. I’ve been one. You’re not. You’re just… lost.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you shifted. The walls you’d built so carefully, the armour you wore to keep the world out— they cracked, just a little. 

—

Still, you were too headstrong to see Bucky’s persistence as more than just another annoyance. His offers of help, his refusal to see you as a threat—it all felt like a game, but soon, you found that you started listening. 

Then he offered you a spare room.

“You can’t keep squatting in abandoned buildings,” he said one night after finding you nursing a fresh wound in a damp alley. “It’s not safe.”

“And you’re offering me a place that is?” you shot back, glaring at him.

“Yes.” he replied simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You hesitated. The idea of accepting help from a human—of living under the same roof as one—felt like a betrayal of everything Magneto had taught you. But the exhaustion of endless nights spent running and hiding wore down your resistance. 

Reluctantly, you agreed.

Bucky’s apartment was clean, quiet, and far more comfortable than the ruins you’d been hiding in. At first, you kept your guard up, barely speaking to him unless necessary. But Bucky, as always, was patient. He gave you space, only engaging when you initiated first.

As the weeks passed, the walls you’d built between you began to crumble. It was subtle at first—the occasional shared meal, a rare smile, a private conversation. You still didn’t trust him entirely, but you couldn’t deny the flicker of comfort he brought into your life in this strange, new, world.

He didn’t demand answers, didn’t force his way through, but when you offered glimpses of yourself—of your struggles, your powers, your past—he listened.

One evening, he asked about your powers. The question was casual, but there was genuine care in his tone.

“So…  paper manipulation,” he said, leaning back on the couch, his metal arm resting on the armrest. “It’s cool and all but… I’ve seen you do more than just... throw death stars.”

You smiled faintly at his phrasing. “It’s not just paper," you said, raising your hand. You folded some napkins into swans with a flick of your wrist. "It’s anything that’s paper-like. Fabric, tissues… anything thin and pliable enough."

He tilted his head, interested. "So you could, what, turn my t-shirt into a weapon?"

Intrigued, you were unsure if he was joking. “If I wanted to.”

“Good to know,” he said, a grin tugging at the former of his lips. “I’ll keep the good shirts in the closet.”

The banter always eased the tension, and you found yourself talking more. You told him how your powers had first manifested when you were a child, how you’d accidentally shredded your favorite storybook in a fit of frustration. 

You told him how you developed control, how you’d learned to change the density of paper-like objects, turning even the simplest objects into weapons under both Professor X’s and Magneto’s training.

“Erik called me a soldier,” you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the floor. “But sometimes… I think he just saw me as another tool.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately, choosing his work carefully. “I know what that’s like.”

—

One night, after another failed attempt to build a working portal, your frustration boiled over. The living room was strewn with bits of paper, torn diagrams, and scattered notes. The faint buzz of the portal’s malfunctioning energy core filled the air before it fizzled out with a disappointing pop.

You sank to your knees, clutching your head. “Why won’t you work?” you cried out. “I’ve tried everything!”

Bucky, who had been quietly watching from the doorway, stepped closer. He crouched beside you, resting his vibranium hand on your shoulder. “You’ll figure it out,” he said firmly. “You’re too damn stubborn not to.”

His frustratingly kind reassurances didn’t magically fix the portal, but it helped. Slowly, you started to breathe again, leaning back against the couch as Bucky began gathering the scattered paper for you.

You sighed. You could not let him clean up your failures.

You clicked your fingers, and suddenly all the papers were nearly stacked on the table

“I don’t know why you’re helping me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper— you’ve given him nothing but grief since you met, after all.

Bucky glanced at you. For the first time, he did not have an answer.

Deep down, it was because he saw a part of him in you— a desire to fix yourself, and everything around you.

—

Over time, your grudging tolerance towards Bucky turned into companionship.

You found yourself laughing at Bucky’s dry, sarcastic humor. He had a way of slipping in sharp quips that broke through your walls, even when you didn’t want them to. 

Slowly, his stories began to pull you in. He told you about missions he often went on, about antics he had to endure from Sam Wilson. There was something disarming about the way he spoke of them— equal parts exasperation and affection. It reminded you of what you’d once shared with the X-Men. 

For the first time in years, you caught yourself smiling, a small spark of affection creeping past your defenses.

He started recruiting you to go on missions, since he suggested the answers you were looking for may be there.

So you met Sam. 

Captain America (bird-man, as you called him when you recognised him from the papers), sharp-eyed and quick-witted, was wary of you at first, sizing up whether you were a threat. But Sam didn’t judge you for your powers or your past. Over time, he started joking with you, his teasing lighthearted and never cruel. He asked questions about your abilities. He treated you like an equal, someone worth knowing.

“You’ve got some serious skills,” he said after watching you dismantle a hostile drone with a flurry of razor-sharp paper daggers.

The admiration in his voice caught you off guard. You weren’t used to humans praising your abilities— especially not without the edge of condescendence or caution. But Sam wasn’t afraid of you. 

He didn’t look at you like a freak or a threat. He looked at you like a person.

Then, Bucky introduced you to Clint Barton, always sporting an easy grin and unshakable confidence. He was straightforward, a little goofy, and completely unbothered by your powers. He said he’d spent years working with gods and green monsters— you were normal, as far as he was concerned.

“Cool trick,” Clint once said after you turned a pile of napkins into makeshift throwing stars during a particularly boring stakeout. “Think you can teach me that? I’m always running out of arrows.”

You told him, a little shyly, about how Charles Xavier had insisted you learn origami to help control your abilities. The precision, the focus—it had all been part of his plan (curriculum) to help you master your papyrokinesis.

When he brought it up again, genuinely interested in learning, you found yourself teaching him. It was strange, watching the Avengers’ master archer fumble over folding paper cranes and stars, but it was also… comforting. Before long, Kate Bishop joined you in your origami lessons, and both Hawkeyes were now equipped with the knowledge of how to fold throwing stars that could at least inflict papercuts.

—

One day, in between looking for leads to find a way back to your world, you had offered— reluctantly— to help Bucky with some housework. You were staying with him, after all. Charles always said you needed to be a good guest.

The idea of folding laundry or scrubbing dishes wasn’t exactly thrilling, but after months of living under the same roof, you’d started to feel restless. Maybe even a little guilty.

To your surprise, he agreed. “Sure,” he said, his tone casual, but you could tell he was excited. 

Offering a human help? That was progress. 

And so, there you were, standing in his living room, surrounded by piles of clean clothes. 

He was watching you, arms crossed, using your papyrokinesis to do the chore effortlessly.

You’d been doing fine until he sneezed.

It wasn’t just any sneeze. It was one of those soft, unexpected ones, the kind that caught you so off guard you had to freeze mid-fold because it was just so damn cute. 

You had found him, a deadly ex-assassin, too damn cute.

It caused a momentary lapse in concentration, and before you could stop it, one of Bucky’s sweatpants was disastrously sliced straight down the middle.

You stared at the ruined fabric in horror, your heart sinking as you braced for him to shout, because that’s what always happened when your powers went wrong, wasn’t it? Anger. Fear. Accusations.

But instead, Bucky let out a low chuckle, a grin spreading on his lips. “Well, doll,” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement, “if you didn’t want me to wear pants, you could’ve just asked.”

You blinked, completely thrown.

“I—what?” you stammered, heat flooding your face.

He stepped closer, his lips curving into a playful smile as he held up the tattered pants. “Just saying, if this is your idea of flirting, it’s pretty creative.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, but you couldn’t stop the embarrassed laugh that bubbled out. “It was an accident!”

“Sure it was,” he teased, his tone light any playful.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t look at you with fear or anger. He just… laughed. Like you were someone he trusted. Someone who didn’t need to be perfect to be worth sticking around for.

For the first time in years, you felt something stir deep within you: hope. These were humans, and they accepted you. They didn’t try to control you, hurt you, or treat you like a threat.

You began to question Magneto’s teachings. Maybe not all humans deserved to die. Maybe, just maybe, coexistence was possible.

—

Six months. It's been six months.

After half a year of trying to get home, you were no closer to returning than you were when you first got here. Each attempt chipped away at hope, leaving you feeling more and more like a stranger in a world that didn’t belong to you. 

And now, after all this time, here you were—in Wakanda.

The Wakandan sunset bathed the land in brilliant shades of orange and gold. Through the wide windows of the lab, you could see the horizon where the jungle stretched endlessly, blending into the marvel of the city. The balance was otherworldly— nature and technology living in harmony, neither overshadowing the other.

Ororo had told you about Wakanda. She’d spoken of its beauty, its culture, and its people. But her Wakanda had her husband in it, this one didn’t.

You tried not to dwell on it as you turned your attention back to the room. Around you, this world’s most brilliant minds were working on a multiversal portal.

Shuri darted around the machine, her hands tweaking wires and making adjustments. "This component will stabilise the temporal flow," she explained, almost to herself.

Hank Pym stood nearby with a tablet in hand, overseeing Shuri's every move. "The stabilisation won't matter if you don't account for the quantum drift," he said.

Bruce Banner sat at the corner console, his large hands delicately typing away on the holographic interface. He was the calmest one in the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We’ll need to recalibrate the energy source mid-activation if the system overloads again."

And then there was Bucky.

He stood a little apart from the others with you, watching everything unfold. Bucky had no business being here, but he had pulled every string he could, called in favours you didn’t even know he had, all to get you the help you needed.

You glanced at him, your heart twisting. You didn’t know why he’d done all this for you— a mutant he’d found in an abandoned Hydra base. 

Was it pity? A sense of obligation? You didn’t know, and part of you didn’t want to ask.

Shuri’s voice broke through your thoughts. "Alright," she said, standing back. "It's ready."

The portal stood before you, a towering structure of vibranium, pulsing with energy conduits on either side.

"Powering up," Hank announced, his voice filled with anticipation.

The room fell silent.

Your heart began to pound as you watched the machine light up. A gentle buzz filled the air, growing louder with every passing second. The vibranium glowed brighter, shifting through colours as the machine began its work.

You held your breath, your eyes fixed on the center of the portal as you waited for it to open, to tear through the fabric of reality and show you the way home.

And then—

Crack!

A shower of sparks erupted from the machine, and a deafening bang rang out as the entire system short-circuited. Smoke filled the room, and the acrid smell of burnt circuitry stung your nose.

The portal had failed. Again.

Shuri let out a frustrated growl, slamming her tools down onto the nearest surface. "This should’ve worked!" she shouted, pacing back and forth. 

"It’s not the design," Hank said sharply. “The issue is quantum instability—I told you this before we started!"

Shuri turned around. "It is accounted for!"

"It’s not quantum instability," Banner interjected, his tone still calm but growing firmer. He pulled up a holographic blueprint, pointing to a section of the machine. "The energy signature is what’s causing the problem. If we can—"

"You’re both wrong," Shuri interrupted, her voice rising. "The system needs—"

Their voices overlapped, escalating into a heated argument as each brilliant mind tried to make themselves heard. Soon, their once-coordinated efforts dissolved into chaos.

You stood frozen, their words blurring together, becoming an unbearable noise that echoed in your head.

Stop.

You felt your control slipping, your emotions bubbling to the surface in a storm of frustration, guilt, and sadness.

"STOP!"

Your voice rang out, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The papers in the room began to stir, the fabric everyone was wearing began to sway. First one, then two, then dozens if pages—all lifting into the air as if carried by an invisible wind. 

"JUST STOP!" you screamed again, dropping to your knees. The papers swirled into a furious tornado, swirling around the room like a storm.

All eyes were turned to you. 

Then, you felt a hand on yours. You looked up to see Bucky kneeling beside you, his steel-blue eyes locked on yours.

"Hey," he said quietly, a few papercuts on his skin as he fought to get to you. His voice was calm, gentle. "Take a deep breath."

You didn’t realise how shallow your breathing had become until he said it. Slowly, the vortex collapsed around you. With his hand still on yours, your breathing steadied. The papers stopped moving entirely, settling into silence like fallen leaves. "I’m not worth it," you whispered, your throat tight. "I’m not worth any of this."

Their human effort, their human brilliance, their human hope. And all for you. A failure. A traitor.

Your chest tightened, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn’t stay here—not like this. You wrenched your hand free and stumbled to your feet, ignoring the concerned looks of everyone in the room.

And then you ran.

—

The sun was setting as Bucky found you on the cliffside, perched on the edge of a boulder overlooking Wakanda’s trade center. The air felt alive, carrying the faint hum of Wakandan technology and the distant rustle of wildlife.

But none of it felt real to you.

It was beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t your world. The mountains on the horizon weren’t your mountains. The air didn’t taste the same. The people here weren’t your people. Your kind didn’t even exist. Not to your knowledge, at least. 

You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps behind you, though you could tell it was him. 

You didn’t understand how Bucky, fragile and flawed— so devastatingly human— had become the person who understood you best.

He stopped a few steps behind you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t think… They don’t think they can do it,” he continued. You could hear the frustration in his voice, as though he hated saying the words as much as you hated hearing them. “There’s too much they can’t figure out. The travel requires a very specific energy signature, and…” He sighed heavily, his boots scraping against the rock. “It just doesn’t exist in this world.”

Your stomach sank.

A specific energy signature. You knew exactly what he meant. The Sentinel energy signature. It had been so obvious— so abundant in your version of Earth that you hadn’t even thought about its absence here. But this world had no Sentinels. No mutant hunts. No Magneto leading the charge against humanity.

And because of that, you couldn’t go home.

“I guess I’m not going back,” you said quietly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Bucky stepped closer, lowering himself to sit beside you on the edge of the cliff. His shoulder brushed against yours. He didn’t speak for a moment, just sat there, staring out at the city below with you.

Then, without looking at you, he reached over and took your hand.

You turned your head, watching him, studying the way the sunset amplified in his beautiful features. 

“Is that really so bad?” he asked quietly.

You blinked.

His voice was almost casual, but you could tell he was struggling to get the words out.

Is it really so bad to stay?

You looked away, staring out at the skyline again.

How could you stay? You didn’t belong here. You weren’t supposed to want this. To want love in a world that did not birth you. You were a mutant, born into a world that hated and feared you. You’d been raised to fight for your place in the world, then eventually you learned to reject humanity before it could reject you.

Magneto had taught you to see humans as the enemy. Weak, selfish creatures who would never understand what it meant to be more. To be different.

But then there was Bucky.

Bucky, who had fought tooth and nail to get you here, just to give you a chance to go home. A home that wasn’t his. A place he’d never even seen.

Bucky, who had spent so much of his life being used and hated and feared himself, who knew what it was like to be broken— and who still believed you deserved to be whole.

You weren’t supposed to love him.

But you did.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. 

He turned to you then, and the affection his eyes nearly unraveled you. They were so open, so unguarded, so… human. 

How could he look at you like this? Like you weren’t the sum of all your mistakes? Like you weren’t someone who’d once hated everything he is?

But here, on this cliffside, you weren’t a mutant and he wasn’t a human. You were just two people, broken in different ways, trying to make something whole again.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said, his voice quiet and almost shy. “I’m not… I’m not good at this. But maybe you don’t need to go back. Maybe…” He paused, his gaze searching yours. “Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

You stared at him, your breath caught in your chest.

He leaned in then, slowly, hesitantly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His lips met yours, gently at first, like he was afraid you might disappear. But when you didn’t pull away, when your hand tightened around his, the kiss deepened.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and unpracticed. But it was real.

His vibranium hand cupped your face, cold metal against warm skin, and you felt something crack open inside you. For so long, you’d held onto the idea of home, of going back to the world you knew. But in this moment, you realised this could be home, too.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Stay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with quiet conviction. “Please.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks.

From that night on, everything shifted. The walls you had spent years building—the bitterness, the anger, the belief in Magneto’s vision—began to fade. Slowly, painfully, you started to peel away the layers of Magneto’s ideology, the belief that humanity’s destruction was the only way mutants could survive.

It wasn’t easy. 

Erik’s voice was still there in your mind, as sharp and commanding as it had been when you stood at his side. His speeches were etched into your brain like scars, each one a reminder of the battles you’d fought and the people you’d lost. For so long, you’d believed that hatred was your weapon and victory was the only way you could survive.

But Bucky… Bucky reminded you there was another way.

In the silent moments, you found yourself recalling Charles Xavier’s words—the ideals of coexistence, of understanding, that you had dismissed as naïve all those years ago. Charles had raised you in the mansion— gave you a family. He dreamed of a world where humans and mutants could live together in harmony, a world built on hope instead of fear.

And once again, you found yourself believing he might have been right.

Bucky showed you that every day— he treated you with a kindness that felt foreign, a patience that felt endless even when you stumbled. 

A month after Wakanda, you told him you were going to stop searching for a way back to your old universe.

At first, you told yourself it was because the leads had gone cold. There were no more portals, no quantum theories left to pursue, no trace of the world you’d left behind. 

But deep down, you knew that you stopped because of him.

Bucky Barnes had become your anchor in this strange, mutantless world. With him, you found something you hadn’t dared to hope for in years: peace.

And one day, you stopped seeing the world in absolutes. It wasn’t mutants versus humans anymore; it was just people. Broken, complicated, beautiful people.

Bucky helped you see that. He reminded you, every day, that life wasn’t about mere survival—it was about connection. About finding the people who made the fight worth it.

With him, the anger that had defined you began to fade. 

And with that, you began testing boundaries you wouldn’t have, normally.

The room was dim, the light from the bedside lamp casting a gold glow across the walls. 

Bucky’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer. His lips met yours with a passion that burned the edges of your heart, and before you knew it, you were pressed against the wall, fingers threading through his hair. His kiss was unrelenting—hot, heavy, and all-consuming. 

It felt… divine.

He backed away only long enough to guide you to his bed, his hands firm on your hips as you sank into his lap.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, deeper, his tongue teasing against yours as his metal hand trailed up your back. The coolness sent shivers down your spine, and you arched against him instinctively.

His flesh hand slipped under your shirt, splaying across your bare skin. His touch ignited a fire that you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. You gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to kiss you harder. His lips moved to your neck, nipping before soothing the spot with his tongue.

Your hands curled into a fist in his shirt, your hips shifting against his, and he groaned— a sound so deep and raw it made your heart swoon. 

But then you froze. 

His hands slid higher, and the heat coursing through you was suddenly eclipsed by a sharp pang of fear.

“Wait,” you said breathlessly, pulling back.

Bucky immediately stopped, his brow furrowing as he looked up at you. His flesh hand stayed still under your shirt, warm against your skin. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice husky but laced with concern.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you admitted, your voice shaky.

His hand slowly brushed against your side in soothing circles. “Talk to me, doll.”

You took a steadying breath, trying to avoid his gaze. “Sometimes, when it gets intense, I... lose control. It’s only happened a few times, but... it’s dangerous.”

His hands didn’t move, but his grip tightened just slightly. “Dangerous how?” he asked.

“I was a teenager, but it happened with my first boyfriend,” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “I didn’t realise I was losing control. A sheet wrapped around him, tight enough that he could barely breathe. After that, I’ve only been with mutants. People I knew could match my powers. I-I don’t want to hurt you.”

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak immediately. He took a moment to process your words, the lines of his forehead softening with understanding. Then, to your surprise, he smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that infuriatingly confident way of his.

“I’m a super soldier, baby,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl as his hand slid to the small of your back. “I’ll survive you.”

You hesitated, the memory of your past mistakes still hauntingly clear. “Bucky, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” he interrupted gently, cupping your cheek with his metal hand. “I can handle it. I want this. I want you.”

The sincerity in his voice, the conviction in eyes bled into you. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t running away. 

Slowly, you nodded. “Okay,” you whispered.

He smiled, leaning in to kiss you again, softer this time. “If anything feels off,” he murmured against your lips, “tell me, and we’ll stop. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said. When his lips claimed yours again, you let your inhibitions go.

This time, there was no hesitation.

—

Afterward, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, your arm draped across his stomach, your thumb brushing lazy circles against his skin. 

“See?” he said with a grin, “Told you I’d survive.”

You rolled your eyes, but the hazy pleasure in his features made your lips twitch into a smile. 

“Nice work, by the way,” he continued, his smirk widening. He lifted his wrists, which were still held together by a strip of bedsheet. “restraining my hands with the sheets. Very creative”

Your heart skipped, and you immediately flicked your wrist, the papery tendrils releasing his hands. He chuckled as he flexed his fingers, inspecting the faint crease the fabric had left behind.

“That wasn’t intentional,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing.

Bucky sat up slightly, propping himself on one elbow as he leaned closer, his smile somehow even more smug. “Still hot,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

—

Two years passed, a blur of growth and change that transformed you from a stranger lost in a foreign universe into someone who… belonged. 

It was mostly Sam’s relentless prodding that gave you the push you needed, but you stepped into the role of a hero— not Magneto’s soldier, not a weapon of war, but a protector. You had chosen to use your powers to save people, to inspire hope rather than fear. And Bucky found his place, too— with a band of misfits Alexei had called the Thunderbolts (Bucky still complained about it).

And then, you married Bucky.

The ceremony was small, intimate— just a handful of friends who had become your family. Sam stood at Bucky’s side as his best man, wearing a suit so nice he spent the entire morning making sure everyone noticed it. Clint was there, cracking jokes and pretending to be annoyed when Yelena stole his drink. Kate arrived late, as always, but she made up for it by pulling you aside to tell you how beautiful you looked.

The ceremony took place in a national park. You had planned it to be simple, but Shuri had insisted on designing the decorations herself—a canopy of woven vines and blossoms framing the altar. 

As you walked down the makeshift aisle, your heart pounded in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. Bucky stood waiting for you, his blue eyes filled with something you could only describe as wonder. His hair was a little bit longer now, a few strands charmingly falling onto his face.

Sam whispered something to him as you approached, and Bucky shook his head with a soft laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. You caught yourself giggling, unable to stop the sheer joy bubbling up inside you.

When you reached him, he took your hands in his, and the world seemed to fade away. His metal hand, once a weapon of destruction, held yours as gently as if you were made of glass. His voice was as steady as it was when you first heard him in that Hydra base as he said his vows. 

“You pulled me out of the dark,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel… whole again. But with you, I do.”

By the time it was your turn, you were shaking. You spoke your vows through tears. You told him how he’d shown you a world beyond the one Magneto had painted for you, a world where hope was more powerful than hate.

When the officiant pronounced you married, Bucky pulled you into his arms, and his lips on yours as soft as the first time he kissed you on the edges of the Wakandan cliff.

For a fleeting moment, guilt frayed the edges of your joy. The X-Men weren’t here— your first family, the ones who you had grown up with. Memories of your youth resurfaced, back when you were all just teenagers. 

You could almost see yourself rolling your eyes at Jean as she spoke dreamily about spending her life with Scott. You’d both been so young then, so brimming with hope.

And now, here you were, marrying the love of your life. A smile tugged at your lips at the thought: if the X-Men knew, they’d be stunned to learn you’d fallen for a human.

—

And then you were pregnant.

The news hit you like a whirlwind—joy, fear, disbelief all mingling together. You had only been trying for a few weeks— you blamed Bucky’s super soldier sperm for that.

You and Bucky spent hours staring at the four positive tests, letting reality fully sink in. 

The pregnancy wasn’t easy. Your papyrokinesis, always a temperamental force, became even more unpredictable as your body changed. Bucky joked that he was becoming a human pin cushion, collecting little papercuts here and there whenever your powers flared.

“How’s your paper-cut tally today?” you asked one evening, guilt creeping into your voice as you noticed a fresh nick on his human arm. But Bucky never once complained. He’d just smile and wave it off. “If this is the price for having a family with you, I’ll gladly pay it,” he’d say, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Still, you could not help but let anxiety take over. You worried about what kind of parents you would be, how you’d manage your powers while taking care of a baby. You worried about the unknowns of your child’s future—what they might inherit from you, from Bucky, and what kind of life they would have in a world that could be so cruel to those who were different. 

But Bucky was always there, kind and reassuring, his hand on your back or his lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “We’ve got this, doll. We can handle anything.”

But as a mutant, your powers had always been a core part of who you were, something that set you apart from everyone else. It’s made your life both extraordinary and painfully difficult. You had spent years learning to accept and control your abilities, but the scars of rejection and isolation lingered. Deep down, a small part of you quietly hoped your child would be spared that burden, that they might be born without the mutant X gene— that they would be… human. It was a shameful thought, one you tried not to dwell on, but it lingered all the same.

The day Becca was born was the happiest—and most terrifying—day of your life. Labor was intense, your powers flaring uncontrollably with every wave of pain. Shuri and Bruce Banner had been in the room, monitoring your vitals with advanced Wakandan technology. This was uncharted territory—the first recorded instance of a mutant giving birth in this universe—and only the most brilliant minds and capable hands could possibly navigate the risks. Yet even they hadn’t anticipated the sudden chaos when papers began swirling wildly around the room. 

Through it all, Bucky was by your side, gripping your hand, anchoring you in the midst of pain. He whispered words of encouragement, as if his determination alone could carry you both through this moment.

And then Becca entered the world.

The moment they placed her in your arms, she took your breath away.

She was so small, so perfect, her tiny fists curled as though she were already prepared to take on anything. Her eyes blinked open, still adjusting to the light… and you froze. 

They glowed faintly of an unmistakable golden hue that neither Bucky nor you had. 

Bucky reached for her next, his vibranium arm cradling her with a gentleness that melted your heart. Tears welled in your eyes as you watched him, his expression one of pure, unguarded awe. He gazed down at her as though the entire universe had reshaped itself in her presence. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, “So beautiful.”

You couldn’t speak, your throat tightening—not just from the miracle of her existence, but from the realisation of what her golden eyes must mean. 

Becca was a mutant. 

Her powers hadn’t yet manifested, but you could feel it, as surely as you’d always felt your own. It was a subtle, invisible rhythm, a pulse of energy that tethered her to you in a way deeper than blood.

—

One evening, as you stood over her crib, watching her tiny chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath, your fears became too much to bear alone.

“She’s a mutant,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You had a feeling that Bucky knew, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t bring it up until you were ready to. 

Your mind swirled with anxiety. If the world was anything like yours, she was going to grow up in a world that didn’t understand her. That feared her.

The memories of your own painful existence caged you, bullied on the playground as a child, hunted on the battlefield as an adult.  

What if… your own life was a blueprint for hers? What if your beautiful girl was hated for just existing?

Bucky stepped closer behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“She’s perfect,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, like an anchor pulling you back from the tide of your fears. “Just like her mother.”

You turned to face him, tears welling in your eyes. In his face, you saw no fear, no doubt—only pride.

“She’s going to have a good life,” he continued, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Because she has us.”

So for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that Becca’s future didn’t have to mirror your past. She would grow up surrounded by love, raised by two people who understood what it meant to survive in a world that didn’t always make room for them.

As if sensing the shift in the room, Becca stirred in her crib. Her golden eyes blinked open, fixing on you with a calm, curious gaze that made your heart swell. You reached out, your fingers brushing against her tiny hand. She grasped your finger instinctively, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small.

—

When Doctor Strange told you that America Chavez could open a portal to your home dimension, it felt as though the air had been ripped from your lungs. 

For so long, you had tried every scientific method, pursued every theoretical breakthrough, exhausted every ounce of hope to find your way back. And now—magic. The one thing you hadn’t considered.

Strange’s words felt distant as he explained how. “America has mastered enough control over her powers now,” he said, “She can pinpoint your universe using your energy signature and open a gateway to take you home.”

Home?

Your idea of home has shifted so much over the last few years that the idea of going back now felt… foreign.

You nodded mechanically, not truly hearing him. Memories you had carefully buried began to break free— The hum of Sentinel engines flying through the sky. The terrified cries of mutants as they fled for their lives. The conviction in Erik Lensherr’s  voice as he waged wars against humans. The hope in Charles Xavier’s eyes. 

So that night, after Becca had fallen asleep in her crib, you found yourself pacing in your living room. 

It was cosy, but the walls were still bare. 

You had gotten a house in the suburbs when the two of you realised Becca was coming. Now, not even a year after moving in, you’re thinking of leaving. 

Bucky sat on the couch, silent but watchful.

Finally, you stopped, staring out the window into the beautiful garden. You had spent the last few weeks planting wildflower seeds, telling Bucky how excited you were to see Becca play out here. Your breath fogged the glass as you whispered, “I think I need to go back.”

Bucky leaned forward, resting his vibranium arm on his knee— he had been bracing for this. “Why?” he asked, a sadness in his voice. 

You didn’t turn around. “The Sentinels are still out there,” you said, your voice trembling. “Mutants are still being hunted. I fought so hard to protect our kind, to give us a chance to survive. And now I’m here—safe, comfortable—while they’re still dying. It feels…” You swallowed hard, “It feels wrong.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, stretching long enough for doubt to creep in. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “And what happens if you go back?”

You closed your eyes. “Maybe I can convince Magneto that coexistence is possible. We’re proof of it.” You turned to face him, desperation leaking into your voice. “He’s not all bad, Bucky. He’s just… lost.”

Lost.

Like you once were. 

Bucky stood, stepping closer to you. The faint glow of the fairy lights outside casted his silhouette on the glass. “You’re not just thinking about Erik,” he said, his voice smaller than it had ever been before. “You’re thinking about the X-Men, too.”

“They’re my family,” you nodded, your voice breaking, “They raised me and I… betrayed them.” Tears welled in your eyes, “I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. But I- I have to try.”

Bucky gently grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. “And Becca?” The question struck like a hammer, her name a blow to your conviction. “And me?”

“You and Becca can’t come with me.” The pain in his eyes nearly undid you, “She’d be thrown into the middle of a war where she’d be hunted just for existing. She has to stay here, where she’s safe, with her father.”

Bucky’s eyes watered, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He looked down for a moment, struggling to keep his composure. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost drowned by the pounding in your ears.  “I’m going to miss you.”

“You and Becca are my whole world,” you said, choking on the words. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Now, your tears came freely, spilling down your cheeks unrestrained. He made no move to wipe them away, granting you the space to feel raw. “But I need to fix this”

He stepped closer, his hands coming to rest gently on your waist. He kissed you, slow and lingering, as though trying to memorise the feel of you before it’s too late. When he pulled back, his grip tightened, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. “I’m not going to stop you.” He paused, as if every word cost him every bit of energy he had left, “I just want you to know—if you leave, Becca and I will be okay.”

His words shattered something deep inside you, and you shook your head, tears blurring your vision as a sob escaped your throat. “I— don’t— deserve— you,” you hiccuped, burying your head in his chest, remembering how it felt to be in his arms.

“Oh, no, no darling,” his arms tightened around you as his voice started breaking more and more until it was in a million pieces. “D-Don’t say t-that,” he said firmly. “Y-You deserve to be happy. Wherever that is.”

“I love you,” you said, your voice muffled. It must have been the millionth time you'd told him that, yet the words still carried as much meaning as the very first time you admitted it.

“I love you, too.” he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You sat by Becca’s crib, your fingers brushing against her tiny hand as you watched her chest rise and fall in time with her breathing. Her little fists curled and uncurled as she dreamed, her face the picture of innocence. 

You had to go. You had to. Right?

—

The next day, the portal shimmered before you, alive with swirling light and possibility. 

Its star-shaped crackled faintly, a gateway to another life, another universe. America Chavez stood beside it, her hands glowing as she focused on keeping the connection stable. 

Oh. You gasped, still not quite believing that this was real.

Beyond the portal was your old room in the X-Mansion. Your breath hitched, realising that no one touched your room after you left, after you betrayed them. 

The bedspread was still the ones you had picked out as a teenager, your favourite books stacked haphazardly on the desk. You noticed that the faint glow of a lava lamp Charles got you for your birthday, the stacks of origami craft along the window, the paper boats scattered across the floor—it was all there, as though no time had passed. 

It was so close, so real. A piece of your past, waiting for you to reclaim it.

Behind you, Bucky stood holding Becca. 

You had said your goodbyes in private, cried when you needed to. You had left notes for the friends you’d made in this universe, because facing them one by one would have been too much to bear. 

Becca squirmed in Bucky’s arms, her tiny cries almost desperate, as if she understood what was happening. As if she knew.

You stepped closer to the portal, toying with your wedding ring nervously as you often did. You tried to think of home—of the X-Mansion before you, of late nights talking to Charles, of Anne Marie’s southern-dripped laughter echoing through the halls. But when you thought of home, all you could think about was Bucky and Becca. 

You looked back at the room through the portal, the memories rising like in the back of your mind. Sleepovers with Jean and Ororo, talking about dreams, fears, and futures. Helping Scott with his homework while he pretended not to be annoyed. The warm smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchen when Hank experimented with culinary science.

Through the portal, you caught a snippet of conversation—Hank McCoy’s calm, thoughtful voice drifting through the hallway, followed by Remy LeBeau’s unmistakable Cajun accent.

So close, yet so far.

So close, yet you did not have the heart to step through it just yet.

And then Hank said something that stopped you cold in your tracks. “Jean’s doing well—third trimester already.”

You froze. Jean was happy? She was having a child?

“Scott’s happier than a gator in the bayou,” you heard Remy say, you could imagine him smiling in your mind, twirling with his beloved playing cards. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Scott’s child. 

They were starting a family. Building something beautiful. 

They were happy. They had a future.

If they deserved that… didn’t you? Didn’t your husband? Didn’t your daughter?

You took a shaky breath and glanced back through the portal. So many years, so much left unfinished. 

Could you really walk away from the people who had shaped you? The family who had loved you, even when you had left them behind?

Then Becca cried again, her wail sharp and insistent. She’s stubborn like her mother, Bucky once chuckled. 

You turned, her tiny face scrunched in frustration, her little hands reaching blindly. 

It was heartbreaking.

“I—I can’t,” you stammered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked. “I can’t do this.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just slightly, but he didn’t speak. 

Your legs felt like they might give out as you stumbled back toward him. Your hands shook as you reached for Becca.

When you finally took her into your arms, Bucky wrapped his arms around both of you. He’s kissed your temple, tears of joy peppering his cheeks.

“I can’t leave her.” You whispered, your voice trembling, tears tracing hot trails down your cheeks. You cradled your daughter, holding her fragile, precious frame as if letting go would shatter you completely. Your eyes flickered to your husband’s—the human who had taught you how to love unconditionally, the human who had earned your vulnerability and trust.  “I can’t leave you.”

His shaky hands came to rest gently on your back as his grip tightened. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” You nodded, your face pressed against his chest. “I’m already home.”

Behind you, America nodded, letting the portal flicker and fade. The shimmering light dimmed, and with it, the tether to your old life dissolved into nothing.

—

Back in your home universe, Charles Xavier sat bolt upright in his wheelchair. 

“She’s alive,” he murmured, his voice disturbing through the silence of his office. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes unfocused as if searching the invisible threads of the mind that had just manifested in his— but you were gone as quickly as you had reappeared.

Jean, seated near the fireplace, gasped. She turned toward Charles, her green eyes alert. “I felt her too,” she said, her voice unsteady. The presence had been faint but it was unmistakable, like a star flickering to life. Her hand moved instinctively to her swollen belly as if to soothe the child from her shock.

Scott stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. His brows knitted, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Who?” 

Jean closed her eyes, focusing on the faint impression left in her mind like a handprint. She said your name.

Everyone in the room held their breath.

Ororo, who had been standing by the window with her back to the room, turned to both telepaths in the room. “Are you certain?” she asked, “It’s been so long since either of you felt her, since we thought she was...”

“I’m sure,” Jean said with absolute conviction. “And she’s not alone.”

“She has a little one,” Charles murmured, his voice unusually gentle. His usual stoicism, forged by the fires of conflict, melted away, “A very powerful little one.”

-end. (?)

shall I make an extra chapter about Becca developing powers?

[just-dreaming-marvel]

All I Ask Of You

MAIN MASTERLIST / MARVEL MASTERLIST / MUSICAL INSPIRED FIC MASTERLIST

Tony Stark x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,485ish

Request: Listen, I know you're not taking requests and this is like random as fuck but still. Feel free to ignore tho! I've seen you mention some musicals here and there, and I was just listening to All I Ask of You, from Phantom of The Opera, and that gave me some romantic Tony vibes. So I was thinking like, Tony takes his girl (girlfriend? wife? best friend that he's hopelessly in love with? idk) to go see the musical cause he knows she likes it. He spends the whole night watching her more than the musical. And as they're going home, they start singing All I Ask of You and dancing a little like the two idiots in love that they are. And share some sweet giggly kisses. 

Notes: I love musicals! I definitely listen to them the most and am constantly trying to go to one. This request was just what I needed today. Thanks so much! (Also, listen to the Josh Groban and Kelly Clarkson version of All I Ask Of You. It's a perfect song for this fic.)

Tony was checked out and done for the day. He just wanted to be home with you or in the lab working. Unfortunately, Pepper would not let that happen and forced him to go to every company meeting that he had pushed off for months. He sighed as he loosened the tie from around his neck and stepped off of the elevator.

“Y/N? Honey?” Tony called, looking around for you. 

The main lights in the penthouse were dimmed, and he couldn’t hear you nearby. Tony headed over to the staircase and walked up to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway of the bedroom when he could hear it. The sounds of the shower running, faint music playing, and your singing.

“Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned,” your voice carried from the shower, through the bathroom, and into the bedroom from the slightly ajar door. A soft smile formed over his lips as he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the lyrics of your favorite musical. “Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we’ll never do— there will never be a day, when I won’t think of you…”

The Phantom Of The Opera was your favorite musical. You listened to it when you were happy, sad, anxious, and any other emotion you could feel. Tony had known that it was your favorite musical since early in your relationship. He had been meaning to take you to see it on Broadway but kept pushing it off due to various reasons. Right now, he was really needing a date with you and any date with you that made you happy was the best date for him. You kept singing as Tony made the calls for tomorrow’s date night.

Eventually, you exited the shower and had JARVIS pause the music. You dried off and slipped on a robe before stepping out into the bedroom. 

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Tony’s voice coming from near the large wall of windows made you jump slightly. He hung up the call he was on and headed over to you. "Hey, honey.

“Hey," you smiled as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him before kissing you. “Didn't know you were home.”

“Got home a few minutes ago. Didn’t want to disrupt the show.”

"You heard that?”

"I loved every note of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Best singer in the Tower."

You laughed and playfully hit him before pushing away. “Whatever.” You headed back into the bathroom to get ready for bed, with Tony following closely behind.

“So, I wanted to ask you if you had any plans tomorrow night?"

“Maybe," you shrugged, smirking at Tony teasingly through the mirror. “Depends. Does my boyfriend have plans?”

Tony wrapped his arms around you and met your gaze in the mirror. “I do. They include you, me, food, and a surprise."

“A surprise?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, kissing your neck.

“Can I get a hint?”

“Nope."

“Seriously?”

“My lips are sealed. Just be ready at 5. Wear that dress you like so much.”

“You mean your favorite dress?"

“Same thing.”

~~~

You were excitedly anxious all day, waiting for Tony’s surprise. The two of you went on date nights often. Tony couldn’t help it. But it had been a while since he had done a date night surprise. When you entered, Tony was ready in his usual suit and sunglass look in the living room. He not-so-subtly checked you out with a smirk.

“You’re right,” he grabbed your hand and tugged you into him. “That is my favorite dress.” 

He captured your lips with his before you could respond. The kiss deepened as Tony’s hands gripped your hips tightly, and your hands moved to his neck. Tony was the one to pull away, smirking as you whined and tried to follow after his lips.

“We have to go,” he whispered, breath fanning your lips. “Can’t be late for dinner.”

~~~

Dinner was fantastic. A nice restaurant that Tony was able to get a private table at. After dinner, the two of you held hands as you walked down the street.

“So, what’s the surprise?" you asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. 

The two of you turned the corner, and you gasped, coming to a sudden stop. There it was, shining in the recent night, the marquee for Phantom Of The Opera. 

“Tony, are you…” you couldn't even finish your sentence.

He lifted up your hand and kissed the back of it. “Surprise.”

“We’re seeing Phantom?!”

Tony chuckled with a smile. “Yes, honey.”

“Thank you!" You jumped into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He caught you by your waist as you forced him to take a few steps back.

“Anything for you, honey.”

You kissed him briefly before grabbing Tony’s hand and pulling him along with a squeal. Once you were in the lobby of the theater, you looked around in awe. Tony was thankful that his sunglasses were still on with the ability to take pictures. He never wanted to forget how you looked in the moment. After allowing you to explore for a moment, Tony guided you to your private box seats.

“These okay?” Tony asked, slightly worried. He knew that it didn't give you a right-on view, but he wanted privacy.

“They’re perfect,” you leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

~~~

You held his hand tightly through the entire show. While you were completely entranced by it, Tony was completely entranced by you. He barely gave the show a second thought. He focused on the way your lips barely moved with each word sung. The way your hand held his tighter when emotions got higher, or you got excited over something. Occasionally, you would look over, complete gratitude in your gaze. He would kiss your cheek or neck, but the two of you went back to focusing on your separate shows. 

When the show was over, you had a soft smile over your lips as the two of you held hands and walked back to the car. The streets were quiet, and the night was calm. You were humming, leaning close to Tony as the two of you walked, in no hurry to return home at all. Tony picked up the song that you humming and stopped walking. He pulled you into him and began guiding you around in a small circle.

"Tony, what are you—“

“No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears,” Tony suddenly began singing Raoul’s part of All I Ask Of You. “I’m here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm you. Let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears. I’m here with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.”

“Say you love me every waking moment,” you joined in, picking up Christine’s part. Tony still led you in a small circle as you held each other close. “Turn my head with talk of summertime. Say you need me with you now and always. Promise me that all you say is true. That’s all I ask of you.”

“Let me be your shelter. Let me be your light. You're safe. No one will find you. Your fears are far behind you.”

“All I want is freedom, a world with no more night. And you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me.”

“Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Let me lead you from your solitude. Say you need me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. Y/N,” you smiled at Tony's inclusion of your name in the song, “that's all I ask of you.”

“Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the word and I will follow you.”

"Share each day with me,” the two of you sang together, pausing your slow circle and staring into each other’s eyes. “Each night, each morning."

"Say you love me,” you sang.

“You know I do,” Tony sang.

“Love me, that’s all I ask of you,” the two of you sang together. “Anywhere you go, let me go too. Love me. That’s all I ask of you."

Tony pulled you in for a kiss and the end of the song. You held him close as you tried to pour some of your overwhelming love for Tony into the kiss. Eventually, the need for air made you part.

“I didn’t know that you knew the song,” you whispered.

“You listen to it all the time," he teased. “I was bound to memorize it."

“Sorry.”

“No need for apologies, honey.”

“How can I thank you for tonight? It was so perfect." 

“Just... love me. That's all I ask of you.”

You smiled, warming at the use of the lyrics in his response. “I think I can do that.”

[holdmytesseract]

I'm SO late to the party, I'm sorry, bestie. 🫣 But I loved this so much, omg! 😍

I was made to be yours. Words that resonated so deeply into both your souls. Words he used when he first confessed his love to you. The same words you yourself uttered when your memory spell had broken and you found him that fateful day eons ago.

Babeeeeys! 🥹💖

Will and Cora getting what they deserve. 😌 Reader is such a badass, omg. 🤩

mercy upon ourselves

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Your multiversal duty of punishing perpetrators of infidelity in their afterlife takes an interesting turn when you see that the betrayed party is one of your variants | loose 'sequel' to 'all will be alright in time'

Pairing: Loki (God of Stories/Time) x Reader; Will Ransome x Reader (different Reader)

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: 18+ | talks of infidelity; steamy moments at the end; (technically) mass murder; Cora Seaborne (yeah she's a warning); Will Ransome (in this case he needs to be a warning, too) [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: this loosely takes place in the RTC 'multiverse', but no prior reading of the series is required; Reader is the goddess of fidelity

Dick-tionary: steamy moments (but not outright smut) starts at "Loki let out a low chuckle"

Your duty as goddess of fidelity, in theory, was simple enough. Upon the death of a betrayer, you were to choose their punishment in their eternal afterlife. After your first few thousand cases, they all began to meld into the same old tale, often feeling as if they all even wore the same face.

That was until this particular story. Where the face of the deceased and betrayed wife held…your own.

Before you could even call out to him, Loki was by your side in a heartbeat, laying his hands gently on your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the back of your head. "I can sense your unease, little Princess. What troubles you?"

Together you looked through the glowing branches that surrounded you, each telling the story of a different timeline, a different universe. Until you finally found the one which held the case you needed to review. The universe where your echo had died of a broken heart upon learning that your husband, Loki's echo in the form of a Reverend William Ransome, betrayed you to have an entanglement with a newcomer in your quaint village of Aldwinter.

"This is no variant of mine," your husband seethed. "I could never belittle our love like this, the thought alone pains me."

You took his hand in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I know, husband. This timeline is simply…a fluke. Our echoes, our variants? They are not reflections of ourselves. His flaws and failures are not your burden to bear."

"Failure," he repeated, his top lip curling up in a sneer as he looked upon the faces of his variant and his mistress, living together under the same roof, sleeping in the very bed that your variant breathed her last. "That is precisely what this branch is. Perhaps it should just drift away…to wither and rot."

"Loki we should not punish an entire universe for the mistake of one man. There are still countless lives within this branch--"

"And your variant is no longer one of them because of the mistake of his one man. He deserves to suffer."

"And he will," you reassured him. "His suffering falls within my purview. It is my Norns-given duty to see to it. And while I know we both would relish in watching as this pathetic coward of a man sees the end of days upon him, I cannot in good conscience have it be at the cost of an entire universe. But perhaps the village that was complicit…the village that stayed silent to protect their precious reverend's reputation."

"What do you have in mind, my love?" He pulled you close to him, embracing you from behind, hands caressing your sides. Soothing himself from the unease of seeing how his variant dared take you for granted.

I was made to be yours. Words that resonated so deeply into both your souls. Words he used when he first confessed his love to you. The same words you yourself uttered when your memory spell had broken and you found him that fateful day eons ago.

The same words you both used within your new vows when he returned to you. And used ever since.

And somehow this insipid trifling man thought himself above those words? Dare even spit them back in the face of the same entities that weaved your two souls together so intricately that it bled through every timeline and universe known to him?

All the suffering in the Nine Realms would not be enough for this William Ransome as far as he was concerned.

"Well, husband, we are in a rather…unique circumstance," you mused aloud, a little sound of contentment slipping from your lips when he pressed a kiss to your temple. "I bear the same face as this Y/N Ransome…and they reside in a town that is riddled with a rather superstitious lot. And my variant…she deserves her revenge, does she not?"

Had it not been for the gloomier and grayer than usual state of the sky, it seemed a typical day in Aldwinter. It had been years since the spectacle that was your passing occurred, and the townsfolk had finally began to warm to the presence of Cora Seaborne. Sure, she and William would still get looks out of the corners of their eyes, especially when she would emerge from the house in a dress that people could have sworn was yours, but other than that, no one made any trouble for them.

Not to their face. Not anymore.

The cold heaviness of regret had made itself at home in the pit of your widower's stomach ever since that day, the day that he betrayed you. No amount of rationalizing could have him absolve himself of his sin. Any which way he went with his internal arguments, they would all land in the same place.

The blame fell entirely on him. And he would have to live with the consequences of what he'd done for the rest of his days.

In the form of the tombstone that would steadily erode with the passing of time.

And in the form of the new family he was all but strong armed into taking on, if only to spare himself more scandal and ridicule. He'd already lost the respect of a good number of the congregation, this would smite the number down to a paltry handful if he turned his back on his then pregnant mistress.

Though despite all their efforts at maintaining what they thought they'd found with each other, they had lost the babe. Twice. As if God Himself willed it so that no child would ever result from their treachery. A fitting punishment, as far as Will was concerned.

Love may not have been a weakness, but lust most definitely was. Lust was what drove him to commit the treachery that led to the loss of love.

He should have resisted. Walked away. Ran, even.

Perhaps if he had, you would still be here, serving as a bright ray of sunlight even in the dark gray overcast over your little town. Perhaps your children wouldn't have turned their backs on him and he would be allowed the privilege of getting to see them build their own families, lead their own lives.

Instead all he had was darkness and silence. And he had no one to blame but himself.

"William!" Cora's shriek traveled across the marshes.

Moments like these, he preferred the darkness and silence.

He tried to take in a breath before turning to face her, the picture of a doting partner. "What is it, Cora?"

"The look--the looking glass, I saw--"

Her stammering was cut short by the sound of Matthew frantically ringing the alarm bell. "TIDE INCOMING! EVERYONE GO INSIDE! GET TO SAFETY!"

One of the fishermen in the approaching boats stumbled forward until he fell limp in the reverend's arms. "The waves, they be the size of mountains. Bigger even. God is angry with us."

"No," Matthew wheezed, coughing out sea water. "That wasn't God, out there in the waters. Not our God. That was some sorceress, some witch. Demoness. We must find safety." He began to usher every villager he could find into the church. "She don't look like the type that shows mercy."

"She?" Cora spoke, pointing a shaky finger at the curate. "You…saw her face? Tell me does she look like--"

"Enough talk about the evil looming in on us, Mrs Seaborne!" he snapped, pointing his finger at the Ransome house. "Go home. May this evil, whoever and whatever she may be, have mercy on us all."

"What was that, Cora?" Will hissed as they made their way home. "You look completely beside yourself."

"I could have sworn I saw Y/N's face in the looking glass," she said shakily, gulping for breath, shuddering when she said your name aloud once more. "Will, she looked angry. Vengeful."

"You're not making any sense, Y/N is gone," he said tersely, a familiar lump forming at the back of his throat as he forced himself to acknowledge your absence from his life. He ushered her along, trying to ensure that she at least would not stumble too harshly. "I laid her into the ground myself, gave her eulogy."

"I know," she huffed. "But I also know what I saw, that was no hallucination, Will--"

"I've read texts that there are some pregnancies that alter with the minds, the perception of the expectant mother. Perhaps this is simply one of those cases," he waved off. "Look, Cora we're almost home. We can wait out the storm and then when this is all over you can rest. We all can."

She simply nodded and they cross the marshes back to their home, only to find Francis, pale as freshly pressed cardstock, awaiting them by the door. "Mother, F-Father, there's a woman--" he sputtered out, pointing at the open door.

And then you stepped out. "There you are. Cowards."

William's heart stopped in his chest watching you walk out of your old home, what seemed to be billowing fabric drenched and clinging to your skin, hugging every curve that his hands had longed for since your passing. Even soaking wet, your dress proudly gleamed a brilliant emerald green, and there was a glow that seemed to radiate from underneath your skin.

You were no longer of this earth. You were something…more. Something above them all. And it showed in the way you held yourself, in your gaze as you looked upon the marshes that held your former home. As you looked upon the husband that survived you, your upper lip curling in derision as you saw the bump protruding from Cora's stomach.

"Y/N…" he whispered your name, your sheer presence bringing him to his knees. "Sweet wife, you have returned--"

"Hold that rancid thought," you silenced him, raising your hand in the air as if grasping for something. In an instant, his words ceased, feeling as if his tongue had swollen and became as heavy as lead in his mouth. "You do not get to call me your wife, Reverend Ransome. Not since you sullied your vows and laid with this London whore."

Cora took a step toward you, opening her mouth as if to defend herself, or perhaps her lover. But you put a stop to that as well, raising your other hand in her direction, and suddenly she was forced to sink to her knees as well. "Please, Y/N," she pleaded with you. "Let us take this inside there is a tide coming--"

"Do you mean this tide, friend?" you spat the last word out, as if it tasted bitter on your tongue. Suddenly the tide was steadily approaching the shore, rising to a height that would completely engulf and decimate Aldwinter once it bore down on them. And you rose from the ground, floating well above the roof of the Ransome home, the reverend, along with his lover and her son, looking up at you in sheer horror.

"What do you want from us?!" Francis yelled into the sky, reminding you of how mortal worshippers would look to the sky and beg the gods for explanations. For miracles.

"I do not wish for you to give me anything, young Mr Seaborne. In fact, I wish to offer you all…a choice." You turned your gaze to the kneeling couple. "Get in the water. And perhaps I shall spare this town."

"Y/N please, this town is full of innocent lives, no matter what has happened to you I know in my heart that you would never wreak this kind of devastation upon--"

"What has happened to me?!" you repeated, your shrieking tone piercing even through the deafening sound of the tidal wave still standing tall, waiting to descend. "Your lustful indiscretion cost an innocent life, William Ransome. There is no innocent life in this town. Not anymore. The people here chose to stay silent, to keep your affair a secret for the sake of preventing a scandal. Though that didn't seem to work out the way you'd hoped, did it?" You motioned toward the wave with a jerk of your head again. "Get in the water."

The wave grew even more violent, already taking in the fishing boats and pulling it into its dark abyss.

They both stubbornly stayed still, still kneeling on the muddy marsh ground staying silent. The tramp's hand twitched toward the vicar's, but his moved upward, as if wishing to reach for you.

It was always you, she realized bitterly. She may have him now, but only as a result of his momentary lapse in good judgment where his body chose another's. But his heart…his heart would always choose you.

When presented with any semblance of a choice, Will Ransome would crawl back to you on his hands and knees in a heartbeat. And now she must lie on the bed she made. The bed they both made.

Only when you pointed toward her son, her dear Francis, and he was lifted up from the ground, kicking and struggling in mid-air, did both of them make a noise. Calling out to you, pleading for you to put him down and stop the madness. "This is the last time I will repeat myself, adulterers. Get in the water. Or your boy here suffers first."

"Y/N, stop this," Cora spoke, rising to her feet. "Are you not tired? It has been so long, years, even. Francis was still just a little boy when you last saw him. He is a grown man now, how long will you let anger consume you?"

Even from this distance, you could see the ire in Will's features, clearly ticked off with the words that came out of his lover's mouth. "My darling, please. What must I do to atone for my transgressions towards you? I will promise you anything, do anything. Whatever you wish for, it's yours, please can we just go home?"

You lowered both Francis Seaborne and yourself down to the ground, the young man running immediately to his mother, quivering like a leaf in the wind. The disgraced vicar reached his arms out toward you, every muscle tensing and freezing in place when you rose your hand into the air again. "It is the actions of philanderers like you that make the mortals look down on me, consider me a lesser god."

"God?" Cora repeated in a sharp exhale. "Don't be ridiculous, Y/N--"

"Fools like you don't realize what awaits you on the other side of your mortality, where the fate of your eternal afterlife…falls to me," you cut her off, not bothering to hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth. "Adulterers doomed to suffer an endless loop of the consequences of their actions."

"My wife--"

"Is dead, Mister Ransome," you bellowed. From the corner of your eye you could see villagers gathering at their windows, the horror in their expressions as they began to speculate on what exactly had come to terrorize their quaint little town. "You killed her, there is no use in denying it. Your foolish, licentious choices brought her to her grave. For that alone, you will suffer once your feeble human life reaches its conclusion."

"If you are not Y/N Ransome, then who are you?" Francis asked, voice shaking as he held on to his mother. "Why have you come to wreak havoc in our lives?"

You walked toward the town's vicar, tears in his eyes as he watched you move closer. He reached for your hands, looking like a wounded pup when you swatted him away. "I am the goddess of fidelity," you answered simply. "When betrayers like you and your mistress cease your time on this mortal plane, you and everyone complicit in your torrid affair will be at my mercy."

The tide rose even higher, looming menacingly over the town in a dangerous arch, blocking out what little light they once had from the sun beyond the clouds. You grasped William's chin harshly, fear evident in his eyes, heart thundering against his chest.

"But your actions, your infidelity in particular…upset my husband," you spoke, holding his gaze as you  hissed the words inches from his face. "And for that, I am willing to bend the rules and begin your suffering ahead of time. Put forth the events that will thrust your pathetic souls upon my doorstep."

You rose from the ground again, rage for your fallen variant coursing through you as you heard them plead for forgiveness. For mercy.

"P-Please Y/N…" Cora sputtered out. "I will leave the town and no one will ever hear from me again, just please let me leave with my boy."

"No," you droned. "You have asked what you can do to atone, I presented you with a choice. Now I know how capable you both are of making choices, you've made several together, some of them even on the very ground you stand on. Which leads me to believe…you have made your choice. Stubbornly bargaining your way out of my wrath, out of your suffering. At the cost of this town you call home."

"You truly aren't Y/N Ransome, are you?" she spat out, a look of entitled indignance on her face. "The Y/N I knew wouldn't be this ruthless. She would have shown mercy--"

"Oh but I am showing mercy, you unworthy tart," you spat back. "For ruthlessness is mercy. Upon ourselves." With a flick of your wrist, the tidal wave was finally let loose.

And the little town of Aldwinter sunk into the water.

Before the tsunami crashed down and took you with it, Loki conjured a portal and pulled you back to safety, a bit of water splashing into your bedchambers before it closed. With a wave of his magic the water evaporated into the air, and your soaked dress was dried.

"Husband…" you spoke, a wide smile gracing your features when your eyes met his. You both were on the floor, the god cradling you in his arms as he pushed your hair away from your face.

"My darling wife," he breathed out, his own smile mirroring yours as he picked you up in his arms, carrying you to the bed. "Your flair for the dramatic has you reckless as ever."

He sat you on the edge of the bed, handing you a goblet of wine that did a quick job of warming you and canceling out the effects of the damp cold of Aldwinter.

"You should rest, my love," he said softly, moving to position himself behind you to undo the braids in your hair, carefully working his fingers through the wet strands. "This is the first time you wielded your newfound powers as a goddess, I can imagine your body feels overworked…and famished."

As if on cue, your stomach grumbled, causing your husband to chuckle and press a tender kiss to your cheek. "How did you know when to pull me back?"

"To start, I must admit that I was watching the spectacular show you put on, avenging your variant with such vigor," he whispered into your skin. His hands found their way to your shoulders, working away at the knots. "And our souls' threads are intertwined, little Princess. I can always feel when you need me. I was made to be yours."

"And I yours," you sighed contendedly, leaning against him when he wrapped his arms around you. When he cupped the side of your face, holding you as he pressed his lips to yours, you all but melted into his embrace. "I love you," you mumbled against his lips.

"And I love you," he murmured, continuing to kiss your lips as he maneuvered you to lie down on the bed. With a wave of his hand, the fabric that covered your skin changed to something much lighter, more sheer. One of your sleeping gowns, you surmised. "Rest, dear heart. I shall arrange for food to be brought to us for when you wake."

Your body was all too eager to obey the softly spoken command. The rest of you, however…well, after the ordeal in that despondent village on Midgard, the rest of you ached for your husband's touch. To wash away the muck of the marshes.

Loki let out a low chuckle, kissing along your clavicle as his hand roamed the side of your body. "I can always feel when you need me," he repeated, his tone holding a much more lustful intent than moments earlier. "And much as I want nothing more than to indulge in making love to my beautiful wife, I cannot, should not, be so selfish and ignore her body's need for rest." He made his way to your lips, allowing himself the tiniest sliver of decadence as he licked into your mouth. "You'll need your strength for what I intend to do to you later tonight."

Your breath hitched as images flashed in your mind of your husband teasing and pleasuring you, claiming your body repeatedly well until after the sun rose the next morning. In multiple places throughout your marital chambers. Constantly finding or making the time to bring you to orgasm in the midst of pampering you.

Suddenly it made sense why he would choose to deny you now…in exchange for a much more delicious reward just a few short hours away.

"Would you stay regardless, husband?" you asked weakly, already feeling yourself succumbing to the exhaustion and the slumber that your plush sheets promised. "Hold me?"

You weren't able to see the loving smile that graced your husband's face from your request. You only felt the soft kiss on your forehead before he positioned you to lay in his arms. "Gladly, my darling." He conjured a book into his free hand, ready to begin reading to you when a stray question entered his mind. "What of their souls, Y/N? What hellscape did you design for them?"

"I gave them what they deserve," you grumbled, shifting your position to hold him closer, your arm draping over his stomach as you laid your head on his chest. "Each other. They are doomed to spend their afterlife together, with Cora knowing that his heart longs for his late wife. And William having to watch from the sidelines as my variant finds new love. You have a stray echo that never found his fated, by the name of Pine. I presume by now they've found each other, starting a story of their own."

A/N: Hang on what's this…? Did I tease a future story at the end there? 😳 Why yes…yes I did 🤭 Ngl this year felt like I didn't get a whole lotta stories done especially in the latter half, but hopefully with everything finding a bit of balance, 2025 will look a bit different and I can set aside more time for story writing 💖

Ooh, and also I def got the idea to make this because of the "Get in the Water" song

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki

[darsynia]

Hi Darsy, I hope you're recovering from your procedure okay! Please only write for this prompt if you feel inspired–no pressure at all!

I would love if you wrote something with Steve x Reader Friends to Lovers and Steve realizes that Reader has a history of past/abusive relationships. Obviously Steve is just protective and compassionate and fluffy. But I totally understand if you're not interested or comfortable writing this! Ty bestie, get well soon!

Thanks for this prompt, I hope you like what I came up with for it!

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS| BUCKY BARNES

Words//Warnings: 1,600 // allusions to past abuse (reactions)

For @the-slumberparty's December Daze challenge Day 5, I chose the prompt: 'I worked so hard on dinner, but nothing turned out'

You Win Yum, You Lose Yum

People like to call your scrappy little apartment building The Matchmaker.

To fit in its narrow footprint, the designers put studio apartments on one side and 1 or 2 bedroom apartments across from them. You’ve heard that the management company capitalizes on their reputation by placing single women across from single men when possible. Given the other aspects of the place (shoddy wiring, flighty elevators, and smoke alarms that get the vapours more than an Eighteenth century heroine dying of consumption), you imagine the turnover is enough for it to be true.

It’s certainly true in your case. All of it. You’re hopelessly in love with the single man in the 2 bedroom apartment across from you--but honestly, who isn’t in love with Captain America?? 

His signature ‘home from work’ notification tap on your door makes you wince and assess the utter catastrophe happening in the kitchen corner of your studio. He’ll be over in just about a half hour, as the two of you have standing dinner plans on Wednesdays. You had the day off, and Tuesday You had the brilliant fucking idea to go all out.

You’ve gone all out, all right. If you go any more out, the whole apartment building will be forced out, on account of the fragile flower of a smoke detector that lives in your apartment.

A timer beeps to remind you that Failure #2 is due to come out of the oven. You look down at your cute little apron and do a little hiccup-laugh-cry before leaning over with a flashlight to see if opening the oven is going to make you everyone’s least favorite neighbor tonight.

The Shepherd’s Pie actually looks…

As you watch, the center of golden-brown mashed potato crust bubbles up, up, up--and then, like the worst version of Enceladus, some of the under-crust liquid splashes up onto the oven’s surface, creating smoke.

“SHIT!” you scream, grabbing your armpit-deep oven mitts and the bottle of specially formulated anti-smoke solution, setting it down at your feet. “I can do this. I can do this,” you mutter, taking a deep breath before springing into action.

You throw open the oven, immediately yanking out your offending moon pie with both mitts and tossing it onto the stovetop. Chanting arcane prayers to Steve’s teammate Thor, you snag the spray bottle and let the inside of the oven have it until it's a dripping, alien landscape in there. There will be no Try #2 at berry rhubarb tonight, Pi day or no Pi day.

“You got everything under control?” a male voice booms from behind you.

The sound prompts the primal, instinctive need to become smaller and apologize, not that it ever really helped. The spray bottle falls from your nerveless fingers, and the lid flies off. You sink to your knees and snag a dishtowel to start sopping up the mess as soon as you can, tossing the mitts to the side in haste.

“Hey, are you--” the voice asks, and it’s familiar, it’s Steve. Reality comes swinging back around, slamming into you from behind with even more force than your practiced misery. The elation of knowing you’re not back there, you’re safe--more than safe--is your accidental undoing.

You set your fingertips down to push up from the floor, but it’s not the floor, it’s the oven door. Hissing in pain, you snatch your hand back, but the next few minutes blur by, filled with the quick, careful actions of an actual hero. Somehow when it’s all over, you’re sitting on your couch, a bandage and a washcloth-wrapped gel cooling pad on your stung hand. Steve is nowhere to be found, and if it weren’t for the thankfully dulling pain you can feel in your fingertips, you’d wonder if you were actually asleep eight feet away in your own bed, dreaming of being cared for.

Movement makes you look up. It’s Steve, his eyes on you, a concerned look on his face as he moves slowly into your line of sight. He’s trying not to startle you, and god, that means more than a dozen roses.

“I brought you some pain meds. I don’t think you’ll need any medical treatment, but you won’t be touch-typing anytime soon.”

You blink up at him, but every time your eyes close you see an after-image of disaster: the separated corner of your cutting board//the burnt top of your first sweet pie attempt//the splash of Shepherd’s Pie juice in the oven//the instinctive jolt of fear that had led to your wet knees and finger burns--

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice impossibly close. Something about the care in his tone nearly brings you to relieved tears, like the first glimpse of sunrise lifting after a night lost in the cold woods. You open your eyes to see that he’s kneeling beside you, one hand setting down a glass of water on the end table. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he adds.

The hiccup-laugh-cry is back, more laugh than cry this time, because if you can’t believe Captain America when he says something like that, then you’re truly broken.

And you’re not.

“Wow, I just realized something,” you whisper.

“Looks like a good one.”

“You know what? It is.” The pressure of a long-held, toxic breath leaves your body in a long exhale before you allow yourself to look at Steve. “I believe you.”

His expression goes on a journey from concern to affection with a detour through ‘stern.' “I’m not going to ask, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know someday, all right?” He holds your gaze, and you swallow, then nod. “Good. I had a look at everything--” You groan, but Steve lifts up to his feet in a move you’re certain is pure operational distraction. “The mashed potato pie thing looks delicious. I turned off the oven and threw a towel down on the stuff that spilled. The food looks great, thank you.”

“You didn’t have t--” you begin, but Steve clears his throat entirely too loudly, and you shift gears as smoothly as you can into, “We managed to avoid setting off the alarm, and that was the real win, wasn’t it?”

Fifty minutes, two generous slices of solidly-mediocre Shepherd’s Pie and two cautious slices of too-sweet, topless sweet pie later, Steve offers to take your plate into the kitchen.

“I’m going to do the dishes, and you can’t stop me,” he says, once he’s over there.

He can’t see the look on your face, which is good because it’s got to be embarrassingly close to ‘completely besotted.’

After a few minutes of dish-washing noises, Steve says, “You’re too quiet in there, are you planning my demise?”

“Of all the men in my life, you’re the one I’m least likely to want to murder, Steve, don’t worry,” you quip, the words escaping before you realize how revealing they are.

The sounds stop.

“Never mind,” you offer, but you can hear him walking back over. “Steve--”

“I’m sorry I startled you. I didn’t know-- I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, the small break in his voice burning an asteroid’s path straight to the deepest places in your heart.

“You never have anything to be sorry for,” you gasp out, but he’s beside you on the couch, taking your undamaged hand.

“Don’t overcorrect,” Steve tells you gently. “Expecting perfection is too much pressure, as I suspect you know. Not every relationship is like winning the lottery-- just like not every meal ends up the way you want it to. That’s what I love so much about-- what I value about knowing you.”

A rare third hiccup-laugh-cry threatens, but you valiantly hold back enough to tease, “My lack of perfection, you mean?”

Steve freezes in obvious horror. “Crap. See what I mean? I’m trying to say you treat me like a regular person who can make mistakes, not like--” he pauses, obviously struggling to come up with the right words to explain himself.

Maybe it’s your burned fingers, maybe it’s the sincerity on his face, or maybe you’re a little high on the smell of burned pie crust, but you are feeling really brave tonight.

“--a hero to fall in love with? What if I fell for my very kind neighbor instead?”

There’s the barest few seconds’ pause as a smile grows on Steve’s face.

“Yeah.” All of the tension rushes out of Steve’s body at once, leaving behind a look of abject relief tinged with joy. You totally recognize it, because that’s how you feel too. “That would very much feel like winning the lottery.”

He’s looking at you like you’re precious, even after you burned half of his dinner and made a mess for him to clean up. This is as foreign to you as another planet-- but one where you recognize all the elements, at least.

Your instinct to deflect from strong emotions via laughter bubbles up before you can really stop it.

“So, are you going to tell me which neighbor caught your eye, or…”

Steve throws his head back in a laugh, rubbing a fond, affectionate hand across your back as he leans close.

“You may have to help me with that, I don’t think I remember her apartment number.” As he says that last, teasing word, Steve touches his lips to yours. For the first time in a long while, you realize that ‘losing’ a battle (of wits or whisk) doesn’t really have anything to do with losing a war, not with a soldier like Steve at your side.

[amethystarachnid]

CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Request: Fantastic event 😍 I want to make a request for Fem reader + Tony Stark, please! "Christmas morning surprise", breakfast in bed made by Tony, a surprise gift: Tony proposing the reader and saying the most beautiful things and cuddling by the tree later, drinking hot cocoa 😍 (@heygoodgirly)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: Tony Stark has never been one for romantic things but for you, oh, for you he'd become the most romantic man on earth. And that's exactly what he's trying to be as he gets ready to pop the question

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff fluff fluff

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

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

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The morning light spills softly through the gaps in the curtains, painting warm streaks of gold across the bedroom. You’re cocooned in the blankets, your face nestled into the pillow, completely oblivious to the world. For once, there’s no sound of the whirring gadgets or the mechanical hum of some early-morning project Tony’s working on in his lab. The quiet feels suspicious. But you don’t wake, not yet.

Downstairs, the man himself is pacing. Stark Tower—or what’s now become a semi-permanent Stark-and-You Tower—is unusually serene, save for the sound of Tony muttering to himself. In the kitchen, an array of utensils clutters the countertop. Pots, pans, and a suspiciously stained cutting board bear evidence of an attempt at cooking. Actual cooking. Not JARVIS ordering the latest Michelin-starred meal.

“Okay, okay, just… flip it gently,” Tony says under his breath, staring down a pan like it’s a volatile science experiment. His hair is a mess, and there’s a smear of flour on his cheek that he hasn’t noticed yet. “How hard can eggs be? They’re just tiny little things. People do this every day.”

The spatula makes contact, but predictably, the omelet doesn't cooperate. It folds awkwardly, and a piece flops onto the burner. Tony groans, his free hand tugging at his hair.

“Yeah, this is going great. Real Gordon Ramsay stuff here.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm as he glares at the breakfast carnage. He pauses, tapping his fingers against the counter, before grabbing another egg and cracking it into a fresh bowl. “She better appreciate this. Slaving away like a 1950s housewife… minus the pearls. Or the misogyny.”

JARVIS chimes in unprompted. “Might I suggest using a lower heat setting, sir? You appear to be—”

“No, no, no. I got this, J. Do not swoop in with your fancy AI advice. This is a Tony Stark original, and I’ll be damned if technology fixes my… whatever this is.”

“As you wish,” JARVIS replies smoothly, the slightest hint of amusement in his tone.

Tony manages to plate something passable, a mixture of eggs, toast, and fruit that—miraculously—looks edible. He surveys his handiwork with a critical eye, then lets out a huff. “If this doesn’t scream ‘romantic Christmas breakfast,’ I don’t know what does.”

There’s a small box tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants, a box that has no business being near sizzling pans or flour-covered counters. He knows better. He’s Tony Stark, after all. Precision is his thing—normally. But today? He feels like a live wire, energy sparking unpredictably under his skin.

“Okay. Breakfast first. Then the thing. Easy.” He picks up the tray and heads for the stairs, deliberately ignoring the persistent flutter in his chest.

The bedroom is still quiet when he pushes the door open with his shoulder, the tray balanced precariously in his hands. You’re exactly where he left you, sprawled under the covers with one arm flung lazily over your head. The sight makes his lips quirk into a crooked smile, the kind he reserves for moments no one else gets to see.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, his voice low but teasing. “Or should I say Sleeping Beast? You snore, you know.”

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and he snickers. “I’ll take that as a ‘good morning, Tony. Thanks for the breakfast-in-bed surprise. You’re the best boyfriend in the known universe.’” He sets the tray down on the nightstand and leans over to press a kiss to your temple. “I know, I know. I’m amazing.”

You blink awake slowly, your eyes adjusting to the soft light. “What…?” Your voice is thick with sleep, and you prop yourself up on one elbow, squinting at him. “What are you doing?”

“Delivering five-star cuisine,” he says, gesturing grandly at the tray. “Emphasis on the ‘five.’ I wouldn’t check the Yelp reviews if I were you.”

Your gaze shifts to the tray, and a small laugh escapes your lips. “You… made this?”

“Shockingly, yes. With these very hands.” He holds them up for emphasis. “And I only started one tiny grease fire, which I think is a personal record.”

You sit up more fully now, the blankets pooling around your waist. “Why? What’s the occasion?”

Tony shrugs, leaning casually against the bedpost, though there’s nothing casual about the way his heart thuds at your question. “Can’t a guy just do something nice for his girlfriend without getting the third degree? It’s Christmas, in case you forgot. Figured I’d play Santa and spoil you a little.”

Your smile softens, and you reach for the coffee mug on the tray. “You’re full of surprises, Stark.”

“That’s what they say,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching as you take a sip of the coffee. He’s relieved when you don’t grimace. Coffee, at least, is one thing he knows he can’t mess up.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, picking up a fork and spearing a piece of toast.

“Of course I did,” he retorts. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring out a violinist for ambiance. Thought about it. Decided it was too much.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. Voluntarily waking up next to me every day. Who’s the ridiculous one now?”

There’s a comfortable rhythm to your banter, one that makes the rest of the world fade away. He watches you eat, his expression softening when you’re not looking. Every now and then, you catch him staring, and he brushes it off with a quick quip or a self-deprecating joke, but the truth is, he’s just… captivated.

He’s done a lot of big things in his life. Saved the world, built a legacy, even cheated death a couple of times. But this—sitting here with you, on a lazy Christmas morning—is one of those rare moments that feels monumental in its simplicity.

Tony taps his fingers against his knee, his mind racing even as he tries to keep the conversation light. He’s thinking about the box in his pocket, about the way your eyes will light up when you see what’s inside. He’s thinking about how terrifying and exhilarating it is to want something so deeply, to want you forever.

“So, on a scale of one to ten,” he says, breaking the silence, “how would you rate the masterpiece I just served you? Be honest. But remember, I have an ego to protect.”

You tilt your head, pretending to deliberate. “Hmm… solid eight. Maybe eight-point-five.”

“Eight-point-five?” he echoes, feigning offense. “What, did the toast offend you?”

“It’s a little… uneven,” you tease, holding up a slightly charred edge. “But I’ll let it slide.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Unbelievable. This is the thanks I get.”

Leaning closer, you kiss the corner of his mouth, a soft and lingering gesture that immediately shuts him up. When you pull back, your grin is mischievous. “Better?”

“Marginally,” he mutters, though his smirk gives him away.

You settle back against the pillows, the tray balanced carefully on your lap. Tony leans on one arm, his gaze drifting over your face as you savor the last bites of breakfast. He’s nervous, though he’d never admit it out loud. Not yet. He wants to do this right—to give you a memory you’ll carry with you forever. But more than that, he wants you to know just how much you mean to him, even if he’s not always the best at saying it.

For now, though, he keeps it light, keeps it normal. There’s time. At least, he hopes there’s time.

“By the way,” he says, his voice tinged with mock seriousness, “you’re washing the dishes.”

Your laughter fills the room, and for a moment, all his nerves fade away.

The warmth of the room is a cocoon against the chill of the winter morning outside, and you’re tangled in each other, limbs intertwined and bodies pressed close beneath the covers. The breakfast tray is forgotten, pushed aside to make room for this: the kind of quiet intimacy that feels like a luxury. Tony’s arm is draped over your waist, his thumb absently brushing along the curve of your hip as if he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His voice is soft when he speaks, carrying none of the usual bravado. “Y’know, if I could freeze time, I’d keep us here. Just like this.”

You hum contentedly, your cheek resting against his chest, where the steady thrum of his heartbeat feels like a secret melody. “I wouldn’t mind that,” you murmur, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His brown eyes are warm and intent, studying you like you’re a puzzle he never wants to solve.

The comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the faint sound of the city beyond the windows. But then, a sudden thought strikes you, and you sit up slightly, your hair mussed from sleep and your eyes sparkling with realization.

“Wait,” you say, breaking the spell. “We still have to open gifts. It’s Christmas morning, remember?”

Tony groans dramatically, flopping back against the pillows as though you’ve just suggested something truly exhausting. “Oh, come on, can’t we stay in bed for a few more hours? Maybe the gifts will open themselves.”

You laugh, wriggling free from his hold, but he’s faster. Before you can fully escape, his arms wrap around you, pulling you back down onto the mattress. You let out a playful squeal, but he doesn’t relent.

“Tony!” you protest, though you’re grinning. “The gifts—”

“Can wait,” he says firmly, his hands settling at your waist to keep you firmly in place. His voice softens, turning almost serious as his eyes meet yours. “Besides, I’ve got something more important right here.”

His tone makes you pause, your smile faltering for just a second as you study him. There’s something in his expression—a mix of vulnerability and determination—that you don’t see often. It sends a flutter through your chest, though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

“More important than presents?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “That doesn’t sound like the Tony Stark I know.”

“The Tony Stark you know has layers,” he quips, though his usual sarcasm feels gentler now, like a shield he’s only half-raising. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together, and he takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Look, I had this whole plan,” he begins, his words coming quickly now, like he’s worried he might lose his nerve. “Candles, music, maybe even fireworks—because, y’know, I’m me. But then I realized… all of that stuff doesn’t really matter, does it?”

You blink at him, your brows knitting together in confusion. “Tony, what are you—?”

“Shh,” he cuts you off gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Let me do this, okay? Just… let me get it out before I explode or short-circuit or something.”

Your heart is racing now, a mix of anticipation and disbelief. You nod, unable to find your voice.

“I’ve been a lot of things in my life,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “A genius, a billionaire, a total pain in the ass. But with you, it’s different. You make me want to be better. Hell, you make me better. And it’s not just the big stuff—though saving the world is a hell of a lot easier when I know you’re waiting for me to come home. It’s the little things, too. The way you laugh at my stupid jokes, or how you somehow manage to make this place feel like an actual home.”

His voice wavers slightly, and he swallows hard, his grip on your hands tightening. “I used to think I had everything I needed. The cars, the suits, the fancy tech. But then you came along, and suddenly none of that mattered. Because you… you’re my everything. And I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t know that.”

Your breath catches as he shifts slightly, pulling a small box from the pocket of his sweatpants. He holds it up, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice.

“I’m not great at this kind of thing,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know one thing for sure: I don’t want to wake up another day without knowing you’re mine. So, will you—?”

“Tony,” you interrupt, your own voice trembling now. You press a hand to your mouth, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions surging through you.

His face falls slightly, panic flashing in his eyes. “Oh, no. Is this a bad time? Did I—? I should’ve waited, shouldn’t I? Or maybe done the whole fireworks thing. Damn it, I knew I should’ve—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” you say quickly, though your tone is teasing now, even as tears glisten in your eyes. You let out a shaky laugh, leaning back slightly as if considering. “I don’t know, Tony… this is a pretty big decision. I mean, are you really sure you can handle me forever?”

He stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “What—? Of course, I’m sure! Are you seriously asking if I—?”

“I mean,” you continue, biting back a grin, “I do snore, apparently. And I’m not great at remembering where I put my keys. Plus, I make you watch all those sappy holiday movies—”

“Yes!” he blurts out, his voice a mix of exasperation and desperation. “Yes, I can handle all of that. Hell, I’d watch ‘Love, Actually’ on repeat for the rest of my life if it means you’ll say yes. Just—please. Don’t make me beg. I’m Tony Stark, for God’s sake.”

You can’t hold it in any longer. The laughter bubbles out of you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his stubble. “You’re such a dork,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

For a moment, Tony just stares at you, his brain clearly struggling to process your words. Then, his face breaks into a grin so wide it’s almost boyish, and he lets out a breathless laugh, relief washing over him like a tidal wave.

“You’re really saying yes?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it. “You’re not messing with me, right? Because if this is some elaborate joke—”

“I’m not messing with you,” you assure him, your own smile mirroring his. “I’m saying yes, Tony. A thousand times yes.”

He doesn’t wait another second. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into a kiss that’s both fervent and tender, a kiss that feels like a promise. When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, your foreheads still pressed together.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him again.

The massive tree in the corner of the penthouse sparkles like something out of a holiday dream, its glittering ornaments and twinkling lights casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The fireplace crackles softly, and the faint sound of holiday music hums in the background, setting the perfect cozy scene. You’re curled up on the plush couch, nestled into Tony’s side, a thick blanket draped over both of you. Your legs are tangled together, and in your hands is a mug of steaming hot cocoa, its sweetness enhanced by the swirl of whipped cream and the faintest hint of peppermint.

You glance at the tree, then at the pile of opened gifts scattered around the room. Wrapping paper is crumpled in corners, bows are tossed aside, and the faint smell of pine from the tree mingles with the chocolatey aroma of your drinks. But none of that holds your attention for long.

Your eyes drift down to your left hand, where the delicate engagement ring Tony slipped onto your finger just a little while ago catches the firelight. The diamond—a perfect, understated yet dazzling stone—is framed by a sleek, modern band that feels so you it’s uncanny.

“I still can’t believe this,” you murmur, holding your hand up slightly to admire the ring again. “It’s perfect. The size, the design… it’s like you read my mind.”

Tony smirks, taking a sip of his cocoa before setting the mug on the coffee table. “Please. You think I’d propose to you without doing my homework first? I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid.”

You turn to him, one brow raised in playful skepticism. “Homework? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Absolutely,” he says, his tone teasing but with a glint of pride in his eyes. “I had spreadsheets. Diagrams. A whole team of—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, laughing as you swat at his chest. “You did not have a team.”

“Fine,” he relents, grinning. “But I did pay attention. All those times you casually pointed out rings in magazine ads or that one time you dragged me past Tiffany’s and sighed at the window display? Let’s just say I’ve been taking notes.”

You shake your head, marveling at him. “And the size? How did you get that right? Don’t tell me you measured my finger while I was sleeping or something creepy like that.”

Tony’s grin widens, and there’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I have a natural talent for guessing ring sizes?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “I may or may not have borrowed one of your rings when you weren’t looking. For research purposes.”

“Research purposes,” you repeat, your voice dripping with amusement. “Wow, I didn’t realize getting engaged to you would involve so much corporate espionage.”

“Hey,” he says, feigning indignation, “it worked, didn’t it? Look at that ring. Perfect fit, perfect style… just like the woman wearing it.”

The sincerity in his last words catches you off guard, and your playful retort dies on your lips. Instead, you feel a warmth spreading through your chest, a kind of joy so profound it’s almost overwhelming.

“You’re really something, you know that?” you say softly, setting your mug down so you can turn toward him fully.

Tony leans back slightly, a cocky grin on his face. “Something amazing, I hope.”

“Something infuriating,” you tease, your fingers brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “But yeah… amazing too.”

His grin softens into something more genuine, and he cups your face with one hand, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “You make it easy, you know. Wanting to get this stuff right. You deserve it, all of it. The ring, the world, the whole damn galaxy if I could give it to you.”

You feel your throat tighten, and you lean into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I don’t need the galaxy, Tony. I just need you.”

There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression, a glimpse of the man who hides beneath the sarcasm and the bravado. He leans in to kiss you, a slow and tender kiss that feels like a promise, like the future you’re both stepping into together.

When you pull back, you settle against his chest again, letting out a contented sigh. “So,” you say after a moment, your voice light, “what’s your favorite gift so far? Besides me saying yes, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, smirking as he runs his fingers through your hair. “That’s number one by a mile. But if I had to pick something else… I’d say the socks.”

You blink, confused. “The socks?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding seriously. “You know, the ones with my face on them? Absolute game-changer.”

You laugh so hard you nearly spill your cocoa. “I knew you’d love those. Happy to know they rival the engagement ring.”

“Well, they don’t exactly rival the ring,” he admits, his tone turning thoughtful. “But they do add a certain… flair to my wardrobe. Can’t wait to wear them to the next board meeting.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

You’re quiet for a while after that, the two of you simply enjoying the warmth and comfort of being together. The fire crackles softly, and the snow outside begins to fall more heavily, blanketing the city in a shimmering white coat. You watch it through the enormous windows, your head still resting against Tony’s shoulder.

“I think this might be my favorite Christmas ever,” you say after a while, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Only might?” Tony quips, though there’s a softness to his tone. “What do I have to do to make it the undisputed champ?”

“Hmm,” you pretend to think, holding up your hand again to admire the ring. “You’ve set the bar pretty high, Stark. Proposing and getting me the perfect ring? You might’ve peaked.”

“Peaked?” he repeats, feigning offense. “Please. This is just the beginning. Wait until next Christmas. I’ll have holographic wrapping paper and drones delivering your presents.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, tightening his hold on you, “you said yes.”

You smile, snuggling closer to him, and let your eyes drift shut. The weight of the moment settles over you like the warmest of blankets, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Neither of you speaks for a while, content to simply be. The snow falls outside, the fire burns low, and the city below buzzes quietly with life. But up here, in this little corner of the universe, it’s just the two of you—and that’s more than enough.

The fire crackles softly in the background as you nestle further into Tony’s side, your legs draped lazily over his lap beneath the plush throw blanket. The mug of cocoa you abandoned earlier sits on the coffee table, now lukewarm, but neither of you has the energy or desire to move. The world beyond the enormous penthouse windows is a snow-covered wonderland, the city twinkling like something out of a postcard. But here, in Tony’s arms, the rest of the world feels like an afterthought.

You’re staring at your ring again—still unable to get over how perfectly it suits you—and twirling it gently on your finger. “I can’t believe we’re actually engaged,” you murmur, the words still foreign and thrilling all at once.

Tony hums, his fingers idly tracing patterns along your arm. “Yeah, well, it was bound to happen eventually. I’m a catch, after all.”

You snort, poking him in the ribs. “You’re lucky I love you, Stark. Otherwise, you’d be proposing to your ego.”

“Please,” he retorts, grinning. “My ego would’ve said no. Too much competition.”

Your laughter echoes warmly in the cozy space, and he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But seriously,” he continues, his voice softer now, “I’m the lucky one.”

The sincerity in his tone melts your teasing grin into a tender smile. “We’re both lucky,” you say, leaning up to kiss him briefly before settling back against him. “But now that you’ve got me locked down, we should probably start thinking about the next steps.”

Tony perks up at that, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Next steps? Wow, didn’t realize we were rushing through the milestones. What’s next, matching sweatpants?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you tease, poking him again. “But seriously, we should start thinking about the wedding. You know, dates, locations, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, sure,” he says, waving a hand as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll rent out a castle or something. Maybe a yacht. Or both. Castle on a yacht. I’ll make it happen.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “Tony, we don’t need a castle on a yacht. I was thinking something more… intimate.”

“Intimate,” he repeats, like the word is entirely foreign to him. “Okay, define ‘intimate.’ Like… eighty people instead of eight hundred?”

“More like thirty,” you say, smirking at his dramatic gasp. “And maybe somewhere beautiful but low-key. A vineyard? A garden? Somewhere that doesn’t involve holographic invitations.”

Tony pouts, his bottom lip sticking out like a child denied dessert. “You’re no fun. I had this great idea for AI-driven seating charts.”

“Tony,” you groan, laughing as you swat his arm. “No AI at the wedding.”

“Fine, fine,” he concedes, though you can tell his brain is already whirring with ideas. “But we’re keeping the open bar. And there will be cake. A ridiculous amount of cake.”

“Deal,” you agree, grinning. “And maybe a live band? Something classic.”

“Classic, huh?” Tony muses, tilting his head as he considers. “Sinatra? Ella? Or are we talking ‘classic’ like… AC/DC?”

You laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. “I should’ve known you’d sneak AC/DC into this somehow.”

“Hey, it’s our wedding,” he says, his tone teasing but with a playful wink. “And by ‘our,’ I mean you’ll pick all the details, and I’ll just show up in a ridiculously expensive tux and look charming.”

You snuggle closer, your smile softening. “That’s all I really need, anyway.”

There’s a pause as the two of you settle into the quiet again, but you can feel Tony’s fingers fidgeting against your arm, a sure sign that his mind is still racing. You glance up at him, your brow raised. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the sheepish look on his face betrays him.

“Tony,” you press, sitting up slightly. “Spill.”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting toward the window as if searching for an escape. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. It’s just… I was thinking. About… you know, after the wedding.”

“After the wedding?” you echo, tilting your head. “You mean the honeymoon?”

“Sure,” he says, though his tone is distracted. “But I was also thinking… further out. Like… a house. Or maybe—hypothetically—a kid. Or two.”

Your mouth drops open slightly, caught completely off guard. “You’re already thinking about kids?”

“Hypothetically!” he clarifies quickly, though there’s a nervous energy to his voice. “I mean, I’m just saying… it’s crossed my mind. Once or twice. Or, you know, a dozen times.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing his words. Then, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you lean back against him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Tony Stark, are you saying you want to be a dad?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “I’m saying… I wouldn’t hate the idea. I mean, think about it. A tiny human running around with your smarts and my charm? World domination is practically guaranteed.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, grinning now, “you said yes.”

You shake your head, your heart swelling with affection. “I think you’d be a great dad, Tony. Once you figure out how to baby-proof all your gadgets.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs, though his smile is genuine. “I’d invent a whole line of Stark-brand baby-proof tech. Patent it. Make billions.”

“Of course you would,” you say, rolling your eyes. “But maybe we should focus on the wedding first before we start planning our takeover of the parenting world.”

“Fair,” he concedes, pulling you closer. “But just so you know, I’m already brainstorming names. You should’ve heard the one I came up with yesterday. Absolute gold.”

“Oh no,” you groan, laughing again. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tony Junior. Think about it. T.J. for short.”

You burst out laughing, your head falling against his chest. “We are not naming our child Tony Junior.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, chuckling along with you. “We’ll workshop it.”

As your laughter fades, you settle against him again, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his chest. The firelight dances across the room, casting shadows on the walls, and you feel a profound sense of peace, of rightness, in this moment.

“Hey,” you say softly after a while, looking up at him. “I love you.”

His expression softens, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love you too.”

You smile, your hand drifting down to rest over his. “And for the record, I can’t wait for all of it. The wedding, the house, the future… everything. As long as it’s with you.”

Tony’s grin is slow and warm, and he wraps his arms around you like he never plans to let go. “Then it’s a deal.”

The two of you sit there for a long time after that, the snow falling steadily outside and the fire burning low. Together, you dream and plan and tease and laugh, painting the picture of a life that feels almost too perfect to be real. But with Tony by your side, you know it’s all possible—and more.

[writingfics-passingtime]

Hi! Just want to say I love your blog and this the first time I’ve ever asked regarding a prompt. Stairway to Heaven is my favorite Led Zeppelin song (if it’s too long, I have a back up song) and my marvel character would be Loki. Thank you, this is such a cool idea!!

The Road You're On

This one-shot is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin

Pairing: Loki x female reader

Word Count: ~3400

CW: swearing, innuendo/sexual jokes, discussions about sex, mentions of death, alcohol

Minors DNI: this work does not contain smut, but contains a romantic/sexual relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

Note: Hi @princessdragon23 ~ thank you very much for sending this song in, and for your lovely message. It's hard for me to describe the way this song made me feel, except to say that this story truly unfolded before my eyes as I listened to it on repeat. I hope you like it x

The streets of the coastal town were eerily quiet as you made your way home, the damp cobblestones glistening under the dim light of the street lamps. The weight of the night clung to your skin, mingling with the faint scent of salt and smoke from the bar where you’d just finished your shift. Your boots scuffed along the uneven ground, a rhythmic reminder that you were still here, still alive, still kicking despite everything.

You hated this walk. Too quiet. Too empty. Too much room for your mind to claw at the past.

A group of locals had been arguing about something at the bar tonight - a football match or politics, you hadn’t cared enough to listen. But their raised voices had sent a pang through your chest, reminding you of the way the Avengers used to argue over mission strategies. It was stupid, really. You'd never been perfect, but you’d convinced yourself you were unbreakable. Found family, or whatever bullshit term people threw around these days.

Until it all fell apart.

Your jaw tightened, and you shook the thought off. No sense picking at old wounds when they were still festering. Instead, you focused on the here and now, the comforting weight of the dagger tucked up your sleeve, the streetlights’ flickering glow, the faint hum of distant waves.

And then you felt it.

A prickle of awareness shot down your spine, and you slowed your steps. Someone was behind you.

You didn’t stop, didn’t look back right away. You kept walking, casually adjusting your sleeve so the blade was easier to draw. Your senses honed in on the sound - soft, deliberate footsteps matching yours at a careful distance.

Not a drunk. Not a thief. Someone who knew what they were doing.

When you reached the corner of a dark alleyway, you pivoted sharply, hand twitching toward your weapon.

“Alright, asshole,” you growled. “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve fucking found it-”

The words died on your lips as a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with a fluid grace that was both menacing and magnetic. The streetlamp cast a halo of pale light over him, illuminating the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his smirking mouth.

“Loki.”

You said his name like a curse, but the breath hitching in your throat betrayed you. He’d always had that effect - chaos wrapped in charm, danger dressed up as desire. And here he was, standing in the middle of your carefully constructed exile, looking as smug as ever.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

He stepped closer, his black coat sweeping around his legs, the faint scent of leather and ozone curling in the air between you. “Imagine my disappointment,” he said, “returning to this wretched realm only to find its so-called heroes scattered like ashes. It seems I missed quite the spectacle.”

His words hit their mark, as they always did, but you refused to flinch. “You’re late to the party,” you bit out, your voice laced with venom. “It all went to hell months ago.”

“And yet, here you are,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, slow and assessing. “Playing bartender. Hiding in plain sight. How... quaint.”

You scoffed, though your pulse betrayed you, quickening under his scrutiny. “Cut the bullshit, Loki. How the hell did you find me?”

He smiled - a sharp, wolfish thing that sent a shiver down your spine. “Do you really think there’s a corner of this universe where you could hide from me?”

The weight of his words sank deep, pulling at something you weren’t ready to face. You clenched your fists, feeling the cold press of the blade against your wrist. “Why are you here?”

“For you.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them - low and deliberate, with just the faintest trace of vulnerability - made your stomach twist.

“Don’t,” you said, taking a step back. The cool night air suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. “Don’t come here and start with that shit. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Neither am I,” he said, stepping forward, closing the distance you’d tried to create. “But you, my darling, are nothing short of a temptation. One I couldn’t resist.”

Your breath hitched, heat flaring in your chest and spreading like wildfire. His gaze pinned you, dark and electric, his presence filling the empty street until it felt like there wasn’t enough air to breathe.

“No. You're carrying yourself differently,” you said, desperate to shift the focus, to wrest some control back from him. “Something happened.”

His smirk faltered, just for a fraction of a second.

"What happened, Loki?"

His eyes flicked away, then back to yours, and for the first time, you saw it - the crack in his armour, the weight pressing on him. Whatever had brought him here, it wasn’t just you.

You glanced around, your gaze darting to the shadowed streets around you. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. "Fuck," you grunted under your breath, passing a hand down your face. “Come on,” you said, nodding toward the alley that led to your apartment. “We can talk at my place.”

“An invitation?” he asked, tilting his head, the smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How scandalous.”

You gave him only a severe and warning look in return. One that dared him to hide the truth from you. One that dared him to try and deflect from whatever horrific news he'd come to deliver by rekindling some old flirtatious banter.

Whatever storm he’d brought with him, it was about to collide with the chaos you’d been holding at bay.

Your apartment was a sanctuary you hadn’t realised you needed until it became yours - a quiet haven tucked into the upper floor of a modest building overlooking the Spanish coast. It was small, cozy, and uncomplicated. The exact opposite of Stark Tower.

It was everything you’d craved since your life had gone to hell. No mission briefings, no JARVIS, no one barking orders at you. Just you, the sound of waves crashing in the distance, and the occasional hum of the town below.

You hung your jacket on the hook near the door, left in nothing but a tank top and your worn jeans, both smelling faintly of the beer you'd been pulling all night.

The apartment was small enough that you could feel Loki's presence fill it the moment he stepped inside, bringing with him that same palpable energy he carried everywhere.

It was stupid, inviting him here. Bringing a piece of your old life into a place you'd so carefully curated to banish all thoughts of what you used to be. And who you used to trust.

You didn’t look back at him as you moved to the kitchen, flicking on the warm overhead light and reaching for the bottle of liquor you kept on the counter.

You grabbed the bottle of gin without turning around. “If you’re going to bust your way back into my life, at least make yourself useful. Lime’s in the fridge.”

Loki chuckled, the sound low and dark, vibrating through you like a physical thing, as he walked past and retrieved the lime. He came up beside you, setting it on the counter. “It's fascinating, this domesticated version of you. But it's almost... disappointing.”

“Oh, you're disappointed?" You sliced the knife into the lime, then looked up at him with something equally as sharp, refusing to back down even as he loomed closer. "Must be rough, dragging your sorry ass across the universe just to insult me in my own fucking kitchen.”

His grin only deepened, eyes glittering with something sharp and dangerous. “You’ve always had such a filthy little mouth. Has no one here put it to good use?”

The air between you snapped taut, his words hanging there like a dare. Heat flushed through you, but you wouldn’t let him see how much he got to you.

You’d always stuck to your guns of never mixing business with pleasure; anyone remotely related to work was off-limits. Loki knew this - your infuriating little rule as he called it - and found much entertainment in tempting you to break it. You, in turn, had found a great thrill in the game. The flirting, the teasing, the desire. A welcome distraction from the heaviness of the work.

“Maybe,” you said, raising your glass to your lips and taking a slow sip, testing it. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Loki laughed, a rich, dark sound that made your stomach tighten. “Darling,” he said, leaning against the counter beside you, his voice dropping to a murmur. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Instead, you turned back to your drink components and muttered, “It’s hard to trust strangers when you know what humanity’s capable of.”

"Humanity... or your former comrades?"

You didn't turn to glare at him again, but the weight of his words lingered. What you said hadn’t been a total lie - not really. You didn’t trust anyone enough to let them close, and the few who had tried didn’t come anywhere near the bar Loki had set just by existing. But you weren’t about to admit that to him.

You pulled a glass down from the cabinet, and began mixing another drink.

You didn't need to respond about your former comrades. He could see the answer in the half-empty bottles littering the windowsill. In the way that everything about this place - about your new life - was the exact opposite of the one you used to lead.

By the time he leaned against the counter beside you, you could feel the heat of his gaze, and you handed him a drink without making eye contact, focussing on replacing the bottles as he sipped.

He hummed slightly as he pulled back, the faintest sound of approval in the voicing.

“Impressive,” he admitted.

You smirked and picked up your own drink. “Killing isn’t the only thing I’m good at.”

Before he could respond, you hopped up onto the counter beside him, letting your leg rest casually against his. The contact sent a flicker of heat up your spine, but you masked it with another sip of your drink, watching him over the rim of the glass.

“We could’ve used you here, you know,” you said, your tone quiet but pointed. “... I could’ve used you.”

Loki’s jaw tightened, his smirk fading as he looked away briefly. “Asgard needed us,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now. “I always intended to return.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as you brought your glass to your lips. “Would’ve been nice to know that when I was rotting in an off-grid prison,” you said bitterly, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.

Loki flinched, but only slightly, and his voice softened. “I didn’t know.” He looked at you then, fully, his eyes heavy with something that almost resembled regret. “If I had... I would’ve come for you.”

The weight of his words pressed against your chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You believed him. The edge in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on you - it cut through your defences in a way nothing else could.

You took another sip of your drink, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Doesn’t matter,” you said finally, shrugging as though it didn’t ache to say it. “Steve didn’t take that long to bust us out.”

He didn’t reply, just sipped his drink, and for a moment, the two of you drank in silence. The warmth of the liquor settled in your stomach, mixing with the heat radiating from his proximity.

Then you set your glass down and looked him in the eye. “Why are you here, Loki?”

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unflinching, as he drained the rest of his glass. He placed it on the counter with deliberate care before answering. “Thor and I stopped an apocalypse, known as Ragnarok,” he said, his voice measured but edged with exhaustion. “It would have destroyed Asgard, and all its people. It very nearly did.”

Your stomach dropped, shame crawling up your spine. All your bitter complaints about his absence felt suddenly small and selfish in the face of what he’d been dealing with.

But he wasn’t done. “But that doesn't matter now. Thanos is close,” he continued, his tone darkening. “He is coming to Earth to hunt the remaining Infinity Stones. And he will tear your world apart to get them.”

You stiffened, the weight of his words sinking in. You scoffed, more out of instinct than disbelief, and reached for the bottle to pour yourself another glass. “Sounds like a problem for what’s left of the Avengers,” you said, forcing a note of bitterness into your voice. “Talk to Tony. Or Natasha, or Fury-”

“Thor is with them already,” Loki interrupted.

Your hand froze mid-pour, and your stomach churned again. You set the bottle down, gripping the edge of the counter as the realisation hit you. “They sent you to find me.”

“No.” Loki’s voice was firm, steady. “I came because you need to understand what is coming. Anyone who can fight... must.”

The words hung heavy between you, cutting through the faint hum of the night outside. You swallowed hard, then grabbed the bottle again and poured a shot straight into your empty glass.

"You don't know what you're asking me."

"I do."

You downed it in one go, letting the burn distract you for a fleeting second before setting the glass down with a sharp clink.

"No, you fucking don't. They watched. They stood there, and watched as we were being cuffed, sedated, carted away to the Raft-"

"I understand-"

"I was arrested for treason, Loki!" Your fingers tightened around the bench as that familiar burning fear raced through you. You shut your eyes and breathed through it. Trying to figure out a way to explain... "Treason carries the death penalty. And... they stood by and watched."

Loki's hand slid over yours, and you felt your grip ease. Felt the fear ease, too. Into something much more like the lingering scar of betrayal.

“After Steve got us out,” you said, your voice quieter now, tinged with something raw and broken, “all I wanted was to leave that life behind. To be normal. Have a dead-end job. Read books on the beach. Drink coffee on long mornings. Have meaningless sex with hot strangers. Just... exist. Enjoy humanity.”

Loki's thumb brushed over your hand. “If you don’t want to fight,” he said, his voice soft but serious, “I will get you somewhere safe.”

You scoffed, giving him a sharp look. “Don’t be stupid,” you said. “Of course I’m going to fight."

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he pulled his hand away, and you rolled your eyes, running a hand down your face. “I’m not really in fighting shape, though,” you muttered.

Loki’s gaze raked over you, and his smirk widened. “You look as deadly as always,” he said, his tone dripping with suggestion. "I've certainly no complaints."

You shot him a glare, though the heat rising to your face betrayed you. “Sure,” you said dryly. “Cause how I look will help take down an intergalactic warlord. Asshole.”

He chuckled, low and rich. “Did the meaningless sex at least help?”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and you shook your head, smirking. “Never got to that part,” you admitted. “I guess you could say my former life left me with some trust issues."

Loki let out a low breath through his nose, allowing you to voice your bitterness. You shook your head, bumping your brows as you looked at your empty glass, then back at him. "You’re actually the first person I’ve let into this apartment.”

Loki’s smirk shifted, softening into something more thoughtful. “But obviously, you're not here for that,” you added quickly, your voice tinged with defensiveness.

“Obviously,” he echoed, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “But you never know. This could all be an elaborate ruse to make you agree to one night of passion and fun before our inevitable demise at the hands of the Mad Titan.”

You flushed deeper, glaring at him even as a laugh escaped you. “That would be an elaborate ruse indeed.”

The tension between you thickened, charged and electric, as his smirk lingered. His gaze was unwavering, piercing through every defence you’d built over the years.

Finally, you broke the silence. “Do you really think it’s inevitable?” you asked, your voice quiet, the weight of the question heavier than you wanted to admit. “That Thanos will win?”

Loki’s smirk faded, replaced by something far more somber. He held your gaze, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “But knowing you’ll be fighting... tips the scales in our favour.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. You tilted your head, biting back the flood of emotions threatening to spill. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

His sharp gaze didn’t waver, but the set of his jaw tightened.

“Tomorrow, we’re back to being allies,” you said, the word tasting bitter in your mouth. “And my rule goes back into play.”

"Ah, yes. Your infuriating little rule." His lips quirked into a faint smirk, but his eyes stayed on you, unrelenting. “A sensible boundary, I suppose. Though hardly foolproof.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging as casually as you could. “It’s kept me out of trouble so far.”

His gaze dipped, flickering over you in a way that made your skin flush. “Has it, though?”

You ignored the jab, focused instead on setting the glass on the counter. Then, before you could stop yourself, you said, “So, if tonight’s my last night of normal…” You met his eyes, your mouth quirking into a bitter smile. “You up for helping me fulfil my dream of having some meaningless sex before I give up this life?”

Loki stilled. The teasing glint in his eyes dimmed as his expression shifted, unreadable. He set his own glass down deliberately, his long fingers tracing the rim as if to gather his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, and edged with something you didn’t dare name.

“Let me be very clear,” he said, his eyes pinning you in place. “I would gladly give you anything you desire in the bedroom. Anything. I would show you things that would shatter your mind, ruin you for anyone else. Pleasure so profound, so exquisite, you’d never be able to look at another lover without laughing at how pitifully inadequate they are.”

Your breath hitched, the heat in your cheeks spreading down your neck, but you refused to look away.

Heat prickled up your neck, but his eyes pinned you in place, his tone softening as he added, “But the one thing I cannot give you, is meaningless. Not with you. Never with you.”

Your heart stuttered, the weight of his words landing like a blow. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking. He was standing there, raw and unguarded, and it made you want to take his hand, run far, far away, and leave the universe to defend itself.

You exhaled sharply, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady yourself. “Maybe,” you started, your voice softer than you intended, “after this whole Infinity Stone bullshit is over, we can indulge in something that’s just about us. Not about the universe. Not saving it. Just... something we've both wanted for a while.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you right there. But instead, he nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “If that promise keeps you alive,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll happily make it.”

You huffed a dry laugh, shaking your head as you pushed off the counter. “Well, aren’t you a hero,” you muttered, grabbing your jacket and slinging it over your shoulder. “Let’s get this over with.”

Before you could brush past him, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your arm with a grip that was firm but not rough. The contact stopped you cold, and you turned your head to look up at him.

His face was inches from yours, his voice a low murmur that felt like it was slicing through the air. “You will stay alive, won’t you?”

The sincerity in his tone knocked the air from your lungs. He wasn’t taunting you. He wasn’t playing games.

You forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Hell isn't ready for me yet,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He held your gaze for a moment longer before releasing your arm. His hand lingered, just slightly, as if reluctant to let go. But his hand fell away, and you felt the loss of his touch like a physical ache.

You took one more deep breath, one more indulgent glance over his face, before turning headed for the door. “Come on,” you said without looking back. “Let’s go save the world.”

Behind you, Loki followed, and the quiet promise lingered between you both: something more, something meaningful, if the universe allowed it.

[a-spes]

This Dream Is Not Feeling Sweet. A part of the "Devious Lies" series — Alternative Ending. (2,315 words).

| SUMMARY — Alternative ending in which Reader died, because the og ending was apparently not sad enough for some you lmao.

" And your story may have ended in a messy way, with blood, and tears, and words that will never be spoken, but the woman realized that she wouldn't have it any other way, cherishing every moment you had shared together. "

| TAGS & WARNINGS — Natasha Romanoff x Reader. Death (R), heavy angst with no comfort (and I think that's all?)

| SERIES MASTERLIST & MAIN MASTERLIST.

It was not raining, and yet the woman could feel droplets trickling down her skin. Unstoppable ones, that always came back, even after she had wiped them for what may be the tenth time.

But Natasha is firm, and she says she does not crying, refusing the comfort that some of her mates were trying to provide.

She doesn't need it.

Or, more exactly, she knew they couldn't give her the comfort she was craving, their gentleness being nothing more than a painful reminder of the things she had lost.

Their soft words could never be as significant as yours, and their embrace as reassuring.

She doesn't need it, she repeats, over, and over again, in her head but it is not enough to make the words more true.

Long ago, she was taught that pain only makes her stronger, and yet she has never felt so in pain, and so weak, at the same time.

Get up, a voice was whispering in the back of her mind, but her body felt so heavy than even breathing became an impossible task.

These words, along side with the belief that emotions, and love, were weaknesses, were engraved in her being. It is an indelible mark she had never really rid herself of, a ghost from her past that sometimes still haunted the woman.

Ever since she was a kid, the redhead had danced with Death. She taunted It, played its sick games, but she never folded, and never a tear rolled down her cheek, never a cry shook her body.

Even when she became one of her henchwoman, taking more lives than she could ever count, painting her ledger with so much scarlet that she might never be able to get rid of it. Even when she had lost some of the people she considered as her friends.

Her visage has always been marked by indifference, Death never being as painful as it was right now.

Today, as she was standing in front of your grave, she could felt every barrier she had ever built shattering, to weak to prevent the tears from flowing.

She had tried to stop them, the woman bitting her trembling lips until she draws blood, but no amount of pretending could ever be enough to stop the feelings that were hitting her. These were comparable to an unstoppable, and huge, wave that was about to take everything away in its path.

But things were different this time.

You taught her that love may be a weakness, but that it could also be the greatest thing. One that makes it worth living. You taught her how to be vulnerable, even thought she was frightened by the idea of trusting someone.

Because you are the one who taught her that some risks were worth being taken.

And your story may have ended in a messy way, with blood, and tears, and words that will never be spoken, but the woman realized that she wouldn't have it any other way, cherishing every moment you had shared together.

Two years went by since you left, and yet it is as if you were never really gone as the woman was constantly thinking about you — How could she not? You were in every night she has spent starring at the ceiling, in every corner of the compound, her memories of you being permanent reminder of the things she has lost.

Or, more exactly, of the things she has ruined because she was too scared to admit the truth.

The woman had looked at those pictures so many times that they were engraved in her mind, hauting her when she closed her eyes. She held into these as the reminder of the things you have done, as the evidence that she was right for the way she treated you.

Yet, deep down, she knew.

The women has always knew that something wasn't right with those, that it doesn't sound like something you would ever do — But don't we say that we never really know the people we are living with?

She had been so angry when she learned about what happened that it clouded her jugdment, and when the hatred of the first days eventually washed out, it was only to be replaced by somethong more vicious — Denial.

The thought that you were better without her, that she would've ended up hurting you anyway, eventually crept inside her. But the woman knows now that it was only an excuse, and a pitful one, to not admit her mistakes, to not face her fears. It is an old habit of hers that she went back to at the first difficulties — Running away.

She was scared, and as lost as when you met for the first time, and thought that, if she left first, if it was her decision, then maybe the situation would hurt less.

A false impression of doing the right thing, encouraged by the others, led her to think that everything was right.

Yet, she knew it wasn't true.

All these nights, when she had to listen to them sharing their hatred about you as if this mistake was the only think you have ever done in your life, and all these days, when she had to walk on the streets, reading the articles that were spreading lies about the person you were, as if this one mistake could erase the hero you once were, she knew that things weren't right.

Yet, her lips remained shut, and as time went by, it only became harder to speak out, the silence being oddly comfortable despite the price it came with. She should have spoken up, and at least try to defend you, but the woman never found the courage to do so.

Despite the soft promises, she had let you down, and that more times than she is willing to admit.

The woman had loose herself in her flaws, acting selfishly, and this is a crime she would never forgive herself for comitting. Especially because she had no explanation for her attitude, or at least none that would be more than an excuse for her cowardice.

She choose to act as if you have never existed, because she thought that it would make things easier, because that is what she does when her life becomes complicated — She runs away, and bury her emotions deep in her heart with the hope they won't resurface.

But if she thought that it would be easier to turn her back on you completely, the woman eventually realized that she was wrong, and that hiding didn't make any of it more bearable. The regrets she had buried deep inside of her, the ones she had hidden under a thick layer of anger and hatred, eventually resurfaced to hit her twice as hard as before once she realized that she was not hating you as much as she thought she was.

The truth is that her whole soul was longing for your presence, and she was angry at herself for that. The woman would have gave up everything she has only to see your smile one more time, to regain the comfort of your embrace.

But the realization came too late.

Two years went by since you left. Two years during which she preferred the comfort of ignorance instead of taking the decision to pursue you, ruining her own oppurtunity for a second chance.

Natasha could never forget the moment you left, and for ever this time — How could she, when felt you slipping through her arms, and your body becoming limp in her grasp. When she saw your eyes closing, only to never open again. When she noticed the way your lips stopped trembling, and your chest stopped rising.

She heard it, your last shaky breath before a heavy silence settled in, but she still refused to admit you were gone.

The woman had screamed, this day. She had begged deities that she doesn't even believe in, and pray anyone that could hear her pleas to give you back. But despite her cries, your body remained cold against her chest, and no amount of tears will ever be enough to bring back someone from the deads.

Death can't be changed, it is for ever.

Yet, some days, it was like you were never gone. From your favorite dish in the fridge to your favorite movie on television, everything was then a painful reminder of your absence. She could see your smile in the sun's rays, and hear your soft voice in the night, and as every corner of the city was associated with a memory of you, it was impossible for the woman to escape your ghost.

You were everywhere, hauting her life every minute, and especially her thoughts. She had replayed the events thousands of time in her mind, imagining all the things she could have done for your story to end diffirently. She had thought about all the things she should have said but kept for herself, all the times she wasn't brave enough to do the right thing.

You wouldn't be dead if she had listened to you, that day.

You wouldn't be dead if she didn't decide to be selfish, and to choose to save herself over yours.

She vowed to protect you, swore to always be by your side, promised under the stars that she would never stop loving you, but she eventually broke every of her words.

She should have been here, by your side, and not only in your last moment, but also the years that came before. She thought the situation was unfair to her, being deceived by the woman she loved, but she was so far from the truth. But, when the reality of the events has eventually been revealed, it was already too late.

A part of her died that day

A part of her that she will never be able to get back, the best of her, the hero she used to be — If she couldn't save you, what was the point? Why continuing when she couldn't save the only live that really mattered?

Slowly, the woman pulled away from the team. At first, she requested only a break of a few weeks, and it was granted to her without a question. Everyone knew she was affected by the events, but none of them could have guessed that it would led her to never come back — How could she?

She wasn't feeling like a hero anymore.

The desire to do good had been drowned out by anger and hatred, and if she was blaming herself, she was also blaming every of her coworkers. She was angry at Fury who kept sending you on dangerous missions despite your state, at Clint who convinced her to rest, and at the rest team who lost the only track they had of you.

The woman was sure that if you didn't go on that mission, if she had been with them, or if they hadn't fail to find you a few hours earlier, then you would still be here. Maybe not by her side, but at least alive.

Your funerals were held in secrecy. You didn't have much family anyway, and so only the team has been here. Not a word was exchanged during the ceremony, and no one dared to give speech.

What could they have said, anyway?

She could've explained what a beautiful soul you were, how she had loved you, and how the world should be grateful for your services, but it felt wrong, especially after all the things she had done.

It is when you were still alive that you needed to be loved.

And now that you were gone it was too late to repare the damages that she had caused to your heart, and reputation.

Despite her attempts to make the truth known, the world wasn't willing to listen, and the hatred that raised after the original events couldn't be undone, and even thought you died as a hero, no one is ever going to treat you as one.

The beast is dead, along with some other harmul words has been written on your tomb. When the rumors about your death eventually spread, some found your grave, but their intentions were everything but pure. The sight of your beautiful grave being damaged made the woman angry, because she couldn't stand the way they kept disrupting your slumber, as if you hadn't suffered enough in the last years of your life.

The world should have remained thankful for the things you've done for them, instead of hating you at the first occasion. If she had her reasons for the way she acted, they didn't.

She came regurarly, almost every day, to clean your tombstone, making sure that the flowers never wither. They are probably going to be stolen soon, by someone that thinks they deserve them more than you do, but it is not enough to convince her to stop.

Under her breath, the woman is whispering sweet words that she can only hope you will here from where you are. It is all the words that she couldn't bring herself to tell you when she should have, when it wasn't already too late. It is all the excuses and regrets she had never been courageous enough to share, and all the "I love you" that were stuck in her mind.

It is all the things that she couldn't gather the courage to say, at least not before you were already gone, unable to hear them. If words could heal hearts, they couldn't reverse death, and it is a lesson the woman learned too late.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

is yelena in the sunshine universe? it's been awhile, I can't remember. If not you should totally add her since we're getting her and bucky together in one screen in thunderbolts !

Is Yelena - *checks notes* Is Yelena in the Grumpy x Sunshine Universe? She is now!

There's actually a lot of people that I wanted to write into the series, but that I just haven't gotten a chance to, I think I'm gonna have to write some introduction drabbles. Anyone else you guys care to see?

Also, Yelena and Sunshine would be besties - chaotic besties, but besties nonetheless. Thank you for the ask! 💛

Target Practice

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist | Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist Pairing - Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

"Lower..." Natasha hears her little sister's voice echo down the Compound hallway.

"Like this?" you ask. "Isn't that a little too close to my head?"

"Doubting yourself now?"

You playfully scoff, "Of course not."

She rounds the corner, her speed picking up as her older sister senses that you and Yelena aren't up to any good.

She throws open the door to the training room to the sight of Yelena chucking a knife as hard as she can at the target right behind your head. "What is going on here?"

You both immediately tuck your hands behind your back, simultaneously muttering, "Nothing..."

Her eyes blown wide, she screeches, "Something!"

"It was just a little target practice," Yelena unconvincingly assures her, as you try to wedge her knife from the target.

The pitch of Nat's voice only gets more shrill as she continues lecturing the two of you, "So why are you standing in front of the target?"

Yelena shrugs, "Motivation."

"Cough them up." Nat extends her hand to Yelena first. Yelena grumbles under her breath but slaps her next two knives in Nat's hand. Nat then turns to you, waiting expectantly, "Both of you."

You whine, backing down after only a second of Nat's hard stare, "Fine."

"An icicle, really?"

"It's all I had!"

Nat pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head, "Children. I work with children."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes @beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarnes @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a @weallhaveadestiny @mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064 @michealharrypotter @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @withyoutilltheendoftheline @the-photo-hoe @rae-nna @sarachabeans1@double-shot-of-tequila @spookyparadisesheep @lunaalovesyouu @daisy-loves-bucky@roseproseposts @theoraekenslover@king814318 @maybesomedaytho @carlie-babes99 @sunshinechikin @as-white-as-snow-love @melala1030 @badasswlthafatass @armystay89 @multiversefanfics @cherrysscinema @breathlesspieceofdeath @ravenn-darkholme @bxckybxrnes24 @guiltyasreid @bellabarnes1378 @blithecapricorn @mrsnikstan @marvelatthem @capswife

[itsanerdlife]

Wicked Intentions 19

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader // (Seriously close) Steve Rogers x Reader // Clint Barton x Reader // T’Challa x Reader.

Warning: Violence. Language. Bullying. Girl Fights. Name Calling. Degrading Comments. Angst. Degrade of Woman (to a point). Criminal Life. Illegal Shit. Fights. Alpha Males. Stalking.

Characters: Peter Stark. Howie Stark. Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers. Clint Barton. TC (T’Challa). Ben Reilly. Cledus Kasady (CK). Brock Rumlow. Gwen Stacy. Wanda Maximoff. Becca Barnes. Amore Lorelei. Kitty Pryde. Frank Castle. George Barnes. Joe Rogers. Winni Barnes. Pepper Stark. Wade Wilson. Eddie Brock. Warner Strucker. Barney Barton. Bobbi Morse. Pietro Maximoff. Logan.

A/N: This is a Bully Romance. High School setting. Mafia Family Life. Woman are on a lower level than males in their world. Just a heads up. This is the third installment of the series. Bad Intentions, Cruel Intentions, and Wicked Intentions.

Credit: Huge shout out to @ml7010 for all the help, pushing, hyping up, putting up with my changes midway through. If it wasn't for this peach, y'all never would have gotten this series or nearly as far as I am now.

Eddie’s few guys, near him, Wade apart of them. His eyes cut Wade up, he glares back. TC is suddenly on the other side of her. The guys sliding around them. Only Howie doesn’t move, staying in the middle of the dance floor, Becca beside him.

“Eddie what do you think you’re doing?” Tony steps up, his own father follows. The boys and Y/N move with them, her tucked behind them.

Eddie laughs, downing the glass of champagne before shaking his head. “Don’t pretend you’re in charge old man.” Eddie tosses the butter knife carelessly off to the side. “We know the truth.”

Tony and his dad exchange a look. Shifting to the side exposing Peter, Clint, and Steve. His eyes drop to her, lifting her chin, they part. Allowing her to walk through, towards Eddie. He cuts between them, following her a few steps behind.

“Eddie, Darlin’.” She tosses a curl back, hand out towards the wedding. “If you wanted an invite, you’re a little late and very under dressed. I’m sure your mother taught you better.” She pauses a few steps away from the table he’s standing at. Eddie grins, dropping down off the chair.

“Fuck Stark,” he groans tossing the champagne glass, shattering when it hits the floor “you’re a fucking vision.” He steps towards her.

“Better than a fucking dream, I’ve heard.” She shrugs.

Eddie mmm’s loudly, looking her over again. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“You’re too late, fucker. She’s married. Nothing you can do now.” She warns Eddie is a cold tone.

He shrugs, tipping his head from side to side. “Who says I’m here for her?” He tisks. “I thought you were smarter than that.” His head tips to one side watching her.

Y/N scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have the fucking balls to come for me.” Her dark red painted lips turn up in a smirk. “Unless you got a death wish.”

Clint chuckles quietly.

It does the opposite to Eddie. He moves quickly, hand wrapped around Y/N’s neck. TC’s fast, gun pointed at Eddie’s temple.

“Wrong bitch.” Y/N whispers from the hold on her neck.

“Let. Go.” TC warns.

Buck steps forward as a barrel meets the side of TC’s head. “Back down.” Wade warns in a growl.

“You first.” Pietro at Wades back, gun to the base of his skull.

“Plot twist, bitch.” Y/N chokes out a laugh in Eddie’s face.

Eddie’s eyes slice to TC. “You’d die for her?” He tips his head at Y/N.

“As long as you die too.” TC stares back.

They have a stare off, no eyes on her. Wrong thing to do. Never take your eyes off Satan.

Her hand drops to the slit in her dress, before her fingers flip it around, pushing her hand up, Eddie gasps. Looking down between them.

She rips her hand back.

“Flesh wound.” She grins in his face. Eddie’s hand drops from her neck. Wade looks shocked, focus broken. Pietro cracks him in the back of the head, shoving him towards Eddie’s guys.

“You bitch.” Eddie looks from the spot on his grey button down, soaking with blood.

Y/N nods, looking at her switch blade, before she suddenly slams it into his shoulder, making him scream.

“It’s Satan to you, bitch.” She snarls. “Remember me, fear me, fucking run before I cut your throat in the middle of my brothers wedding.” She twists the blade ripping it back out. Frankie locks up Eddie in a hold, dragging him backwards towards the door. Logan and Luke are shoving Eddie’s guys towards the door.

He's crowding her, watching her hands shake holding the blade. TC puts his gun away, putting his hand on the small of her back. The guys crowding her, Clint puts his hands out, cupping the knife.

“Smalls, let it go.” He whispers.

Bucky cups her chin, her focus far away. Her chest rises and falls quickly.

Flashbacks.

“Hey, hey, right here.” He nods, her eyes slowly slip to him. Blinking she stares up at him.

“Let go, let’s get you cleaned up.” Steve speaks softly to her on the other side.

Her hands drop from the knife as if it burned her. Clint turns handing it to Frankie, who is passing by.

“We’ll have Frankie get rid of it, get you a new one.” He assures her.

She nods slowly.

“Smalls, we should clean you up.” Steve nods, looking at her hands, fingers coated in blood.

She swallows hard, blinking rapidly.

“I need a moment.” She whispers at him, staring up at him. He nods assuring her he understood. Turning on her toes, the wedding watching her. “Well damn, I swore I wasn’t going to steal the light from my sister and brother tonight.” Her laugh shakes. The room shifts, murmuring starting.

“Shots!” His dad throws his hands up. “Let’s do a round of drinks, shots! On me people. Let’s have a drink!”

“Music!” Tony nods, pointing at the DJ.

People start moving, music starts playing. The bartenders start pouring drinks.

Quickly they rush her off, Peter follows a few steps behind.

Standing the woman’s bathroom, water running, towels ruined.

“It’s not on my dress, right?” She turns from side to side, looking in the mirror.

“No, baby it’s not on your dress.” He assures her.

“I ruined the wedding.” She spins staring at them.

The bathroom door swings open, Howie and Becca hurrying in. Howie helping carry the back of her dress. She shoves Buck out of the way to get to Y/N, pulling her into a hug.

“Are you okay?” Becca pulls back looking her over.

“What do you mean, I ruined your wedding!” Y/N blurts out.

Howie and Becca exchange a confused look.

“How would you have ruined it?” Howie asks.

Y/N’s head tips looking at her brother with confusion.

“We’re criminal’s Small’s.” Howie laughs. “You’re Queen of the Mafia.”

“With a girl gang that makes grown men nervous.” Peter laughs.

“And a husband that will kill with his bare hands.” Bec smirks at her.

Buck presses his lips together to avoid grinning.

“And a wild ass right hand. Dude who knew TC carried?” Steve looks over.

TC shrugs. “After the attack in the storm, and Y/N making me her right hand, I’ve been training with Frankie.”

“Smalls,” Howie moves towards her, pulling her into a hug “you’re okay, right?” He whispers into her hair.

“It was just a moment, but I’m fine.” She assures him, hugging him back.

The door opens again, Wanda, Bobbi, and Gwen are standing there watching them.

“It’s a fucking wedding!” Wanda squeals.

“Let’s party!” Gwen shouts excitedly.

“Get your asses on the dance floor!” Bobbi bounces on her toes, yelling orders.

Y/N looks from Howie to the rest of them.

“Fuck it.” She grins, backing away from her brother, she grabs Becca by the hand. “Let’s act like teenagers for a night.”

“Oh, hell yeah.” TC grins, following them.

Howie and Peter high five laughing.

“I heard stories about The Saintz, they don’t party.” Y/N sasses.

“You know there’s some whisper that they used to be cool, but I’ve heard that’s a myth.” Becca nods, pushing her lips together.

“I heard they’re kind of boring now.” Y/N’s nose crinkling, nodding.

He chuckles, moving forward he scoops her up, tossing her over his shoulder.

“Can’t ever be boring with Satan around.” He laughs, patting her on the ass he strolls out of the bathroom the others laughing, following them.

----------- Everything Peaches 9/21/24 @mo320 @ml7010 @babizza @kmc1989 @coley0823 @aiva-gwen-aers @royal-sunflower @camelliasblossom @shinycupcakebaker @purpleeclipseeggsland @daughterofthenight117 @hisredheadedgoddess28

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @jbbarnesgirl @kaylaphantomhive

Series tags: @sebastians-love @otterlycanadian

[nameless-ken]

Working on part six !! :) comment if you want to be tagged!

Bucky Barnes x Reader - Part Five

Word count: 9.5k (this is a long one)

Warnings: angst, PTSD, mentions of a car crash, death, mentions of death, fluff too because I have to add lightheartedness with angst

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |

Masterlist

The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. Alpine lay curled up on Bucky’s lap, her purring the only sound in the room. Bucky stares blankly at the darkened window, his thoughts tangling. His metal fingers idly stroke Alpine’s fur, the sensation grounding him, even if his mind refuses to settle.

He thought of Y/N—her laugh, the warmth in her eyes, the way she makes Elizabeth light up with joy. The past few weeks have been something he hasn’t dared hope for in years: peaceful. But even as he replays those moments in his mind, doubt gnaws at him. Does he really deserve this kind of happiness? Could someone like him—damaged, haunted—be what Y/N needs?

Alpine stretches, her tail flicking against his hand, pulling him from his spiral. He sighs heavily. His phone buzzes on the table, and he leans over to check the notification.

"Steve: Let's meet up at Sam's tomorrow. Something’s come up. We need to talk."

Bucky’s stomach sinks. He sets the phone back down, dreading whatever Steve has to share. It’s always something, isn’t it? His past never lets him rest.

Alpine meows softly, sensing his unease, and nuzzles his hand. He scratches behind her ears absentmindedly before reaching for the notebook resting on the coffee table. The worn cover feels familiar in his hands, a tether to his scattered thoughts.

He flips past pages filled with his looping handwriting—fragments of memory, observations, and the occasional attempt at poetry. He finds a blank page and pauses, the pen hovering above it as if unsure where to start. Finally, he starts:

Am I even capable of being what someone else needs? Or am I just pretending I can be normal, that I can leave it all behind?

The words hang on the page, stark and accusing. His jaw tightens as he continues.

Y/N deserves someone whole, someone who can give her everything without hesitating. And I… I hesitate. I second-guess every good thing because I don’t believe I’m allowed to have it. But then she smiles, and for a moment, I think… maybe. Maybe it’s okay to try. But is trying enough? I put up a front around her. I suppress my struggles around everyone as to appear normal. 

He stops, pressing the pen harder into the paper than he meant to. The letters blur as his vision clouds, memories of cold steel restraints and harsh voices pressing in.

Alpine shifts on his lap, her weight reminding him where he is. He exhales shakily and sets the notebook aside, rubbing a hand down his face.

Whatever Steve and Sam are coming to talk about, he already knows it will dredge up parts of his past he’d rather forget. And if those parts ever reach Y/N, what then? Would she stay? Or would she look at him the way so many have before—like a problem to fix, or worse, like something broken beyond repair?

He’s been too afraid to let her see his metal arm. It’s more than just the limb—it’s the weight of the memories it carries, the pain it represents. He’s ashamed of it, of what it reminds him of every time he looks at it. The thought of her seeing it, of her being hurt or repulsed by the cold, unfeeling steel, terrifies him. What if she sees the arm and, in it, sees the broken man it belongs to?

He stands, Alpine hopping off his lap with a soft protest. Walking to the window, he stares out at the city below, the faint glow of streetlights shimmering against the glass. His reflection stares back at him—tired, burdened, and unsure.

His phone buzzes again, another notification lighting up the darkened room. This time, it’s a message from Y/N:

"Just thinking about you. Hope you’re doing okay."

The tightness in his chest loosens just slightly. He doesn’t reply right away, instead resting his forehead against the cool glass. The heater hums on, Alpine’s purring resuming as she curls back into her spot.

For now, at least, the world feels a little less heavy.

The next morning, Bucky shows up at your apartment, your usual bright smile faltering when you see the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes.

“You okay?” you ask softly, your hand brushing against his arm. He flinches slightly but covers it up with a tight smile.

“Didn’t sleep great,” he mutters.

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Would you like to come in for coffee or to the usual cafe?”

Bucky hesitates, his eyes flicking between you and the open door behind you. The warmth in your voice and the gentle concern in your eyes make his chest ache in a way he can’t explain. He shouldn’t have come here, not like this. Not when his mind is a storm he hasn’t figured out how to weather.

“Coffee sounds good,” he finally says, his voice quiet. “Here is fine.”

You smile softly, stepping aside to let him in. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee started.”

As you move to the kitchen, Bucky takes a seat on your couch, his gaze drifting around, admiring all the details–cozy, filled with small, personal touches that feel so distinctly you. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table, a big blue fluffy blanket draped over the arm of the couch, and a framed photo of you and two little boys sitting on a shelf. His heart clenches at the sight of it.

You hum softly as you prepare the coffee, a light tune that drifts into the living room. It’s a sound that, despite himself, Bucky finds calming. He rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands—the metal one covered with his usual leather glove, rests heavily against his thigh.

When you return with two mugs in hand, you pause, taking in the way his shoulders are hunched and the faraway look in his eyes. Setting the mugs down on the table, you sit beside him, close but not too close.

“Hey,” you say gently, drawing his attention back to you. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

Bucky exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing,” he lies, his voice strained. “Just...Steve and Sam want to talk. Probably something from my past catching up to me again.”

Your brow furrows with concern. “Do you want me to be there for support?”

His eyes widen slightly, and he shakes his head quickly. “No. No, it’s not...you don’t need to be involved in that.”

“Okay,” you say softly, not wanting to push him. “But if there’s ever anything you need, I’m here. You know that, right?”

He nods, swallowing hard. The sincerity in your voice makes his chest tighten. For a moment, he considers telling you everything—his fears, his doubts, his nightmares. But the words don’t come. Instead, he manages a small, grateful smile.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a while, sipping coffee. Your presence is steady, unwavering, and though Bucky doesn’t say it, it’s exactly what he needs. Your quiet understanding wraps around him like a safety net, catching the parts of him that feel like they’re constantly slipping through the cracks.

Eventually, he glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. He places his mug down on the table, the scrape of ceramic on wood making you glance up.

“I should get going,” he says, his voice low but steady.

You frown, clearly not wanting him to leave just yet. “Are you sure? You could stay a little longer.”

He shakes his head, standing and running a hand through his hair. “Steve and Sam are waiting. Whatever it is, it’s better to just deal with it sooner than later.”

You stand, too, following him to the door. Your fingers brush his as you hand him his jacket, and he tenses slightly but doesn’t pull away.

“Bucky,” you say softly, your voice drawing his gaze to yours. “Whatever it is, you’ll get through it. And if you need me, I’m just a call away.”

He holds your gaze for a moment, his blue eyes searching yours, his expression unreadable. His attention flickers briefly to your lips before a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—small, hesitant, but real.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice low as he shrugs on his jacket. He pauses, a flicker of indecision crossing his face, and then leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. The warmth of his lips and the roughness of his stubble send a soft flutter through you.

The gesture is fleeting, almost shy, but it leaves you both standing still for a beat longer than usual.

"I'll call you later." Bucky assures you.

You recover first, smiling warmly. “You better,” you say, your tone light yet reassuring.

His smile lingers for just a moment before he steps out the door. As Bucky steps back out into the chilly, morning air, he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The weight in his chest is still there, but somehow, it feels just a little easier to carry. He adjusts his jacket and starts toward Sam’s apartment.

With every step, the quiet doubts whisper at the back of his mind. The fear of what Steve and Sam might bring, the worry of dragging his past into his present. But he forces himself to keep moving.

If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that facing the ghosts of his past is the only way to keep them from haunting his future.

As Bucky enters Sam's apartment, Steve meets him halfway into the living room.

“We don’t have all the details yet, but we’ve been hearing rumors. Someone's digging into your past, asking questions about your arm—your history. Could be anyone, but it’s enough to raise a red flag.” Steve informs as Bucky stands, fists clenching at his side. 

His mind races, memories of his past flickering in and out of focus—things he's tried to forget, buried under layers of time and effort.

“What kind of questions?” Bucky’s voice comes out rough, as though it was a struggle to ask, to even speak of it again.

Sam shoots him a glance, his face serious. “Nothing too specific yet, but enough to make it clear someone’s poking around. Doesn’t take much to stir up old ghosts.”

Bucky’s fingers flex at his side, his metal arm feeling heavier than usual. He hates it, hates what it reminds him of. Every inch of him screams to keep it hidden, bury it, away from the world. But now, it seems like the past was coming back for him.

He exhales slowly, his mind clouded with the familiar weight of dread. “I thought I left that part of me behind. Thought I buried it deep enough that it couldn’t find me again.”

Steve’s gaze softens, his expression unwavering. He steps closer, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You don’t have to face this alone. We’re here, Bucky. You know that. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Sam nods, his face stoic but with a hint of reassurance. “Yeah. We’ve got your back. Whatever’s coming, we’ll handle it together.”

Bucky swallows hard, the knot in his chest tightening. He wants to believe them, but the past has a way of slipping through cracks, creeping back into his life when he least expects it. He isn’t sure he’s ready for whatever is waiting for him.

For a moment, he stands in silence, his eyes distant. Then he nods, his voice hoarse. “Alright. Let’s figure out what we’re up against.”

Steve gives him a firm, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before turning toward the door. “We’ll take it one step at a time, Buck. Just keep your head up. And if things get too heavy, don’t hesitate to reach out. You know we’re here.”

With one last glance at Sam, Bucky turns and makes his way out of the apartment, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. But this time, he isn’t alone. And maybe that’s enough to face whatever is coming next.

The next day, Bucky and Elizabeth arrive at your apartment after school. Elizabeth is her usual excited self, bouncing around with a big grin on her face as she talks non-stop about her day. She runs inside, unaware of the tension hanging in the air, but Bucky is different. He’s quieter than usual, his expression distant. You notice it immediately, the way his shoulders are tense, his eyes too focused on something only he can see.

After a moment, Elizabeth disappears into your guest room, dumping out her backpack with some toys to play with. You turn your attention to Bucky. 

“Bucky,” you say softly, voice filled with concern. “How are you today? Is something bothering you?”  

He hesitates, his eyes flicking toward the door before settling on you. There’s a long pause before he speaks, and when he does, his voice is low, tight.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, but you can hear the strain. “Just some old stuff coming back to bite me.”

You cross your arms, frustration bubbling up but not wanting to push him to talk. You can see through him, the walls he’s built up. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I do care about you, and I want to help. But I can’t if you don’t let me in.”

Bucky glances at you, his jaw tight. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, but then he just shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. You don’t know what it’s like to carry this around—to always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Then tell me,” you urge. “Let me in.”

Before he can respond, a loud crash suddenly cuts through the air. Your heart stops as the sound of shattering glass echoes from your guest room. You don’t even think; just spring into action, rushing toward the room with Bucky right behind.

You reach the doorway to the room at the same time. Elizabeth is huddled in the corner, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the broken window. A dark figure is retreating into the night, disappearing into the shadows before either of you can get a good look at them.

Bucky’s entire body goes rigid, his metal arm clenching instinctively. You see the shift in him—the moment his protective instincts take over. His jaw tightens as he looks at you, his expression hardening.

“Stay here,” he demands, his voice sharp, commanding. “Call Steve.”

You nod quickly, fear coiling in your stomach. You pull out your phone, dialing Steve’s number with trembling hands. As you wait for the call to connect, you look down at Elizabeth, her small form trembling in your arms. You whisper soothing words, but your own heart is racing, your thoughts scrambling to keep up with what just happened. You move with Elizabeth out of the guest room and into the living room, sitting on the couch with her curled up in your lap. 

“Shh, you’re safe,” you whisper softly, holding her tightly. “Bucky’s going to handle it. It’s going to be okay.”

Elizabeth doesn’t say anything, but she nods against you with tears streaming down her soft cheeks, the quiet terror in her face tears at you. You wish you could tell her everything’s fine, but you don’t know what’s coming next.

The phone rings once, twice, before Steve picks up. “Y/N? Everything okay? How are you?”

“Someone broke into my apartment,” you explain, your voice shaky. “Elizabeth and Bucky are here and everyone is okay, but they... they broke into my guest room window, and—Bucky’s after them.”

“Is Elizabeth alright?” Steve cuts in, his voice sharp with concern.

“She’s scared, but she’s fine, I have her with me” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “They ran off, but Bucky’s going after them. Please—hurry over. I am texting you my address.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon. Stay inside, don’t open the door for anyone else.”

You hang up, letting the phone fall beside you as you continue to hold Elizabeth. Her grip tightens around you as she presses closer, seeking comfort from the warmth of your embrace. You gently stroke her hair, murmuring soft reassurances.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetie,” you whisper again, though your own heart is far from calm. “Uncle Bucky and your dad will take care of this.”

But even as you speak the words, doubt creeps in. The broken window is a sign that things aren’t as simple as they seem. Whoever did this isn’t going to stop with a broken window. You shiver, the weight of the situation settling over you.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps reaches your ears. You look up to see Steve and Sam entering the apartment, their expressions grim. Without a word, they take in the situation—the broken window, the tension in the air, the terrified look on Elizabeth’s face. Steve moves toward the two of you, his eyes softening as he kneels down to Elizabeth’s level.

“Hey bub,” Steve says, offering her a warm smile despite the tension. “You doing okay?”

Elizabeth nods slowly, though her face is still pale. Steve wipes at the wetness on her cheeks, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her head. 

“We’ll take it from here,” he says. “Stay with her, Y/N. We’ll figure this out.”

Sam, already on his phone, glances at you once more. “We’ll handle it. Bucky’s not alone.”

The door clicks closed behind them, leaving you and Elizabeth in the quiet aftermath. You’re left with a sinking feeling in your stomach, knowing the fight’s not over yet—and whatever just happened, it’s only the beginning.

You glance toward the guest room—the broken window still gaping, the evidence of the intruder’s presence stark against the fading daylight. It’s a reminder that this wasn’t just some random occurrence. Someone deliberately targeted your home, your safe space. Whoever they were, they were watching.

Bucky’s protective instincts kicked in the moment the glass shattered. You know he’ll do whatever it takes to protect those he cares about. But still, there's a part of you that’s scared. Scared for Elizabeth. Scared for Bucky. Scared for what might be coming next.

You shake the thoughts from your head, focusing instead on Elizabeth. You need to stay calm for her. She needs you to be strong, even if you're falling apart inside.

After what feels like an eternity, you hear the soft click of the front door, and then the unmistakable sound of Bucky’s voice calling your name.

“Y/N?”

You jump to your feet, still holding Elizabeth tightly in your arms. She stirs at the sound of his voice, lifting her head to look around. You meet Bucky’s eyes as he enters the room, his face drawn with concern. His clothes are slightly rumpled, his expression more exhausted than angry, but you can see the relief in his eyes as he looks at you and Elizabeth.

“Is she okay?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with tension.

You nod, holding Elizabeth a little tighter. “She’s shaken, but she’s alright. You... you found them?”

Bucky exhales slowly, his gaze flicking briefly toward the broken window showing through the guest room door frame. His body language is guarded, but there’s a faint flicker of frustration in his eyes. “Yeah. They were long gone by the time I got out there. But I... I think they were watching. They knew exactly where to hit.”

You can hear the unease in his voice, the weight of his words sinking in. It wasn’t a random break-in. Whoever did this had a purpose.

Elizabeth shifts in your arms, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “Uncle Bucky,” she says quietly, her voice small, “is it... is it safe now?”

Bucky kneels in front of her, his metal hand resting gently on her shoulder. His expression softens as he meets her eyes. “Yeah, bee,” he says, his voice soothing. “It’s safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Elizabeth nods, but her face is still pale, her lips trembling just slightly. You can tell she’s trying to be brave, but the fear is still there, lurking beneath the surface.

“Let’s get going. We’ll stay at Steve’s for the night. It’s the safest place right now.” Bucky responds. “Pack anything you need but do it fast.” 

You nod, handing him Elizabeth as you rush to pack a bag, grabbing the essentials and closing the guest room door, not wanting to look at the damage right now. 

“Let’s go,” you say, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Bucky nods, he doesn’t look back as he ushers you both toward the door.

The drive to Steve’s house is a blur. The car is filled with an eerie silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts. Elizabeth has her head resting against your shoulder as you sit beside her in the back seat, not wanting to leave her alone, her small body still trembling as she tries to hold it together. Every so often, you feel her fingers tighten around your hand, as if reminding herself you’re there, that she’s not alone.

Bucky drives with tense precision, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror every few seconds, always alert, always on edge. The streets blur as he takes you through the city, toward the familiarity of Steve’s home. 

When you finally pull up to Steve’s house, the security gates open almost immediately, and you’re ushered inside with a sense of relief, as though the weight of the world has been momentarily lifted off your shoulders. Bucky parks the car in the garage, and you help Elizabeth out, her small hand still clutching yours.

Inside, the house feels different from the night of the Friendsgiving. Steve is waiting in the foyer when you enter, his face lighting up when he sees Elizabeth. His usual warmth is tempered with concern, though, his eyes flicking over to Bucky for confirmation.

“You’re safe now.” Steve reassures, his voice low, eyes darting to Elizabeth’s tight grip on your hand.

You nod quickly, trying to keep your composure. “Thank you, for letting me stay over.”

“Of course. A friend of Bucky’s is now a friend of ours.” Steve gives you a small smile, trying to ease the night. 

Steve crouches down to Elizabeth’s level, opening his arms for her to fall into. She immediately wraps her arms around his neck. “Daddy’s got you. Let’s get you ready for bed bub.” 

“Oh, my darling,” You all glance up at Peggy’s voice. She appears at the top of the stairs as Steve carries Elizabeth up to her room. 

You watch in silence as the family reunite, coddling their daughter, making her feel safe. 

Bucky’s gaze softens at you, eyes meeting yours across the foyer. He doesn’t need to ask. It’s written on your face—the exhaustion, the concern, the fear still lurking beneath your calm exterior.

Bucky’s steps are quiet as he approaches, his expression steady but filled with empathy. "You’re safe here," he promises, grabbing your hand, squeezing it softly. "Take a breath. Let me make you a drink."

You nod, grateful for the offer but too tired to speak. You follow behind as he leads the way towards the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening and the soft clink of glass are the only sounds that fill the space, an unfamiliar comfort in the quiet after the chaos.

The house feels warm and welcoming, but there’s a lingering tension in the air. The kind that stays even when everything is supposed to be alright. You can’t shake the feeling that whoever did this isn’t done. They know where you are now.

A soft cough pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to find Steve standing a few feet away, his posture rigid but there's a softness in his expression now, a layer of concern beneath the usual stoic demeanor. “You alright?” Steve asks, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of everything that’s happened tonight.

You take a deep breath, trying to find some semblance of control. "Just… processing," you say, the words coming out more rigid than you intended. "It’s just been a lot."

Steve nods, his gaze flicking over to where Bucky is gripping the counter top, his back tense facing you both.

“If you need anything… I mean, anything... you can stay here as long as you need. You are no longer just Elizabeth’s teacher. Anyone important to Bucky, is important to all of us. Bucky’s right, you’re safe. And we’re not going to let anything happen to anyone."

The words hit harder than you expect, a promise laced with sincerity and a little bit of pain—he means it, and it’s almost overwhelming to hear.

"Thank you," you whisper, barely able to keep the emotion in check. "I really appreciate everything."

As Steve turns to leave you and Bucky alone in the kitchen, you feel the weight of the situation sink back in.

Bucky sets the glass in front of you, his touch deliberate as he slides it across the counter. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll help.”

You don’t hesitate to take the drink, grateful for the gesture even if you’re not sure how much it will ease the tightness in your chest. The liquid is warm and slightly burns as it slides down your throat, but it doesn't take away the gnawing sense of unease.

Bucky stands beside you, his posture still tense, but there’s something softer in the way he watches you—his usual hardened exterior momentarily set aside.

"I know it's not much," he says, voice low, "but I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m sorry for bringing all this into your life. I know you didn’t ask for any of this. I guess this is why I was trying not to get too close.” 

You nod slowly, the weight of his words not lost on you. Bucky’s been through his own hell, and yet, here he is—still standing guard, still offering whatever help he can. It’s comforting in its own way, but it also reminds you how much is at stake.

You take a slow, steady breath, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of your glass as you absorb Bucky’s words. “You don’t have to apologize,” you say quietly, your voice hoarse but determined. “None of this is your fault. Just because something happened in your past, it doesn’t define your present.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away, his gaze softening, a mixture of relief and something else flickering behind his eyes.

The quiet is interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. You turn, and there’s Peggy, standing at the doorway to the kitchen. She’s dressed comfortably, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, but her eyes are sharp, a knowing look crossing her face as she observes the situation.

“Everything alright?” Peggy asks, her voice warm but carrying an undertone of concern. She glances between you and Bucky, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the scene.

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, though the exhaustion in your voice is impossible to hide. “Just… a long night.”

Peggy’s gaze softens immediately, her expression shifting into one of empathy. She steps fully into the kitchen, crossing the floor to stand beside you. “I’m just glad everyone is safe. Steve filled me in on the situation, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Her attention then shifts to Bucky, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before she speaks again. “There is only one guest room, but the couch is available too. Whatever you both prefer.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, the faintest hint of humor in his eyes as he responds, “I’ll take the couch, thanks.”

You glance at Bucky, a small sigh escaping you. "That's ridiculous," you say, your voice softer but firm. "You’ve done enough. We’ve already been through enough tonight. It’s okay… It’ll be easier if we’re together. I’ll feel safer, at ease, knowing you're there."

Bucky looks at you for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly, as if weighing the offer. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the hesitation in his eyes.

Finally, he exhales, the tension easing from his shoulders as he nods. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you affirm with a small, tired smile.

Peggy, who’s been quietly observing, smiles warmly at both of you. “Well, if you’re sure, then I’ll let you two get settled in. Have a good night. See you in the morning.”

As Peggy disappears out of the kitchen, Bucky turns to you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he steps closer. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises again, his voice low and steady. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but this time, there’s a quiet certainty in his words.

You give him a small nod. “I know.”

Together, you make your way upstairs, the weight of the night still heavy but exhaustion taking over. Bucky leads the way into the room, his presence comforting despite the lingering shadows of fear. You can hear the soft hum of the house around you, the familiar sounds of Steve and Peggy moving a few doors down, here, in this quiet room, it feels like a moment of calm before the storm.

As Bucky takes off his jacket and shoes, you slip into the adjoined bathroom, changing into your pajamas, the soft fabric comforting against your tired skin. When you exit and glance over at Bucky, you see him standing still for a moment, his hand resting on the edge of the dresser, his posture rigid as though he's preparing himself for something.

You don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, but something about this moment feels more intimate than anything before. The thought that you’ve never seen Bucky’s metal arm, that piece of him he's always kept hidden, lingers in your mind. You watch him as he slowly pulls off his shirt, revealing the metal arm for the first time.

The sight takes you by surprise. It’s beautiful in its own way—sleek and strong—but there’s a quiet sadness in his eyes as he turns towards you, the weight of his past unmistakable.

Bucky catches your gaze, his expression tight. “I’m not… I’m not sure what you’re thinking,” he says softly, his voice steady but full of uncertainty. He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s not… it’s not who I am. But it’s all that was left after… the people who took me, who… did this.”

You don’t speak immediately, your gaze softening as you look at him, trying to convey everything you feel without words. You want to reassure him, but you're not sure how.

“It…it was blown off in battle," he continues, his voice distant, as though he’s reliving the moment. "The people who… kidnapped me—they gave me this. And they experimented on me. It’s not just the arm. But sometimes, this thing... It scares me. I don’t want you to be afraid of it, of me.”

His voice falters toward the end, and you can see the vulnerability in his eyes—vulnerability that he doesn’t let others see, but it’s here now, with you. He sits down on the bed, resting against the pillows. You crawl onto the bed beside him, feeling a pull to make him feel safe, just as he’s always made you feel.

“You don’t have to hide it from me, Bucky,” you say softly, scooting closer. “I’m not afraid of you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Bucky exhales sharply, and for a moment, he looks away, his gaze conflicted. He sits there, motionless, before he finally looks back at you. “I’m sorry,” he mutters under his breath. “For all of this. I never meant to drag you into it.”

You feel a pang in your chest, seeing how deeply he feels this guilt. You reach out, placing your hand gently on his left arm, the cold, metal surface unfamiliar but comforting in its own way.

“You didn’t drag me into anything, Bucky,” you say, your voice steady, as you take his metal hand in yours and place it over your waist. “I’m here because I want to be. I’m here because I care about you.”

Bucky hesitates, his eyes darting from your face to his arm resting on your waist, unsure. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of pulling you closer, of touching you in a way that might break this fragile connection you’ve started to form.

But you know what you need, what you both need. You shift on the bed so that your body is pressed closer against his, and gently guide his arm to rest more over you. You close your eyes for a moment, willing him to let go of his hesitation.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” you whisper again, your voice calm, knowing what you’re asking him to do is not easy. “Please, just hold me. It’s okay.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment longer, and then, with a soft breath, he lays his arm down fully, pulling you into his chest. He wraps his left arm around you carefully, his metal hand resting against your back in a comforting, steady hold.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You deserve better than this.”

You shake your head gently, pressing your cheek against his chest. “Stop apologizing,” you say, your voice firm but tender. “I’m here to stay, Bucky. You don’t have to carry this on your own anymore. And you won’t lose me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s breath catches slightly, and he pulls you a little closer, as though trying to make the words you’ve said real in the way he holds you. His heart beats steadily against your ear, and you can feel the weight of everything he’s been through, all the pain he carries—but it’s nothing you can’t bear.

“I’m grateful for every Friday afternoon you’ve picked Elizabeth up at school. So grateful we met each other.” you whisper, your words muffled against his chest. “For all the moments we’ve shared, no matter how small they seem. They’ve meant the world to me.”

Bucky’s heart seems to beat a little faster, his grip tightening around you, as though he’s afraid you might slip away if he doesn’t hold on just a little tighter.

Before you can say anything else, Bucky lifts your chin gently with his metal hand, his expression soft and full of longing. His lips find yours in a kiss that starts tender but deepens as the moment pulls you both in, the weight of everything you’ve just shared passing between you in a breathless, passionate kiss.

It’s a kiss full of everything—comfort, release, promises unspoken, and a bond that’s only just begun to take root. 

And for the first time in a long time, you both feel a little less alone.

The morning light streams through the curtains of the guest room, casting a soft, golden hue across the room. You shift slightly in the bed, stretching as the warmth of the covers cling to your body. The quiet calm of the house is comforting, and for a moment, you almost forget about the events of the night before.

Beside you, Bucky stirs, his movements slow and deliberate as he stretches out beside you. He smiles softly, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The warmth of his body beside yours make the morning feel even more intimate, and you find yourself smiling back at him, your hearts still wrapped in the same contentment from the night before. The quiet, tender moment is enough to make you feel at home in this space, with him.

"Morning," he mutters.

"Morning," you whisper against the stillness of the room.

There’s a small pause before Bucky rolls over to look at you, his face relaxes, his expression warm. "You sleep okay?"

You nod. "Yeah, it was perfect."

Bucky smiles again, and for a moment, neither of you move, content just to stay in the quiet together. But after a while, the sounds of movement downstairs reach your ears. The familiar hum of voices, the quiet clinking of dishes, and the faint scent of breakfast began to fill the air. It’s time to get up.

Bucky let out a low grunt as he sat up, rubbing his face. "Alright, let's go see what they’re cooking up."

You both swing your legs out of bed and make your way downstairs, your footsteps soft on the wooden floor. 

In the dining room, the table is set. Steve and Peggy are busy cooking breakfast, flipping pancakes and eggs, while Elizabeth sits at the table, coloring in her favorite book. Her face lights up when she sees you and Bucky enter, a wide grin spreading across her face.

"Good morning!" she beams, hopping out of her seat.

"Morning, bee," Bucky exclaims, ruffling her hair as he passes by.

Elizabeth turns to you with a hopeful look. "Can you sit beside me for breakfast?"

You smile at her, moving to take the empty seat beside her. "Of course."

Bucky takes the seat across from you two, settling in with a content sigh. Steve and Peggy appear with platters filled with eggs, pancakes and bacon before taking their seats. As everyone digs into breakfast, the conversation flows easily. Peggy shares a few stories, and Steve makes a few jokes, always quick with a smile. Elizabeth, happily eating her pancakes, chimes in every so often with thoughts on her coloring book, her enthusiasm contagious.

It was simple, quiet—a family breakfast that felt like it had been this way for years. You’re grateful for this company. It has been a long time since you’ve had “family” time like this. 

After a while, Elizabeth pauses, her fork mid-air, and then gasps. She points out the window with wide eyes. "Look! Look outside!"

Everyone turns to see the soft, white snow beginning to fall, the flakes drifting gently down from the sky, coating the backyard in a blanket of white.

The room is quiet for a moment as everyone admires the sight, and then Elizabeth breaks the silence, practically bouncing in her seat. "Can we go play in the snow? Please?"

"Well, how could we say no to that?" Peggy says, smiling at Elizabeth's eager face. "Let’s all go out and play."

"Sounds like a good plan," Steve agrees, rising from the table to grab his coat.

The group moves toward the entryway, where everyone begins to gather their coats, boots, and gloves. You turn to Peggy. "Do you have anything extra I can borrow?"

"Of course," she responds, leading you to the coat rack, where she hands you a warm jacket, scarf, and gloves.

Bucky, looking over at Steve’s collection of winter gear, borrows some too. 

Soon, everyone is bundled up, and with a cheer of excitement, you step outside, the fresh snow crunching beneath your boots. The cold air is sharp, but the sight of the snow-covered backyard makes everything feel magical. Elizabeth immediately runs into the yard, throwing her arms out as she twirls, her laughter bright and carefree.

Bucky follows her, offering to help her build a snowman. Together, you all work to shape the snow into the body, laughing at how much bigger the snowballs get as everyone joins in. The snowman’s arms are made of twigs, and soon a carrot is placed as his nose, with mismatched rocks for eyes.

Elizabeth then scoops up a handful of snow, and with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she tosses it toward Bucky. The snowball hit him in the chest, and Bucky grins, picking up a handful of snow in retaliation.

The snowball fight begins—lighthearted and full of laughter. Elizabeth ducks behind the snowman as Bucky tosses snowballs, narrowly missing her. Steve and Peggy, having finished making the snowman, exchange amused glances and head back inside to prepare hot chocolate for everyone.

Bucky turns to you, his face flushes from the cold, but his eyes soft and warm. He catches your gaze, his expression changing, something a little more tender in his smile.

For a moment, it feels as though everything is quiet again, just the two of you standing together in the middle of the snow, the world outside fading into the distance. Bucky takes a step closer, and your heart races a little, caught in the moment, leaning toward him just as he leans in—

But before your lips meet, a snowball hits Bucky square in the back.

Elizabeth laughs, gleefully sprinting across the yard. “Gotcha!”

Bucky grins and, without a second thought, scoops Elizabeth up, tossing her over his shoulder with ease. “Oh, you’re in for it now, bee,” he says, his voice playful.

Elizabeth squeals in delight, her arms flailing as she is carried through the snow.

You can’t help but laugh, the sound escaping before you can stifle it. There’s something about watching them—so carefree, so lighthearted—that makes your chest tighten with affection. You follow them back inside, where the warmth of the house greets you like a hug.

Steve and Peggy have set up in the living room, the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the scent of cocoa mingling with the cozy atmosphere. They look up when you walk in, Steve’s smile warm and welcoming, Peggy’s eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Hot chocolate’s ready,” Steve says, handing you a mug. “Come warm up.” Everyone takes off their winter gear. 

Elizabeth takes a mug from her mom, her face pink from the cold, her grin wide and satisfied and immediately curls up next to the fireplace, wrapping herself in a blanket. You sit beside her, the warmth from the fire seeping into your skin as you sip your drink, the quiet of the evening settling in around you.

As a movie drifts on the tv, the playful energy of the snowball fight still lingering in the room, you realize how different today has felt. It’s as if the snow fall outside has swept away the weight of yesterday, leaving everything cleaner, fresher. The air feels lighter.

It’s as though, for a brief moment, everything’s exactly as it should be.

After a while, as the evening stretches into night, you hear Bucky’s voice, quieter now, as he thanks Steve and Peggy for letting you stay. "I really appreciate it," he says, his tone sincere, and you echo his gratitude.

“Yes, thank you both for everything. I can’t thank you enough for welcoming me in like you have.”

Steve stands up, pulling you into a tight hug, and Peggy follows, wrapping her arms around you as well. “Anytime,” Steve says, pulling back to give you a knowing look. “If anything ever happens like that again, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Same goes for me,” Peggy adds, her voice warm and reassuring. “Take care of yourself.”

The hug from both of them feels like a shield—comforting. You pull away slowly, smiling up at them, but it’s Elizabeth who steals the moment next.

You crouch down in front of her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you on Monday,” you say softly.

Elizabeth’s small arms wrap around your neck, pulling you into an unexpected hug. “I love you, Miss Y/L/N,” she says, her voice filled with such sincerity that it catches you off guard. “Thanks for saving me.”

You freeze, the words a punch to the chest. You’ve had kids tell you they love you before, but this feels different—more genuine, more heartfelt. You hold her close, letting the emotion surge through you, grateful for her innocence.

“I love you too, Elizabeth,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “I’m happy to be here for you. Always.”

Elizabeth’s eyes shine brightly as she tightens her arms around you one more time. Her simple, unguarded affection warms you in a way you hadn’t expected. She’s been a light in your life without even knowing it.

As you stand up, Bucky catches your eyes. His expression is softer than usual, something in his gaze that says more than words could. He gives you a small nod, a silent acknowledgment. Bucky says his goodbye to Elizabeth, her hug even tighter around him. 

"Ready to head out?" Bucky asks, stepping toward you.

You nod, your heart full, taking one last look around the room before following him to the door. The warmth from the house still lingers as you walk out into the night, but with Bucky by your side.

Once you’re in the car, Bucky turns to you. “Ready to get some rest?” His voice is low, like he’s making sure you’re okay, like he’s already looking out for you.

"I can’t go back there, Bucky," you say quietly, the words coming out before you can stop them.

He glances at you, his face softening. "I know. You’re coming home with me. You’re not going back until we can get that window fixed and me and Sam find out more about the intruder." His voice is firm, but with a gentleness to his words.

You don’t protest. You trust Bucky more than anyone. Without another word, you let the quiet of the drive settle over you as the snow continues to build outside.

As you arrive at Bucky’s apartment, he’s quick to grab your bags from the backseat. You realize this is the first time you’ve been here, and a sense of quiet anticipation lingers in the air. Bucky holds your bags in one hand and, with his other hand, gently takes yours as he leads you up a couple of flights of stairs. He unlocks the front door and holds it open, allowing you to step inside first.

The apartment is calm and cozy, the kind of place you’d expect to feel at home in. It’s smaller than you imagined, but there’s a warmth to it—soft, dim lights and the gentle hum of a heater make it feel inviting, a stark contrast to the cold outside.

“I know it’s not much,” Bucky says, closing the door behind him and locking it.

You look around and smile. “It’s nice, comfortable, and honestly, it feels very much like you.” You let out a small laugh as you notice a pile of blankets and pillows scattered on the floor near the couch.

Bucky follows your gaze and chuckles. “Uh, I crash there sometimes. The bed can feel too soft at times.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” you reply, understanding more than he knows. “I get it.”

He nods, a slight smile tugging at his lips before heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea,” he calls over his shoulder, the sound of running water and cabinet doors closing filling the air.

You take a seat on his small couch, glancing around, your eyes catching a litter box and a few scattered cat toys in the corner. “Do you have a cat?” you ask, curious as Bucky returns, handing you a steaming mug.

“Yeah, Alpine. She’s at Sam’s place right now. Keeps her whenever I’m away.” Bucky’s voice softens as he talks about her, his fondness clear.

“I love cats. I’ve always wanted one but never got around to it.” You smile at the thought.

“I found her in an alley when I first moved here. She keeps me grounded.”

The conversation quiets as you both sit in the comfort of his apartment, sipping tea. Your thoughts drift back to earlier that day, to the warmth of family and the joy you hadn’t realized you missed until you saw it again. A lump forms in your throat, and your heart aches, the tenderness of the moment catching you off guard.

Bucky watches you closely, sensing the shift in your mood. “Hey, you okay?” He sets his mug down, turning to face you fully, his hands gently cradling your face. The care in his touch is unmistakable, and it sends a quiet comfort through you.

You hesitate for a moment. You’ve been holding this back for so long, the weight of it all pressing down on you. “I don’t know,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ve been running from it for so long.”

Bucky doesn’t rush you, only nods, waiting patiently for you to speak when you’re ready.

Taking a steadying breath, you grab your bag from beside the couch, pulling out your wallet and carefully removing a folded picture. For a moment, you hold it, your gaze lingering on the photo, the memories flooding back. Then, you hand it to Bucky, your fingers trembling slightly.

The photo is a few years old now, but it feels as fresh as yesterday. It shows you with your sister and your two young nephews, standing in front of your childhood home. Your sister smiles, with her arms around the boys, their laughter frozen in time. You can almost hear the sound of their joy in the background, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

"I—" You swallow, the words thick in your throat. "A few years ago, we were driving to my dad’s on a snow day from school. We were going to have an early dinner. Nothing big, just a little family gathering." You pause, your chest tightens. "Another car lost control on the opposite side of the road. We didn’t see it coming. The other car slid into us. My sister, she—she died on impact."

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, your voice barely above a whisper as the pain resurfaces, raw and unbearable. "My nephews, they were only five and seven. They were taken to the hospital, but they didn’t survive. They died hours later."

You grip the photo tightly, the edges worn from years of handling it, your heart breaking once more.

"And me…" You continue, your voice cracking. "I was the only one who made it. I had to have several surgeries, months of recovery. I healed physically, but mentally… that’s still a work in progress. I miss them every day. They were my family, and I—I don’t know how to keep going without them. It’s changed everything, Bucky. It’s changed me."

Bucky’s hand, which had been resting on the couch, moves to gently hold yours. His grip is steady, reassuring, and there’s an understanding in his eyes—an unspoken recognition of the pain you’re carrying. His voice is low, filled with empathy.

“You’re not alone,” he says softly. “I get it. I know what it’s like to lose pieces of yourself in ways you never think you’ll recover from. But you keep going, even when you don’t think you can. You just… keep going.”

His words strike a chord deep within you, his vulnerability a mirror to your own. It’s not just the soldier in him talking—it's the man who has seen the depths of loss, who has lived through it and come out the other side.

You blink back more tears, nodding, the weight in your chest feeling a little lighter just by having him there.

Bucky’s hand tightens around yours, offering a comfort that needs no explanation. He leans back against the couch, his gaze turning inward for a moment, before he looks at you again, his expression softer now.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice small.

Bucky shakes his head, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t apologize. You’ve been through hell, and it’s not easy. It’s not supposed to be.”

The two of you sit in silence for a while, neither of you rushing through the pain or pretending to have all the answers. There’s a sense of peace, of understanding, and it’s enough. For now, it’s more than enough.

Finally, Bucky shifts slightly, offering a small, almost awkward smile. “Do you want to take a shower? The first door on the right,” he adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You raise an eyebrow, teasing him. “I mean—uh, not with me, but if you want to take a shower, feel free to.” He’s clearly embarrassed, but the warmth in his voice is endearing.

You giggle at his awkwardness. “Thanks, I can definitely use one.” You lean in and kiss his cheek, the gesture soft and comforting. “You can join me if you want,” you tease with a smirk as you stand and grab your bag, heading toward the short hallway.

Bucky’s face flushes, but his eyes sparkle with a quiet amusement. “I’ll… think about it.”

Bucky sits still for a moment after your teasing remark, his gaze watches you walk into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. He runs a hand through his hair, taking a slow breath as he seems to gather his thoughts. 

“Fuck it,” He mutters to himself, pushing through his insecurities, gaining courage with each determined step he takes. 

He pushes the door open softly, the sound of water filling the air as steam starts to roll out. His eyes glue to you through the textured glass door. His fist clenches in need, seeing you so vulnerable and you allowing him to see you this way, works him up more than he thought it would. 

He strips off his clothes, glancing down mentally praying for his dick to not intrude this vulnerable moment but one look at you as he opens the glass door, he knows he’s done for. 

Your eyes meet his, as your chest rises and falls faster as he steps in and closes in on you. Your eyes filter over his toned chest, watching the water glides down and glistens against his metal arm. Your breath catches in your throat as you peak down quickly before looking back to his eyes, the apparent smirk resting on his face. 

"I can... I can wash your hair if you want," His voice is calm, but you can hear the trace of nervousness underneath.

You nod, words lost in your throat as you turn around to face the water. Bucky’s hands are careful, gentle as he pours a bit of shampoo into his palm, his fingers working it through your hair with slow, steady movements. The touch is so tender, you almost forget everything else, letting yourself relax into the sensation of his hands massaging your scalp before the hot water cascades down your back, washing away the remnants of the day.

When it’s his turn, you return the favor, taking a bottle of body wash and working it into a washcloth, reaching out to his chest first. His skin is so warm under your touch, and as you slowly move to wash his shoulders and back, you notice how he lets out a soft exhale, as though the act of being cared for, of sharing this moment, is something he didn’t realize he needed.

You both take your time, no rush, no pressure. Just the quiet intimacy of helping each other unwind, of being present in the moment together, with no expectations. His fingers brush against your arm when you rinse his body, and the gesture feels like a silent acknowledgment of how much trust you’re giving each other in this small space, how much it matters.

When you’re both clean and standing close under the cascading water, Bucky turns to face you again, his eyes searching yours for a moment. There’s a vulnerability there, but also something deeper, something more familiar now, as though the weight between you both is no longer as heavy.

You smile softly, your fingers gently tracing the edge of his jaw, and then, before either of you can second guess it, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his. It’s a soft, unhurried kiss, the water flowing over you both, warm and comforting. The kiss is more of an unspoken promise, a way to share everything that words can’t quite express.

When you pull away, you both stand there for a moment, close enough to feel each other’s breath. 

Bucky finally breaks the silence with a small chuckle. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, huh?”

You laugh softly, nodding. “Not bad at all.”

He helps you rinse off the last of the soap, then reaches to turn off the water. You step out first, wrapping yourself in a towel, your hair damp and hanging loosely. Bucky follows, grabbing his own towel, and you both move toward the small bedroom, your hearts a little lighter than before.

The room is cozy and intimate, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. As you change into your pajamas, Bucky does the same, his movements quiet but sure. When you're both ready, you climb into the bed, the sheets warm against your skin. He slides in beside you, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

It’s not a grand gesture or a declaration of anything, just the simple act of being together. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you close, and you rest your head on his chest. There’s no rush, no expectation.

“Goodnight doll,” he whispers into the quiet, his voice steady and calm.

“Goodnight Buck,” you reply, feeling the weight of the day finally fall away, the quiet peace of being in his presence wrapping around you like a blanket.

And for the first time in a long while, you fall asleep, knowing that tomorrow can wait, and for tonight, you’re exactly where you need to be.

Thanks for reading! Please reblog & comment <3 would love to hear how you enjoy it and feel free to send in requests!

[sorchathered]

Please remember your favorite writers are attention whores with a praise kink, they need validation to survive. Feed them comments and reblogs to save a life.

[aquaticmercy]

December Posting Schedule

Hi everyone! I’m quite busy with work, but I have so many completed first drafts that I can still regularly post! Most are for Bucky, but I have Natasha and Agatha scheduled, too. 

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any of these stories!

Every Sunday : A chapter of Dark Necessities (Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader) — You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic. This will have at least 9 Chapters. The next part uploaded will be a backstory on how you and Bucky met, to give some context. 

December 10 : The Art of Thieving (Bucky Barnes x art thief! Reader) — Bucky starts investigating a series of art thefts… and starts helping the thief.

December 13 : Back on Track (Bucky Barnes x F1 driver! Reader) — After a brutal crash during a race, Bucky won’t leave your bedside. Based on this request.

December 17 : Winter of 1894 (Agatha Harkness x witch! Reader) — Agatha always makes sure you fall asleep safe and warm in her arms, even as the coldest winter in generations raged on outside. (Victorian period piece). Based on this request.

December 20 : Depths (Bucky Barnes x Reader) — Bucky is an open book and you don’t trust anyone enough to reveal your past. Based on this request.

December 24 : Snow (Bucky Barnes x reader) — You love the snow. Bucky can’t stand it, but he can’t bring himself to tell you, either. This will be my entry for @buck-star's Winter Event!

December 27 : Muse (Natasha Romanoff x artist! Reader) — You are an artist, and your greatest muse is an assassin. Based on this request. 

December 30 : In Her Corner (40s boxer! Bucky Barnes x boxer! Reader) — Bucky had already found the love of his life in the 1940s— a boxer, just like him. But as a woman in a male-dominated sport, your success looks different from his. In the present day, Sam offered to help Bucky track down your family, never imagining you might still be alive… and trapped. (this might turn into a three to five part series updated weekly!!)

—

*all my stories are written with fem!reader in mind.

*I might post drabbles in between :)

[d1stalker]

This is Ours [Logan Howlett]

Summary: It's your first time back at your grandparents' farm in years, and while many things are the same, one thing is not: they've hired a new farmhand.

Warnings: fem!reader, SMUT, sexual tension, angst, fluff, lots of feelings WC: 18.8k - MASTERLIST

A/N: apologies for dropping another long fic but i literally could not stop writing the juices were flowing. i really hope you enjoy this! i think its my fave so far :)

----

For as long as you can remember, summers were synonymous with your grandparents' farm. It was a tradition, one you held close to your heart. To you, your time there embodied your entire childhood—days spent under the sun, where the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and the soothing chorus of cicadas filling the long, golden afternoons.

Mornings began early, with you bounding downstairs to join your grandparents for breakfast. The kitchen was always filled with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and pancakes. Your grandfather would be at the table, engrossed in his newspaper, while your grandmother hummed softly as she cooked, the sound of the morning radio playing faintly in the background. Your days were spent exploring the fields, helping with the chores and horses, or sitting on the porch with your grandmother, listening to stories from her youth.

It couldn’t get any more perfect than that. 

But as the years passed, things changed. After you graduated high school, the summer visits became less frequent. University took up more of your time, and you were always busy—first with classes, then with internships, and finally with starting your career. The farm, once the centre of your world, became a place you could only visit if you were lucky, and even then, it was never for long. 

You miss it.

This year, however, things were different. You found yourself in between jobs, with the first real break you’d had in what felt like forever. And when the moment the opportunity arose, you knew exactly where you wanted to go. 

—

The drive to your grandparents' farm is a journey into the past. The country road, lined with trees that stretched out like old friends, brings back a flood of memories from your childhood: where you’re sitting in the back of your parent’s car vibrating with excitement. You pass the same fields, still as vast and green as you remember, dotted with flowers swaying gently in the breeze, and the old oak tree where you used to swing as a child stands tall, its branches reaching up to the sky as if welcoming you back.

When you finally pull up to the farmhouse, the sight of it fills you with a deep sense of nostalgia. The white paint is more chipped than you remember, the porch sags a little more in the middle, and you can tell that it’s been a while since the grass was last trimmed. 

Stepping out of the car, the screen door squeaks open, and there’s your grandmother, standing on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s smaller than you remember, more fragile, but the smile on her face is the same—warm, welcoming, and full of love. “There’s my girl,” she calls out, rushing down the steps and into the driveway as fast as she can. 

“Grandma!” you exclaim, hurrying toward her to wrap her in a hug.

She pulls back to look at you, her eyes twinkling despite the lines of age etched on her face. “You’ve grown even more beautiful, but you look tired. We’ll fix that with some good meals, won’t we?”

You laugh, nodding. “I missed your cooking.”

“And I missed having someone to cook for,” she replies with a chuckle, patting your cheek. “Come inside. Your grandpa’s been counting down the days until you got here.”

You grab your suitcase from your car and follow her into the house, the familiar scents of fresh bread and old wood enveloping you the minute you step inside. It’s just as you remember—cozy, lived-in, filled with the glow of years worth of love and memories. Your grandfather sits at the kitchen table, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he reads a book. He looks up as you enter, and the moment he sees you, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“There’s my favourite farmhand,” he jokes, letting out a grunt as he places one hand on the table, slowly pushes out of his chair. 

“Grandpa,” you say, meeting him halfway for a hug. 

“Got here just in time,” he says with a wink. “Plenty of work to do, you know.”

“I figured,” you reply, playfully nudging him. “I’m ready to get my hands dirty.”

“Good to hear,” he says, leaning back against the table for support. “This old back of mine isn’t what it used to be.”

Your grandmother sets a glass of lemonade in front of you and sits down, her eyes flicking toward the window. “We’ve had to make some changes around here, sweetheart,” she begins gently. “Your grandpa and I… well, we can’t do as much as we used to.”

You hum, listening carefully. Seeing your grandparents grow older is difficult—it's a constant reminder that time is slipping away, and the moments you have together are becoming more precious with each passing day.

“We’ve hired some help,” she continues. “A man named Logan. He’s been a blessing, really, taking care of the heavier work. But he’s… well, he’s not much of a talker.”

“Logan?” you ask, glancing out the window. 

That’s when you see him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he is out by the barn, carrying some hay. He’s wearing a worn-down flannel with jeans, and his dark hair is slightly tousled. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s strong—he looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Yeah, Logan,” your grandfather confirms. “Keeps to himself mostly, but he’s get’s the job done. Don’t mind his gruffness; he’s just not used to people fussing over him.”

“He’s been here since last spring,” your grandmother adds. “We needed the help, and he needed the work. It’s been good for both sides. You should go and introduce yourself after you unpack, dear. Maybe get in some work before we sit for dinner later.”

Nodding, you walk up the stairs in the house and make your way to your room. It looks exactly the same as the last time you saw it. Your old stuffed animals are organized neatly on the shelf above the bed, and the quilt your grandmother made for you, with patches of faded fabric from old dresses and curtains, is spread across the bed the exact same way it’s always been. 

The posters on the walls, the little knickknacks on the dresser—everything is a snapshot of your younger self, preserved in this room like a time capsule. It’s comforting, but also a little bittersweet, a reminder of how much time has passed since you had last visited.

After a few moments of reminiscing, you stand up and begin unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the old wooden dresser. Each drawer creaks as you open it, the sound a part of this room’s charm. You smile as you come across some of the little treasures you left behind—a pressed flower between the pages of an old book, a seashell from a family trip to the coast, and last, a picture of you and your grandparents taken one summer when you were about ten.

You’re standing between them, beaming with a toothy grin, their arms wrapped around you in a warm embrace. The three of you are standing in front of the barn, with the sun setting behind you. You can almost hear your grandmother’s laugh as the camera clicked, your grandfather’s playful grumbling about having to pose for ‘just one more picture.’ The photo captures a moment of pure happiness, a snapshot of a simpler time.

Setting the photo down, you quickly begin to change into your designated farm clothes, and head out to meet the new face around here. 

The trek to the barn isn’t very long, just a few minutes away from the main house, and from the outside, you can hear the familiar sounds of work—footsteps crunching on the hay-strewn floor, the creak of wood as something heavy is moved. You pause at the doorway, taking a moment to observe him before stepping inside. He’s focused, his movements efficient as he lifts another bale of hay and stacks it with the others. 

You take a deep breath, and step into the barn. “Logan?” you call out softly.

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but with a slight pause and glance over his shoulder, his eyes, sharp and intense, meet yours, and there’s a moment where you’re not sure what to say. “I’m—”

“I already know who you are,” he grunts, cutting you off. 

His abruptness catches you off guard, but you quickly recover, nodding. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

“If you wanna help, there’s a broom in the back shed,” he continues, going back to his work as if the conversation is already over. “You could sweep up the hay.”

You bristle, a little surprised at how quickly he dismissed you, but you’re determined not to let it rattle you. After all, your grandparents did warn you that he wasn’t much of a talker.  “Sure,” you say. “I can do that.”

As you turn to head toward the back shed, you find yourself lightly imitating his gruff tone under your breath, a flicker of irritation running through you. “There’s a broom in the back shed. Yeah, obviously, I know where the broom would be,” you mutter.

In the shed, the broom is in fact, exactly where you expected it to be, and you huff, grabbing it and walking back to the barn. When you return, Logan is still hard at work, stacking the hay, and doesn’t bother to acknowledge you yet again. You set to work sweeping, the rhythmic motion of the broom soon lulling you into a steady state. The barn is quiet, save for the soft shuffling of hay under your broom and the occasional grunt from Logan as he moves the heavy bales.

Time seems to pass slowly, the light outside growing softer as the sun dips lower in the sky. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you barely notice when Logan’s footsteps stop. It’s only when his voice breaks the silence that you’re pulled back to the present.

“Your grandma called for dinner,” he says, causing you to jump a bit at the unexpectedness of his voice in the silence. Before you can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with the broom still in hand. You let out a small sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders. This is going to be a long few months, you think to yourself as you return the broom to its usual place and jog back to the farmhouse.

Inside, the kitchen smells like a warm hearty stew. The table is already set, the familiar blue-and-white checkered tablecloth in place, and your grandparents are seated, chatting quietly as they wait for you and Logan to join them.

You slide into the seat across from your grandmother just as Logan walks over from the sink, two glasses of water in his hands. He places one in front of you with a quick nod, and the other at his own seat, beside yours.

“So,” your grandmother says, her eyes shining with curiosity as she looks between the both of you. “I take it you’ve introduced yourselves to each other?”

You hesitate momentarily, your mind flashing back to your brief encounter in the barn. “Yeah, we have,” you reply, managing a smile, if you can call it that. 

Logan doesn’t say anything, his focus on the bowl of stew in front of him. He doesn’t seem interested in joining the conversation, which only adds to the growing sense of awkwardness you feel. You glance at him briefly, wondering if he’s always this closed off or if it’s just his way of dealing with new people.

“Well, that’s good,” your grandmother says, either oblivious to the tension or choosing to ignore it. “Logan’s been a big help around here. We’re so grateful to have him.”

Your grandfather hums in agreement, scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth before adding, “He’s got a strong work ethic. Doesn’t shy away from the tough jobs, that’s for sure.”

Nodding along, you feel the pressure to say something positive. “That’s great. It’s good to know the farm’s in good hands.” Even thought the words are definitely a bit forced, you mean it. 

As the conversation continues, your grandparents shift the focus to you, asking about your job search and what you’ve been up to since you last visited. You give them a brief rundown of the interviews you’ve had, the options you’re considering, and the challenges you’ve faced. You try to keep it light, not wanting to worry them with your uncertainty, but you can’t help but notice the man’s presence beside you, still silent. 

At one point, when you’re talking about finding a new apartment, you hear him let out a quiet scoff, and you cast a look over, catching the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but it’s enough to make you pause. You want to ask him what that was about, to challenge him on whatever it is he’s thinking, but you bite your tongue. This isn’t the time or place, not in front of your grandparents who are just happy to have everyone around the table.

They continue to chat with you, asking more about your plans and offering their usual words of encouragement. When dinner finally wraps up, your grandmother insists on cleaning up, waving you off when you offer to help. “You’ve had a long day, dear. Why don’t you go relax? Logan can help me with the dishes.”

You smile. “Thanks, Grandma.”

He’s already started collecting the dishes by the time you stand up, but it’s like he refuses to recognize your existence, and that pisses you off. 

—

The next morning, you wake before dawn, the world still wrapped in the gentle embrace of night, and for a moment, you lie still, listening to the deep, pulsing of the house—the way the wooden floors creak slightly as they settle, the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside. The comfort of knowing your grandparents are asleep down the hall brings a sense of calm that you haven’t felt in a long time.

Deciding to take advantage of the early hour, you slip out of bed, your feet brushing against the cool floor as you stretch, feeling the muscles in your body slowly wake. You dress quietly, pulling on a soft, worn sweater, and pad downstairs, careful to avoid the spots on the stairs that you know will creak.

You move through the kitchen as if on autopilot, your hands knowing exactly where everything is. You set the coffee to brew, and the rich aroma sills the room.

Reaching for the eggs, you crack a few of them into a bowl, and as you’re whisking, you let your mind wander, thinking about how to spend the day. The soft sizzle of butter in the pan gets your attention and you pour the eggs in, watching as they begin to set around the edges. 

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, the steam rising from the mug in delicate spirals, and you take a sip, savouring the warmth and flavour hitting your tongue, while your gaze drifts over to the window that faces the back of the farmhouse. 

Your grandparents’ own horses, and you recognize some of them from when you were younger. It makes you happy knowing that they’re still being well taken care of. The way the early light touches the land, and the morning dew covers the grass, you can’t help but smile into your mug. 

Slowly, you walk a bit closer to the window, eager to take in the view you had been missing all these years, when a figure standing over by the horses catches your eye. It’s Logan, a small surprise given the early hour—you didn’t hear him wake up—but he stands there, leaning casually against the fence, an apple in his hand. 

You watch as he holds out the apple to one of the horses, his rough hand moving gently over its neck as it eats. There’s something unexpectedly tender in the way he interacts with the animal, a patience and care that you didn’t expect to see from him, given how he acted yesterday. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another apple, offering it to the second horse, who hungrily accepts it. You continue to stare at the sight outside. This side of him—so different from the unapproachable exterior he’s shown so far—stirs something inside you, a desire to connect with him, to see if there’s more to him than meets the eye.

On impulse, you quickly turn off the stove, grab a second cup of coffee and some toast you’ve just buttered, and without overthinking it, you head outside. The morning air is cool against your skin as you make your way over to Logan. 

As you approach, he keeps his attention focused on the horses. You take a moment, then clear your throat lightly, holding out the coffee with a tentative smile. “Thought you might want some breakfast,” you offer, trying to keep your tone light and friendly.

He finally glances at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours. His expression is just as unreadable his had been in the last sixteen hours you’ve known him, and then he grunts, “Already ate,” and turns his attention back to the animals in front of him.

His curt, and honestly rude rebuffals really frustrate you. It’s not like you’re asking him to wipe your ass after you go to the washroom, so you have absolutely no idea why he’s like this. 

“Alright,” you mutter, lips pressed together in a thin line, and turn to head back into the kitchen. 

Once inside, you set the untouched coffee and toast back on the counter with a sigh. This is so fucking awkward. You’re going to be spending the next however-many-months with him, and you would love it if you could at the very least, get along. His rough-around-the-edges personality is not making this enjoyable for you, and you’re sure that he probably just see’s you as an annoying nuisance. 

And it’s not like you’re ever going to pull this card on him or anything, but you have been here longer than him, despite the fact that he’s acting like he owns the place. You get it, he’s been here for a for a while, and it’s only been him doing the work, blah blah. But you’ve been helping and doing the work your entire childhood—missing a few years doesn’t take away that fact. 

With a heavy sigh, you open a cupboard and pull out a plate, scraping the eggs off the pan and setting them on it. Because your grandparents’ are still asleep, all you can do is eat in silence.

—

You’ve decided that today you are going to trim the grass. There’s always something to do around here, and since the long grass was one of the first things you noticed upon arrival, you think it’s best to just get that chore over with, considering how long you know it will take. 

Once you’ve finished cleaning the dishes and pan, you go back upstairs into your room and get changed. Today, you put on a long sleeve, and a small vest over top. Your pants are some hand-me-down working pants from one of your older cousins, and you snatch a baseball cap from your closet for when it begins to get hotter out. 

Walking to the back shed, you grab some tools for trimming the lawn. A lawn mower, a string trimmer, and a rake for after everything’s been cut. Moving over to the back section of the lawn, you set the trimmer and rake against the barn and start using the mower. It’s the same one your grandparents have used since you were a child, so it’s a reel lawn mower instead of those newer, more electrical ones you’ve seen around the city. 

You can’t really complain about it, so you just begin, the steady repetitive action of moving the tool back and forth being somewhat therapeutic. The smell of freshly cut grass begins to hit your senses, and you truly feel at peace. 

As the minutes pass, the sun rises higher, its warmth spreading across the fields. You’re completely absorbed in your work, the rhythm of mowing and the occasional chirp of birds the only sounds around you. You’ve missed this. The sounds of cars honking and early morning city traffic has nothing on the serenity of country life. 

You’re just completing the first half when you sense movement nearby. Glancing up, you see Logan walking up to you, having grabbed the trimmer. He doesn’t say anything, just starts up the machine and heads over to the next patch of grass within the area.

There’s a brief moment of eye-contact, like a subtle unspoken recognition to the effort you seem to be putting in. He gives you a small nod, and turns to focus on his task. The two of you work side by side, the hum of the machines, the scent of fresh-cut grass, and the warm sun overhead creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. 

When you finally finish, few hours have passed, and you walk back over to the barn and grab a lawn bag and the rake. And because Logan’s machine was electric, he seems to have finished his section as well, so you begin raking up all the stray pieces of grass. 

You quick to find out how awkward it is to hold the lawn bag open with one hand while trying to rake with the other—the grass keeps slipping out of the bag, and you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous as you fumble with the task. You scan around, hoping Logan won’t notice, but of course, he’s right there, watching as you flail around.

You feel a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, but before you can say anything, he steps forward. Like usual it seems, he doesn’t say a word, just holds out his hand as if asking for the rake. You falter briefly, not wanting to seem like you need his help, but at the same time you understand how much more efficient it would be if he joined. 

Reluctantly, you hand it over, and he immediately starts working with the same steady efficiency he brought to trimming the grass. With both hands free, you manage the lawn bag more effectively, holding it open as Logan rakes the grass into neat piles.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable; instead, it feels like a natural extension of the morning’s work. The sound of the rake scraping against the ground, the rustle of grass being gathered, and the occasional whinny from a horse nearby. 

After the last of the grass is finally raked and bagged, you tie off the lawn bag and glance over at him. He leans the rake against the barn wall and meets your gaze. There’s something in the way he seems to stare at you head on this time, rather than just a quick look, that makes your chest fill with satisfaction. 

You nod. “Thanks.”

Logan dips his chin in return, then turns and heads back toward the barn. The heat of the sun really starts to hit you now, and you take a peak at your watch, noticing that it’s already lunch time. Knowing that even if you tried to invite him, he’s probably say no, you just walk back to the farmhouse alone. 

—

The next couple of weeks unfold in the same way, moving with an almost predictable rhythm. Each morning, you wake before the sun, quietly slipping out of bed while your grandparent’s are still asleep. As you prepare and eat breakfast, you take your usual place by the kitchen window, watching as Logan interacts with the horses. 

Then, as the sun rises higher, you head out to begin your chores around the farm. Sometimes, Logan joins you without a word—his presence now a familiar and abating part of your routine—or sometimes, you find yourself working alone, but even then, you know he’s never far away. 

You’ve learned to read his silences, to understand that his gruff demeanor isn’t necessarily unfriendliness, but rather his way of navigating the world. And though he doesn’t speak much, his actions have a way of communicating more than words ever could.

One morning, as you’re finishing up breakfast, your grandparents announce their plans to head into one of the nearby cities for the day. “We need to run some errands and pick up a few things,” your grandmother explains, her hands busy packing a small bag. “But we were thinking it might be nice for the horses to get out and see some different scenery too.”

“They haven’t been to the pond in a while. It’s good for them to stretch their legs and take in some new sights.” Your grandfather chimes in. 

You nod, smiling at the thought. The pond is a beautiful spot, a peaceful place where the water runs clear and cool, surrounded by tall trees and soft grass. It’s the perfect place to spend a day with the horses. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll take them out there for the day.”

Your grandmother’s eyes light up as she hands you a basket. “I packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are also a couple of towels in case you want to swim. It’ll be a lovely day for it.”

“Thank you,” you say, appreciating the thoughtfulness behind the preparations. You take the basket and head upstairs to get ready, the idea of spending the day by the pond filling you with excitement. It’s been a long time since you’ve been there last. 

In your room, you change into your bathing suit, a simple bikini that you’ve always loved for its comfort and ease. You slip on a loose shirt and shorts over it, then grab a few essentials before heading back downstairs. Your grandparents have already left, so you make your way out to the barn to prepare the horses.

As you start saddling them up, you notice Logan nearby, focused on his usual tasks. His presence has become so customary to you that you hardly think twice before calling out to him. “Hey, Logan,” you say, catching his attention.

“I’m heading to the pond with the horses,” you tell him, nodding toward the saddled horses. “Grandma’s packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are even towels if you want to swim. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the horses, then back to you. After a moment, he mutters, “I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

The admission takes you by surprise, and you raise an eyebrow. “Really? But you’ve been here for over a year. I just assumed—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off. “I’ve always just walked alongside them. Holdin’ onto the reins is one thing, but I’ve never actually been on top of one.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s okay,” you say gently. “You can still join us. You can walk alongside like you usually do, and tomorrow, if you’re up for it, I’ll teach you how to ride.”

Logan peers at you for a long moment, considering your words. Finally, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come with you.”

“Great,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

With that settled, you both finish preparing for the trip. Logan helps you load the picnic basket, blanket, and towels onto one of the horses. You mount your favourite horse, and gently click your heels into its side, starting the trip as he begins walking, horses in tow, beside you. 

The journey to the pond is beautiful. The green trees that frame the pathway, the soft buzzing of nature, the sound of the horses’ hooves. You and Logan exchange a few words, but for the most part, it’s silent. 

When you reach the pond, the sight is just as picturesque as you remembered. The water sparkles under the sunlight, the tall trees casting dappled shadows across the grassy bank. You untie the horses, giving them plenty of room to graze and explore, before you grab the picnic basket, while he grabs the towels and blankets. Making your way over to the other side of the creek, you find a nice open patch of grass to set up on.

“I’m going for a quick dip,” you say as you go about stepping out of your shorts. Logan, who is sitting down, looks up, but his eyes seem to stop dead in their tracks when they settle on your body. You swear you can physically see his gaze darken as he takes in the sight of you stripping off your shirt. It’s subtle, but a small shiver runs down your spine at the attention nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and and head toward the pond. The temperature is perfect: just cool enough to be refreshing without being cold.

You dive in, the reservoir embracing you as a much-needed relief from the heat. Everything feels perfect—the gentle current against your skin, the refreshing sensation of being submerged, and the weightlessness of floating just beneath the surface. 

But when you lift your head out of the water, you and Logan immediately lock eyes.

He’s lying back on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, and his focus is squarely on you. The intensity of his stare is like a physical force, pinning you in place. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in time. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can feel a heat build within you, starting in your chest and traveling down, deeper, and deeper…But then, just as suddenly as it began, he looks away, and if you were any closer, you may have been able to spot the red flush creeping up the back of his neck and to the tip of his ears.

The moment is over, but the enduring feeling of it stays with you as you swim back to the shore. Water drips from your body as you step out, and you reach for one of the towels your grandmother packed. Once you’ve dried off, you walk over to where Logan is sitting and drop down beside him on the blanket. 

You are aware of eyes on you again, though this time there’s a hesitation in the way they travel over your form, as if he’s trying to be discreet but can’t quite help himself. You pretend not to notice as you reach for the picnic basket.

“I’m starving,” you say, pulling out the sandwiches your grandmother packed. “Want one?”

He nods, sitting up a little straighter as you hand him a sandwich. After a few bites, curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to break the ice. “So,” you start, glancing over at him, “how did you end up here, working on my grandparents’ farm?”

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he answers, his eyes focused on the food in his hands. “I was passing through,” he says finally. “Didn’t plan on stayin’. But your grandparents… they’re good people. Needed help, so I stuck around.”

You nod, taking another bite. “They are good people,” you agree, thinking of how much they’ve done for you over the years. “But where were you headed before that? Where are you from?”

Logan pauses for a moment, then looks over at you. “Alberta,” he says. “Grew up there, mostly. Been a lot of places since, but Alberta’s home—or was.”

You smile, finding comfort in the fact that he’s sharing a bit more. “Alberta’s beautiful,” you say, remembering the few times you’d traveled through the province. “Why’d you leave?”

He shrugs, glancing out toward the creek. “Needed a change. Wanted to see what else was out there. Guess I got used to movin’ around, never really settlin’ anywhere.”

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. “Must have been hard, never really having a place to call home.”

His gaze meets yours, and there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter. “But your grandparents… they’ve made it easier. This farm… it’s good.”

You smile warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve been a huge help to them. And… well, I’ve liked having you around.”

He glances at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, it’s been alright,” he mutters, a small, imperceptible smirk on his lips. You smile bashfully.

The next couple of hours pass by in a blur. Not much conversation happens, but rather, these weird periods of time where you feel as though your eyes are glued to him, and he you. It’s different—unexpected—and to put it frankly, you feel a bit shy underneath his gaze. 

Logan is attractive, anyone with eyes could see that, but it really wasn’t just his face that pulled you in, it was him. The way he would silently help you with chores, his soft moments every morning with the horses, the way he subtly looks over your grandparents’ when he thinks they arent watching. All of it. You want to spend more time with him, learn more about who he is, what he likes… all of it.

Soon enough, you both begin to pack up the picnic supplies, load up the horses, and head back to the farm. The horses seem content, having had a fun day grazing and napping by the pond, and you ride beside him as he walks. Every now and then, you catch him peeking up at you from under his eyelashes, his eyes lingering just a bit longer each time. 

You can see your grandparent’s car in the driveway as you near the farm, meaning they’ve also returned from their day in the city. Leading the horses back into the barn, the two of you go through the motions of the familiar routine of unsaddling them, brushing them down, and making sure they’re comfortable for the night. 

Once they’re all settled for the night, Logan steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans as he looks at you. 

“So ‘bout tomorrow…” He begins, shifting slightly, as if unsure how to phrase what he wants to say. “You really think you can teach me to ride?”

You grin excitedly. “Of course. I’ll come out after I’ve eaten breakfast.”

“Alright then,” he says, pivoting toward the doors, his lips twitching just barely, but enough. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

Your fingers are twitching at your sides as you watch him leave. You wait a few moments, then head out as well, closing and locking up the barn for the night. When you step into the house, you find your grandparents in the living room, their faces lit by the soft glow of a lamp as they relax on the chesterfield. 

“How was your day?” your grandmother asks, looking up from her knitting with a bright smile.

“It was nice,” you reply. “The horses loved it, and the pond was as beautiful as ever. We had a picnic, and it was really peaceful.”

Your grandfather, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, sets down his cup and regards you with a knowing look. “And Logan? Did he go with you?”

You nod, feeling a bit of warmth rise to your cheeks at the mention of their helper. “Yeah, he came along. He’s never ridden a horse before, so he just walked with us. But I’m going to teach him tomorrow.”

Your grandparents exchange a look, and your grandmother’s eyes sparkle with amusement and something more tender as she smiles at you. “That’s good, dear. He’s a bit of a mystery, that one, but I can tell he’s got a good heart. Sometimes people just need a little time to open up.”

Chatting with your grandparent’s a bit longer, you listen intently as they fill you in on their activities. You can faintly hear the sound of Logan’s footsteps upstairs as he gets ready for bed. The memory of his gaze on you makes your heart beat a smidge faster. 

—

Logan is unsurprisingly already at the barn when you arrive the next morning. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Morning,” you greet. “You ready to get started?”

Logan glances at the horses, then back at you. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

You lead him over to the horses, choosing one of the gentler ones for him to work with, and begin by showing him how to properly saddle the horse, explaining each step as you go. Logan watches intently, though you can see the slight furrow in his brow as he takes in all the information.

As soon as the horse is all saddled up, you hand him the reins. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Go ahead and mount up.”

He wavers for just a moment, his eyes on the horse as if weighing his options. But then, with a deep breath, he grabs the saddle and swings himself up with ease. He sits stiffly at first, his hands gripping the reins a bit too tightly, but he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as you would have expected. Definitely better than your first attempt.

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, moving to stand beside the horse. “Just relax. The horse can sense if you’re tense, so try to loosen up a bit.”

He takes another breath, visibly trying to relax his posture. It’s clear that he’s out of his comfort zone, but he’s determined to push through. You walk him through the basics of steering and controlling the horse, keeping your tone calm and encouraging.

After a few minutes, you guide him around the paddock, walking alongside the horse to make sure he feels secure. Logan follows your instructions with serious concentration, his movements becoming more and more natural as he gets used to the rhythm of the horse’s steps.

“You’re doing really well,” you tell him, smiling up at him. “Want to try picking up the pace a little?”

He glances down at you warily at first, but then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s give it a shot.”

You guide him through a gentle trot, staying close enough to offer guidance but giving him enough space to figure things out on his own. The horse picks up speed, and you watch as he adjusts, his body moving in sync with the animal’s movements. There’s a moment when he looks down at you, a spark of surprise in his eyes as he realizes he’s actually getting the hang of it.

As the morning progresses, Logan becomes more comfortable in the saddle, his confidence growing with each passing minute. You spend the next hour practicing different techniques, guiding him through turns, stops, and even a slow canter. He’s a quick learner, and despite the initial awkwardness, you can tell he’s starting to enjoy himself.

Eventually, you lead him back to the paddock, bringing the horse to a stop. He dismounts, still a bit tense but clearly pleased with himself. He hands you the reins, his eyes meeting yours with a look that’s both grateful and slightly sheepish.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” you say with a grin, patting the horse’s neck.

He huffs a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… you’re a good teacher.”

The compliment, simple as it is, makes your heart skip a beat. There’s something about the way he says it, the sincerity in his tone, that makes you feel a warm glow inside. He begins to walk toward the back shed, undoubtedly going to start on his morning chores, but you find yourself wanting to hold onto this moment just a bit longer. 

“Logan,” you call out, stopping him in his tracks.

He turns back, his eyes questioning.

“Thanks for this morning. I really enjoyed it.”

Logan studies you for a second, then he gives you a small smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

—

The days come and go, blending into one another as your first month at the farm passes by in what feels like the blink of an eye. The sun seems to rise earlier and set later with each passing day, stretching the hours out in a way that makes everything feel both languid and endless, and the heat only intensifies, something you didn’t think was possible. 

Despite the longer days and rising temperatures, you and Logan’s daily routines have now intertwined in a way that feels as natural as breathing. The once solitary moments you spent watching him out with the horses have now become something shared. Every morning, without fail, the two of you meet by the barn, where the horses greet you with soft nickers and eager eyes, ready for their daily ride.

He’s improved a lot. He no longer looks uncomfortable or stiff, and he’s able to guide his horse with an ease that surprises even him. You can see the subtle shift in his posture, the way he holds the reins with a sureness that wasn’t there before. 

And just like when you work on the farm together, sometimes, the two of you ride in a comfortable silence—the only sounds being the soft snorts of the horses and the creak of leather saddles. But more often than not, you chat about everything and nothing, your conversations easy and unforced. 

Logan, who once spoke only in short, clipped sentences, has begun to open up more, sharing bits and pieces of his past, his thoughts, and his observations about life on the farm. You learn that he has a sarcastic, dry sense of humor, one that often catches you off guard and leaves you laughing in spite of yourself. He even joins you for your usual morning breakfast of eggs and toast, something that started only a few days into your new morning ritual. 

Yet throughout all of this, there’s a something growing between you and Logan, simmering just beneath the surface. 

It manifests in the little moments, the stolen glances, and the accidental touches that don’t really seem to be as accidental as you may think. It’s in the way his eyes follow you when he thinks you’re not looking, how they intensify when you laugh, or how he seems to fixate on your hands as you work, as if he’s memorizing every movement. 

You’re not immune to it either. You find yourself hyper-aware of his presence, the way his proximity seems to alter the air around you. In one afternoon, you’re in the barn, and sorting through a pile of hay bales. It’s hard, sweaty work, but the it’s kind that leaves you with a satisfying ache in your muscles by the end of the day. Logan is beside you, lifting the heavy bales with ease, his shirt sticking to his back, outlining the broad expanse of his shoulders. You catch yourself staring, and quickly look away, but not before he flicks his eyes over to yours.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can see it in his eyes. It’s like they’re telling you that he knows exactly what you were thinking, where you were staring. 

And when you’re both tending to the horses, something happens again. You’re brushing one down, your fingers working through its mane, when Logan comes to stand beside you, so close that you can smell his natural musk. 

“Here, let me help,” he says lowly, not waiting for a response as he reaches out, his hand covering yours. You glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at you. You’re acutely aware of the feel of his hand over yours, the callousness of his skin against your own, and the way his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles as if testing the waters.

Another time, while fixing the fence out in the field, you’re both working in tandem, passing tools back and forth. At one point, you reach for a hammer at the same time Logan does, and your fingers brush against his. It’s a fleeting touch, but it feels like a spark in the summer heat, and for a heartbeat, you both freeze, caught in that split second of contact.

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling your hand back, but the apology feels hollow in the face of what you’re actually feeling.

“No problem,” Logan replies, his voice gruffer than usual, as he hands you the tool. 

You can feel it. You’re not stupid. You know something is there, and you wonder how much longer you can resist it—how much longer you can pretend that everything is fine. But Logan is a hard man to read, and you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is reciprocated, or if it’s just wishful thinking on your part. So you stay silent, letting the tension simmer, hoping that one day, one of you will have the courage to break it.

—

You’re not the only who see’s it. 

“You know,” your grandmother says one afternoon, as you’re helping them with a puzzle. “Logan has really come out of his shell since you’ve been here.”

You blink, and glance over at her. “What do you mean?”

She looks up from the table, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” she says with a knowing smile. “He’s been here for over a year, and in all that time, we’ve never seen him quite like this. He’s always been polite, of course, but distant. Reserved. But now… well, it’s clear he’s become quite comfortable around you.”

Your grandfather places a piece in the board and nods in agreement. “She’s right, you know. Logan’s always been a bit of a mystery, keeps to himself mostly. But ever since you arrived, he’s been different. More… engaged, I suppose you could say.”

You feel a flush of heat rising to your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat at their words. “I-I don’t know about that,” you stammer, trying to brush it off. “We just… work together a lot. That’s all.”

Chuckling, your grandmother leans forward slightly. “Darling, don’t be modest. It’d be obvious to anyone that there’s something going on between the two of you. He’s practically a different man when he’s around you. Why, just the other day, I caught him actually smiling while you two were out riding. I nearly fainted!”

“You’ve managed to do in weeks what we couldn’t do in a year. Whatever it is, it’s good for him. And for you, too, I’d wager,” your grandfather pipes in, sending you a wink. 

Fidgeting with your hands, you feel like a deer caught in headlights, and you’re honestly not sure how to respond. “We’re… friends,” you say, though the words feel inadequate even as you say them. 

The woman across from you raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Hmm? Well, maybe so. But it seems to me that there’s potential for something more there, if you’re both willing to see it.”

“I… I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling flustered under their scrutiny. “He’s just… he’s a complicated person.”

“Everyone’s complicated, dear,” your grandfather says gently. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth the effort. Oftentimes, the best things in life are the ones that take the most time to understand.”

There’s a moment of silence as their words sink in, the weight of their observations leaving you feeling exposed and uncertain. You hadn’t fully allowed yourself to consider what you felt, let alone what Logan felt. But now, with your grandparents’ teasing remarks, it’s impossible to ignore the possibility that there might be something more between you and Logan than just a budding friendship.

Your grandmother reaches over and gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “Just take it one day at a time, sweetheart. Whatever happens, we’re here for you.”

—

The following week, you find yourself itching for something new—a change in scenery. While the farm has been everything you’ve wanted and more, you think it’d be nice to go on a drive, explore a small laketown you used to go to when you were younger. So, one morning, as you and Logan are unsaddling the horses, you muster the courage to extend an invitation that’s been on your mind for days.

“So…,” you begin, trying to keep your tone casual. “I was thinking… maybe we could take a break from the farm this weekend and go into town. You know, just to get out for a bit, see something different.”

He pauses in his work, his hand stilling on the brush as he peers over at you with a raised eyebrow. “The town?” he repeats, as if the idea is foreign to him.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to face him fully. “I need to pick up a few things, and I thought it might be nice to have some company. We could grab lunch, maybe do some exploring… It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a change of pace.”

There’s a beat of silence as he considers your offer. His expression is guarded, as always, but you can see the wheels turning in his mind. It’s clear that the idea of leaving the farm, even for a day, is something he hasn’t done in a long time—if ever.

“I don’t know,” he eventually gets out, his tone uncertain. “Busy places are not really my thing.”

You feel a pang of disappointment at his hesitation, but you’re not ready to give up just yet. “I get that,” you say. “But it’s not about how many people are there, really. It’s about taking a break. You’ve been working so hard, and I think you deserve a day to relax. Plus, I could use your help carrying a few things,” you tease, hoping to coax him into agreeing.

Logan’s lips twitch as if he’s suppressing a smile, and for a split second you think he’s going to turn you down. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, the word coming out almost reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

You beam, unable to hide your enthusiasm. “We’ll leave early on Saturday, okay?”

“Saturday it is,” he confirms.

—

The rest of the week passes quickly, your anticipation for the trip into town growing with each passing day. You find yourself planning out the day in your head, imagining the places you might visit, the food you might try, and most of all, the chance to see Logan in a different environment—away from the farm and the routine that has defined your relationship so far.

So, when Saturday morning arrives, you’re up before the sun, too excited to sleep in. You dress in your favourite casual clothes—something comfortable but a bit more put-together than your usual farm attire—and head downstairs, where you find your grandparents surprisingly already up and about.

“Off to the city today, are you?” your grandmother asks with a smile as she hands you a thermos of coffee for the road.

“Yep,” you reply, unable to keep the grin off your face. “and I’m dragging Logan along with me.”

Your grandfather chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, that should be interesting. Don’t think he’s much of a city slicker.”

“Be patient with him, dear,” your grandmother adds, laughing. “He’s stepping out of his comfort zone for you.”

“I will,” you promise, taking the coffee and heading out the door.

Logan’s already waiting by the truck, and when you see him, you can’t help but falter in your steps. The shirt he’s wearing clings to his muscular frame in a way that draws your eyes, accentuating the strength that’s always been evident. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s an almost shy quality to the way he stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

You try to hide the fact that you were just checking him out as you ask, “Ready?” 

“‘Course,” he replies, climbing into the passenger seat as you slide behind the wheel.

The highways are empty and the sky is clear. You chat easily about the things you need to pick up, the cute boutiques you want to visit, and even a few memories of the last time you visited the place. Logan listens more than he talks, but you can tell he’s starting to relax, the tightness in his shoulders easing as the distance passes by.

When you finally reach the town, the energy along the streets is a stark contrast to the quiet calm of the farm. The buildings tower above you, and the sidewalks are crowded with people going about their day. 

Stepping out of the truck, you glance over at Logan. It’s clear that he’s out of his element, but there’s something cute about the way he takes it all in. “Where to first?” He questions. 

“Well,” you say, smiling at him, “I was thinking we could grab some breakfast at this little café I know, then hit a few shops. There’s a bookstore I love that I think you’d like too.”

He nods, his expression softening slightly at the mention of a bookstore. “Lead the way.”

You spend the morning wandering around, exploring the shops, and enjoying a nice breakfast together. At the bookstore, you lose track of time, browsing through the shelves and picking out a few titles that catch your eye. Logan surprises you by finding a book on woodworking, something he’s always been interested in but never had much time for. You can see the way his eyes light up as he flips through the pages, and it makes you smile, happy to see him enjoying something for himself.

After spending a few more hours of exploring, you suggest one last stop before heading back—a lookout point that offers a stunning view of the lake and the surrounding landscape. Logan agrees, and you drive up to the spot, parking the truck and leading him to a bench that overlooks the water.

The view is breathtaking. You both sit in silence for a while, just taking in the scenery, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. He is staring out into the water with a thoughtful expression when you decide to interrupt his stupor.

“Logan,” you begin, the gentle breeze from the lake rustling through the trees, “what did you think of me when we first met?”

He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. Then he pauses for a moment, looking back out at the lake, as if gathering his thoughts.

“I thought you were different,” he says slowly, each word carefully chosen. “You didn’t act like you were above the work. You jumped right in, got your hands dirty. Most people wouldn’t do that.”

You smile at the memory, remembering how you started working together the moment you met. After all, you weren’t just a visitor—you were there to help, and you knew your way around the farm. “And now?” you ask, your heart beginning to beat just a little faster.

He remains quiet for a few moments, his focus still on the water. When he finally speaks, he’s timid, almost bashful, as if he’s revealing something he’s kept hidden for a long time. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” he admits, his eyes flickering back to yours. “I thought that the first time I saw you, too. It was one of the first things that hit me. But it’s more than that. Now… now I think you’re perfect.”

The sincerity in his words catches you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless. Your mouth parts in surprise, and all you can do is gawk, trying to process the depth of what he’s just said.

Logan shifts slightly, his gaze dropping to his hands as he continues. “I was… cold at first,” he murmurs, “Didn’t know how else to act. You weren’t like anyone I’d ever met. I didn’t know how to handle it. But what really got to me was how you didn’t shy away from that—you didn’t let my attitude push you away. That changed somethin’ in me.”

You want to say something—you should say something—to acknowledge what he just said, bearing in mind that was probably the most amount of words to come out of his mouth in one go, but for some reason, you can’t. The only thought running through your head is that you want to reach out and touch him, to close the small distance between you.

“What about you?” His voice is slightly more tentative now, and he definitely just asked that to fill the silence that you were ungraciously leaving. “What was your first impression of me?”

His question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you gulp, now knowing that your first impression of him was very different to his of you. 

“Honestly? I thought you were rude as hell,” you say a bit nervously, watching as his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. “You were so gruff, so serious… I didn’t know what to make of you at first. But then I saw the way you took care of the horses, the way you looked after the farm, and… it didn’t take long for my opinion to change.”

He shifts, clearly caught off guard. You can see the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck as he takes in what you said, and it makes your smile widen. 

“And…You’re kind,” you continue. “There’s this gentleness about you that I wasn’t expecting.” You suck in a shaky breath. “I think you’re pretty perfect now too, if I’m being honest.”

The tint on his cheeks only deepens, and he looks away, flustered. It’s a rare sight—seeing him like this—and it makes you swoon. 

“I don’t know about that…” He mutters, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“I do,” you reply firmly. “You’re more than you think you are, Logan.”

The genuineness in your words makes him look back at you, his eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or confirmation that what you’re saying is real. Slowly, almost unconsciously, you both lean in closer, locked in a stare, your breaths mingling as the space between you shrinks. You can see the way his eyes flicker down to your lips, and you feel the same pull, the undeniable urge to close the distance and see what it would feel like to kiss him overriding all your senses.

Your chest pounds as you inch closer, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. But just as your lips are about to meet, a loud, piercing scream shatters the moment.

You both jerk back, startled, and whip your heads around to see a kid nearby, his face scrunched up in disgust as he frantically wipes at his shoulder. “Ew! A seagull just pooped on me!”

The kid’s parents rush over, trying to console him as they pull out napkins, and you can’t help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of the interruption. The sound of your laughter is contagious, and soon Logan is chuckling a bit too.

“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” he mumbles under is breath.

You’re still laughing, the remnants of your almost-kiss still in the back of your mind, but you know the moment has passed. “Yeah,” you agree, trying to catch your breath. “Guess we should be thankful it wasn’t us.”

Logan grins, warm and wide. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

—

Driving back to the farm, neither of you say a word about what almost transpired at the lookout point, and you’re fine with that. There’s no need to fill the silence with words, no need to dissect the moment or what it could have led to. You don’t want there to be any sort of pressure between you, any expectations. Even if, deep down, all you want is to climb him like a tree, to feel the solid strength of him beneath your hands, and to finally give in to the attraction that’s been building throughout your time together. 

Pulling into the driveway and shutting of the engine, you turn to him, and turns to you, his eyes meeting yours. “Thanks for today,” he says sincerely “I… liked it.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. “Me too,” you reply, your voice just as soft. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, his gaze holding yours a hint longer before he turns away, his hand reaching for the door handle. “We should.”

—

A few days later, as everyone sits around the kitchen table after dinner, the evening suddenly takes on a new tone when your grandmother clears her throat and shoots an exchanges a conspiratorial glance at your grandfather.

“We’ve got some news,” she begins, her eyes shining with excitement. “Your grandfather and I have been invited to spend a week at the Summers’ cottage by the lake.”

You smile, genuinely happy for them. The Summers are longtime friends of your grandparents, and the idea of them getting a little vacation away sounds perfect. “That sounds wonderful! You two deserve some time to relax.”

“Well, we thought so too,” your grandfather says. “But that means we’ll be leaving the farm in your capable hands.”

It takes a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink in. You and Logan… alone… for an entire week.

Your heart skips a beat and you glimpse over at Logan, who’s sitting across the table from you, his expression neutral as he listens to your grandparents. But there’s a quick flash of something that suggests he’s as aware of the situation as you are.

A voice brings you back to the moment. “Now, don’t worry,” she says with a reassuring smile. “There’s not much that needs doing, just the usual stuff. And we’ll be back before you know it.”

Your grandfather leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he scans between you and Logan. “We trust you both to keep everything running smoothly,” he says, before he drops his voice to an embarrassingly low tone. “And to keep an eye on each other.”

You can’t help but blush at his not-so-subtle innuendo, and you quickly drop your gaze to your hands, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. The thought of spending an entire week alone with Logan is both thrilling and nerve-wracking. The lack of a buffer—your grandparents—means that literally anything could happen. 

“Don’t worry,” you finally manage to say. “We’ve got this. You two just enjoy your time away.”

Logan, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during the conversation, finally speaks up. “Yeah,” he agrees, “We’ll take care of everything.”

—

Over the next couple of days, your grandparents pack their bags and make sure everything is in order before they leave. You help them with the small details, ensuring that the house is stocked with food and that all the usual chores are delegated properly.

Finally, the morning of their departure arrives. You stand by the front door, watching as your grandparents load their bags into the car. Your grandmother gives you a warm hug, “Take care, dear,” she says, kissing your cheek before hopping into the passenger’s seat. 

Your grandfather shakes Logan’s hand, giving him a firm nod. “Take care of things.”

He hums. “I will. Enjoy yourselves.”

With that, your grandparents climb into the car, and after a final wave, they drive down the long, dusty road that leads away from the farm. 

There’s a pause. 

Suddenly, you’ve become extremely aware of how close you two are standing. 

“So,” you start, hoping to ease a bit of the electricity beginning to spark. “I guess it’s just us now.”

Logan swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing up and down. “Yeah,” he replies a bit deeper than usual. “Just us.”

“What should we do first?” you ask as casually as possible. 

He shrugs slightly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Same old, I guess. Can’t let everythin’ fall apart right when they leave..”

“True. Let’s start with that.”

The two of you move into that familiar routine of farm work. Mucking out the stalls, hauling bags of feed from the shed to the barn, tending to the vegetable garden, you do it all. But even though you’re busy with work, there’s an underlying jitter to everything you do, a heightened awareness of each other’s presence that just wasn’t there before. And it’s impossible to ignore. Each time you make eyecontact it feels charged, almost like a promise of what’s to come, and it has your heart racing with exhilaration. 

That evening, after the chores are done and the sun has dropped below the horizon, you’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner while Logan finishes up outside. The quiet of the farmhouse feels different without your grandparents there—emptier, yet somehow more intimate. Domestic. You can hear the soft creak of the floorboards as he enters the house, the sound of him washing up in the sink.

And as the evening wears on, you find yourself drawing out cleaning the dishes, not wanting to end the day just yet. Logan stays close, drying the plates and placing them back in the cupboards.

“Long day,” he grunts.

“Yeah,” you agree, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “But it was nice. Peaceful.”

His eyes find yours. “Peaceful,” he echoes, though the word seems to hold a different meaning when he says it.

You both stay there, unmoving, until eventually, he takes a step back, as if sensing that the tension between you needs a moment to cool. “I’ll check on the barn,” he says gruffly. “Make sure everything’s locked up for the night.”

“Okay,” you reply, your voice softer than you intended.

Logan leaves to check on the barn, while he’s gone, your thoughts are a whirlwind of anticipation and nervous energy as you busy yourself with finishing up the remaining utensils. 

Finally, unable to stay inside any longer, you decide to step outside, hoping the cool evening air will help clear your mind. You sink down onto the old porch swing, and pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you observe the darkened landscape.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, and you glance over your shoulder to see Logan approaching the porch. He walks up the steps and pauses momentarily as if debating whether to join you. Then, with a soft sigh, he settles down beside you, his shoulder just barely brushing against yours.

It’s now or never, you think.  “We have the place to ourselves now,” you state. 

He turns his head slightly, giving you a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a small, knowing smirk. “Indeed we do,” he replies.

The simple acknowledgment—and the way he says it—makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t help the small huff of exasperation that escapes your lips. He’s always been so tame, so careful with his words, and while you appreciate the way he’s respected your space, you’re done with tiptoeing around.

“Do I need to spell it out for you, or—” But before you can finish the sentence, Logan moves. 

His hand reaches out, rough and warm, to cup the back of your head. Your eyes widen, and your heart thuds in your chest upon realizing what’s about to happen. And with a firm but gentle pull, he closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours.

You lose track of your surroundings—the night, the farm, everything—as you give yourself into feel of his lips against yours. It’s intense and claiming, a declaration of everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.

His hand tangles in your hair, holding you close as he deepens the kiss, his other hand coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to ground yourself in the moment, to make sure this is real, that he’s really here, kissing you.

Moving your lips against his with equal fervor, you pour the longing you’ve been feeling all this time into it. The taste of him is intoxicating. It’s something that’s so uniquely him—so uniquely Logan—and you can’t get enough. You’ve imagined this moment in the dead of night, but nothing compares to the reality of it—to the way he kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you finally pull back, out of breath and a little dazed, Logan’s forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants. His eyes are smoldering and intense and his smirk is gone, replaced by a deep look of yearning.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits huskily. The way his voice has dropped three octaves isn’t missed on you. You can practically feel it vibrate down in your pu—

“You’re not the only one,” You whisper, interrupting your own thoughts. The connection between you has finally been acknowledged, and you feel a huge sense of relief.

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding, and his hand slips from the back of your head to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t think I can hold back anymore.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his lips. “Then don’t,” you whisper against his mouth.

The spark that has been ignited between you flares up into a full blown fire, and the next kiss quickly becomes more heated. Without breaking it, Logan’s grip on your waist tightens and you let out a soft gasp as he effortlessly lifts you onto his lap. Your legs straddle his hips, and you can feel the beginning of something growing underneath you. 

The sensation is dizzying, and you instinctively press yourself closer, your fingers curling into his hair. The swing beneath you creaks softly with the movement, but neither of you pays it any mind, too lost in each other to care.

You shift slightly on his lap, grinding your hips against him, and the movement draws a deep, throaty groan from him. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, “God, you drive me crazy,” and then he’s on you again. 

It’s wild. Hot, and heavy, and utterly consuming. His hands move from your hips to grip your ass, guiding you to move against him. It feels so good, you release a relieved sigh into his mouth, before dropping your head onto his shoulder, too caught up in the pleasure. 

The sounds of your moans fill the air as he continues grinding you against him, his own hips bucking up into your core. 

Biting your lip, you lift your head slightly, a teasing smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as your eyes dart toward the open door of the farmhouse. “You know,” you begin tilting forward to bite his ear, your voice low and playful, “as much as I’m enjoying being out here, I think we should take this inside.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a sexy smirk. “As you wish,” he murmurs.

As you stand up, your legs a little shaky from what just occured, you peek back at him, and see that he’s already risen to his feet. Stepping closer, you slip your hand into his as you guide him toward the door. But just as you reach the threshold, a thought crosses your mind, and you pause, turning to look up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“We gotta go to your room,” you say, running your hands up and down his arms, feeling them flex underneath your touch.“I don’t think I’m ready to defile my childhood bedroom just yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face as he catches on to what you’re implying. “Oh, is that so?” he asks, his tone filled with mock seriousness. You wink in return. grabbing one of his hands and dragging him inside. 

By the time you reach his door, you’re practically vibrating with excitement, your breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. The room is simple, and the bed, neatly made, sits in the center of the room. You can’t help but laugh at the thought of how different it will look in just a few moments.

You turn to face Logan, but he doesn’t give you time to say anything, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that is both tender and possessive. His thumb traces the line of your jaw as he cups your face, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation.

But there’s none. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. The need for him, for this, is so overwhelming that it’s taking every ounce of strength in you to keep from throwing yourself onto him. 

His lips find yours once more, this time more urgent, more demanding than before. He pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours. “Are you sure about this?” he asks in between kisses.

“Absolutely,” you mumble breathlessly, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. The word barely leaves your lips before Logan reacts, a low hum rumbling in his chest as if your answer has unleashed something primal within him.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a force that makes the room tremble slightly, and in the same fluid motion, he pins you against the wall, lips never leaving yours as his body cages you in.

One of his thighs nudges its way between yours, the rough fabric of his jeans brushing against the sensitive spot between your legs. The friction is maddening, electric, and it hits just right, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine that rips a moan from your throat.

The sound only spurs Logan on, his own need evident in the way he moves against you. He moves his mouth to your neck, trailing up and down it with hungrily. The feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his teeth graze your pulse point, causes you to arch against him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

You can feel the warmth of his breath as he presses his lips to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, as his hands explore your body. They’re everywhere—one gripping your hip, holding you steady against the wall, the other sliding up your side to brush against the curve of your breast. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it up, and you lift your arms to help him, the fabric sliding up and over your head before it’s tossed carelessly to the floor.

Bringing his lips back to yours, the kiss is fiery, stealing all the oxygen from your lungs as he pushes you even harder into against the wall, his thigh still working its magic. You can’t help the way your hips rock against him, the need for more—more pressure, more friction, more him.

Logan seems to sense your desperation, moaning when his hand slips down from your breast to the waistband of your jeans. He fumbles with the button for only a moment before he gets it open, his fingers slipping inside to brush against the soft skin of your lower belly. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze tempting and filled with a desire that matches your own. 

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “No idea why I waited so long.”

You can barely think, let alone form words, but you manage to breathe out, “Don’t need to wait any longer.”

The words seem to be all the encouragement he needs. In one swift motion, he slides your pants and underwear down your legs, his hands careful as he helps you step out of them. You’re left standing before him, bare and vulnerable, but the way he’s staring at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—makes you feel powerful, desired in a way you’ve never felt before.

He pulls you back into him, and this time, you can feel the hardness of his own desire against yours—bare— and it drives you insane. His grip finds you thighs as he lifts you off the ground and carries you the short distance to the bed. He lays you down gently on his bed, and breaks away long enough to strip off his own clothes. The sight of him—strong, muscular, yours—makes your breath catch in your throat. 

There’s a moment where he’s standing above you, just staring, his chest rising and falling with the effort to control himself. But then he’s on you again in an instant, his body pressing yours into the mattress, his lips claiming yours and leaving you dizzy.

You lean up into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he moves against you. The need for more builds up to a breaking point, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as he grinds into you, hard and insistent against your core.

“Logan,” you breathe out. “Please.”

His name on your lips seems to break the last of his control, a desperate groan ripping out of him. He begins travelling down your body, taking his time, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path, each kiss leaving a burning trail in its wake. His hands follow the curve of your waist, your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. Your body is practically begging for him, and you know that you’re on the verge of begging too.

Once he makes it down to your thighs, he nudges them apart, giving him better access to you. He nips and bites at them, moaning along with you. And then, with a deep, almost possessive growl, he finally lowers his mouth to you, his tongue flicking out to taste you. You react immediately, a wave of pleasure coming over you, your hands fly into his hair, tugging at the strands as you try to pull him closer.

Logan’s hands tightening their grip on your thighs as he delves deeper. You’re lost in the sensations, the pleasure growing and growing until it’s all you can think about, all you can feel. Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alight with desire, and the only thing that matters is the way he is making you feel, the way he’s driving you toward a release that you know will be earth-shattering.

And then, just as you think you can’t take any more, he pulls back slightly, his lips still hovering over you as he looks up at you, eyes black. “Tell me what you want,” he commands.

You can barely think, let alone form coherent words, but you manage to breathe out, “You. I want–I need you.”

That seems to be wanted he wanted to hear, so with a final kiss to your inner thigh, he moves back up your body, connecting his lips to yours again. You can taste yourself on his tongue as his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you slightly to position himself at your entrance.

The anticipation is almost too much, the need for him so immense that you can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your lips as begins to push, the tip of him just barely inside you, teasing, testing your patience.

“Oh god,” you moan. “I need you. Please.”

And then, finally, Logan gives you what you’ve been wanting since that time at the pond. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushes inside you, filling you up completely. 

Everything seems to stop for a moment, the only sound the ragged gasps of breath between you, the only feeling the overwhelming pleasure of being joined together like this, of finally having what you’ve both wanted for so long.

He pauses, lowering his head in the crook of your neck as he lets you adjust to the feeling, his breath hot and heavy against your collarbone. And then he begins to move, slow and steady at first, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, the coil inside you tightening with every stroke. The feel of him inside you, the way he moves against you, is everything you’ve been dreaming of and more, and you can’t help the way your body responds to him, your hips lifting to meet his every movement.

The gentle, deliberate pace soon gives way to something more urgent, more desperate, as the need for release takes over. Each thrust drives you higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level, until teetering on the edge.

And then, he sends you over it. The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your entire body shuddering with the intensity of it, your voice lost in the cry of pure ecstasy that escapes your lips. Logan follows you a moment later, his own release crashing into him hard, his body trembling against yours as he buries himself deep inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as a loud, deep, groan reverberates in his throat. 

Neither of you can move, lost in the aftermath of your shared pleasure, your bodies still entwined, as you come down from the high. He tightens his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tries to catch his breath. And when he does, he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes.

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You nod, reaching up to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs gently brushing over the rough stubble on his cheeks. “I’m more than okay,” you whisper back, voice full of emotion. “That was… everything.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Logan’s lips, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms still wrapped securely around you. “Yeah, it was,” he agrees.

Eventually, he eases out of you with a tenderness that makes you sigh softly. He walks out into the washroom, and gets a warm towel, wiping you and himself down. After, he settles beside you on the bed, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. The two of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the exhaustion of the day begins to catch up with you, and you feel your eyes growing heavy.

“Get some rest,” you hear, “We’ve got plenty of time… no need to rush.”

You nod sleepily, snuggling closer to him as you let your eyes drift shut, the steady pulse of his heart lulling you into a peaceful sleep. 

—

You wake to the feeling of warmth and security, Logan’s breathing against your ear, his arm still clinging possessively over your waist. The events of the previous night come rushing back, and a satisfied smile curves your lips as you snuggle closer to him.

But it isn’t long before that peaceful contentment becomes something more. As you move around, the feel of his skin against yours, the warmth of his breath on your neck, and the memory of the passion ignites a familiar heat low in your belly

He stirs beside you, his hand tightening around your waist as if sensing your thoughts. Pulling you closer, his nose nuzzles against your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin there. 

His voice is rough with sleep as he murmurs against your skin, “Morning…”

The simple word, spoken in that deep, gravelly tone, is enough to make you ache for him all over again. You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze, and the look in his eyes—dark and hungry—tells you that he feels the same way. 

The morning starts in the best way possible, the both of you breathless, spent, and with the knowledge that this isn’t a one-time thing. The connection between you is too strong, too consuming to be satisfied with just one night or even one morning. And as the day stretches out before you, the realization hits that this hunger, this need, will follow you both everywhere you go.

Throughout the week, the two of you are completely insatiable for each other. It’s like the floodgates have opened and have no intention of closing. Every moment you’re together becomes an opportunity. 

It starts innocently enough—just a kiss in the barn when you’re supposed to be checking on the horses. But that kiss quickly spirals and before you know it, Logan has you pressed up against the wooden wall, his lips on your neck, his hands roaming your body. The scent of hay and leather mixes with the heady scent of him as he takes you right there, the barn filled with the sound of your moans and the creak of the old wooden beams.

Or when you’re in the back shed, ostensibly looking for some tools to finish up some chores, the moment the door closes behind you, and you both know there’s no point in pretending. Logan’s hands are on you before you can even say a word, lifting you onto the workbench with ease as he claims your lips in a searing kiss. 

At the pond too, the tranquil, secluded spot now holds an entirely different kind of allure to what it had before. One afternoon, you find yourselves there again, the cool water calling your name. But as you strip down to swim, the sight of him watching you is enough to make it seem less inviting than the feel of his hands on your skin. You pull him in with you, the rippling water doing nothing to muffle the sounds of your shared pleasure.

By the end of the week, you’re exhausted but in the best possible way, your body and soul both filled with the kind of satisfaction that comes from truly giving in to what you want, to who you are together. And as the sun sets on the final day of your week alone together, you find yourselves back in Logan’s room, the place where it all began. 

The bed, once neat and tidy, is now a tangle of sheets and pillows, the evidence of your shared moments of bliss scattered around the room. Logan lies beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair as you rest your head on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“This week… it’s been more than I ever expected,” he admits quietly, his fingers brushing gently over your skin. “I don’t want it to end.”

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the same emotion reflected there—the same desire to hold on to what you’ve found together. “It doesn’t have to,” you reply. “We don’t have to go back to the way things were before.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, a small, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips. “No, we don’t,” he concurs. 

—

The morning your grandparents arrive, you and Logan are in the kitchen, finishing up lunch. Your grandmother is the first to step through the door, her face lighting up as she sees the two of you. “We’re back!” she announces, her voice cheerful as she sets her bag down by the door.

You rise to greet her, giving her a warm hug. “How was the trip?”

“Oh, it was lovely,” she replies, her eyes twinkling as she pulls back to look at you. “The cottage was just as beautiful as ever. And the Summers send their love.”

Your grandfather enters next, a gleeful smile on his face as he takes in the sight of you and Logan in the kitchen, together. “Everything go smoothly while we were gone?” he asks.

You blush. “Yes, everything was fine.”

Then they do that thing they’ve been doing the whole time you’ve been with them, where they exchange a glance—and share a look that speaks volumes. It’s the kind of look that only comes from years of understanding each other without words, and you can tell they knew exactly what they were doing when they left you and Logan alone for the week. 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” your grandmother says with a mischievous smile, her eyes flicking between you two in a way that makes you wonder just how much they’ve guessed.

“Seems like you two managed just fine without us.” Your grandfather says, patting Logan on the shoulder. 

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you steal a look at Logan, who meets your eyes with a small smirk. It’s a way to tell you that he’s just as aware as you are of what your grandparents are thinking. But there’s no embarrassment on his face, only a quiet confidence, a certainty that whatever happened between you was exactly what was meant to be.

—

The next month flies by, the routine of everything staying largely the same except for one thing. You and Logan are inseparable, drawn to each other like magnets, and with each passing day, it seems like that attraction only grows stronger. 

It’s not just the passion that binds you, though that spark is always there, and most often times doesn’t go ignored. It’s the little moments that fill your days—the way his hand brushes yours as you walk side by side, the way he rests a gentle hand on the small of your back when you’re working together in the barn, or the way his fingers grip your waist as he helps you mount your horse (even though you don’t need it). 

The work on the farm continues to get done, but there’s a new layer to everything you do—a sense of shared purpose, of partnership. And even though the days are long and tiring, you find yourself looking forward to each task, knowing that Logan will be there beside you, sharing the load, offering his quiet support and his easy, comforting presence.

As the sun begins to rise one breakfast, you grandfather announces that he needs to run into town to pick up some tools for a repair project. He’s heading out the door, and as he grabs his keys from the hook, he turns to Logan with a nod.

“Logan, why don’t you come along? Could use an extra pair of hands,” he suggests, his tone casual.

Your man agrees without hesitation, always ready to lend a hand. But as he follows your grandfather out the door, he pauses for just a moment, whirling back to look at you, and what you see on his face is insane—there’s a deep yearning, a longing that tugs on your heartstrings. It’s almost as if to say that he wishes he could stay, he doesn’t want to be apart from you, even for the short trip into town. 

You have half a mind to join them. 

The intensity of that look lingers in the air long after he’s turned away and stepped out the door, and your grandmother doesn’t miss a thing. Once the men are in the truck and begin to drive off the property, she turns to you with a teasing smile, one eyebrow raised in amusment. 

“He’s really got it bad for you, doesn’t he?” she says affectionately. “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

Your heart blooms in your chest. “I guess he does,” you reply, your voice soft,  breathless as the weight of your feelings for him wash over you. 

Your grandmother chuckles, stepping closer to place her hand on your arm “And you’ve got it bad for him too, I’d say.”

You laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

—

Several weeks later, it’s raining. That should have been the first sign that this day wasn’t going to go to plan. You’re sitting inside, curled up next to Logan on the old chesterfield, his arm wrapped around you as you both enjoy the warmth and quiet of the afternoon. 

But then you decide to go through some emails—just a quick check, nothing more, to clear out any lingering notifications. You unlock your phone and start scrolling through your inbox, Logan’s fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder as you do. Most of the emails are routine—newsletters, updates, the usual clutter—but then you see it, nestled among the others like a tiny, unexpected bombshell.

It’s an email from the company you applied to months ago, the one you almost forgot about in the blissful haze of farm life. The subject line makes your heart skip a beat: Congratulations! Offer of Employment.

Your breath catches, and you sit up a little straighter, your heart pounding in your chest as you open the email. The words leap off the screen: We are pleased to offer you the position, starting in two months.

You stare at the email, a mixture of shock and elation washing over you. This is it—your dream job, the opportunity you’ve been working toward for years. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, the kind of position that could set the course for your entire career. But as the initial wave of excitement begins to ebb, a heavy weight settles in your chest, pulling you back down to earth.

You glance over at Logan, who’s still relaxed beside you. His eyes are closed, his head resting back against the couch. The sight of him, so content, makes your heart ache, because with this job offer comes a harsh reality: accepting it means leaving him, leaving this life you’ve built together, at least for a while. And you don’t know when—or even if—you’ll be back.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter open in response to your shifting, and he looks over at you, concern flickering across his features. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I… I just got an email,” you begin shakily as you turn the screen toward him so he can read it for himself.

He takes the phone from your hand, his eyes scanning the email. You watch his expression carefully, searching for any sign of what he’s feeling. At first, there’s no reaction, just the steady, focused way he reads the words. Yet as he reaches the end, you see it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the pinching together of his eyebrows. 

He hands the phone back to you wordlessly.

Then, “This is what you’ve been waiting for.” His voice is steady, but there’s a sadness there too, a heaviness that you can’t ignore.

You nod, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah… it is.”

There’s a long stretch of nothing, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence between you. Logan looks away, his gaze fixed on the fire as if trying to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, measured. “You have to take it.”

You swallow hard. “But what about us? I don’t know when I’ll be back… or if I’ll even be able to come back.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, his grip firm, grounding. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, though you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he’s trying to hold back his own emotions for your sake. “You’ve worked too hard for this to pass it up.”

His words are supportive, encouraging, but you can see the the way he’s starting to close in on himself, as if already bracing himself for your departure. The thought of being apart from him is unbearable.

You lean into his touch, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper as the tears finally spill over.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there as if trying to convey all the things he can’t bring himself to say. “I don’t want you to leave either,” he admits. “But I’ll be here when you get back. However long it takes.”

And so begins the countdown to your departure. You always knew it was going to come, always knew you were going to have to leave your grandparents again, but you didn’t expect to find the love of your life here, and that makes it so much harder.

—

The remaining two months become a bittersweet blend of cherished moments and a looming sense of inevitability. Each day feels both precious and fleeting, a constant reminder that your time together is running out, and it shapes every decision, every action, every word between you. 

In the past, your days had been filled with the rhythm of farm life—early mornings, long hours of work, and evenings spent in each other’s arms, exhausted but content. But now, there’s a conscious effort to carve out time just for you two, time that’s not dictated by chores or routine. You start taking more trips to the pond or into town, something you hadn’t quite as often before. 

These dates are different from the intense, passionate moments you’ve shared on the farm—they’re softer, more tender, as if you’re both trying to imprint each other’s presence into your memories. You hold hands as you walk on the streets, your fingers intertwined, and every now and then, Logan will pull you close, pressing a kiss to your temple or your lips, as if he needs to reassure himself that you’re still there with him.

Even the way you make love changes during these months. The hunger and desire that had once defined your physical relationship are still there, of course—Logan’s touch still ignites a fire in you, and the need for each other still burns as hot as ever—but now, there’s a new dimension to your intimacy, a slow, sensual depth that hadn’t been there before. 

Your grandparents, upon hearing the news, immediately noticed the change too. While they were so extremely happy for your new job opportunity, they also knew what it meant. They’ve seen the way you and Logan have grown closer, the way your connection has deepened, and there’s a quiet sadness in their eyes whenever they see you together. 

It’s not a sadness for themselves, but for the both of you. 

They don’t say much, but their understanding is palpable. They seem to give you more grace when it comes to doing work around the farm, trying to volunteer and do as much as they can so you two can spend time alone. No matter how much you refuse, they insist, pushing you two out the door with picnic basket and blankets. 

Sitting on the porch one evening after a long day, your grandmother comes out to join you. She sits beside you, Logan’s arm is draped around your shoulders, and for a brief second, the three of you just sit in silence, watching the sunset.

“You know,” your grandmother begins, her voice soft and filled with emotion, “I see the way you two look at each other. It reminds me of your grandfather and me when we were young.”

You smile, leaning into Logan’s side as you listen to her. “You two have always been such an inspiration,” you say, meaning every word.

She chuckles, a wistful sound. “It wasn’t always easy, you know. There were times when we had to be apart, times when I wasn’t sure if we’d make it through. But we did. And looking at you two now… I know you’ll find a way.”

Logan squeezes your shoulder gently.. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, echoing the promise he made when you first told him about the job.

Your grandmother nods, reaching out to pat your knee. “I believe you will. But just know… it’s okay to be sad, to be scared. That’s part of loving someone.”

The words resonate with you, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

She smiles, a small, sad smile that holds a lifetime of wisdom. “You’ll be alright, my dear. Both of you.”

The days continue to slip by, and as the final weeks approach, your chest constantly feels tight. You try to make yourself feel better by lying in each other’s arms at night, whispering about the future, about the dreams you have, and the plans you’ll make when you’re together again. But still, it’s sad. 

—

Your last day creeps up on you like a shadow at dusk—inevitable, inescapable, and suddenly there, looming over everything. You wake up with a rock on your heart, the realization that this is it—your final day on the farm, your last full day with Logan before everything changes.

He is still asleep beside you, holding you close, his face peaceful in the early morning quiet. For a moment, you just watch him, memorizing the lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his hair falls across his forehead. You want to remember everything, to carry this image of him with you when you leave.

With a soft sigh, you carefully slip out of his embrace, trying not to wake him. You pad quietly to the window, staring out at the familiar landscape that has become so dear to you. The fields, the barn, the trees swaying gently in the breeze—it’s all so beautiful, so full of memories.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the wetness on your cheeks, and you quickly wipe the tears away, not wanting to start the day with sadness. But as you turn back to the bed, you see that Logan is awake, his eyes open and watching you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says it all—he knows what today means, and he feels it just as deeply as you do.

Wordlessly, you crawl back into bed, curling up against him, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you whisper back, your voice trembling slightly as you press your face into his chest, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to fall..

You just lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the day pressing down on you both. Eventually, Logan pulls back slightly, his hand cupping your face as he looks into your eyes. “Let’s go to the pond,” he says delicately. “Just you and me.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. The pond has always been your special place, a sanctuary where you’ve shared so many intimate moments, where it feels like it all began, and so it’s only right that would spend your last day there, away from everything else, just the two of you.

You decide to walk to the pond. Logan’s hand is warm and solid in yours, and you hold on to it tightly, physically unable to tear yourself from his touch. And when you reach it, a fresh wave of emotion crashes over you. 

You and Logan stand at the water’s edge, just staring out into the pond. Then, you turn to him, your eyes filled with tears, and without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

The kiss that follows is desperate, full of the need to feel connected, to hold on to each other for as long as you can. It’s not like the slow, sensual lovemaking of the past weeks—this is something desperate. Stumbling back toward the soft grass by the water’s edge, Logan gently lays you down, his hands trembling slightly as he undresses you, tears stinging behind his eyelids. As he moves over you, his body pressing against yours, there’s only this moment. 

With his skin against yours, his breath on your neck, your bodies move together. Tears spill from your eyes as you hold him tight, your hands unable to stay still, running over every part of him you can touch, needing to feel him, to anchor yourself. His lips find yours again, and the kiss is deep, full of all the love, all the emotion that neither of you can put into words. 

It’s a kiss that says goodbye, that says I love you, that says I’ll wait for you.

After reaching the peak of pleasure, you cling to each other, the tears flowing freely now, a mix of sorrow and love and everything in between.

Logan holds you close, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his eyes wet with tears. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” you choke out. “More than anything.”

—

Driving away from the farm was probably the hardest thing you've ever had to do in your entire life. Harder than moving away for university, harder than securing your first full-time job, harder than living alone in a city where you knew no one. This was different—this was leaving behind a piece of your heart, a part of your soul that you knew would never be whole until you returned.

Your hands grip the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles white as you try to focus on the road ahead, but it’s impossible to shake the image that’s burned into your mind—the image of Logan and your grandparents standing on the porch as you drove away. The sight of them, standing there side by side, watching you leave, is something that will haunt you for a long time. 

Logan, his stoic expression barely masking the pain in his eyes, his hands clenched at his sides as if holding himself back from running after you. Your grandmother, her face a mixture of sadness and pride, eyes glistening with unshed tears. And your grandfather, standing tall and strong, but with a heaviness in his gaze that spoke of understanding, of experience, of knowing just how hard this had to be.

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally break free, streaming down your face as you drive, blurring your vision and making it hard to see the road ahead. You swipe at them angrily, frustrated with yourself for breaking down like this, but it’s no use. The emotions are too strong, too overwhelming, and soon you’re bawling your eyes out, the sound of your own crying filling the car. 

You can barely catch your breath, each sob wracking your body with a force that leaves you feeling drained, exhausted, and utterly broken.

—

The time apart is worse than you ever imagined it would be. In the beginning, you and Logan make every effort to stay in touch. The calls and texts are your lifeline, little threads that keep you connected to the farm, to him, to the life you left behind. 

At first, you talk every day. his voice a comfort, a reminder that you’re not alone, that he’s still there, waiting for you. He tells you about his days, about how he still rides the horses every morning, just like he used to when you were there. 

But as time goes on, the time between each call grows. Your demanding work schedule, and the unreliable service in the countryside, make it harder and harder to find moments when you’re both free to talk. The texts, once long and filled with details about your lives, become shorter, more practical. You try to stay connected, but the distance feels like a growing chasm between you, one that neither of you can quite figure out how to bridge.

Years pass by in a blur. You have no time to spend at the farm, with it being too far away for just a weekend trip, and other commitments seem to always get in the way. 

Then, one day, the call comes—the call you’ve dreaded but somehow always knew would happen. It’s your grandmother, her voice trembling as she tells you that your grandfather has passed away. 

You take leave from work immediately, making arrangements to drive back to the farm and spend a night. The funeral is simple, attended by a few close friends and neighbours, but the absence of your grandfather is felt deeply by everyone.

And he’s there too—Logan. He’s standing off to the side, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his face etched with grief. When your eyes meet, it’s as if no time has passed at all. You walk over to him, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid to let go. 

The few years apart, the pain of the distance, all of it melts away in that embrace. You bury your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you’ve missed so much, and the tears you thought you had run out of begin to fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, everything hitting you at once—the loss of your grandfather, the years you’ve spent apart, the life you could have had together.

He hugs you tighter, his hand gently stroking your hair. “I miss you,” he murmurs thickly. “Every damn day, I miss you.”

You spend the rest of the day together, holding each other, talking, catching up, and remembering your grandfather. Logan tells you about the farm, about how he’s kept things going, but you can hear the weariness in his voice, the toll that time and loneliness have taken on him. It’s clear that the farm hasn’t been the same without you, just as your life hasn’t been the same without him.

Later that evening, after the guests have left and the house has grown quiet, your grandmother pulls you aside. Her eyes are tired, full of sorrow, but there’s a calm acceptance in her expression. “I’ve made a decision,” she says softly, her voice steady. “I’m going to sell the farm.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but before you can protest, she continues. “Not to just anyone,” she adds quickly. “To Logan. He’s been more than just a farmhand, you know that. This place is as much his as it was ours. But… I need to move into permanent care. I can’t manage on my own anymore.”

You nod, understanding but feeling a deep sadness all the same. The farm has been a part of your life for so long, and the thought of it changing hands, even to Logan, feels like another loss. But there’s also a sense of relief, knowing that it will be in good hands, that it will stay in the family, in a way.

That night, you’re tangled in Logan’s arms. Leaving him the next morning is just as hard the second time as it was the first.

—

Five years since that fateful summer have passed, and in that time, your life changes in ways you never expected. You’ve built a successful career, made some amazing friends, travelled the world, but the hustle and bustle of city life has taken its toll. The stress, the strain, the dissatisfaction—it begins to weigh on you more and more. 

So, you make a decision.

You quit your job, find something remote, something that allows you to work from anywhere, as long as you can drive into the city every few weeks to drop off documents. It’s a drastic change, but it’s one you need. You realize that the life you want, the life you’ve been yearning for, isn’t in the city. 

It’s back at the farm.

As you step out of your car, you see him. He’s by the paddock, feeding the horses apples, just like he used to. His back is to you at first, but then he turns, and his eyes meet yours, and time stops. 

There’s a lifetime of emotions in that look—love, longing, hope. Most of all, there’s recognition, as if both of you know that this is it, that this is the moment you’ve been waiting for all these years.

And when you’re finally standing in front of him again, he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek the same way it did all those years ago. 

----

[buckyalpine]

18+ Minors dni. Buckys innocent neighbor who bakes him cookies and muffins just cause. The girl next door who has the coziest apartment he's ever been in. Shelves filled with books along with plenty of comfy blankets decorating the couches. Bucky has his own place right across but home is with her (even if she doesn't know it yet).

She's the type of girl he's going to take his time with, asking her out on a date, just coffee and a walk in the park. Nothing more than a kiss on her cheek at the end of the night. Another date. Dinner. Another kiss to her other cheek. He wouldn't dare rush anything, especially not someone as soft and sweet as her.

He feels like such a dirty little pervert when he thinks about her afterwards when he's alone in bed, all the blood in his body rushing south, and fuck he's so hard. He tries to ignore it, he didn't want to do something so debauched by thinking of her like that, he even tries to think about his grocery list, laundry, he'd probably wash his arm later, it would probably be fine in the dishwasher-

Nothing worked.

He groans, shuffling and kicking his sweats off, hissing when his hand goes down to tug at his aching cock, relief flooding his veins at the sensation. He lets his mind wander to how adorable she'd be, the way he'd take her apart in the most gentle way. Lay her against the pillows while he holds those soft thighs apart, giving her the most feather light suckles on that perfect clit, basking in all the sounds she'd make. He strokes himself faster thinking about the way he'd get her ready to take all of him. How he'd make it so good for her-shit he was going to blow-maybe if he was lucky, one day she'd let him put his cock in her mou-

"Fuck!!" Bucky threw his head back, spurts of cum shooting from his sensitive head, his post orgasm haze leaving him feeling like a filthy old man. She were here making him baked treats and he was jerking his dick off like a sick fuck.

Then the night finally comes. Bucky is ready to cuddle and nothing else but he's thrown off because never in his wildest fantasies did he expect this.

She is the girl who sends him reeling the first time he takes her clothes off one by one revealing dark ink on her back and hips. He has to suppress a growl, his eyes growing wide at the scantily clad lace that covers her body.

"Like what you see, Sergeant?" she practically purrs in his ear while he lets his han ghost over her bare skin, his chest heaving when his eyes fall to her perfect breasts, hints of silver peeking from under her lingerie, there was no way-

"Can I?" He asks breathlessly, his hand reaching behind to unclasp the bra, those pretty pierced nipples begging to be sucked.

Bucky who turns into a fucking menace, his entire world flipping upside down when she grinds down on his crotch not hiding exactly what she needs from him. He doesn't even have the ability to hide how feral he is, letting all his inhibitions slip.

-

"My little bunny's a slut, fuck, c'mere" He grabs you and tosses you over his shoulder, hauling you over to his bedroom like an untamed beast, tossing you onto his bed with no remorse. You're in nothing but your panties which he rips right off, your thighs squeezing together at the way he stalks over to you, his hungry eyes raking up and down your body without an ounce of shame. He tugs his sweats down to reveal his leaky cock, stroking it at the edge of his bed after tossing his shirt off.

"See this baby? Been fuckin' stroking and touching myself like a fuckin' teenager because of you-" He throws off his pants before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between your thighs, spreading them apart with his knees, "-and you've been here lookin' like God damn sin under those cute little sweaters"

He flicks his cockhead against your clit, humming at the clear beads of his arousal that drip onto your cunt.

"Fuck James, need more, pl-"

"Nuh uh, what was that you called me earlier, sweets?" He lets out a dark chuckle, the veins in his cock throbbing as he tightly holds the base, waiting to hear it again.

"Sergeant" you whine with mischief in your eyes and Bucky is a goner. He'll taste you later and most definitely feed you his cock another day but right now he wants to be nowhere else other than your pussy. He wants to watch you take every bit of him, rolling over to lay on his back while you straddle him, his length slotted against your cunt. He holds it up for you with a cocky look on his face, moaning when his tip breeches your tight pussy, your walls gripping his swollen, pink head.

"That's just the tip baby, c'mon, sit on it, wanna put all of my dick in you, that's it, good girl-shittt"

"Oh fuccckk,s'big" You moan feeling the stretch as you sink all the way down, panting and staying still while you adjust to his size.

"That's it bunny, that's it, ride me, ride your Sergeant" He grabs you by the hips, guiding you to grind down on him, making you feel his entire cock in your stomach. "You're a slut for big dick aren't you baby, acting all cute and shy when all you really wanted was the winter soldier's cock"

Bucky wasn't even sure where all the filth spewing from his mouth was even coming from but he couldn't stop.

"S'that it bunny? Say it baby, tell me how much you wanted my fat cock in you"

"Wanted it! F-cuk Sergeant, wanted your cock s-o-so bad!!"

"Fuck yes!!" His feet plant to meet your bounces, his hips thrusting up, slamming his entire length into you. "M'close, fuck bunny, gonna cum already, I can't hold it-

He doesn't have time to be embarrassed. You feel to good. He rubs your clit needing you to cum all over him so he can let go.

"Please, cum all over Sergeants cock baby, give it to me, be a good girl n'cum, c'mon, cum on my dick, yes, oh fuck yes I can feel it-milk it, shit touch my balls-"

You nearly collapse as your orgasm starts to wash over you, his sponge head hitting the most sensitive parts against your walls while he toys with your clit. His voice is muffled as you start to feel waves of pleasure consume you but you head just enough to reach behind, rubbing his heavy, so full of cum ba-

"FUUUCCCCKKK" He grabs you and wraps his arms around your body while he relentlessly thrusts up, biting down on your shoulder while he lets out the sluttiest, loudest moan with 0 remorse. It feels too good and he's sure the neighbors can hear but honestly, everyone should know how amazing it feels.

-

"I got you pretty baby" Bucky coos as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, a shiver running through you while you float in bliss. Bucky pulls the covers up, deciding to cuddle up with you for a bit before running a shower, his previous demeanor replaced with the far less debauched version of him.

Anyway, just an idea. Also, it's past my bedtime.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

This just gave me the warmest of fuzzies ❤️💚❤️

(at a time I really needed them, no less)

In fact, I've really been enjoying your recent reblogs of Chris Evans content (though I'm not planning to switch from my Beloved Strangebatch...ever) ~ and as I had the treat of seeing CE in Red One this past weekend, I couldn't help thinking, hmmmmm, darsy needs to see this and perhaps get inspired to write a Jack O'Malley fic😉😉.

Steve and Avenger!Reader going to a Christmas Market please! 🥰 Can be any sort of relationship but wouldn't mind a Christmas Market proposal...

Thank you so much, this is perfect for both @buck-star's fluffy winter event (Christmas Market) and Day 1 of @the-slumberparty's December Daze: (let me dust the snow off your coat/hat/shoulder)

Words/Warnings: 2,315 / tooth-rotting fluff

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES

Don’t Mind If I Do

“Even North Carolina is freezing cold this morning, I checked. Trust me, this will be worth it.”

You frown in your perfect blanket cocoon. “All right, I’ll be out front by 8. And I’m cranking the heat in my rooms to 74 while I do it, just so I’ll be in a nicer mood for you!”

“You won’t regret it, sweetheart.”

With that, the two of you hang up, and you tap the + icon multiple times in the app that controls the heating in your suite. The Avengers Compound isn’t much to look at from the outside, but they make up for that in amenities. The only catch is, the suites are much too small to share with anyone. Despite your year-long committed relationship, you and Steve haven’t been able to truly ‘sleep over’ or spend couples time comfortably while stationed here. His rental apartment in NYC is lovely, and you’ve spent time together there, but both of you tend to be work-oriented. You’ve made do with what you have, even when that means sometimes cramming into Steve’s twin sized, extra-long bed here at the Compound.

Besides, you remind yourself as you rush through your morning routine, Steve Rogers isn’t the ‘shack up’ type, so it’s not like you’d be sharing an apartment if one were available. Still, it feels wrong to wake up without his warm, strong body next to yours on a cold day like this.

Steve had told you to dress for being outside, so after pulling on a thick pair of socks and lacing up your hiking boots, you don a knitted hat and shrug on a winter coat over your sweater. You meet up with Steve in the atrium of the building, feeling that familiar flush when he turns and lights up to see you.

“Oh perfect, you look nice and warm,” Steve says, quickly adding, “--and beautiful too. Very.”

He always leads with the truth, but as a boyfriend, he’s made you feel lovely enough for a superhero, leading to this in-joke of adding that compliment as an afterthought. You know him enough now to recognize when he thinks the second part first, and the face he’d made after turning around tells you this is one of those days.

“Are any of those pre-requisites for your secret Saturday morning outing?”

“Two of those are permanent, but yes, being warm will help,” he says, holding out a bare hand for you to take.

Inwardly grinning, you start to slip off your own glove, then pause. “Exactly how cold is it in North Carolina versus here? Do I need to grab a scarf?” Before working with the Avengers, you’d been stationed at Fort Liberty, so the climate difference between that and upstate New York had taken a little getting used to.

Steve takes your glove, tucks it into your pocket (being sure to crowd close enough to blatantly smell your hair), and then takes your bare hand in his bare hand to walk out into the brisk December air. It’s cold.

“At least ten degrees warmer than this, but I’d be happy to offer my arm as a scarf,” he says, squeezing your hand as you wend your way through the parked cars.

“You’re ten times better looking than all of my scarves, so I think I win!”

The drive is cozy with the heat on and an oldies Christmas station crooning the classics. After almost a half hour of light conversation and heavy exchanged glances, Steve pulls into a charming neighborhood decked to the rafters with holiday cheer. You peer out the windows, trying to figure out the plan. Are there sleigh-hay rides? An ice skating rink? Maybe a holiday quilt show set up in an 18th century church somewhere? You’re so caught up by the possibilities that you miss the instructions Steve gets from a woman wearing a high-vis jacket and Santa hat until the car parks, and he turns it off.

There’s something almost ceremonial about the way your boyfriend pats each of his warm trenchcoat’s pockets to find his gloves before pulling them on and flexing his hands. It’s captivating, not dissimilar to the way he girds himself for battle (whether physically or morally, you’ve noticed).

“You see my hat anywhere?” he asks, finally turning to look at you.

“Crap. I might have sat on it,” you realize.

Steve grins. “Well, it’ll be warm.”

You both get out of the car, and Steve dons his pre-warmed hat before gesturing toward the city center a few blocks away. “Christmas market.”

If your life was a film, that’s where either the Hallelujah Chorus or a full-on tire screech would have happened, but as it is, you fall sideways into him and catch yourself on his lapel, looking up at him with wide, delighted eyes.

“You promise? Oh God, that was way too Hallmark of me, I’m sorry-- but… you promise?” you ask, going through three vastly different facial expressions in the process.

“I promise,” Steve says, taking your hand in his, then lifting both to kiss the back of yours.

Christmas markets had been a staple of your childhood, and your family used to travel pretty far afield to see new and favorite ones. As your family’s circumstances had changed, those trips had dwindled, and by the time you were out of high school, they were a treasured memory of a no-longer-possible past. The years since then have mostly involved you throwing yourself into your work, becoming the kind of person soldiers and civilians alike can trust and rely on. If you’re honest, your time with the Avengers has been more fulfilling than even those precious school years of summer beaches, birthday parties, and chilly strolls through magical small-town holiday displays.

Part of that is Steve, a genuine hero and painfully good man who somehow seems to love you almost as much as you love him. Since the first moment you met he’s held out his hand for you in support. He’s a teammate, a challenger, a role model, and honestly? A partner. 

“Snow! Look at that!” You can hear the smile in his voice. Light, gentle flurries have started to drift down just as you visit the first festive stall. It’s perfect timing, since some of the crafts on display are delicate handmade snowflake ornaments. “If you’ve got an ‘in’ with the weather, sir, I’d love to learn your secrets,” Steve jokes with the owner. 

“It snows for you, to make perfect day for you and your wife!” the elderly man says with a beatific expression. “Please, you must take one for your tree at home.”

The two of you have two separate small trees, a result made necessary by the size of your living spaces at the Compound. You can see Steve tense up, clearly uncomfortable with the hinted, benign falsehood.

“Oh, but I must have both of these, too! How much?” you rush to say, pulling out your wallet and holding them up next to the one the owner pressed into Steve’s hand. It feels like your responsibility to meet the men in the middle.

“This is so we can see them from all angles, you understand,” Steve says.

“Of course!” the man says, a secretive smile playing on his lips. “Three is a good number, and I wish you a successful day!”

Steve’s cheeks have a distinct pinkish tinge to them for the next set of booths, but you avoid teasing him about it. This is not the first time someone’s misidentified the two of you as married, and you’ve always tread very carefully during those moments. Have you dreamed about marrying Steve Rogers? God, yes. You’d never say anything though. Proposing to Captain America is almost a national sport, something you’ve witnessed firsthand. Heck, you wouldn’t be surprised if he rejected you out of habit if you tried proposing.

It does look like you’ll both get to dodge your more famous secondary identities today. A lot of that is thanks to Tony’s fleet of look-alike cars, his insane security for the whole campus, and the way Steve can somehow dress and look like a regular, if burly country guy. However it’s happened, you’re incredibly grateful that your relationship has skated under the press radar. You suspect that Steve’s ‘couple behavior’ this morning is a result of happiness, holiday cheer, and perceived anonymity (you like the scruff he’s sported these past weeks, but… come to think of it, you wonder if he grew it just for that extra layer of obfuscation. Cap doesn’t quite pull National Icon status with hints of a beard, after all).

After forty minutes of happily wandering from booth to booth and window display to window display, the two of you decide to partake in the reason why everyone’s there so early in the morning: Christmas pastry from one of the best bakeries in central New York.

The town has set up a charming eating area just off the central square in a church parking lot. There are evergreen trees lining one side, each decorated in a different (sometimes chaotic) style and heavily festooned with lights. The picnic tables are all red and green, and hanging from a few of the arching lightposts is a bundle of familiar-looking plant-life. Steve sends you to snag a seat ahead of him while he waits in line, and when he comes back, he’s got twice as many goodies as you expected, all piled up on one plate.

“They all have a label on them saying ‘Mistle-hug,’” he says, standing at the end of the table. “I have two plates’ worth here, but they were much more stable like this.”

“How are we going to eat all this?” you ask, delighted nonetheless. You take the plate and carefully liberate the second stacked plate so you can distribute the bounty evenly, but Steve doesn’t hasn’t sat down yet. “If you don’t come pick out what you want, I’m going to get greedy!” you lie in a singsong voice. All he does in response is say your name softly.

“What are you--” you ask as you straighten up and look over at him. He’s standing at almost battle stance, frozen still with one hand tucked into the inside of his jacket. You immediately see the beautiful pattern the snow’s made on his shoulder, and pop to your feet with your phone.

“Wait, that’s not--” Steve says in a bewildered voice, his brows adorably furrowed even when you show him the picture.

“Here,” you say impudently, reaching up to kiss at his shoulder and thus melt the ‘offending’ snowflake art so he can feel free to sit down. “All perfect now.”

“You’re completely right,” Steve says. There’s something odd in the tenor of his voice-- and then suddenly he’s on one knee in front of you, pulling that hand out of his coat pocket with a recognizably-sized box.

You’ve got tears in your eyes, flowers blooming in your heart, and powdered sugar on your hands, which is why you’d chosen to kiss the snow off instead of brush it, but then Steve starts to speak.

“I was going to do this by the big tree, but then it hit me-- I spent years locked in ice, and it was all because I was waiting for you to come kiss all the cold away. You’re everything I didn’t and couldn’t know I needed-- a warm smile, a fighting heart, a clever mind, and more than that, you make me feel smarter, stronger, and happier when I’m with you. Will you marry me?”

You can barely get the word ‘YES!’ out past the lump in your throat, but you’d started nodding as soon as he opened his mouth. Steve tugs the ring out of the box and slides it perfectly onto your finger before surging upwards, pulling you into a twirling, joyful hug that dances the two of you a good few feet away from your table.

“Look, they’re under the Mistle-hug!” some voice calls out, and Steve’s --your future husband’s-- chest starts shaking with laughter. He sets you down and you both look up. A mere centimeter above his head spins one of the fake mistletoe pieces, its label dislodged by your antics. A ‘Hug! Hug! Hug!’ chant starts from the growing crowd of onlookers, and you nod up at Steve, your heart in your eyes.

“Don’t mind if I do!” he quips, engulfing you in a bear hug that leaves your newly-adorned left hand once again resting right on his chest. At the very edges of the roaring in your ears you hear a few people correctly guess who the two of you are, but you’re too delighted to mind.

A half hour later, when most of the well-wishers are finished offering their advice, encouragements, and pieces of paper for Steve to autograph, you notice that you’d left a powdered sugar outline on his coat.

“Oops, sorry about that,” you tell Steve, nodding at the handprint and grabbing a wreath-adorned paper napkin to dip it in your cider to wash it off.

“Leave it,” he says, stopping you with a possessive little thumb swipe across the ring he’d placed on your finger. “Feels like it belongs there, just like you, sweetheart.”

You want to tell him all the ways you love him, all the things he’s made better in your life, all the demons he’s conquered for you simply by being Steve Rogers, but you’re speechless. All at once, the perfect tension-breaker hits you, and you can’t help but laugh.

“What is it?” Steve asks in a wary, amused tone. It’s another sign of how well you know each other.

“Can we try to convince Tony that I get to take the name Mrs. America?"

As it turns out, that’s exactly what most of the next day’s news articles call you.