#patchwork cushion

[bluedesignwall]

Well it is amazing that I got this finished tonight. I was constantly distracted by the cricket. I really need to turn my sewing machine table around the other way. Great cricket. I really have to go to sleep now or I will fall asleep at my desk tomorrow. Night all.

[sharkbeneaththelotus]

Been working on this long enough that I miss it now it's finished (it has been finished for five minutes)

[necrotic-nightshade]

New adopt up for sale on my Toyhou.se! This one's priced a smidge higher than most of my others since it's pretty detailed and one that I'm a wee bit attached to

All info + TOS can be found with the ToyHou.se listing above. This post will be edited once the character is claimed.

EDIT: Claimed and sold!

[chainestiche]

finally making a patchwork cushion cover for the wooden chairs i got off fb marketplace, will probably make the top checkered part quilted !

so far ive joined two rows, and made the HUGE mistake of picking 25mm seam allowance which probably means ill have to reinforce all the row joining seams by hand but im okay with that because its looking great honestly and i dont mind the extra work as long as my cushions hold up for a long time

ive got two chairs to furnish and this fabric is limited to the train of the black denim dress i cut and the white damaged pillowcase and both of those have like two strips of fabric left in them so i chose another color scheme for the checkered top of the second chair

fuchsia upholstery velvet and red imported dril (that i had to buy sadly i enjoy my textiles and objects more when theyre pre loved but these work well and I didn't want to wait to find the perfect matches at markets and secondhand stores) babeyyyyy these chairs are gonna fuck SEVERELY

[fabricfringe]

Discover the Artistry: Yohji Yamamoto Unveils Limited-Edition Patchwork Cushions Collection Introduction: A Touch of Elegance in Soft Furnishings Wow, have you heard about the latest from renowned fashion designer Yohji Yamamoto? He’s just dropped a limited-edition collection of patchwork cushions t...

[deepikajn9290]

Elevate Your Home with a Beautiful Wooden Elephant Stool

[theartboxstoresblog]

Brighten Up Your Sofa with Stunning Floral Embroidered Cushions

Gorgeous floral embroidered cushions will liven up your sofa! Any living area is made more elegant and charming by the addition of these colorful and artistically patterned cushions. They perfectly complement a variety of designs and color combinations, making them ideal for complementing your home decor. These gorgeous floral accessories will turn your seating area into a chic, comfortable haven.

[alivintagefabric]

Vintage Fabric Bundles

At Vintage Fabric I sell fabric by the metre as well as pre-used curtains, I often reuse and recycle beautiful old curtains, cleaning and trimming faded parts, doing this I find myself with plenty of smaller offcuts which can have hundreds of uses. Patchwork and quilting, craft projects, rug making, smaller interiors work like cushion covers or chair seats. Vintage Pink Laura Ashley…

[lady-luckk]

stop!! the farmer with the bimbo reader was too good!!

hi im the anon who made that request

i feel like you must secretly know me cause when i was first learning about cars i too was like “you have to change its oil??” cars always have seemed too high maintenance for me and i too would probs die on the roadside since i don’t know how to fix a flat tire

if not cooking or manual labor i hope reader is good at decorating or sewing or something

i wanna make Eli some new clothes and bedazzle them too

thank you my dear for the story!!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ bedazzling the farm

# pairings: yandere cowboy farmer x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: you can’t cook, can’t farm, and nearly lost a toe to an angry rooster—but luckily, you can sew. now you’re stuck on a farm with a grumpy, overprotective farmer and a bunch of chaotic animals wearing tiny outfits you made. survival? questionable. fashion? flawless.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

even though you’ve proven time and time again that cooking and farmwork aren’t your strengths, you somehow found your niche in sewing and decorating—something even eli hadn’t expected. 

it started small, with you mending one of his ripped flannels after you “accidentally” snagged it while doing laundry. the stitches were neat, almost perfect, and before long you were fixing worn-out work jeans, patching holes in old quilts, and hemming curtains that had been dragging across the floor for who knows how many years.

the house started changing too; bits of you showing up everywhere—handmade pillowcases, new curtains that actually matched, and little decorations you’d put together from old supplies you’d found around the farm. 

eli pretended not to notice at first, but you caught him more than once just standing in a room you’d fixed up, his gaze lingering on the small things, like the way you finally got him to replace those ancient, ugly dish towels or how you’d hung a makeshift wreath on the front door. “looks different in here,” he’d mutter, always gruff, but his eyes softer than you were used to. “good different.” and maybe you weren’t built for chasing chickens or working heavy machinery, but this? making his house into something warm—into home—this was something you could do.

and just like that sewing became your secret weapon—your little rebellion against being utterly useless on the farm. you often used it as a way to kill time, something to keep your hands busy after dinner. you'd sit curled up on the couch with a needle and thread, tongue poking out in concentration as you patched a hole in eli's jacket or embroidered a little flower onto a pillowcase just to make him scowl and mutter, “what the hell’s this daisy doin’ on my bed?” but he never took it off. not once.

just like that, you had a whole basket of projects—mending shirts, sewing buttons, turning worn-out jeans into tool pouches. eli started leaving things for you to fix without asking, setting them quietly beside your sewing kit with a grunt like it wasn’t a big deal. but you knew it was. he even made a comment once, low and rough, “never met someone who could sew like that, not out here.” and the pride in your chest nearly burst.

you started making things from scratch too—throw pillows from old feed sacks, a little curtain for the chicken coop window (yes, it had a window now), even a new cushion for the porch swing you’d claimed as your afternoon throne. the farmhouse began to reflect you more and more, a blend of rough edges and soft touches. and even if you couldn’t dig a ditch or wrangle a goat, you’d found your own way to belong—needle in hand, threading yourself into every corner of his world.

eli wears whatever you sew for him, no questions asked. patchwork flannel? he buttons it up like it’s designer. a beanie with crooked stitching? he pulls it over his ears and pretends it’s the warmest thing he owns. god forbid anyone so much as laughs at your handiwork—eli’s jaw tightens, his eyes go cold, and if a glare doesn’t shut them up, his fists sure will. 

one poor guy at the general store sneered at eli’s hand-stitched vest, eyeing it like it was some sort of joke. “did you make that yourself? or did your grandma help you with the stitching?” he laughed, but eli’s face went stone cold. without a word, eli grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into the nearest shelf so hard the cans rattled, and growled, “you talkin’ shit about my clothes again, and i’ll make sure it’s the last time you ever laugh. 

he never says much about the things you make, but you’ve caught him smoothing down the hems or tugging a collar straight like it means something. he even started leaving little scraps of fabric on the table, like hints. 

you didn’t stop at eli’s clothes, either. once you realized the animals were basically your audience-slash-family now, it was over for them. the goat got a denim jacket with rhinestones that said “headbutt boss” across the back. the pigs each got tiny sunhats—though they kept shaking them off, so now they’re mostly just lawn decorations. the grumpiest rooster now struts around with a little bandana like he’s in a gang. eli walked out one morning, took one look at the cow wearing a pastel shawl and flower crown, and just rubbed a hand over his face like he aged ten years.

“you dressin’ ‘em up for a hoedown i wasn’t invited to?” he asked dryly.

“they have personalities, eli,” you said, tying a bow around the sheep’s tail.

"this one’s soft cottagecore, that one’s early-2000s pop star.”

he didn’t argue. he just muttered something under his breath and helped you adjust the goat’s sunglasses.

and when one of the town guys laughed at the pig’s polka-dot scarf, eli cracked his knuckles and said, “that pig’s wearin’ somethin’ made with more love and effort than your entire personality. keep talkin’.”

the guy shut up real quick after that—especially when the pig in question oinked and strutted past like it knew it had backup. eli just nodded solemnly like he was proud of the pig’s sass, and you swear to god the rooster winked at you. now you’ve got a whole barnyard posse in coordinated outfits and a six-foot farmer who’ll throw hands over crochet accessories. rural life? absolutely thriving.

[luveline]

hiya there! can I request remus having an autistic gf and her finally being comfortable stimming and unmasking around him? 🙏🏻 thank you

“I love that movie, I love Scooby-Doo.” 

Remus hums. “I don’t mind it.” 

“With the escape ball and– and when Scooby draws the bunny?” You grin. “It always makes me laugh.” 

“I like the frisbee flashback.” 

“That’s the first one.” 

“Is it?” Remus takes a sip of his coffee, a white chocolate mocha, barely any coffee at all. 

“I don’t know.” You laugh. Remus likes how it tumbles from you, unabashed, your hands drifting towards your chest. You’ve slumped with time into the cushions of the coffee shop’s patchwork sofa, a thigh of space between you and Remus filled with your purse, his wallet, and his longing. 

You start to squeeze your hand into a fist. You’re still smiling. Remus has to compute the event quickly, lest he ask if you’re okay and make a fool of himself. You’re fine, just excited to be having a laugh, and this is what happens. He resists the urge to clench his own fist as yours rolls in and out of itself like a flower, blooming and un-blooming, taking in the sun, heat of your chest, and closing again. You squeeze again and Remus remembers it’s his turn to talk. 

“Did you watch the cartoons?” he asks. 

“I did! Yes! The cartoon movies were the best.” 

Remus is sure you’d let him kiss you if he asked politely enough, but you’re so busy trying to learn everything about one another that there hasn’t been time. Genuinely. He’s ditching a lecture to be here now, wondering if he can persuade you into calling in sick from work tonight just ‘cos he wants to see you that little bit longer. 

“If you skip work, we can watch the Cyber Chase. I have the DVD.” 

Your hand squeezes, and when you let it go, you force your fingers straight. Then, gentle, you begin tapping the base of your neck like a feigned pulse. “Really, you do?” 

“Buy you a takeaway and everything.” 

The noise you make in response is almost silent. Lips pressed together, eyes alight, it’s a happy hum. He’s so happy he caused it that he reaches over the mess on the sofa to hold your resting wrist. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah. But if you’re buying food then I’m buying the popcorn before we go. There’s a CostCutters by your flat, right?” 

He follows down your wrist to your hand. It’s restless, but not moving into tight balls like the other one. “Yeah. Or we can go to a proper shop and get some kernels, I have a pan with a lid and real butter, we can make it ourselves. I’ll make caramel, too, if you want.” 

Remus doesn’t think it’s the popcorn that’s exciting you —though popcorn can be quite interesting on an otherwise mundane Monday night— but instead assumes it to be the same thing that has his heart skipping beats, the diminishing gap between you. The inch of your knee pressing into his. 

“It’s the second film, with the frisbee,” you say suddenly. “You’re right, it’s when they have to go to the original clubhouse.” 

You squeeze your hand into a fist again, worrying the neck of your t-shirt. Remus rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, weighing the idea of asking you if you’re alright against how that might kill the mood. Eventually, he brings his own hand to his neck and squeezes it shut. “You okay?” he asks softly, just so you know he doesn’t mind. 

Your hand relaxes. Voice similarly soft, eyes a sugary shade he has yet to have seen before, “I’m just happy,” you say. “Being with you.” 

He plays with your fingers, shyness half-feigned and half embarrassingly real. “I like it, too. It’s exactly why you should come over.” 

“I thought I should tell you that, in case I take back my hand or something and it gives you a different impression. I’m just happier when I get to choose what’s happening sometimes.” You smile, and Remus knows he’s trusted. “But I guess you figured that out.” 

He strokes your ring finger, his eyes squinting gently as he returns your smile. 

[bernardsbendystraws]

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

02: try harder

The peace didn’t linger in the cool air seeping through the window very long. Not when I checked my phone to see the messages from Hayden, texts consistently rolling in throughout the night that let me know he didn’t sleep at all. 

And it was my fault. 

“Hey.” 

The simple greeting from me didn’t falter his blank expression as I shut the door to his apartment behind me. I slipped off my shoes, swallowing thickly as I watched his sunken eyes squint sadly. 

No words left his lips. A silence clouded the room with unbearable tension, making the air hitch in my chest as I sat on the couch, leaving about a foot of room in between us. The distance did little to ease the heavy weight falling on my spine, an uncomfortable jolt of anxiety flowing up and buzzing in my ears. 

“I…hey,” he whispers back. The soft tone of his voice makes my teeth clench into the side of my cheek inside of my mouth. I hurt him. I really, really hurt him. All to feel better for myself when I disappointed him. 

My tongue stammers against my teeth. I feel the rush of disappointment glide over my skin, washing over me like a rough wave of harsh salt water. And it stings. 

“I’m sorry,” I breathe out. 

Looking over at him, I watch as his eyes shift to mine with a bitter fury. Hayden’s face twists with sour distaste. “I….thanks. Means a lot after you spent the night with another guy, really,” he spits sarcastically. 

Ouch. 

His words hurt, but they hurt because they were true. 

“It’s not like that—I…I just—”

“You just what?” he cuts me off, running his hand over his mouth. “You can’t even try to hang out with me and my friends, but you can run off with the same guy over and over again? I mean—Jesus, you’re not even showing me you care. I—what do you want me to think? Because, right now? I…it feels like you want to make me feel like shit. It really does.” 

There’s a burning defensive rage burning in my gut as I listen to his words. I am trying. Did me sticking by his side for so long not mean a thing? Was it pointless for me to even attempt to pitch into the conversation with his friends in the first place? 

But he’s right. I left. I left him alone when all he wanted was me to stick by his side. 

“I’m sorry, I—I’m trying, I really am. I…I understand why you’re upset, I really do—I’ll, I’ll try harder, okay?” My question washes over him with some sort of relief as I watch his eyes relax. “I’m really sorry I made you feel so…unimportant. I…I’m trying, but—I’ll try harder,” I say. 

His lips smack open and shut as his eyes flicker from my eyes to the couch cushions. “Okay,” he breathes. 

My body sinks further into the couch as my gut clenches with nerves. 

How the fuck do I try harder?

__________

“Try harder? I mean—what the fuck does he want?” Matt questions. 

I lift my shoulders in a slight shrug, clasping the warm cup in my hands as the cold wind brushes against the tip of my nose. 

“Like, stay by his side when he’s talking to his friends? Maybe? I…I don’t really know,” I stammer. 

The crunch of the leaves stutters in the silence from his steps. Looking over, I see Matt’s feet planted on the cement trail. Trees shroud behind him, mostly bare as the rusted orange foliage starts to fall. 

His face is furrowed with confusion and judgment. I shift in my place, tilting my head as I let out a sigh. “Matt, you—you don’t know everything–”

“I know enough. You do try. For fucks sake–even last night. You waited by his side like a fuckin’ puppy for how long? Yeah—no. I know enough to see how shitty he is. You….” 

A subtle pout tugs on my lips. The warmth in my hands feels heavier, the hot chocolate seeming to pull down with gravity as I grasp the cup tighter. 

“What, Matt?” I urge, curious and sour as I start down at his jeans. 

“You just…” he takes a couple steps forward. His hand rolls through his hair messily before falling on my shoulder and lazily rubbing down my arm. “You deserve better.” 

My eyes meet his for a moment. It’s like I can see myself in the way he looks at me—every part of my skin starts to buzz as I swallow thickly. 

This isn’t right. 

“Matt, I…just—stop. I,” his hand drops to his side disappointedly. He lets out a dry laugh, starting to walk forward as I take a couple steps to catch up to his side. 

“Whatever, tell yourself whatever you want, I guess. I’ll…I’ll be here, ya know,” he looks over at me, his eyes becoming gentle in their gaze as he breathes loudly. “Whatever happens, I’m here, okay?” he announces. 

“I—okay,” I agree. 

Our feet patter on the curving cement once again. Tall trees block the sun, the cool breeze intensifying as I clutch onto the hot chocolate in my hands tighter. 

“Ugh,” I groan. My head tilts uncomfortably with a wave of frustration. From the corner of my eye, I see Matt looking at me. He’s laughing. I can’t help but let my lips curl upwards at the sound of his boneless laugh—something I’ve never heard with anyone else besides him. 

“What’s up? You,” he snorts through while giggling between breaths, “---ya good there, sweetheart?” he remarks. 

Sweetheart.

It’s not in a genuine way. He’s joking. But–I can still feel the bitter wind bite against my flushing cheeks, a warmth crawling up my neck and behind my ears. 

By the sounds of his laugh echoing louder, I know he can see the hue on my face. The embarrassment makes my stomach curl into knots, my eyes looking to the side as I clench my teeth together. 

“Shut up, oh my god,” I say through my teeth. 

But—it only makes him laugh harder. 

I want to be mad, I want to keep a straight face so he doesn’t feel any sort of pride over a stupid fucking nickname. But, a laugh pushes through my lips as a smile spreads along my cheeks. 

He rubs over his squinted eyes, sighing tiredly before placing a hand on my shoulder. “I…I’m sorry. You—you’re just too fun to mess with sometimes,” he sighs out more giggles while looking down at me. I stare up at him with squinted eyes, trying to keep a blank face. “---sorry, sweetheart.” 

The vicious melody of giggles is somehow quieter. Matt leans over, resting his head on his hand that’s on my shoulder, leaning on me as his body shakes with laughter. 

“Matt, shut the fuck up.” 

My blunt words seem to make his body vibrate even further before he stands up tall, taking a deep breath while cupping my face in his hands. The wrinkles by his eyes makes my heart feel like it’s tingling. 

“Okay, okay—I really am sorry, I’ll stop,” he reassures. 

Nodding, a silence settles between us. His palms are warmth underneath my chin, his fingers swivel on my cheeks tenderly as I look up at him. 

I can’t explain the feeling. All I know is I want more of this moment—more of this sensation. The butterflies aren’t just in my stomach, they’re everywhere. I feel lightheaded from the amount of dizzying comfort. 

His hands aren’t clean. We had been looking at cool rocks, showing each other anything on the ground that excited us. I should be worried about the dirt possibly creating a blemish, but—I just don’t care. Not when I feel like this. 

“You…” his eyes drift over my face as his head tilts to the side. 

This is wrong. I shouldn’t feel like this. Not with here—not with him. 

I place my hand around his wrist, gently letting go as I watch it drop to his side. Matt lips falter in a displeased expression. He quickly shakes his head, out reaching a hand. “Sorry, here–” Taking the near empty cup from my hand, he throws it in a trash bin on the side of the trail. 

Why did I only have this feeling when I was with him? 

Hayden never made me feel like this, but maybe that was my own fault. Maybe I had put all this pressure on myself—that stupid title made everything feel so much harder. I’m his girlfriend. I have so much I’m supposed to do—supposed to feel—but it just didn’t work. 

Matt was a friend. Maybe the fact that there was no pressure was why it felt so…good. 

“Hey, wear these,” the knit material slides over my hands softly. I look down, seeing oversized mittens covering my fingers loosely. 

Shifting my eyes upwards, I smile at him. His tongue prods through his lips with concentration as he tucks the gloves in the sleeves of my sweatshirt. 

Why the fuck did he even have these gloves?

“Matt, how do you just have a pair of gloves? I—it’s fall! We live in California!” I remind. 

The second he peeps up at me with a sly smile and his hair ruffled messily, I feel myself melt. I didn’t have an issue admitting he was attractive—obviously people saw that. This was different. It wasn’t just how perfect his face looked, it was the emotion I felt from him staring into my eyes—the bursting emotion that made my tongue quiver on the roof of my mouth. 

“Because,” he squeezes my hands before dropping them lighty. “I know you. And—I know that your hands and feet are ice cubes half the time,” he huffs. 

He noticed. 

My poor body circulation wasn’t a new thing. I had dealt with it as long as I could remember. Well, I had just tred through life ignoring it to the best of my ability. Gloves were too hard to remember half the time and I didn’t see much of a point seemings how I had been so used to it by now. 

But, it felt good. It felt really good. 

I never had realized how much easier it made everything. My mind was more at ease without the frozen sharp pains in my knuckles. The air felt nicer. Everything just felt so…effortless. 

“Ya good, dollface?” 

The teasing nickname falling off his tongue makes me squint my eyes at him. Dollface. It was something we had talked about the first day we met—on the stairs, outside the party, with the cruel breeze. 

But, that stupid moment—it kept me up. In fact, it lingered so much on my mind that the day after when Hayden asked me to be his girlfriend…I almost said no. 

What would’ve happened if I had said no? 

What would be different?

I feel Matt slug his arm around me, pulling me into his side as we stride forward with imbalanced steps. “Does he compliment you enough?” he asks. 

My lips get stuck between my teeth. Clearing my throat, I let out a huff of air. “I don’t need compliments.” 

There’s an answer hidden in my reluctant words—he notices. I can tell Matt notices by the way he looks over at me while slowing down our steps. 

“I didn’t ask if you needed them. I…you deserve them. Remember what I told you the night we met?” He cocks an eyebrow with a soft smile at me. 

I remembered—I remembered it all too well. It was engraved in my mind everytime I looked in the mirror. His words didn’t just stick to me—they sunk into my skin. 

“I’m….--’m tryna not to scare you, but—god, you just—you’re a different kind of pretty. It’s like—well, I don’t even know how to describe it. But…I just…I’d never be able look away from you if you kept looking at me like that.” 

So vague and unclear, but it felt like the best dose of euphoric drugs created. There was just something about his words, something so gentle, so…effortless. It was like he couldn’t hold himself back from saying it. 

And that—that was something I couldn’t help myself from falling asleep thinking about. 

It wasn’t just the words or they way they fell from his lips. It was the way he looked at me. It was the way he made me feel just by looking at me. I never had someone look at me like that. And now…now I was scared. 

What if trying ‘harder’ means losing this? 

A/N: thank you so much for reading!

Leave a comment, let me know your thoughts!!! Any interaction is deeply appreciated <333

Comment on here or on my pinned post to be added to the taglist!!!

[bluedesignwall]

Quilted and stuffed. The cushions are done. It has been a quilty day.

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Fractured Light

Summary: In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s.

📎Genre:

➤ Romance | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Domestic/Fluff

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Depictions of Abuse → Trauma and PTSD → Violence → Heavy Emotional Content → Mature Themes

Word Count: ~30k+ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Platonic Steve Rogers x Reader

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

The New York apartment was a patchwork of contradictions, cozy yet cluttered, modern yet stuck in time. Exposed brick walls stretched toward a high ceiling, their rough texture softened by the golden glow of a single floor lamp. The living room smelled of strong coffee, courtesy of Steve Rogers’ morning ritual, and a faint tang of motor oil from Bucky Barnes’ habit of tinkering with motorcycle parts on a tarp in the corner. A sagging couch sat against one wall, its cushions worn from years of use, and the small kitchen was a jumble of mismatched mugs and a perpetually dripping faucet. For two super-soldiers trying to reclaim a sliver of normalcy after decades of war and loss, it was home.

You stood in the doorway, your fingers white-knuckled around the strap of a worn duffel bag, the weight of your situation pressing against your chest. The hallway behind you was dim, the fluorescent lights flickering like they were as tired as you felt. Your best friend, Steve Rogers, stood before you, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, his blue eyes warm with concern but shadowed with worry. He’d insisted you come here after you’d called him in tears, your voice cracking as you admitted you’d lost your job, your apartment, and nearly all your savings in the span of a month.

“Y/N, you’re staying here,” Steve said, his voice firm but gentle, the kind of tone that made you believe he could fix anything. “No arguments. We’ve got the space, and you’re not imposing.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “I can’t thank you enough, Steve. This is temporary, I swear. I’ve got applications out, shops, offices, even that diner on 5th. I’m not here to mooch. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”

Steve’s smile was soft, the kind that had always anchored you, even back in high school when he was still the scrawny kid with a sketchbook and a stubborn heart. “You’re not a burden, Y/N. You’re family. Stay as long as you need. We’ll figure it out together.”

Behind him, Bucky Barnes leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the vibranium of his left arm glinting faintly under the overhead light. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and his jaw was set in a hard line, his expression unreadable but radiating tension. The Winter Soldier, even in a faded Henley and sweatpants, was an imposing figure, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, but the weight of his disapproval was palpable.

You shifted uncomfortably, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, or at least try to. “Bucky, I know this isn’t ideal,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves twisting in your stomach. “I’ll do my part. I can clean, cook, whatever you need. I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, not quite a sneer but close enough to make your heart sink. “Don’t need a maid,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “Just don’t touch my stuff.”

The words stung, sharp and cold, but you kept your chin up. You weren’t here to beg for his approval. Pride was a luxury you couldn’t afford right now, but dignity was something you clung to. “I’ll stay out of your way,” you said firmly. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a flash of something, annoyance, maybe, or something deeper—before he looked away again. “Fine,” he said, pushing off the counter and heading toward his room. The door closed with a soft click, but it felt louder than a slam in the heavy silence that followed.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, his expression caught between frustration and apology. “He’ll come around, Y/N. He’s just… Bucky. He’s been through a lot, and he’s not great with change. Give him time.”

You nodded, but the weight of Bucky’s disdain settled over you like a cold fog. You hadn’t known him long, only a handful of encounters since his return from Wakanda, but somehow, his silence cut deeper than any words could. Steve, though… Steve you’d come to know over the years, your bond forged not in childhood but in the quiet aftermath of battles, in shared convictions and late-night conversations about a world that no longer felt like home. You’d admired him long before you met him, before he stepped out of history and into your life. But Bucky? He was a stranger, his past a shadow he wore like armor, and clearly, he wanted nothing to do with you.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, forcing a smile for Steve’s sake. “Just show me where I’m sleeping.”

Steve led you to a small guest room at the end of the hall, barely bigger than a closet but clean and functional. A twin bed with a faded quilt, a narrow dresser, and a single window overlooking a fire escape. It wasn’t much, but it was more than you’d had in weeks. You set your duffel bag on the floor, the zipper’s rasp echoing in the quiet.

“You need anything, you let me know,” Steve said, lingering in the doorway. “Food, blankets, anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” you said, your voice softer now. “Thanks, Steve. Really.”

He nodded, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read the cracks in your composure. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

When he left, you sank onto the bed, the springs creaking under your weight. The room was cold, the city’s hum filtering through the window, but it was the silence inside you that felt heaviest. You’d hit rock bottom, and now you were in a stranger’s home, tolerated by one man and despised by another. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to focus on the future, on job applications, on saving money, on getting out. But Bucky’s words echoed in your mind: Don’t touch my stuff. A warning, a boundary, a reminder that you didn’t belong.

You unpacked your bag slowly, folding your clothes with care, as if order could tame the chaos of your life. A photo slipped out from between a pair of jeans, a faded picture of you and Steve, grinning at a county fair, cotton candy smeared on your faces. You smiled faintly, tracing the edge of the photo. Steve was your anchor, always had been. But Bucky… Bucky was a storm you didn’t know how to weather.

As you drifted to sleep that night, the city’s lights flickering outside, you made a silent promise to yourself, you’d prove you weren’t a burden. You’d earn your keep, find a job, and leave. And you’d do it without ever crossing Bucky Barnes’ path.

The first week in the apartment was like navigating a minefield blindfolded. You woke before dawn, slipping out to job interviews while the city was still cloaked in gray. You’d applied everywhere, retail stores, coffee shops, even a temp agency that promised ��flexible opportunities” but delivered nothing but rejections. Each “we’ll call you” felt like a door slamming shut, but you kept moving, kept trying, because stopping meant admitting defeat. When you weren’t pounding the pavement, you were back at the apartment, scrubbing counters, folding laundry, and prepping meals to prove you weren’t a freeloader. It was your way of paying rent, of earning the space Steve had given you.

Bucky, though, was a ghost. He moved through the apartment like a shadow, silent and elusive. No eye contact, no words, just the occasional creak of floorboards or the soft clink of a mug in the sink. You adjusted quickly, learning his routines, when he’d leave for his morning run, when he’d tinker with his motorcycle parts, when he’d retreat to his room with a book or a glass of whiskey. You mirrored his avoidance, keeping your head down, your presence small. It was an unspoken agreement, you didn’t exist in his space, and he didn’t exist in yours.

But it wasn’t easy. Bucky’s presence was magnetic, even in his silence. You’d catch glimpses of him, his broad shoulders as he leaned over the kitchen table, his vibranium arm catching the light, the way his brow furrowed when he thought no one was watching. He was a man haunted, carrying a century of pain in his eyes, and part of you wanted to understand him. But every time you considered reaching out, you remembered his cold dismissal "Don’t need a maid" and you shut the impulse down.

One evening, you were folding laundry in the living room, the TV murmuring softly in the background with some old sitcom Steve loved. The pile of clothes was a mix of yours, Steve’s, and Bucky’s, socks, T-shirts, a few of Steve’s button-downs that smelled faintly of his cologne. You were careful with Bucky’s things, folding his black hoodies and jeans with precision, as if neatness could prove your innocence in his eyes.

Bucky walked in, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from a shower. The scent of cedarwood soap trailed behind him, mingling with the apartment’s usual coffee-and-oil aroma. He paused, his eyes landing on the neatly folded stack of his clothes. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just stood there, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said finally, his voice gruff, like he’d dragged the words out against his will.

You didn’t look up, keeping your focus on a pair of Steve’s socks. “It’s fine. I want to help.”

He lingered, his boots scuffing against the floor. You could feel his gaze, heavy and searching, but you refused to meet it. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, until he muttered, “Suit yourself,” and headed to the kitchen.

It wasn’t much, but it was the most he’d said to you since you’d arrived. You tucked the memory away, a small victory in the quiet war of coexistence. You finished folding, stacking the clothes in neat piles, and carried Bucky’s to his room, leaving them just inside the door. You didn’t step further, his space felt like a fortress, and you weren’t about to breach it.

Later that night, Steve came home from a SHIELD briefing, his jacket slung over his arm, his hair slightly mussed from the wind. He dropped onto the couch beside you, his presence warm and familiar. “You don’t have to do all this, you know,” he said, gesturing to the spotless kitchen and the basket of folded laundry. “You’re not our housekeeper.”

“I know,” you said, offering a small smile. “But it makes me feel less… useless. I’m trying, Steve. I really am.”

His eyes softened, and he reached over, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re not useless, Y/N. You’re tougher than anyone I know. You’ll find something soon. I believe in you.”

You nodded, but doubt gnawed at you. Every rejection letter, every unanswered application, felt like a step closer to failure. “Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I just don’t want to let you down. Or… him.”

Steve glanced toward Bucky’s room, his expression tightening. “Bucky’s not used to this, having someone else here. He’s been through hell, Y/N. He doesn’t trust easily, but that’s not about you. It’s about him.”

“I get it,” you said, though you weren’t sure you did. “I just wish he didn’t look at me like I’m… I don’t know, an invader.”

“He doesn’t,” Steve said, but his tone lacked conviction. “Give it time. He’ll see who you are.”

You wanted to believe him, but Bucky’s silence was louder than words. It was a wall you didn’t know how to climb, and every day, it grew higher.

As the week wore on, you settled into a routine. Mornings were for job hunting, afternoons for chores, evenings for quiet moments with Steve when he wasn’t off saving the world. Bucky remained a specter, always on the periphery, his presence a constant reminder of your precarious place here. You cooked dinners, simple things like spaghetti or roasted chicken, and left plates for him, but he never thanked you, never acknowledged the effort. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you were doing this for Steve, for yourself.

But late at night, when the apartment was quiet and the city’s hum was your only company, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were fighting a losing battle. Not just for a job, or a place to live, but for a sense of belonging in a space where half the occupants didn’t want you there.

The rain had been falling all day, a relentless gray curtain that turned New York into a watercolor blur. Inside the apartment, the air was thick with the scent of lemon cleaner and the faint hum of the radiator struggling against the chill. You’d been up since dawn, tackling the endless list of chores that had become your lifeline. Cleaning gave you purpose, a way to silence the gnawing anxiety of another rejection email or a missed callback from a job interview. You’d applied to over thirty places now, cafes, bookstores, even a warehouse job that promised grueling hours but steady pay. Nothing had panned out, and each “no” chipped away at your resolve.

Today, you were cleaning Bucky’s room, a task you approached with the caution of a soldier navigating a minefield. It was part of the deal you’d made with Steve to earn your keep, and while Bucky hadn’t explicitly agreed, he hadn’t protested either. His room was sparse, almost monastic, a single bed with tightly tucked gray sheets, a nightstand with a chipped lamp, and a small wooden box on the dresser, its surface worn smooth by time. You never touched the box, some instincts didn’t need explaining. You dusted the surfaces, vacuumed under the bed, and wiped down the windowsill, careful to leave no trace of your presence beyond a faint sheen of cleanliness.

You were halfway through wiping the windowsill, the rag damp in your hand, when the door flew open with a bang. Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his vibranium arm glinting under the dim light. His eyes were wild, a storm of anger and something deeper, something raw and wounded. He held up a clenched fist, his knuckles white, and his voice was a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

You froze, the rag slipping slightly in your grip. “Where’s what?”

“My ring,” he snapped, taking a step forward. His voice was sharp enough to cut, laced with a venom you’d never heard from him before. “It was in that box.” He pointed to the wooden box on the dresser, its lid slightly ajar. “I checked this morning, and now it’s gone. You were in here, weren’t you?”

Your heart plummeted, a sickening lurch like stepping off a cliff. “Bucky, I didn’t take anything,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “I was just cleaning—”

“Don’t lie to me!” His shout made you flinch, the rag falling to the floor with a soft thud. He took another step closer, his presence overwhelming, the air between you crackling with tension. “You’ve been poking around my stuff, haven’t you? Think you can just waltz in here, live rent-free, and help yourself to whatever you want?”

The accusation hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You’d spent weeks bending over backward to prove you weren’t a burden, scrubbing floors until your hands were raw, cooking meals you barely ate yourself, all to earn a place in this apartment. And now this, a thief’s brand you didn’t deserve. “I didn’t steal anything,” you said, your voice rising to match his, though it shook with the effort to hold back tears. “I’ve been cleaning your room because I’m trying to contribute. I don’t even know what ring you’re talking about!”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his jaw so tight you could see the muscle ticking. “It’s a silver ring, from the ‘40s,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “It’s all I have left of—” He stopped, his breath hitching, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes, pain, raw and unguarded. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by cold fury. “You’re telling me you didn’t see it? You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not a thief!” you shot back, anger surging to meet his. You stepped forward, closing the distance between you, your hands balled into fists at your sides. “I’ve been killing myself to find a job, to get out of here so you don’t have to deal with me. I’m not some freeloader living like a princess, Bucky. I’m trying to survive!”

“Survive?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “By taking what’s mine? You think you’re the only one with problems? You have no idea what I’ve lost.”

The words cut deeper than you expected, slicing through your defenses. You wanted to scream that you knew loss too, your job, your home, your dignity, but his pain was a wall you couldn’t breach. “I didn’t take your ring, Bucky,” you said, your voice breaking. “I swear on my life.”

He stared at you, his blue eyes cold and unyielding, searching for a crack in your story. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until he finally spoke, his voice low and final. “Get out,” he said. “I don’t want you in my space.”

Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You grabbed your cleaning supplies, the bucket clattering as you shoved rags and sprays inside. “Fine,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m gone.”

You brushed past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, and the contact felt like a spark that burned. You were halfway down the hall when the front door opened, and Steve walked in, his jacket damp from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. He froze, his eyes darting between you and Bucky, who stood in the doorway of his room, his expression still thunderous.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, his voice laced with concern. He dropped his jacket on the couch, his gaze settling on you. “Y/N, you okay?”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The weight of Bucky’s accusation, the weeks of rejection, the constant fight to prove yourself, it all crashed down at once. Tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, and you clutched the bucket tighter to keep your hands from shaking. “I’m leaving,” you blurted, your voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Y/N, wait—” Steve started, stepping toward you, but you shook your head, backing away.

“Bucky thinks I stole something,” you said, the words tasting bitter. “A ring. I didn’t, Steve, but he won’t listen. I can’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

Steve’s eyes widened, and he turned to Bucky, his expression hardening. “Buck, what the hell? You accused her of stealing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t back down. “It was in my box, Steve. She was in my room. You do the math.”

“I didn’t take it!” you shouted, your voice echoing in the small apartment. “I’ve done nothing but try to make this work, and all I get is suspicion? I’m done.”

You stormed to your room, slamming the door behind you. The sound reverberated, a final punctuation to the fight. Your hands trembled as you yanked your duffel bag from under the bed, shoving clothes inside with no care for order. Socks, shirts, a worn paperback you hadn’t had time to read, it all went in, a chaotic pile that mirrored your thoughts. You couldn’t stay here, not with Bucky’s accusation hanging over you, not with the constant reminder that you were an outsider.

Steve knocked softly, his voice muffled through the door. “Y/N, please. Talk to me. What happened?”

You didn’t open the door, afraid he’d see the tears streaming down your face. “It’s like I said, Steve. Bucky thinks I stole his ring. I didn’t, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t live like this.”

“Where will you go?” His voice was thick with worry, and you could picture him standing there, his hands braced against the doorframe, his brow furrowed. “You don’t have anywhere else.”

The truth was a knife in your gut. You had nowhere, no friends to crash with, no family to call, no money for a motel. The only option was one you’d sworn never to return to, Daniel, your ex. He’d been abusive, his words sharp enough to cut, his hands heavy enough to bruise. You’d left him a year ago, vowing never to go back, but desperation was a cruel master. You couldn’t tell Steve that, though. He’d never let you leave if he knew.

“I got a job,” you lied, zipping up your bag with a sharp tug. “And a place. I’ll be fine.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to lie to me,” Steve said, his voice softer now, pleading. “Let me help you. We can sort this out.”

You opened the door, forcing a smile that felt like a mask. “I’m not lying,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I’ve got this. Thanks for everything, Steve. I mean it.”

He studied you, his blue eyes searching for the truth, and for a moment, you thought he’d call your bluff. But he didn’t. “At least let me drive you,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

You shook your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I’ll walk. I need the air.”

He hesitated, then pulled you into a hug, his arms strong and warm. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, his voice muffled against your hair. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you whispered, knowing it was a lie. You couldn’t drag Steve into the mess you were about to walk into.

As you left the apartment, the rain soaked through your jacket, chilling you to the bone. You didn’t look back, but you could feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze, even through the walls. His accusation echoed in your mind, a brand you couldn’t shake. You weren’t a thief, but you felt like one, carrying the shame of his distrust into the storm.

The rain was merciless, turning the streets into rivers of gray, the city lights smearing into blurry halos. You walked with your head down, your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, its weight pulling at your already aching body. The lie you’d told Steve burned in your chest, a bitter reminder of how far you’d fallen. A job, a place, you had neither, and the truth was a jagged pill you couldn’t swallow. The only place you could go was back to Daniel, a choice that felt like trading one prison for another.

The walk to his apartment was long, each step heavier than the last. You’d left him a year ago, after one too many nights of shouting, of bruises blooming on your arms, of his voice telling you you’d never be enough. You’d sworn you’d never go back, but the world had a way of breaking promises. Your savings were gone, your job prospects dead, and Bucky’s accusation had been the final push. You couldn’t stay where you weren’t wanted, where every glance felt like a judgment.

Daniel’s building loomed ahead, a crumbling brick structure in a part of the city that smelled of stale beer and regret. The buzzer was broken, as always, so you waited until someone exited, slipping inside with a nod to a stranger who didn’t meet your eyes. The stairwell was dim, the air thick with mildew, and each step felt like a descent into a past you’d fought to escape.

When you knocked on Daniel’s door, your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. The door swung open, and there he was, tall, broad, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes narrowing as they landed on you. “Well, look who’s back,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl that hid the edge you knew too well. “Missed me, huh?”

You forced yourself to stand straight, though every instinct screamed to run. “I need a place to stay,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Just for a little while. I’ll pay you back.”

He leaned against the doorframe, his smirk growing. “Pay me back? With what? You’re broke, Y/N. Always were.” He stepped aside, gesturing you in. “But sure, come on in. Mi casa es tu casa.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling like lead in your stomach. But the rain was cold, and you had nowhere else to go. You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you like a trap snapping closed.

Back at the apartment, Bucky stood in his room, staring at the wooden box on his dresser. The ring was gone, a simple silver band, engraved with the name Margaret in delicate script. It was the last piece of her he had, the woman he’d loved before the war, before Hydra, before the world turned him into a weapon. Margaret had been soft where he was hard, her laughter a light in the dark of the 1940s. The ring was a promise they’d made, one broken by time and loss.

Steve leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “You sure she took it, Buck?” he asked, his voice calm but pointed. “Y/N’s not like that. You know her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “She was in here, Steve. The ring was in that box this morning, and now it’s gone.”

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s time to let it go,” he said quietly. “That ring… it’s holding you to a past that’s gone. You’re not that guy anymore, Buck.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t tell me who I am, Steve,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “That ring is all I have left of her. You don’t get it. You got to say goodbye to Peggy. I didn’t get that with Margaret.”

Steve’s expression softened, but his voice held firm. “I get it, Buck. I do. But accusing Y/N without proof? That’s not you. You know what it’s like to be blamed for something you didn’t do. You’ve been on the other side of that.”

Bucky flinched, Steve’s words hitting a nerve. He’d spent years as the Winter Soldier, carrying the weight of crimes he didn’t choose, accusations he couldn’t refute. The memory of that helplessness clawed at him, but he pushed it down, focusing on the anger instead. “She’s gone now,” he said, turning away to stare out the window at the rain. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. Steve watched him, his heart heavy. “It matters, Buck. She’s my friend, and you just drove her out into the rain with nowhere to go. You really think she’d steal from you?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the blurred city lights. Doubt crept in, a quiet whisper he couldn’t ignore. What if Steve was right? What if he’d been wrong? But the ring was gone, and the loss was a fresh wound, too raw to think past.

Steve stepped closer, his voice softer now. “Find the ring, Buck. And then find her. You owe her an apology.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but Steve’s words lingered, a seed planted in the cracks of his resolve. He spent the rest of the night searching his room, tearing through drawers, checking under furniture, hoping to find the ring and silence the guilt gnawing at him. But it was nowhere to be found, and with every empty corner, the weight of his mistake grew heavier.

The days after you left Steve and Bucky’s apartment blurred into a haze of survival, each one bleeding into the next like ink on wet paper. Daniel’s apartment was a cage disguised as a home, a cramped one-bedroom in a part of Brooklyn where the streetlights flickered and the air carried the sour tang of garbage and despair. The walls were thin, stained with years of neglect, and the furniture was a mismatched collection of thrift store rejects: a sagging couch, a table with a wobbly leg, a mattress that creaked with every movement. You slept on the couch, your duffel bag tucked under it like a secret, your few possessions a reminder of how little you had left.

Daniel hadn’t changed. If anything, he was worse. The first week, it was just his words, sharp, cutting, designed to chip away at your resolve. “You’re nothing without me,” he’d say, leaning back in his chair, a beer in hand, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. You bit your tongue, swallowing the retorts that burned in your throat. You needed a roof over your head, and this was the only one you had.

You’d been lucky enough to find a job at a corner store, a dingy place with flickering fluorescent lights and shelves stocked with dusty cans and cheap snacks. The pay was barely above minimum wage, enough for a few groceries but nowhere near enough for rent or a deposit on a new place. You worked long shifts, your feet aching from standing, your hands smelling of bleach from cleaning the countertops. Every dollar went to necessities, food, toothpaste, a bar of soap, leaving nothing for escape. You told yourself it was temporary, that you’d save enough, find something better, but each rejection from a job application felt like another lock on your prison.

Daniel’s abuse escalated slowly, like a storm gathering strength. It started with verbal jabs, mocking your job, your clothes, the way you flinched when he raised his voice. Then came the physical, his hand gripping your arm too tightly, leaving bruises that bloomed like dark flowers under your skin. You learned to hide them, wearing long sleeves and oversized hoodies even in the sticky heat of late summer. You kept your head down, your movements small, trying to avoid his triggers, but Daniel’s anger was a wildfire, unpredictable and all-consuming.

One night, after a particularly bad shift at the store, you came home to find him drunk, sprawled on the couch with empty bottles scattered around him. You tried to slip past, but his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. “Where you been?” he slurred, his grip tightening. “Out whoring around, huh?”

“I was at work,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear curling in your gut. “You know that.”

He yanked you closer, his breath sour with alcohol. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. You think I’m stupid?” His fingers dug into your skin, and you winced, but you didn’t pull away. You’d learned that fighting back only made it worse.

“I’m not lying,” you said, keeping your eyes on the floor. “I’m just trying to get by.”

He laughed, a harsh sound that grated against your nerves. “Get by? You’re pathetic. Always were.” He let go, shoving you back, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the wall. “Go make dinner. I’m hungry.”

You obeyed, your hands trembling as you chopped vegetables, the knife slipping in your grip. You thought of Steve, of the warmth of his apartment, of the meals you’d cooked for him and Bucky. You thought of Bucky’s cold eyes, his accusation that had driven you here. The memory stung, but it was a distant pain, overshadowed by the immediate threat of Daniel’s temper.

Back at the apartment, Bucky’s life continued in a gray monotony. He went through the motions, runs with Steve, late-night motorcycle repairs, missions with SHIELD when they called. But the absence of the ring gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his loss and his mistake. He searched his room obsessively, checking every drawer, every corner, hoping to prove himself wrong. The wooden box sat empty on his dresser, a silent accusation of its own.

Steve noticed the change in him, the way Bucky’s silences grew heavier, his eyes more haunted. “You’re not yourself, Buck,” Steve said one evening, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cooling between his hands. “You need to let this go.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. “I can’t, Steve. That ring was all I had left of her. Of who I was.”

Steve leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. And that’s okay. Margaret wouldn’t want you to be stuck in the past. She’d want you to live.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, a spark of anger breaking through his stoicism. “Don’t tell me what she’d want. You don’t know.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “I know you, Buck. And I know Y/N didn’t take that ring. You pushed her out, and now she’s gone. You really think she’s living some perfect life out there? She’s struggling, and you made it worse.”

The words hit like a punch, and Bucky looked away, his hands clenching into fists. He wanted to argue, to hold onto his anger, but doubt had taken root, growing with every empty search. What if Steve was right? What if he’d driven you away for nothing?

Months passed, each one a slow grind. For you, life with Daniel became a nightmare you couldn’t wake from. The abuse grew worse, punches that left you gasping, nights locked in the bathroom to escape his rage. You stopped looking in mirrors, afraid of the stranger staring back, her eyes hollow, her face bruised. You thought of calling Steve, but shame held you back. You’d told him you were fine, that you had a job, a place. Admitting the truth felt like admitting you’d failed, not just yourself but him too.

For Bucky, the turning point came on a quiet afternoon, three months after you’d left. He was moving furniture to fix a loose floorboard, his frustration mounting with every creak. As he shoved the dresser aside, something glinted in the dust, a small, silver ring, its surface worn but unmistakable. He froze, his heart lurching as he picked it up, the engraved name Margaret catching the light.

Relief flooded him, followed by a tidal wave of guilt. He’d been wrong. Horribly, unforgivably wrong. You hadn’t taken the ring, and he’d accused you, driven you out into a city that offered no mercy. He clutched the ring, his vibranium hand trembling, and went to Steve.

“I found it,” he said, his voice hoarse as he held up the ring. “Under the dresser. She didn’t take it, Steve. I need to find her. I need to apologize.”

Steve’s face fell, his eyes shadowed with worry. “I don’t know where she is, Buck. She hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. I thought she was mad at us, but now…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She’s out there somewhere, and we don’t even know if she’s okay.”

Bucky’s chest constricted, the weight of his mistake crushing him. He’d been accused of crimes he didn’t commit, branded a monster for years. He knew the pain of that, and he’d inflicted it on you. “We’ll find her,” he said, his voice firm despite the guilt clawing at him. “We have to.”

The public market was a chaotic symphony of noise and color, vendors shouting over each other, their voices mingling with the chatter of shoppers and the clatter of coins. The air smelled of fresh bread, overripe fruit, and the faint tang of fish from a stall at the far end. You moved through the crowd, your oversized hoodie pulled tight, the hood covering your head to hide the bruise under your eye. It was a fresh one, courtesy of Daniel’s temper two nights ago, when you’d dared to argue about the grocery budget. Makeup couldn’t fully conceal it, so you kept your head down, your focus on the vegetables you were inspecting, a few potatoes, a bunch of carrots, anything to stretch your meager paycheck.

You were weighing a head of cabbage, calculating whether you could afford it, when a familiar voice cut through the din. “Y/N!”

Your heart stopped, your fingers tightening around the cabbage until it nearly slipped from your grasp. Steve. You turned, instinct urging you to run, but the crowd was too thick, and your legs felt like lead. Before you could move, he was there, his arms wrapping around you in a hug that was both comforting and suffocating. His familiar scent, clean, like soap and pine, brought a rush of memories, late-night talks, shared laughter, the safety of his apartment.

“Y/N, it’s so good to see you,” Steve said, his voice warm, his arms strong around you. But then he pulled back, his eyes scanning your face, and his smile vanished. The bruise under your eye, poorly concealed by cheap foundation, was impossible to miss. His expression shifted to one of worry, his brows knitting together. “What happened?”

You yanked your hood tighter, your heart racing. “It’s nothing,” you said, your voice too quick, too defensive. “I’m fine.”

Bucky stood a few steps behind Steve, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on you. The sight of him stirred a storm of emotions, anger, hurt, shame. His accusation had been the final push that sent you back to Daniel, and now here he was, looking at you like he cared. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice low, a quiet intensity that made your skin prickle.

You met his gaze, your anger flaring despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “None of your business,” you snapped, turning back to Steve. “I have to go.”

“Y/N, please,” Steve said, his voice breaking. He reached for your arm, gentle but firm, and you froze, torn between running and collapsing into his embrace. “Talk to us. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You shook your head, stepping back, the cabbage forgotten in your hands. “I’m fine,” you lied, the words tasting like ash. “I’ve got a job, a place. I’m okay.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours, and you knew he didn’t believe you. But before he could press, you turned and darted into the crowd, weaving through bodies until you were lost in the chaos. Your heart pounded, your breath ragged, as you slipped into an alley and leaned against a brick wall, the cold seeping through your hoodie. You’d wanted to tell Steve everything, to let him pull you back to safety, but the shame was too heavy. You’d lied to him, told him you were fine, and now you had to live with it.

Back at the market, Steve stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists. “That was her,” he said, his voice tight with anger and worry. “She’s not okay, Buck. Did you see her face?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes still fixed on the spot where you’d disappeared. The bruise on your face had been a punch to his gut, a confirmation of the guilt he’d been carrying since he found the ring. “We need to find her,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “This is my fault.”

Steve turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Your fault? Buck, you didn’t do that to her.”

“I drove her away,” Bucky said, his voice raw. “I accused her, made her feel like she didn’t belong. If I hadn’t…” He trailed off, the words too heavy to finish. He could still see your face, the anger in your eyes, the way you’d flinched when Steve hugged you. He’d seen that kind of fear before, in his own reflection during his darkest days.

Steve’s expression softened, but his voice was firm. “Then we fix it. We find her, and we bring her home.”

That night, Steve sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open, his fingers flying across the keys as he searched for any trace of you. He remembered your ex, Daniel, when you’d confessed to the abuse you’d escaped. The memory had been a fleeting one, overshadowed by your determination to move forward, but now it was a lifeline. “If she’s not answering her phone, there’s only one place she’d go,” Steve said, his voice grim. “Daniel’s.”

Bucky’s blood ran cold at the name. He’d never met the man, but the way Steve’s jaw tightened told him everything he needed to know. “Where is he?” Bucky asked, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it.

“I don’t know yet,” Steve admitted, scrolling through public records. “But I’ll find him. She’s not safe, Buck. We need to get her out.”

Bucky nodded, his hands clenching into fists, the vibranium whirring softly. He thought of the ring, now back in its box, and the guilt that had settled in his chest. He’d been wrong about you, and now you were paying the price for his mistake. He didn’t know if you’d forgive him, but he’d do whatever it took to make this right.

The morning sun barely penetrated the thick clouds hanging over Brooklyn, casting a dull gray light over the city’s cracked sidewalks and sagging buildings. Steve and Bucky moved with purpose through the streets, their breaths visible in the chilly air, their footsteps echoing in the quiet of early dawn. Steve had spent the night digging through public records, old contacts, and SHIELD’s database, piecing together an address for Daniel, your ex. The realization that you’d likely returned to him had ignited a fire in Steve’s chest, but for Bucky, it was a different kind of burn, guilt, raw and relentless, that clawed at him with every step.

Bucky’s vibranium hand flexed at his side, the soft whir of its mechanisms a counterpoint to the storm raging inside him. The silver ring, now back in its wooden box on his dresser, was a constant weight in his mind. He’d found it under the dresser, a careless oversight that had cost you everything. He’d accused you, branded you a thief, driven you out into a city that offered no mercy. And now, the image of your bruised face at the market haunted him, a purple shadow under your eye, your hood pulled tight like a shield. He’d seen that kind of fear before, in his own reflection during his days as the Winter Soldier, and the thought that he’d pushed you into that kind of pain was unbearable.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked, glancing at him as they approached Daniel’s building, a rundown brick structure with peeling paint and a broken buzzer. Steve’s voice was steady, but his eyes were dark with worry, his jaw set in a way that promised retribution.

Bucky shook his head, his voice low and rough. “This is on me, Steve. I did this. If I hadn’t accused her, she wouldn’t be here.”

Steve stopped, turning to face him, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You made a mistake, Buck. But you didn’t put those bruises on her. Daniel did. Focus on getting her out. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Bucky nodded, but the guilt didn’t loosen its grip. He thought of Margaret, the woman the ring belonged to, her soft smile and gentle touch. She’d been his anchor in the 1940s, a promise of a future that Hydra had stolen. Losing the ring had felt like losing her all over again, but accusing you had been a betrayal of everything she’d loved about him—his fairness, his loyalty. He’d failed her memory, and he’d failed you.

As they reached Daniel’s apartment, the air grew heavy with the scent of mildew and stale beer. The hallway was dim, the walls stained with years of neglect, and the sound of muffled shouting stopped them cold. It was your voice, high and desperate, pleading. “Daniel, please, stop!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold, his heart pounding in his chest. Before Steve could react, another voice roared through the door, sharp and vicious. “I’m going to kill you, Y/N!”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. His vibranium fist slammed into the door, splintering the wood like it was kindling. The lock gave way, and he barreled inside, Steve close behind. The apartment was a wreck, broken glass on the floor, a toppled chair, the air thick with the sour stench of alcohol. And there, on a rickety kitchen table, was you, pinned down by Daniel’s hand around your throat, his other hand raised with a knife glinting in the dim light. Your face was streaked with tears, your eyes wide with terror, your hands clawing weakly at his grip.

“Get off her!” Steve roared, tackling Daniel to the ground in a blur of motion. The knife clattered across the floor, skidding under the couch. Daniel struggled, cursing, but Steve’s strength was unrelenting, pinning him with ease.

Bucky rushed to you, his hands gentle but trembling as he helped you sit up. Your breathing was ragged, your face pale, a fresh bruise blooming across your cheekbone. “Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

You collapsed against him, your body shaking with sobs, your fingers clutching his jacket like a lifeline. He held you tightly, his vibranium arm steady around your shoulders, his other hand brushing your hair back from your face. The sight of you, broken, bruised, terrified, tore at him, each sob a knife in his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is my fault. I never should’ve—”

You didn’t respond, your cries drowning out his words. He led you outside, away from the chaos, wrapping his jacket around your trembling shoulders. The cold air hit you like a slap, but Bucky’s warmth anchored you as he guided you to their car parked across the street. Steve stayed behind, restraining Daniel until the police arrived, his eyes burning with a rage Bucky hadn’t seen in years.

In the car, you curled into the passenger seat, your knees drawn up, your face buried in your hands. Bucky sat beside you, his hands hovering, unsure how to comfort you without making it worse. “Y/N,” he said softly, “we’re taking you to the hospital. You’re gonna be okay.”

You nodded, but your eyes were distant, glazed with shock. The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything unsaid, his accusation, your pain, the months of abuse you’d endured. Bucky’s guilt was a living thing, twisting inside him, whispering that he’d done this, that his words had driven you back to this monster.

At the hospital, the sterile lights and antiseptic smell were a stark contrast to the chaos of Daniel’s apartment. Bucky sat by your side as the doctors examined you, his heart sinking with every new injury they cataloged: broken ribs, internal bleeding, signs of prolonged physical and sexual abuse. The doctor’s voice was clinical, but each word was a blow to Bucky’s already fractured resolve. He thought of Margaret, of how he’d vowed to protect her, and how he’d failed you in the same way. The guilt was suffocating, a weight he couldn’t shake.

When Steve arrived, his knuckles bruised from handling Daniel, Bucky met him in the hallway, his voice low and urgent. “She’s been through hell, Steve,” he said, his eyes haunted. “Broken bones, internal bleeding… and worse. For months. Because of me.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “I should’ve killed him,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I should’ve ended him right there.”

Bucky shook his head, his vibranium hand flexing. “This isn’t on you. It’s on me. I accused her, Steve. I pushed her out. If I hadn’t…” He trailed off, his throat tight with emotion.

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm but grounding. “You made a mistake, Buck. But you’re here now. You can’t change the past, but you can help her heal. Start there.”

Bucky nodded, but the guilt didn’t ease. He thought of the ring, of Margaret’s memory, and how he’d let it blind him to the person in front of him. You weren’t a thief, weren’t an intruder. You were someone who’d fought to survive, and he’d failed you. He vowed, then and there, to make it right, no matter how long it took.

The hospital discharged you after two days, with strict instructions to rest and a stack of prescriptions you couldn’t afford. Steve didn’t hesitate, insisting you return to their apartment. “You’re not going anywhere else,” he said, his voice firm but warm, his arm around your shoulders as he guided you to the car. “You’re staying with us. No arguments.”

You were too tired to protest, your body aching with every movement, your mind a fog of pain and shame. The bruises on your face and arms were fading, but the deeper wounds, the ones Daniel had carved into your psyche, felt raw, exposed. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

Bucky was silent during the drive, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The guilt hadn’t left him since the rescue, a constant shadow that darkened his every thought. He’d sat by your hospital bed while you slept, watching the rise and fall of your chest, counting each breath like a prayer. He’d replayed his accusation over and over, the memory of your hurt eyes at the market, the sound of your sobs in Daniel’s apartment. He’d been wrong, and the cost of that mistake was written in your bruises, your silence, your brokenness.

Back at the apartment, Steve took charge with a protectiveness that bordered on obsession. He set up the guest room with fresh sheets, a stack of pillows, and a tray of essentials, water, snacks, your medications. He cooked hearty meals, hovering over you like a mother hen, his blue eyes soft with concern. “You need to eat, Y/N,” he’d say, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you. “You’re healing. You need strength.”

You tried to smile, to thank him, but the effort felt hollow. Steve’s care was a lifeline, but it couldn’t erase the months of abuse, the nights you’d spent curled up on Daniel’s couch, praying for a way out. You ate what you could, took the pills, and let Steve fuss, but your eyes kept drifting to Bucky, who lingered on the edges of every moment, his presence quiet but heavy.

Bucky’s guilt was a living thing, a beast that clawed at him day and night. He brought you tea, sat with you during the nightmares that woke you screaming, but he kept his distance, unsure how to bridge the gap he’d created. He’d apologized at the hospital, his voice raw with regret, but your silence had been deafening. You didn’t hate him, at least, he hoped you didn’t, but the hurt was there, a wall he didn’t know how to climb.

One evening, you were on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, a book open but unread in your lap. Steve sat beside you, his arm slung casually over the back of the couch, his laughter filling the room as he recounted a story from his SHIELD days. “So, Sam’s trying to impress this new recruit, right? And he goes for this fancy maneuver with the wings, only to crash into a dumpster. Swear to God, he smelled like garbage for a week.” You laughed, a soft, tentative sound that lit up Steve’s face.

Bucky watched from the sidelines, his jealousy a quiet ache he didn’t fully understand. He’d see you smile at Steve, your laughter soft but genuine, and his chest would tighten, a pang of longing he couldn’t shake. He wanted to be the one making you laugh, the one you turned to when the nightmares came. But Steve’s ease with you, his effortless warmth, made Bucky feel like an outsider, a shadow in his own home. He’d catch himself staring, his vibranium hand flexing, and force himself to look away, to focus on the small ways he could help—refilling your tea, fixing a squeaky door, leaving a blanket on the couch when you fell asleep reading.

Steve noticed the shift, a knowing smile playing on his lips. One night, as he and Bucky cleaned the kitchen after dinner, he clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “You fell for her, didn't you?” he said, his voice teasing but warm.

Bucky’s cheeks flushed, a rare vulnerability. “Is it that obvious?”

Steve laughed, a sound that filled the room. “Only to anyone with eyes. I’m happy for you, Buck. She’s good for you. And you’re good for her.”

Bucky’s jealousy eased, replaced by a quiet determination to prove himself. He wasn’t competing with Steve anymore. He was fighting for you, for a chance to be the man you deserved. And as you smiled at him across the table, your eyes meeting his with a warmth you hadn’t shown before, he felt a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

One night, as you sat alone on the fire escape, the city’s lights stretching out below, Bucky joined you, his presence hesitant. “Can I sit?” he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, scooting over to make room. He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, but not so close as to crowd you. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until he spoke again, his voice softer now. “I don’t know how to fix this, Y/N. I keep replaying that day—the ring, what I said. I was wrong, and I hate that it cost you so much.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face. His apologies were familiar now, a litany of regret that you’d heard in the hospital, on the fire escape, in the quiet moments when Steve wasn’t around. But this time, there was something different—a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “You didn’t know, Bucky,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he said, his jaw tightening. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together as if to keep them from shaking. “I accused you of something I knew, deep down, you’d never do. I was so caught up in my own pain, my own past, I didn’t see you. And now…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to the faint bruise on your cheek, his expression crumpling. “I see what it did to you, and it’s killing me.”

Your heart skipped, his words sinking in slowly, like rain soaking into dry earth. “Bucky, I…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t hate you. I was hurt, but I understand why you held onto that ring. I just… I wanted to be someone worth seeing, you know? Not just Steve’s friend, not just a burden.”

“You were never a burden,” he said, his voice fierce. “And you’re worth seeing, Y/N. More than you know. I’m in love with you, and it’s not because you’re a stand-in for anyone else. It’s because you’re you—strong, kind, stubborn as hell. I don’t deserve you, but I want to.”

The confession stole your breath, your hands tightening around the blanket. You’d dreamed of love like this, fierce and unwavering, but Daniel had made you believe it was impossible. Now, here was Bucky, his eyes pleading, his heart laid bare. “I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “After everything, I don’t know if I can trust this—trust you.”

He nodded, his expression pained but resolute. “I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. But I’m here, Y/N. I’ll keep being here, as long as it takes.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t pull away either. The silence that followed was different, softer, a tentative bridge between two broken souls. Bucky stayed, his presence steady, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of his care, even if you weren’t ready to accept it fully.

One afternoon, you were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup you’d insisted on making. Steve was at a SHIELD briefing, leaving you and Bucky alone. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but it wasn’t hostile anymore, just fragile, like a newly formed sheet of ice. Bucky leaned against the counter, watching you chop carrots with a precision that spoke of practice.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his voice soft. “The cooking, I mean. You’re not our maid.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I know. But it feels good to do something normal. Something I can control.”

He nodded, understanding more than he could say. Control was a rare commodity for him too, something he’d fought for after years as Hydra’s puppet. “You’re good at it,” he said, gesturing to the pot. “Smells better than anything Steve’s ever made.”

You laughed, a sound that caught him off guard, light and unguarded. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll challenge me to a cook-off.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, a rare smile breaking through. “I’d pay to see that. My money’s on you.”

The moment was small, but it was a start. You felt the shift, a crack in the wall you’d built around yourself. Bucky’s presence was no longer a reminder of pain but a quiet promise of something more. You weren’t ready to forgive him fully, but you were starting to see him—not the Winter Soldier, not the man who’d accused you, but Bucky, flawed and trying.

That night, you woke from a nightmare, your breath ragged, your skin clammy with sweat. Daniel’s face had been there, his hands around your throat, his voice promising pain. You stumbled to the living room, curling up on the couch, your heart racing. Bucky appeared moments later, his hair mussed from sleep, his eyes soft with concern.

“Hey,” he said, crouching in front of you. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

You nodded, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable. He hesitated, then sat beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “I’m here,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You leaned into him, just slightly, and he didn’t pull away. It was a small step, but it felt like a leap across a chasm.

The Brooklyn apartment had become a haven, its familiar creaks and smells, coffee, motor oil, and now the faint lavender of the candles you’d started lighting in the evenings, a testament to the life you were rebuilding. The guest room was no longer just a temporary shelter; it was yours, filled with small touches of your presence: a stack of books on the nightstand, a knitted throw blanket draped over the chair, a photo of you and Steve from high school pinned to the wall. The bruises on your body had faded completely, and the pain in your ribs was a distant memory, but the emotional scars lingered, a quiet ache that surfaced in the stillness of night.

Bucky had become a constant in your days, his presence no longer a shadow but a steady light. His guilt still lingered, you saw it in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his vibranium hand hesitated before touching you, as if afraid he’d break you further. But his efforts to make amends were unwavering. He’d fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen, leave your favorite pastries on the counter, and sit with you through the nightmares that still woke you, his voice a low murmur that anchored you back to reality. His confession on the fire escape had been a turning point, a crack in the wall you’d built around your heart, and with each passing day, you felt it crumble a little more.

Steve remained a pillar of support, his laughter and warmth a balm to your wounds. But Bucky’s jealousy, though quieter now, still flickered in moments when Steve’s arm slung casually around your shoulders or when you shared an inside joke that left Bucky on the outside. He’d watch, his jaw tight, his eyes betraying a longing he didn’t voice. It wasn’t anger, not anymore, just a quiet wish to be the one you turned to first.

One crisp autumn evening, the three of you were in the living room, the windows open to let in the cool breeze. Steve was sprawled on the couch, sketching in his notebook, while you and Bucky played a card game at the coffee table, a rare moment of lightness. The radio played soft jazz, a nod to your shared love for the old records you’d found in a thrift store. You laughed as Bucky fumbled a card, his vibranium fingers less deft than he’d like, and the sound made his heart skip.

“You’re cheating,” he said, his voice teasing, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “No way you’re this good at gin rummy.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile playful. “Maybe you’re just bad at it, Barnes. Ever think of that?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that filled the room. Steve glanced up from his sketch, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “She’s got you there, Buck. You’re terrible at cards.”

Bucky shot him a mock glare, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. “Watch it, Rogers. I’ll challenge you next, and then we’ll see who’s terrible.”

You laughed again, and Bucky’s gaze softened, lingering on you. The moment was small, but it was everything, a glimpse of what life could be, free from the shadows of Daniel’s abuse and Bucky’s guilt. As the game ended, Steve excused himself to make a call, leaving you and Bucky alone. The jazz record spun on, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice weaving through the air, and you felt a pull, a need to bridge the gap that still lingered between you.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice soft, “can we talk?”

He nodded, setting the cards aside, his expression shifting to something serious, almost nervous. “Yeah. Always.”

You took a deep breath, your hands twisting in your lap. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—on the fire escape. About… loving me. I didn’t know how to process it then. I was scared, after everything with Daniel, after feeling like I’d never be enough for anyone. But I see you now, Bucky. I see how hard you’re trying, how much you care. And I’m starting to feel it too.”

His breath caught, his eyes searching yours, raw and hopeful. “Y/N, I meant every word. You’re not a rebound, not a replacement for Margaret or anyone else. I love you for you—your strength, your stubbornness, the way you make this place feel like home. I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish enough to want you anyway.”

The words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his vibranium ones, cool and steady. “I’m still scared,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But I want this, Bucky. I want us.”

He moved closer, his hand turning to clasp yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin. “I’ll wait as long as you need,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I’ll prove it to you, every day, that you’re enough. More than enough.”

You leaned forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was soft, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. His lips were warm, his kiss gentle but fierce, like he was pouring every unspoken promise into it. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

“I will,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “I’m yours too.”

The weeks that followed were a slow blossoming. You and Bucky moved carefully, learning each other’s rhythms, the way he’d hum along to jazz records, the way you’d curl up with a book on rainy days. Steve watched with a knowing smile, his role shifting from protector to cheerleader. “You two are disgusting,” he’d tease, but his eyes were warm, happy to see his best friend find something real.

Bucky’s jealousy faded, replaced by a quiet confidence as you chose him, day after day. He’d catch you smiling at him across the breakfast table, or feel your hand slip into his during a walk in the park, and the guilt that had once consumed him began to ease. He wasn’t replacing Margaret; he was building something new, something just as true.

One night, under a sky full of stars, you stood on the roof of the apartment building, the city sprawling below. Bucky wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Marry me,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “I want to build a life with you, Y/N. A real one.”

You turned in his arms, your eyes shining. “Yes,” you said, your voice breaking with joy. “Yes, Bucky.”

The wedding was small, held in a quiet Brooklyn park under a canopy of autumn leaves. Steve stood as Bucky’s best man, his grin wide enough to light up the city, while a handful of friends. Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, and a few SHIELD agents who’d become family, filled the chairs. You wore a simple white dress, the kind that flowed like water, and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you, his breath catching as you walked toward him. He wore a dark suit, the silver ring—Margaret’s ring—tucked safely in his pocket, no longer a tether to the past but a reminder of how far he’d come.

“I love you,” he said during his vows, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “You showed me I could be more than my past, Y/N. You’re my home, my future, and I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of you.”

Your vows were softer, your hands trembling as you held his. “You saw me when I felt invisible,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “You gave me a reason to believe in love again, Bucky. I’m yours, always.”

The kiss that followed was fierce, a promise sealed under the golden light of dusk. Steve’s cheer was the loudest, his applause echoing through the park, and Sam’s teasing whistle made you laugh against Bucky’s lips. The reception was a small affair at a local diner, with greasy burgers and milkshakes, the jukebox playing jazz that had you and Bucky swaying in the middle of the room.

Life as a married couple settled into a rhythm that felt both new and timeless. You moved into Bucky’s room, the wooden box with Margaret’s ring now a keepsake rather than a shrine. You found a job at a bookstore, a small victory that felt like a reclaiming of your dreams, and Bucky took on fewer SHIELD missions, choosing to stay close to you. The apartment was filled with new memories, lazy Sundays with coffee and newspapers, late-night talks about the future, the soft clink of dishes as you cooked together.

When you found out you were pregnant, the news hit like a comet, bright and overwhelming. Bucky’s reaction was a mix of awe and fear, his hands trembling as he touched your still-flat stomach. “A kid,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this, Y/N. What if I mess it up?”

You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “You won’t,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re not your past, Bucky. You’re going to be an amazing father.”

Your son, James Steven Barnes, was born on a stormy spring night, his cries loud enough to rival the thunder outside. Bucky held him first, his vibranium arm steady as he cradled the tiny bundle, his eyes shining with tears. “He’s perfect,” he whispered, looking at you with a love so fierce it stole your breath.

Two years later, your daughter, Margaret Rose, arrived, her name a nod to Bucky’s past but a symbol of your future. She had your smile, Bucky’s blue eyes, and a laugh that filled the apartment with light. Bucky was a devoted father, his guilt and jealousy replaced by a quiet pride as he watched his children grow. He’d read bedtime stories with exaggerated voices, build pillow forts in the living room, and teach James how to throw a baseball with his vibranium arm.

The years slipped by like pages in a well-loved book, each one worn at the edges but filled with moments that glowed in memory. The Brooklyn apartment had long been traded for a small house on the outskirts of the city, a two-story with a wraparound porch and a backyard where wildflowers grew in unruly patches. The scent of coffee and motor oil had been replaced by the warmth of cinnamon from your baking, the tang of fresh paint from Bucky’s endless home improvement projects, and the faint sweetness of lavender from the bushes you’d planted with your children. It was a home built on love, stitched together by years of laughter, tears, and quiet promises kept.

Your son, James Steven Barnes, was now a lanky teenager, his dark hair and blue eyes a mirror of his father’s, though his smile was all yours. He was sixteen, all sharp wit and restless energy, spending his days sketching like his Uncle Steve or tinkering with gadgets in the garage with Bucky. Margaret Rose, your daughter, was fourteen, her auburn curls bouncing as she danced through the house, her laughter a melody that could coax a smile from even Bucky’s grumpiest days. She had your stubborn streak, your love for stories, and a fierce protectiveness that reminded you of Bucky’s quiet strength.

Bucky had aged gracefully, his dark hair now streaked with silver, his vibranium arm still gleaming but worn at the edges from years of use, not in battle, but in lifting his children, building treehouses, and holding you close on cold nights. The guilt that had once defined him had faded, softened by the life you’d built together, though it never fully left. You’d see it sometimes, in the way his eyes lingered on the silver ring in its wooden box, now kept on a shelf in your shared bedroom, a relic of a past he’d made peace with but never forgot.

Your life was a tapestry of small joys. Sunday mornings with Bucky’s pancakes, James’s sketches pinned to the fridge, Margaret’s ballet recitals where you and Bucky sat in the front row, his hand squeezing yours as she twirled across the stage. There were harder moments too, James’s teenage rebellions, Margaret’s first heartbreak, the quiet nights when your old fears resurfaced, whispering that you weren’t enough, that Bucky’s love was a shadow of what he’d felt for Margaret. But each time, Bucky was there, his arms around you, his voice steady as he reminded you that you were his home, his heart, his everything.

One autumn evening, as the leaves turned gold and the air carried the crisp promise of winter, you sat on the porch swing, a knitted blanket draped over your lap. The sky was a watercolor of pinks and purples, the stars just beginning to peek through. Bucky joined you, his steps slower now, his vibranium arm whirring softly as he settled beside you. He was sixty in body but carried a century of life in his eyes, their blue still as piercing as the day you’d met.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, his voice low and warm, his hand finding yours under the blanket. “What’s on your mind?”

You smiled, but it was tinged with a melancholy you couldn’t shake. The years had been kind, but they’d also been relentless, each one bringing you closer to a future you weren’t ready to face. “Just thinking about us,” you said, your voice soft. “How far we’ve come. Sometimes it feels like a dream, like I’ll wake up and be back in that apartment, fighting to prove I belong.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. “You always belonged, Y/N. From the moment you walked in, you were home. I was just too damn stubborn to see it.”

You laughed, a soft, watery sound, and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You were pretty stubborn. But you made up for it.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Took me long enough.” He paused, his eyes distant, fixed on the horizon. “I still think about that day—the ring, what I said. I’ll never forgive myself for pushing you away, for sending you back to him.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Bucky, stop. You’ve carried that guilt long enough. You saved me. You loved me when I didn’t think I could be loved. That’s what matters.”

His eyes softened, but the weight of his past was still there, a quiet shadow. “I love you, Y/N,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Not as a replacement, not as anything but you. You’re my heart, my kids’ mother, my everything. I need you to know that.”

Tears stung your eyes, but they were tears of love, of relief. You’d spent years wondering if you could ever fill the space Margaret had left, if Bucky’s love for you was as true as what he’d felt for her. But now, sitting here under the stars, his hand in yours, you knew. His love was yours, fierce and unwavering, built on years of shared moments, not borrowed from a past you couldn’t touch.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I love you too, Bucky. Always.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips warm against yours, a promise sealed in the quiet of the night. The swing creaked beneath you, the world fading until it was just the two of you, bound by a love that had weathered storms and emerged stronger.

The years rolled on, each one a gift. James went to college, studying engineering, his sketches now digital designs that made Bucky beam with pride. Margaret became a writer, her stories filled with the magic of the books you’d read to her as a child. You and Bucky grew older, your hair graying, your steps slower, but your love only deepened, a fire that never dimmed.

As age took its toll, you and Bucky faced it together, hand in hand. You’d sit on the porch swing, wrapped in the same quilt, watching the peonies bloom each spring. Your health faded first, a quiet decline that left you tired but unafraid, Bucky’s presence a constant comfort. He followed soon after, his heart tethered to yours, unwilling to linger in a world without you. You passed within days of each other, in the bedroom you’d shared for decades, your hands clasped, your love the last thing you felt. It was peaceful, a gentle fading like the stars at dawn, surrounded by the scent of lavender and the echoes of your children’s laughter.

The funeral was small, held in the backyard under the peony bushes, where Steve, now stooped with age, spoke of your love with tears in his eyes. “They were each other’s home,” he said, his voice breaking, his sketchbook filled with drawings of you and Bucky—laughing in the park, swaying on the porch swing, holding your children. Sam and Natasha stood beside him, their own families a testament to the Avengers’ legacy, their grief softened by stories of your life.

Years later, on a crisp autumn afternoon, James and Margaret returned to the cemetery, a quiet place where wild daisies grew between the stones. Your graves stood side by side, simple markers engraved with your names and the words “Forever in Love.” James, now in his forties, carried a bouquet of peonies, their petals soft against the stone, while Margaret, her curls streaked with gray, held a notebook filled with new stories. Their children trailed behind, giggling as they chased each other through the grass, their voices a bright echo of your own.

“Remember when Mom taught us to make daisy chains?” James said, kneeling to place the peonies on your grave, his voice warm with memory. “She’d sit in the backyard, weaving them into crowns, telling us we were royalty.”

Margaret laughed, settling beside him, her notebook open on her lap. “And Dad would pretend to be the royal guard, chasing us with that goofy grin. God, they were so in love. I used to catch them dancing in the kitchen, thinking we weren’t watching.”

James chuckled, his eyes misty. “I found one of Dad’s notes in an old book last week. ‘Thinking of you, always.’ He never stopped writing them for her.”

Margaret nodded, her fingers tracing the engraving on your stone. “I wrote a story about them, you know. A hero who finds his heart in the woman who never gave up on him. My daughter says it’s her favorite.” She paused, smiling through tears. “They’d miss us, but they’d love this—us here, laughing, keeping them alive.”

Their children ran up, plopping down with flowers they’d picked, their laughter filling the air. “Tell us about the swing, Grandma!” Margaret’s daughter said, her eyes wide, a peony tucked behind her ear.

Margaret grinned, pulling her close. “Your great-grandma and grandpa had a swing on their porch,” she said, her voice soft. “They’d sit there every night, talking, dreaming. It’s where they fell in love, where they grew up, where they taught us what forever means.”

The sun dipped low, casting golden light over the graves, the peonies glowing like embers. James and Margaret stayed, sharing stories of your jazz nights, your stubborn fights, the way Bucky’s eyes lit up when you smiled. Their laughter mingled with the breeze, a melody that carried your love into the years, a legacy that would never fade.

And somewhere, in the spaces between stars and wildflowers, you and Bucky were there, swaying on the porch swing, your hands clasped, your love eternal. The world would miss you, your strength, your laughter, the love that had carried a broken soldier through a century to a life of valor. But your children carried you forward, their stories and laughter a testament to a love that bloomed forever.

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[scarsnfevers]

The Road Away

Prologue of Wolfgang

summary: You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance. The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. The city teemed with others of your kind. Wolves.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader

chapter word count: 1,5k

chapter warnings: loneliness

You had never liked packing. The act itself was tedious, a chore buried somewhere between indecision and sentimentality. But this time, it was something else entirely. This time, it felt like peeling away layers of your own skin, each cardboard box a confession, a piece of yourself that no longer belonged to the person you were trying to become. You stood in the middle of the apartment—your apartment—where echoes now rang louder than your thoughts. The bookshelves were bare, the kitchen stripped to essentials, the bedframe dismantled. What remained were the ghosts of late nights, quiet breakdowns, and days blurred by exhaustion.

Outside, the early morning sky wore a veil of grey, mist curling between buildings like it was alive. Inside, you crouched by an open suitcase, carefully tucking in a worn photo album. The cover was scratched, the pages slightly curled, but the memories inside were too precious to leave behind. Alongside it went your laptop—your lifeline, your history, your work. A few clothes, a flashlight, a pair of sturdy boots, a half-used journal, and your favorite mug. That was it. You had given away most of your furniture. The couch that had supported your weary frame after long shifts, the armchair with the wine-stained cushion, even the coffee table with the splintered leg—all gone. You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance.

The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. Seattle teemed with others of your kind.

Wolves.

Too many packs, too many alphas posturing, too many silent battles fought in crowded elevators and boardrooms. You had spent the last few years trying to dull your edges, hide your instincts behind power suits and conference calls. But the scent of dominance hung thick in the air. There were always meetings where someone tried to assert control with nothing more than a glance. Always those late nights when the moon called too loud and you had to fight the tremble in your limbs. Always that feeling of being watched, challenged, provoked—even by those who smiled politely. And as an alpha, even one who never sought power or pack, it was a constant weight.

You had tried to hold it all together. Tried to be normal. But the tension never truly left your shoulders. Your skin itched under fluorescent lights. Your hearing stretched too far, your nose catching whiffs of anger, fear, desire—all so sharp, all so constant. Over time, the city drained you. Slowly. Quietly. Like water eroding stone.

So, when the final project wrapped and the lease came due, you didn’t renew. Instead, you searched. For something quieter. Simpler. Farther. Fox River. You hadn’t heard of it before you stumbled across a listing for a cabin in the woods. Five hours from Seattle, population barely three digits, tucked between forests and forgotten lakes. The pictures showed pine trees and a misty hill behind the cabin. The seller’s name was John Whittaker. The price was reasonable. And something about it tugged at you. You made the call.

The trunk of your car was a patchwork of duffels, sealed boxes, and a folded wool blanket. Everything you owned now fit in the back of a vehicle. You stood there for a moment after slamming the hatch shut, keys cold in your palm, breath fogging in the morning chill. The street was empty. A light drizzle began to fall, speckling the windshield, trailing tiny rivers down the glass. No one came to wave you off. There were no lingering goodbyes. Just the soft hum of the engine as you turned the key, the city skyline disappearing behind you with each mile.

Traffic faded as you moved northward, buildings giving way to trees, streetlights to open sky. You took the highway out past Everett, then veered eastward, climbing steadily toward the highlands. The terrain shifted beneath your tires—concrete to gravel, flatland to forested ridges. Each mile tasted of distance. Of release.

You kept the windows cracked. The air grew colder, crisper. Cleaner. It carried the scent of rain and pine and something else. Freedom, maybe. The road curved like a ribbon through the mountains. You passed a gas station that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. A lone hiker walking alongside the road. A family of deer that froze as you approached, then leapt gracefully into the trees. Time slipped differently here. You could feel it.

Eventually, your GPS went quiet, the screen blinking blankly at you as you reached the edge of mapped civilization. You followed the directions John had given you by phone, scribbled on the back of an old receipt. Left at the old quarry. Right past the dead oak. Two miles down a gravel lane until the forest opened up like a breath. The trees parted, revealing a small clearing bathed in afternoon light. Moss carpeted the forest floor, and the cabin stood in its center like something out of a dream—wood dark with age, the roof steep and shingled in rough slate. Smoke trickled from the chimney in a slow spiral. A dark red truck was already there.

John Whittaker was exactly as he sounded: tall, silver-haired, wrapped in flannel and denim, with eyes like weathered stone. He watched you climb out of your car, then walked over, a hand extended in welcome.

"You made good time," he said with a warm smile. You returned the handshake, firm and grounding. "Barely got lost." He chuckled. "That’s saying something. Most folks don’t make it on the first try."

Together, you walked toward the cabin. The porch creaked under your steps, and the front door opened with a soft groan. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and old firewood. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden light. The interior was small but sturdy—a stone fireplace, a modest kitchenette, a cozy reading nook by a bay window, and stairs leading to a lofted sleeping area above. You walked slowly, fingers trailing along wooden beams and windowsills. Everything was handmade. Honest.

"I fixed it up over the years," John said. "Was going to keep it for the grandkids, but they’re more screen than forest these days. You look like you’ll treat it right." You turned to him, feeling something unfamiliar and warm rise in your chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief.

"I will. Thank you."

He nodded, then handed you a heavy brass key. "She likes to be warm in winter. Keep the hearth going, and she won’t give you trouble. Pipes are good. Roof too, unless it’s a real blizzard." He paused then, glancing toward the woods. "Me and my wife live a few kilometers that way, down the trail behind the house. If you ever need anything—tools, food, help with the generator—just holler. Don’t be a stranger." You stepped onto the porch with him, watching the sky shift into a palette of lavender and gold. The trees whispered in the distance. The world here felt wider, older.

"I won’t," you said. "Thanks again. For everything."

He tipped his hat, smiled once more, and drove off slowly, tires crunching over gravel until the forest swallowed the sound.

And then you were alone.

You stood there for a long time, breathing. Listening. The woods pressed close around you, but not in the way the city had. This was different. This was peace, not pressure. The weight in your chest began to lift, like something inside of you had been held underwater for too long and was finally surfacing. As dusk fell, you unpacked only what was necessary—a blanket, your journal, a single lamp. You lit a fire in the hearth, watching as the flames caught and grew. The light danced across the wooden walls, casting long shadows.

And then, just as the last blush of sun dipped behind the ridge, you heard it.

A howl.

Far off. Low. Mournful.

It echoed through the valley, resonating in your chest like a memory you hadn’t known you carried. You froze, heart stuttering. Every hair on your arms stood up. You knew that sound. Not just what it was, but what it meant. You stepped onto the porch again, eyes scanning the darkness. The trees swayed gently, their branches rustling like breath. And something inside you stirred. Something old and aching.

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you let your instincts rise, let the wild inside you shift just beneath the surface. You closed your eyes, tilted your head toward the moonlit canopy, and listened.

And somewhere deep in the forest, something listened back.

[criminalmindswhore]

Higher Than Expected

Incredibly self-indulgent fic where reader is more granola and witchy than Emily expected. They smoke together and then they kiss

TW: weed.

2.9k words

It started with gentle glances during rough cases. She would lay the case out for everyone and then her eyes would flip to you, soft around the edges in a way you had to grow used to. As if she felt wrong for saying such horrid things in your presence. You would always find her eyes, ignoring the way it made your spine tingle, fingers cramp. 

Then it turned into a soft knock on your apartment door late one Thursday night. The team was just dismissed to get some rest, the case going temporarily cold. Emily saw no sense in beating a dead horse all night, nor did she see the value in keeping her sleep-deprived, hungry team there to go over the same details. The labs needed time to process, people weren’t answering phone calls or emails this late, it just made sense.

Your socked feet padded on the hardwoods, patchwork pants loose on your legs, the bandeau top soft around your chest, shoulders bare. Emily's eyes softened at how different this you looked from work you. Her eyes taking in the crystal hanging from your neck, the starfish tattoo adorning your shoulder that hid below work appropriate outfits. This wasn’t far from what Emily imagined you looked like outside work, someone’s witch aunt that lived in her van wasn’t exactly what she had pictured though. It only made her heart yearn to know you more. Your eyes were already soft, red and glassy, “Hmmmm Agent Y/l/n, what might you be doing on this fine evening?” 

You giggled and opened the door further for her to come in, “Don’t even, you were gonna have a gummy when we finished the case.” She chuckled once as entered and stood in front of you, her button up and slacks still sticking to her skin, “I plead the fifth your honor”. You locked the door and leaned against it, “So not to sound rude but why are you here? I thought I was supposed to be sleeping and what not.” She had never been over before and her first being right now felt purposeful. 

Emily laughed once and smiled at you, “You and I both know you’re not gonna do that, neither am I, why be alone?” My smile grew dangerously soft and it tugged at her heartstrings, my red eyes taking in how her hands predictably slid into her back pockets. My head tilted towards the window, “I was rolling another?” 

One of her brows raised, “Inviting your boss to smoke with you is a bold move Y/n.” Your feet moved towards the window and your smile got bigger when hers followed. The large windows were why you got this place, easily slipping out onto the fire escape. You offered a hand as she curled her legs through the windowsill, plopping back onto the cushion I was on when she knocked. 

Emily found home on the matching cushion and her eyes followed your hands; fingers skillfully moving to roll the paper. She took the moment to take in you like this, your space through the open window. Crystals sat on shelves, plants lined the windows, vintage art and rugs layered the space. You licked your fingertips and pressed the end of the joint shut, glancing up at her, “Like what I’ve done with the place?” She chuckled and looked back at you. 

Her tongue darted out to wet her lip, “I do actually, I was just thinking about how different you are at work. Not really different,” she regretted her words, rarely did she do that but you were well different, “just you make yourself more digestible at work, it’s nice to see you, as you.” Her eyes bore into yours, hoping she didn’t just fuck up something that might not even be there. 

Your eyes traced the white streaks that framed her face and then looked down for the lighter, flicking it to life, “You weren’t expecting full tree hugger, I don’t vaccinate my kids and drink raw milk?” That pulled a real laugh from her and she relaxed a bit, legs crossing and back leaning against the building. 

She ignored how hot it looked when you pulled the joint between your lips and lit with ease, the end glowing to life, your eyes shining in the faint light. “I don't know what I was expecting truly, I mean I know you got us all to stop using straws by buying us all reusable straws.” You smiled as you inhaled the first hit, she continued, “But you’re arcane, I think I understand you and then I don’t.” 

Your hand extended to pass it to her and your lips formed a small o as you exhaled the smoke. Her fingers brushed yours as she took hold of it, your eyes admiring how her wrist flexed for a second before looking at the night sky, “I’ve been told that. It’s very apparent what my morals are but beyond that, I’m not an open book.” Emily exhaled her hit with practiced ease and it wasn’t surprising to you at all.

“You’re very careful with your words. You say just enough to answer, but never enough to let anyone in. It’s admirable I have to say. That’s coming from the queen of locked doors and guarded walls.” Both of you chuckled in understanding, knowing the kind of pain it takes to lock a person up like you two were.  

She passed and you held her eyes as you brought it to your lips, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in your lungs as you spoke ”You know how we’re not supposed to profile each other but we do it anyways?”  Emily nodded and she admired how your chin tilted when you exhaled, blowing the smoke above her head with a cautious kind of care. “What’s your profile on me?” She laughed once, it was almost a scoff, “No.” Due to her denial you took an additional hit, skipping her turn, “No?” 

She stuck her hand with a certain dominance that made you comply, lazily extending her to her. The prior session previous to her arrival made your body loose, the joint and some change doing its job. “No, because it was wrong and it's embarrassing.” You smiled at her, the sudden admission making you realize exactly how open she was feeling. A silent understanding. 

“Embarassing? I didn’t know you could feel that.” Your tone teasing but nowhere accusatory, it made her glance at you as a smirk grew on her lips. “Do you really wanna know what I thought of you when I interviewed you?” You nodded and ashed the joint over the ledge, watching it float into the sky. 

She adjusted her position, bending a leg to prop her elbow against it, head resting her hand, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She spoke as if she had rehearsed her words, “I thought you were eager to please, desperate for validation from others. Not in an attention seeking way, but in a way that makes you hungry for a challenge. Something to tackle to say, look I did this, am I good now?” You swallowed, feeling immensely called out in the safety of your own rusty fire escape. “While it’s true, it's in ways I didn’t expect. It’s not because you’re reckless or desperate for respect, it’s because you needed to prove it to yourself and now that you have,” 

You looked at her, a cocky smile hidden below the softness of her gaze, eyes finally hooded and lightly red. The newly unbuttoned top button mixed with the knowing look in her eyes made you shiver, “you’re not pushing to prove yourself to anyone anymore, except one person.” You forced a nonchalant chuckle, “Who’s that?” 

She clocked the sudden fabricated response, fingers lazily wrapped around the cardboard tip, “I don’t need to tell you the answer.” It wasn’t like you were exactly trying to hide the ignored feelings that bubbled in your gut in her presence, but you never crossed the line. You weren’t surprised that she knew, but you were surprised when and how she brought it up. Under the moonlight, music softly humming from your apartment, both of your eyes hooded. 

Your poor little inebriated mind tried so hard to find the right response, to find the line between flirtatious and appropriate. An acorn rattling around as you tried to find an answer that was flirty enough to confirm her suspicions, but not enough to make her throw her walls back up. Or worse, write an HR report that involves you luring her to your fire escape with drugs.

She noticed your pause, because of course she did, hand extending to you. Fingers lingering against your skin as she handed it back nearly dead. “Your silence is an answer too, Y/n.” It was so casual, as if it was a loud truth hanging in the hair, mingling with the residual smoke. Her eyes trained on the neighbor below walking their dog, as if she didn’t come over at 11 pm and speak your most ashamed truth outloud. All while smoking your weed. 

Something between a laugh and scoff came from you and your eyes burned into her profile as you killed the rest of the weed. Your smile full of chagrin and defense as you put it out and tossed it into the jar with the rest of your graveyard. “Inviting your boss to smoke with you is a bold move Y/n.” you quoted mockingly, hands fidgeting with the tassel of the cushion. 

Emily’s gaze grew heavy on you and you took the risk of looking at her. Her eyes tender and glassy, something you truly thought you would never see, “So do you like sacrifice babies or?” Her tone teasing enough to help you breathe a little better, a chuckle falling from you. 

“No, I usually go for the blood of virgins.” Her responding high belly laugh made your smile nearly touch your eyes. She hummed as she stopped laughing and looked at you, tension brewing between you two as your eyes betrayed you. Before you could stop them they swooped across her exposed collarbone, traced down her exposed forearm before landing on her eyes. 

A brow now raised, a smirk threatening on her lips, “Do you wanna know why I think you’re eager to please now?” She shifted closer, leaning her chin onto her hand to be eye level with you, your exposed chest starting to flush under her attention. The THC pumping through your veins didn’t help but Emily’s eyes raked over it like it was all for her. “I think you do it now because you can’t help it, because you want to be good,” her eyes dared to darken, black and red mixing sinfully, “for me.” 

The words hit you hard, sending a shockwave through your chest making you exhale rough, “Emily.” It was warning, my logical brain barely breaking through the drug induced dopamine and the months of desire. 

She tilted her chin slightly, voice almost teasing, “What? Mad because I said the truth out loud, laid your dirty little secret out for us both to have to acknowledge?” 

Her voice dripped in something so smooth it pulled your pliant, truthfully, stoned mind where she wanted it. Chest heaving with a calming breath before you spoke, “Well, yes.” 

She leaned back and smiled softly at you, dominance and control melting into patience and respect, “Do you want my honest answer as to why I came over?” It was your turn to nod and admire her chin and then jawline, too high to control them anymore. 

She let her own eyes wander for a moment, to your cheeks, your exposed collarbone and chest. She admired the muscle on your shoulders before they found yours, “Because I couldn’t sleep another night without kissing you.” Your eyes widened slightly, “Then you open the door looking like you, already a little high, all smiley,” A smile started to bloom at the corners of her mouth and it made your cheeks burn. 

She took a breath and then placed a hand on your knee, “You’re intoxicating Y/n.” Something shifted in you. Blame it on the weed, blame on the exhaustion, blame it on the rose quartz dangling against your chest, but something in you ignited. Hands cupping her face gently but quickly, nose brushing hers. Pausing long enough to let her pull away if she wanted to, but she didn’t. Instead she tugged at your waist, pulling you to climb into her lap. Legs slotting on either side of her, hands still on her cheeks, breath mingling between you. 

Months of pretending to not be into each other, and nights of tossing and turning because of unmet desire led to this. Emily's eyes blown with want, her thumbs brushing across your hips, lips brushing yours, “Say it, admit what you want.” Her tone was clear, give me this and I’ll end your prolonged torture. 

Your throat bobbed as you found the will to admit it, to let yourself give in enough. Your eyes searching hers for something to cling to as the words pour from you, “I wanna be good for you Emily.” 

Then something in her shifted, an almost silent growl coming from her before her lips were on yours, a kiss that was heavy and hot. Hands tightening on your hips, lips forcing yours to keep up with the rhythm she set. The weed kept you loose made it easy for a whimper to force itself from your throat, and she swallowed it like it would make her immortal. Her tongue ran across your bottom lip as your hands tangled in her hair, mouth complying, letting it explore before taking control. 

Her teeth digging into your bottom lip made you whine and she let it go with a pop, chuckling darkly, “God you’re so fucked over me.” All you could do was open your eyes slowly and nod, because it was true. The kind of fucked that made you delete Tinder and tell girls no at bars. The kind of fucked that ruined touching yourself to release some pressure. To your pleasure she leaned back in, her hands moving to cup your own cheeks, tongue lazily moving against yours, her pace much slower. She kissed you as if she wanted you to melt into her, purposefully sucking all the air from your lungs and replacing it with her. Wiggling her way between your ribs as she planted her lips to jawline, “Emily.” Your hands tightened in her hair and she hummed. 

“Yes, pretty girl?” Her lips didn’t stop, only trailed lower oh so slowly. Tongue dragging across the curve of your jaw as you spoke, “Let’s go inside?” She chuckled once and then drug her teeth across your skin, tongue following its path to soothe. 

Her lips brushed against the now red spot, “You’re going to bed, and I’m going home.” 

My hands left her hair and I groaned, shoulders slumping. She pressed her forehead to mine in apology, “We have to be back at work by 6:30 and even if you just lay there with your eyes closed, we both need rest.” Her thumbs drew lazy circles on the skin on your lower back, it sent shivers over you and you wiggled in her grasp. 

“This isn’t fair, you come smoke my weed, kiss me like that and then tell me to go rest.” She chuckled and it made you force back a smile, inevitably losing when she kisses the tip of your nose. The tension between you slipping away, something more comfortable sprouting between the inflamed capillaries in your eyes. She pressed her lips to your once more, something less intense, but soothing. Calming. 

You begrudgingly peeled yourself from her lap and offered her a hand to stand. Both of you slip back through the window and into the living room, Emily shutting and locking it herself. 

You lock your weed away and then find her exploring the trinkets and doo dads around your space, hands in her back pockets. “I’m glad you came over.” Your voice brought her attention to you, a warm smile gracing her face. 

She walked over to you, hands slipping from her pockets to wrap around your waist, “You look really hot like this by the way. In your hippy attire, incense burning, macrame hanging around you.” 

A blush covered your chest as your arms draped over her shoulders, “Are you driving home Miss Prentiss?” 

She pulled you against her and smirked, “No, thank you very much. I took the train, it’s a block from my place.” 

Your stomach warmed, “You took the train?”  Teasing regret laced her voice, “Okay don’t make me regret making an eco-friendly decision because a certain someone got in my head.” 

You beamed at her, her smile slowly matching yours. “I’m in your head.” She laughed and pressed her lips to yours again. 

Both of you forgot the plot, her lips moving slow against yours, hands pulling you flush against her. Her hands on your bare skin pulled a quiet moan from you and she kissed you deeper before pulling away abruptly, “Okay, I’m going.” 

You pecked her once more, “Okay you’re going.” 

She chuckled at your apparent lingering elevation and intertwined her hands with yours as she walked to the door. As she slipped past you and out the door she paused long enough to kiss your cheek, “Goodnight mi amor.” Leaving you still high, blushing and nowhere close to sleep in your doorway.

[reveryfics]

Neighbors

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: After settling into the apartment across from Frank's, a single night brought with it the startling realization of his identity.

A/N: Thanks so much for 395+ followers! Frankie is also based on my old foster dog, whom was also named Frank Castle.

TW: Blood - Injury - Comfort

The muted drone of the television painted the confines of your apartment, the sounds from the late-night show a mere backdrop to the edges of sleep tugging at your consciousness on the worn cushions of your couch. Beside you, Frankie, your steadfast pit bull companion, lay in comfortable repose, his head a warm weight against your thigh. A sudden, subtle shift in the atmosphere jolted him awake. His ears twitched, and his head snapped up, attention fixed on the faint protest of the old floorboards somewhere beyond the living room.

You offered a low groan, the sound a blend of annoyance and lingering sleepiness, as Frankie pushed himself off the couch. His tail, however, offered a different narrative, a gentle thump-thump-thump against the fabric as he padded silently across the room, his paws making soft contact with the wood as he headed towards the compact kitchen. You initially dismissed it – the building settling, a familiar creak and groan that punctuated the quiet hours. But then, cutting through the stillness, came a sound that was anything but ordinary: the unmistakable rasp of your neighbor, Frank Castle’s, voice, a low murmur that seemed strained.

Instinct overriding your grogginess, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, swiveling on the couch to face the kitchen doorway. The breath hitched in your throat, a silent gasp escaping your lips at the sight that greeted you. Frank stood just inside your apartment, a tableau of brutal violence etched onto his very being. Blood, dark and viscous, smeared across his face, mingling with a patchwork of angry red cuts. One eye was swollen and bruised, a blossoming purple and black, while the bridge of his nose was visibly crooked. His hand was pressed tightly against his side, his knuckles white against the crimson staining his fingers.

His gaze lifted, meeting yours, his hand still loosely tangled in Frankie’s fur, the dog having settled himself at Frank’s bloodied boots. “Hey,” Frank whispered, the single word rough and weary, his eyes following your movement as you rose and approached him, your bare feet silent on the cool floor.

Speech eluded you. Instead, your hands reached out, gently framing his ravaged face, your thumbs tracing the edges of a particularly nasty gash above his eyebrow. Your eyes, however, had already registered the garment clinging to his torso – a black t-shirt emblazoned with a stark white skull. A symbol you recognized not only from fleeting news reports but from the one time you’d hesitantly stepped inside Frank’s own dimly lit apartment, catching a glimpse of it discarded on his couch from the safety of the doorway. A chilling understanding began to dawn, the pieces clicking into place like tumblers in a lock: the late-night absences, the recurring bruises he’d tried to conceal, the guardedness in his demeanor, his reluctance to let you get too close.

“I can explain,” he murmured, his voice thick with what sounded like pain and a strange sort of resignation. “I didn’t know where else…” You cut him off with a gentle but firm hand on his arm, steering him towards the narrow doorway that led to your slightly cramped bathroom. Without a word, you guided him to sit on the edge of the toilet seat.

Frank watched, his gaze unwavering, as you knelt by the small cabinet beneath the sink. The clink of metal against metal echoed in the small space as you pulled out a heavy, olive-drab box, its latch clicking open with a decisive sound as you placed it on the edge of the porcelain sink. Your attention remained fixed on the contents within, your brow furrowed in concentration as you sorted through the supplies. Without even glancing his way, you spoke, your voice calm and steady despite the turmoil churning within you. “Take your shirt and vest off.”

He complied without question, his movements stiff and obviously painful. The sight that was revealed stole your breath. Beneath the blood and grime, a landscape of angry bruises bloomed across his torso, stark against the pale skin where his bulletproof vest had offered some semblance of protection. Cuts, shallow and deep, crisscrossed his abdomen, one near his ribs still oozing a steady trickle of blood, while others had begun to dry, the edges crusted and dark.

You moved with a quiet efficiency, reaching for a clean white cloth from the small rack hanging on the wall. You ran it under the hot tap, the water quickly turning a murky pink as it soaked the fabric. Crouching in front of Frank, you were about to gently dab at one of the less severe cuts when his hand shot out, his fingers closing around your wrist in a surprisingly firm grip.

“You ain’t gonna say anything?” Frank mumbled, his eyes searching your face, trying to decipher the emotions swirling within you. You looked up at him, your gaze meeting his, the concern in your eyes a silent language. “What do you want me to say?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Gently, you eased your wrist from his grasp, your touch surprisingly light as you began to clean around the edges of the cuts, needing to see the extent of the damage before proceeding.

Frank leaned back against the cool tile of the wall, running a weary hand through his short, cropped hair, his eyes flicking towards the doorway where Frankie lay, a furry sentinel observing the scene with quiet concern. He looked down at you, his gaze softening slightly as he noted the intense concentration etched on your face, the way your brow furrowed as you examined a particularly deep gash on his side. He opened his mouth, intending to break the silence, but only a strangled string of curses and involuntary grunts escaped his lips as the antiseptic-soaked cloth made contact with the raw flesh. “Sorry,” you whispered, the word barely audible, before your voice took on a more resolute tone. “I’m going to have to stitch this one up.”

A moment of heavy silence hung in the air before Frank cleared his throat, his gaze fixed intently on you. “I… I expected you to be mad,” he finally began, his voice still rough around the edges. “Yell at me, hell, even sic Frankie on me.” He gestured vaguely towards your dog, who, as if understanding his name, glanced your way and let out a soft, almost bored huff. Frankie, despite his imposing build, was the farthest thing from a guard dog. He possessed a remarkably discerning nature, a keen sense of character that was, in no small part, the reason you had come to trust Frank as much as you did.

You reached into the metal box, pulling out a pair of sterile latex gloves and snapping them on. Your movements were deliberate as you unwrapped a small packet containing a needle, carefully disinfecting it with an antiseptic wipe. “So, what do you think?” you asked, your voice calm as you threaded the needle. You paused, your eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction. “Should I call the cops? Because, logically speaking, I probably should. Except…” You continued, your gaze returning to your task, “you’ve never given me any reason to think you’d hurt me. And we’ve only known each other for… what, less than a year? Besides,” you added, a hint of a wry smile playing on your lips, “if I were The Punisher, I’d probably want to keep it a secret too.”

Frank scoffed, a short, humorless sound. His body tensed visibly as the sharp point of the needle pierced his skin, the thin thread following its path as you began to meticulously stitch the deep laceration on his side. He nodded slowly, a grimace flickering across his face. “Yeah, I get your point.” But confusion clouded his features. “What I don’t get is… why? Why help me? Without even a second thought? You understand the risk you’re taking now, being involved with… this?” You shrugged, your focus unwavering as you snipped the excess thread and carefully placed a sterile bandage over the stitched wound. “You’d do the same for me,” you murmured, your voice matter-of-fact.

Frank didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on your hands as you continued to clean and dress the various cuts and abrasions on his chest and abdomen. Once you were satisfied, you stood up, discarding the soiled gloves and donning a fresh pair. Gently, you placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head back to get a better look at the cuts on his face and the clearly misaligned bridge of his nose. To get a better angle, you shifted your position, moving until you were practically straddling his lap as he sat on the narrow toilet seat. Frank’s hands, as if acting on instinct, came up to grip your hips, a reflexive action to steady you.

It hadn’t fully registered until this moment, the frantic hammering of his heart whenever you were near. The gentle, almost reverent way your fingers moved as you cleaned his wounds, the soft brush of your hair against his cheek. He wondered how he could have been so oblivious. Every shared walk with you and Frankie, every casual dinner in your cozy apartment, even the brief encounters over morning coffee – each interaction had been imbued with an undercurrent he’d failed to acknowledge. Now, with you so close, your lips pursed in concentration, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to them. An almost primal urge surged within him, his hands tightening slightly on your hips as he instinctively guided you down, until you were fully straddling him, the unexpected intimacy sparking a jolt of something he couldn’t quite name.

You paused, your fingers hovering just above the small cut on the bridge of Frank’s nose, having finished cleaning the gash above his eyebrow. You barely managed to get his name out, a soft, questioning sound, before his lips were on yours. The kiss was tentative, almost hesitant, as if he expected you to recoil. But you didn’t. Your own lips softened against his, your eyelids fluttering closed as you surrendered to the unexpected contact, the rough texture of his lips a surprising contrast to the gentleness of his touch moments before.

The kiss deepened, a momentary distraction that provided the perfect opportunity. With a swift, practiced movement, you gently but firmly manipulated Frank’s nose, a sharp crack echoing in the small bathroom. He flinched violently, a string of curses ripping from his throat as he pulled back, his breath still ghosting over your lips. A small smirk played on your own lips as you leaned over, reaching for the clean cloth once more to dab at the now-straight bridge of his nose. Without hesitation, you leaned in and kissed him again, a quick, decisive press of your lips against his before pulling away. “You better not make this a habit,” you whispered, your voice a playful warning, “just to get a kiss from me, Castle.” You hummed. “Can't make any promises.” Frank whispered.