Just my own Fic Reblogs

“Is this how little you think of our relationship?” he scoffed, taking a step back as you moved to grab his hand in desperation. The alcohol in your body causing a pathetic whimper to fall from your lips as he shook his head.

“I should have expected this; you never loved me. Did you? You wanted me gone so you could screw everyone in your line of sight.”

“Carter,” you glanced around you at the small crowd around you. “Can we please go somewhere else and talk?”

The next time you see Bucky shirtless, he’s covered in sweat alongside Steve and Sam as you pass the trio in the gym on your way to speak with Natasha about dinner plans.

You were nearly speechless as not only Bucky but Steve and Sam were also shirtless. You almost whimpered at the sight and sounds of the men as they lifted weights mere meters from where you and Natasha stood, quietly discussing dinner.

“Nat, a boxing ring is free to use if you’d like?” Scott Lang called as he stepped away from the ring and walked off to the showers, peeling off his sweaty shirt.

“Alright, Lang,” she answered before smiling at you gently and linking your arms together to walk into the kitchen.

“You’re doing that purposefully, right?” Sam grunted, smiling at Bucky as he set down the weights on the floor in front of him before walking over to the mirror and grabbing his water bottle that sat in front of it.

“Testing a theory, really,” Bucky smirked. “Tony said he’s heard her and Wanda discussing her crush on me. It seems that he was right, after all. I owe him twenty bucks.”

Steve scoffed as Sam choked on his water, sputtering nonsense.

The final time you saw Bucky shirtless, you could have sworn he did it purposefully. You had walked into the standard room, not expecting anyone to be sitting on the couch until you approached the sofa and nearly groaned out as Bucky was sprawled out over the couch, shirt tossed carelessly to the floor, pants hanging low on his hips.

“Bucky,” you called out, shaking his shoulder to rouse him back into the waking world.

“Hey, doll,” he smiled as he peeled an eyelid open, giving you a sleepy smile as he yawned and sat up on the couch, patting the cushion next to him.

“Are you trying to make me hate you?” you asked as you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

“Why would I do that?” He teased as he arched a bow.

“Natasha said something to you, didn’t she?” You asked as you rounded the couch and sat down, folding your legs underneath you.

“Tony did.” He smirked with a childish smirk across his face. “I owe him money now.”

“Yeah,” you hummed, “Doesn’t seem much of a talker to me, either.”

“Why not try getting his number?” She shrugged as you glared at her. “Doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

“I’m pregnant, you fool.” you reminded her, deliberately pointing at the glass of water before you. “Who’d want to try and shack up with a pregnant broad?”

“You’d be surprised at that fact, actually,” She nudged your arm, but you hardly moved an inch. You knew all too well who that man sitting in the corner had been. After all, your growing belly was proof that you knew the man. But the bartender didn’t need to know the facts. You knew it was almost her job to get people drunk and hooked up.

“Fine,” you grumbled, choking back the remainder of the water in your glass as though it would give you courage and luck. Quickly you strolled over to the booth before settling down in the seat opposite the man. Without much acknowledgement in your direction, he continued to glare out the window, a finger running circles around the brim of the barely touched glass in front of him.

“Hey,” you pouted, almost afraid at what his words would be as he finally turned his head to look at you, fierce brow pulled up with a scowl at his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“You made sure of that, Y/N,” he scowled, turning his head to look at you with venom clouding his eyes. “Fucking leaving in the middle of the night with nothing but a text message on my phone and an empty spot next to me in your absence as a farewell, without so much as an explanation.”

“Buck, you can’t blame me,” you pouted, nearly shrinking into the seat, fear pooling into your chest. “I had my reasons.”

“I loved you,” he growled out, leaning over the table, his blue eyes glaring harshly in the dim lamp that hung above your table. “And what the fuck did that get me? A broken heart and an empty bed to sleep in; I should have listened to Zemo when he warned me that you weren’t all there in your fucking head. Fuck, you probably slept with all of them before you left.”

“Helmut has absolutely nothing to do with my decision to leave, Buck." you shook your head in defiance, nausea pooling in your stomach at the thought of cheating on him. "Nobody had anything to do with my decision to leave you. I know I did wrong, but-.”

“Then why the hell should I even talk to you?” he growled, leaning back in his seat with folded arms. “And since when the fuck have you called that man by his first- you know what? I don’t even want to fucking know that answer. Go, Y/N. Leave me in-” he became silent as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, revealing the growing bump.

“You’ve gained weight,” he observed with a nasty scoff, “That is, I’m assuming?”

Quickly covering yourself, you shook your head. “No.”

“Why are you at a bar if you're fucking pregnant?” he leaned over the table again. You could feel the anger in his eyes. Not daring to look away, you sighed. “Tell me.”

“I’ve been watching you over the last few weeks, Bucky.” you admitted, tapping your fingers along the tabletop. “I’ve been missing you.”

“Don’t make me look like a fool.”

“Buck, the baby, it’s-” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Steve’s? Tony’s? Zemo’s, perhaps?”

You couldn’t help but feel incredibly offended. “Yours, you fuck.” You wanted to get up and walk away, never to see the man again after that assumption. Not believing he would ever assume that of you, you covered yourself up with your jacket before hurrying out of the booth. “I knew I shouldn’t have come; it was certainly a damned mistake.”

“Indeed, it was.” he growled. “DNA test when it’s born, or so help me.”

“Go fuck yourself, Barnes. You’ll be lucky if I allow you visitation after the shit you just said to me.”

“See you in court, darling.” He leaned back with a childish grin. Not wanting to cause a scene, you stormed out of the bar before getting in your car and pulling out your phone and erasing Bucky’s contact entirely. You’d be damned to hell if you ever allowed a man to treat you in such a way.

Billy groaned instinctively. “Jesus, what now—”

“Billy,” you warned quietly, and then turned to Max, your voice warm and open. “What’s up, Max?”

Max stepped in holding a brush and a few scrunchies in mismatched colors. “Can you braid my hair?” she asked, cheeks a little pink like maybe she thought she was interrupting something.

Your face lit up. “Of course I can, come here.”

Billy scoffed, but not as harshly this time. He sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows as Max climbed onto the bed beside you. You gently pulled her hair over her shoulder and started brushing through the red strands, careful, slow.

Max closed her eyes and relaxed into the motions, the room going quiet except for the soft tug of the brush and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

Billy watched.

He meant to look away—meant to keep up the whole too-cool-for-this act—but something about the way you handled Max made his chest feel too full.

You were so damn patient. Fingertips gentle. Voice soft. You talked to Max the whole time, asking about her day, what book she was reading, if she wanted one braid or two. She laughed once, and it was the kind of sound Billy rarely got to hear from her.

And just like that, the annoyance ebbed.

He stubbed out the cigarette, not wanting the smell to ruin the moment.

Max caught his eye and blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t know you liked being babied.”

Max opened her mouth to snap back, but you pinched Billy’s leg without even looking.

“Don’t be mean. She’s allowed to want a braid and some peace.”

Billy glanced down at you, your fingers now moving through Max’s hair in practiced rhythm, and something warm curled under his ribs.

“…Looks good,” he muttered finally.

You smiled.

“She’s a good canvas.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re good at that.”

“At braids?” you teased.

He shook his head, eyes soft now, unguarded in the way only you ever got to see. “Nah. At takin’ care of people.”

-

Max had gone home not long after, walking away with her braid swinging over her shoulder and a handful of your leftover gummy worms in her hoodie pocket. She’d muttered a half-hearted “Thanks” to Billy on her way out, which—for her—was practically a warm hug.

Now, the room was quiet again. The kind of calm that settled thick in the summer air after a small storm of laughter and kid sister energy.

You were back on your bed, curled near Billy, a book propped open but forgotten in your lap. He’d been silent for a while. Not in a moody way—more like he was turning something over in his head, and you knew better than to poke at it too soon.

“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low.

You looked over. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the now-empty space where Max had been. “So, uh… could you show me how to do that?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“The braid thing.” He shifted, suddenly way too interested in a rip on your blanket. “Not sayin’ I wanna do it all the time or anything. Just… maybe she’d let me do it for her. One day. If she wanted.”

The corners of your mouth tugged up, but you didn’t smile just yet—not because you weren’t delighted, but because you knew if you gushed, he’d retreat into a defensive shrug and a grumble about how it was “no big deal.”

So you nodded slowly, gently. “Yeah. I can show you.”

Billy looked relieved. “Cool. Like… now?”

“Sure.” You shifted to sit in front of him, grabbing the brush and a long strand of ribbon you’d left nearby. “You’re practicing on me, though. I’m not giving you a mannequin.”

He gave you a look that was half-scoff, half-smile. “Guess I can deal with that.”

You sat between his legs, your back to his chest, and handed him the brush.

“Start by brushing through a section. No yanking, or I’ll kick you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his touch was gentler than you expected.

As he worked, you felt the shift happen—the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame, replaced by quiet focus. You guided him step by step: dividing the hair into three parts, showing him how to cross them, how to keep the tension even. His fingers were clumsy at first, rough from years of fights and fixing up his car, but he was trying. Really trying.

“Like that?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Almost. Hold this piece tighter—yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”

He snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”

You laughed and leaned back into his chest just a little, letting yourself relax fully into the moment. “You’re sweet, Billy.”

He paused, hands still tangled gently in your hair.

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

Silence settled again. Then, in a rare, unguarded whisper:

“I just… want her to know I care. Even if I suck at saying it.”

You closed your eyes, fingers curling around his where they rested near your shoulder.

“She’ll know. Especially if you do her hair. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about showing up. That’s what you’re doing.”

Billy pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, just once.

“…Thanks,” he said.

And you smiled, eyes still closed, braid a little uneven but perfect in every way that counted.

-

You were in the kitchen when it happened—rooting around in the fridge for something snack-worthy and debating whether string cheese counted as a real meal—when you heard it.

A very familiar voice from the living room.

“Okay, hold still. Jesus, your head’s like… slippery.”

You peeked around the corner.

Max was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a comic book resting in her lap, expression unreadable. Billy stood behind her, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on twisting sections of her red hair into something vaguely resembling a braid.

It was lumpy. Uneven. Too loose at the top and way too tight by the bottom. But it was unmistakably a braid.

You leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart about ready to melt right through your ribs.

Max finally spoke, dry as ever. “You’re bad at this.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t ask me.”

“I did not,” she shot back.

“You walked in here and dropped a hair tie in my lap.”

“That was not asking.”

“Felt like it.”

Max was silent for a beat. Then: “…It’s not the worst braid ever.”

Billy blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”

You stifled a laugh, watching as he tied off the end of her braid with the bright blue scrunchie Max had tossed at him earlier. He stepped back, surveying his handiwork like a mechanic judging his own engine fix.

Max craned her neck to get a look in the mirror across the room. “It’s a little jacked.”

Billy threw a cushion at her. She dodged it easily, grinning.

But she didn’t undo the braid.

She didn’t even touch it.

You stepped in then, casual. “Looks cute,” you said, brushing a bit of hair off Max’s shoulder as you passed.

Billy gave you a look—half sheepish, half smug, like see, told you I could do it. You raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a first time.”

“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, bumping your hip as you passed.

Max looked between you two, clearly suspicious of whatever thing was happening but too cool to comment on it.

Instead, she said, “Next time, you’re learning fishtail braids.”

Billy groaned dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for a salon.”

You just laughed, grabbing a bag of chips and flopping down next to Max. She leaned her head on your shoulder, still wearing that uneven braid like it was a crown.

And Billy?

He sat down beside you both, close but casual, arm thrown across the back of the couch—watching his sister with something new in his eyes.

Something soft. Something real.

The next time you see Bucky shirtless, he’s covered in sweat alongside Steve and Sam as you pass the trio in the gym on your way to speak with Natasha about dinner plans.

You were nearly speechless as not only Bucky but Steve and Sam were also shirtless. You almost whimpered at the sight and sounds of the men as they lifted weights mere meters from where you and Natasha stood, quietly discussing dinner.

“Nat, a boxing ring is free to use if you’d like?” Scott Lang called as he stepped away from the ring and walked off to the showers, peeling off his sweaty shirt.

“Alright, Lang,” she answered before smiling at you gently and linking your arms together to walk into the kitchen.

“You’re doing that purposefully, right?” Sam grunted, smiling at Bucky as he set down the weights on the floor in front of him before walking over to the mirror and grabbing his water bottle that sat in front of it.

“Testing a theory, really,” Bucky smirked. “Tony said he’s heard her and Wanda discussing her crush on me. It seems that he was right, after all. I owe him twenty bucks.”

Steve scoffed as Sam choked on his water, sputtering nonsense.

The final time you saw Bucky shirtless, you could have sworn he did it purposefully. You had walked into the standard room, not expecting anyone to be sitting on the couch until you approached the sofa and nearly groaned out as Bucky was sprawled out over the couch, shirt tossed carelessly to the floor, pants hanging low on his hips.

“Bucky,” you called out, shaking his shoulder to rouse him back into the waking world.

“Hey, doll,” he smiled as he peeled an eyelid open, giving you a sleepy smile as he yawned and sat up on the couch, patting the cushion next to him.

“Are you trying to make me hate you?” you asked as you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

“Why would I do that?” He teased as he arched a bow.

“Natasha said something to you, didn’t she?” You asked as you rounded the couch and sat down, folding your legs underneath you.

“Tony did.” He smirked with a childish smirk across his face. “I owe him money now.”

He laughed without humor—short, brittle. He let the sound hang there like a verdict, leaning back in the chair. “You knew what this was from the start, Y/N. You were content. What changed?”

Everything had changed. Every careless touch had become a map you couldn’t erase. Every morning after he’d left to go be Captain America had felt like a hollowing. You couldn’t tell him you’d been building a life of small, dangerous hopes around him. You couldn’t tell him you loved him in a way that would break you if he didn’t take it back. So you said the thing anyway, because silence was worse: “I love you.”

The word fell between you and he didn’t move. For one disorienting heartbeat you saw something—something like a crack—but then he closed it up with a practiced motion. He let out a breath that was almost like pity. “You love me?” He said it as if trying a bad joke on the air. “You love me and you think that gives you the right to make this messy?”

You felt heat rush to your face, shame and exposure. “This isn’t a joke. I didn’t want it, Steve. It just happened.”

He took a step closer, and you expected—foolishly—to feel comfort. Instead, his hand grazed your cheek and there was nothing warm in it. His thumb pressed there for a fraction of a second, then he pulled back as if the touch had burned him too. “You fell into something with me,” he said, voice low and steady. “You built dreams on a lie we both agreed to keep. I can’t apologize for what I am, Y/N. I won’t be the man who ruins his life—and whatever I have to keep—for someone who chose the shadows.”

You wanted to tell him that every late hour, every quiet confession to yourself, had not been a choice. You wanted to shove the truth into his face: that you hadn't chosen the shadow, you had been pushed into it by loving him. His silence swallowed the rest.

“I can’t,” he said finally, with the kind of finality that felt surgical. “I can’t promise you more than this. I won’t be a secret turned into a scandal or a mistake. Don’t expect me to pretend otherwise for your comfort.”

You opened your mouth, the world narrowing to the space where his eyes met yours—so blue, so terrible by the end of it—and tried to find the words that would stop him. He stepped closer and kissed you, but it wasn’t a promise. It was an erase: practiced, controlled, and cool as winter. When he pulled away you could taste the last of whatever warmth had ever been true between you, and it was salt and goodbye.

He straightened, eyes flattened. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Don’t look for me. That will be better for both of us.”

Then he left—no last hand on your back, no whispered consolation—just the click of the door behind him and the compound taking him back, large and indifferent and impenetrable. You sank to the floor on the other side of that closed door, the light cutting you into angles, and realized the thing you’d become was smaller than the love you’d secretly cultivated: a shadow he’d stepped over on his way out.

You had talked to a handful of men. But none of them were worthy enough to meet in person. One had sent dick pictures straight away after receiving your match. Another had messaged you only in the middle of the night asking if you were giving it up yet. Another man only talked about himself when you had finally agreed to meet up.

You had almost given up. Until you met this guy. His name was Steve. He was a total sweetheart, though his height was on the shorter side. His deep blue eyes had caught you off guard when you met hi for the first time in person. You learned that he was a sickly man, having a ton of health problems. 

But then, just as you were putting your wine glass to your mouth, you felt a presence behind you and sniffed a too-familiar cologne wafting in the air.

He was walking towards your table when you had turned around fully. His jacket hung open, collar loosened, and that unbothered facade he wore so well was already cracking at the edges. His drink stayed untouched. Every time you smiled, his jaw ticked.

You’re moving on. He told himself it was fine. You deserved someone who made you happy. Someone who didn’t risk their life going on these damned suicide heists... Someone who wasn’t made of secrets and violence. But watching you there, with some polished guy in a tailored suit, made something ugly rise in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he came to be standing in your view. Or when he started walking toward your table. Maybe it was the alcohol cruising in his system. Maybe he missed you. Maybe he didn’t want you to be happy while he was still brooding over you.

The air between you and Nick went tight. You hadn’t seen him in months, and somehow he looked even sharper — dangerous in a quiet, deliberate way.

“Nick,” you breathed.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were into places like this. Guess things change fast. Could have fooled me, huh.”

Steve started to speak, but Nick’s gaze didn’t leave yours. That intense, storm-dark stare you’d spent months trying to forget.

“Mind if I say hello?” he asked, already pulling out the empty chair beside you.

You gave him a warning look. “Nick, don’t—”

He leaned closer, voice low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “You can pretend all you want, sweetheart, but I know that look. You’re trying too hard to seem happy.”

“Maybe I am happy,” you said. “I’m happy to finally be rid of you and your bullshit.”

He laughed under his breath but he was anything but entertained. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

You pulled them into your lap, glaring at him, but his words sank in like hooks. Your date said something about calling security, but Nick didn’t even glance at him.

He stood, finishing what he came for — not peace, not closure, just the simple act of reminding you he still existed. He will always exist in your mind. No matter how hard you tried to move on from him. He will always be in your line of sight.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your chair as he passed. “But next time, pick somewhere less predictable. I always did have a thing for expensive tastes.”

When he walked away, you realized your heart was pounding loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

The night air was sharp when you stepped out of the restaurant. Steve had gone to call a car, and you told him you needed a moment. You knew it was a lie, but one that gave you the space to breathe.

You should’ve known Nick would still be there, waiting around for you just like always.

He was leaning against a sleek black car, hands in his coat pockets, city lights catching in his eyes. The kind of image that could be mistaken for calm — until you saw how tight his jaw was.

“Couldn’t even wait until I got home to start stalking me again?” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m sure the loneliness of your house misses you more than I do. I suggest you don’t keep it waiting much longer.”

Nick gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Stalking? That’s a strong word for checking on someone I used to care about.”

“Used to.” You threw the words back at him like they might sting. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne hitting you all at once yet again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend it’s over for you,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I saw your face when I approached you. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did.”

That smirk of his tugged at his mouth. “You still wear my ghost, sweetheart. Every damn look, every breath. For fuck’s sake, your pupils still dilate when you look me.”

You tried to move past him, but his hand caught your wrist. Not hard, just enough to make you stop. The warmth of his touch was a mistake — it burned too familiar.

“Let me go, Nick.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His voice dropped low, rough with something between jealousy and longing.  “You really think that guy inside knows you? What was his name, ‘Steve’? The way you hate mornings but love thunderstorms? The way you hum when you’re nervous? The way you pick at your fingernails when your anxious, just like you’re doing now?”

Your throat tightened. You hated that he was right as you looked down at your hands.

Nick’s hand loosened, fingers brushing over your pulse before he let go. “I’m not here to ruin your night,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I had to see if it was real.”

“If what was real?”

“That look in your eyes,” he said. “The one that says you still think about me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Cars passed. The restaurant buzzed behind you. Somewhere, Steve was probably wondering where you went.

Nick finally took a step back, forcing a smile that didn’t hide how wrecked he looked. “Guess I got my answer.”

You wanted to say something-- to tell him he was wrong, that you’d moved on — but the words wouldn’t come.

He opened the car door, hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes again. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Then he was gone — taillights fading into the night, leaving you in the quiet, heart hammering, wondering which of you was lying more.

And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.

“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.

You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”

“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.

That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”

Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”

You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”

“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.

Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.

You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.

You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.

“…you do this on purpose?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”

You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”

He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Swear on it.”

You give him a look.

He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”

“And I answer.”

“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”

He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.

Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.

Then—

“You done lookin’?”

Your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”

There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.

You should be. You’re not.

After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.

There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”

Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”

“Miss me, did ya?”

You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”

“You were hiding!”

“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”

“Behind the door.”

“Details.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”

Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”

“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.

“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”

Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”

The words hang between you.

You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.

For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.

Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretendin’.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always am.”

“Cocky.”

“Gets results.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.

“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.

Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t deny it either.”

His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”

Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”

That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”

And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.

You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.

Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.

Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.

Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.

He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.

You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”

“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.

You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Sure you have.”

God, he’s annoying.

You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.

His smirk widens. “Liar.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“Door.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lock it.”

Your brain stutters. “…why?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”

That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”

“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”

Silence. A challenge.

Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.

When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.

Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Getting there.”

He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”

“I do that.”

“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.

Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.

A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”

You swallow. “Come to what?”

His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

A beat.

“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”

Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”

“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.

But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.

And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.

Giving you the choice.

You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.

What you’ve both wanted.

Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”

You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.

When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”

“So why are you sitting in front of him like it’s normal?” you asked, leaning against the car door as she shifted for a moment, pulling out a small video camera. 

“Evidence.” she explained. “I heard from an inside source that he was planning an ambush on one of the storefronts today.”

“Who’s your mole?” you frowned,

“Thor Odinson.” She mumbled.

“That blond man that’s sitting right fuckin’ next to him?” You asked, your jaw dropping wide as you watched the squad crouching down in a huddle for a moment. You recognized the stance as playful; they were playing rolling dice.

The pair of you watched for over an hour in silence as the gang played with dice and bribes until suddenly one of Bruce’s men stood up with a scowl on his face. He tapped Bruce on the shoulder before nudging across the street.

Immediately, Bruce became defensive and grabbed a bottle next to him on the ground and stuffed a white cloth down the neck before lighting it on fire and tossing it heavily into the window of a storefront.

“Got’cha, you smug bastard.” Sharon whispered in triumph as she recorded the happenings.

“So what now?” you asked.

“We go back to the station and draw up a report; but I have to drop you off at Louie’s; I can’t bring you. They’ll kill me if they find out I brought you along for the scope.”

You waited for two weeks to inform him of the news. By that time, Helen Cho had already confirmed your pregnancy and had even learned the gender of the baby that grew inside you, despite you only being a little over nine weeks. It was early afternoon when the AI had announced the team’s arrival back home and you had scurried from the kitchen and ran to your bedroom to put decent clothes on before any of the men showed their faces. As you slipped into a pair of pants, you skidded out into the hallway as the elevator dinged, alerting you of the team’s presence.

“Y/N?” Tony’s voice was heard as bags were dropped to the ground. In a moment, AI’s were zooming through the air to collect the bags that the team dispensed and were zooming all over to drop them into their respective rooms.

“I was making cookies when I got the news.” You smiled as you hugged the team, kissing Bruce the moment you met up with him.

“Cookies?” Wanda asks, checking the time on her watch. “It’s barely past morning.”

“It’s a beautiful day!” you chuckled as you led the team to he kitchen where baking sheets littered the counter surface. 

“This is enough food to feed a goddamn army.” Natasha notes, quickly squinting her eyes in your direction. “Wait a minute.”

You face fell momentarily and instinctively, your hand fell to your stomach.

Bruce notices the movement as well as the others and he takes a step over to you, caressing your cheek. “Y/N, is there something I need to know?”

You nod and look at the others before your eyes meet Bruce’s brown. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Bruce blinks in wonder as he looks between your fake and your stomach before his hands find themselves on either side of your hips.

“About seven weeks now.” you smile as you look around the room at the team as smiles break on their faces.

Baby's Breath || Summary: Bruce discovers your pregnant

Baby Bumps || Summary: Bruce finds out your carrying his child.

Dangerous Territory || Summary: You worry for Bruce… He’s been way too quiet lately. Then he surprises you. [Mafia au]

Everything Within You || Summary: you get captured by some things. You pray that Bruce will come to your rescue one day.

Malatov Me || Summary: Sharon takes you to spy on the mobster king [mafia au]

Married in Manhattan || Summary: Bruce is nervous about proposing to you [mafia au]

More Than Ever || Summary: you comfort Bruce in his time of need.

No Regrets || Summary: Tony decides that a night spent drinking and playing games is a great way to let loose.

Right Where It Hurts || Summary: bruce finds out your pregnant by one of his henchmen. [mafia au]

Royal Prisons || Summary: King Bruce stands tall as he looks down upon the woman whom he’d once played in the forest surrounding his castle. [royalty au]

What If I Hurt You Again? || Summary: Bruce hulks out during a mission and you get hurt in the midst. He avoids you for weeks afterwards.

At first, you didn’t even think much of him—he looked unassuming, average height, his hair a little messy, glasses perched on his nose, a soft smile that somehow made the chaos of the club feel… calmer. He sidled up to the bar, polite, patient.

“What can I get for you?” you asked, offering your brightest smile.

“Uh… just a water, please,” he said, quiet, almost shy. “Tap’s fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. Most people in here were loud, flashy, spilling drinks or ordering something ridiculous off the menu. This guy? Gentle. Normal. Sweet. You didn’t recognize him, but honestly… it was refreshing.

“Coming right up,” you said, sliding the glass across the counter.

He thanked you softly, and you found yourself glancing back at him more than once. There was something almost… unassuming about him, which contrasted with the rumors you’d heard. Banner, the so-called “angry one,” the guy who destroyed things when he… well, lost it. And here he was, calm, polite, sweet even.

It wasn’t until later—another night, maybe the same week—that the rumors became reality.

You were clearing tables when someone brushed past a little too roughly, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. “Hey—” you said, stepping back.

The attacker laughed, low and sneering, leaning too close. “Relax, sweetheart. I just wanna have a little fun.”

You swallowed hard, instincts screaming at you to push back, to run—but before you could do anything, a shadow fell over him.

“Back. Off.”

The voice was calm at first, almost serene, but there was an edge to it, an authority that froze everyone nearby.

You turned, and there he was—your unassuming, polite guy from the bar—but his jaw was tight, his body coiled like a spring. And then… in a blink, he moved.

It was terrifying. Smooth, fast, precise. The man who had grabbed at you now hit the floor before he even knew what happened. Limbs twisted, a punch thrown, another. The crowd gasped, part of them frozen, part of them cheering.

And through it all, he didn’t yell. Didn’t get messy. He just… ended it. Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

You were shaking, heart racing, trying to comprehend it. Your mind kept saying, that’s the same guy? That… can’t be the same guy.

He stepped toward you afterward, all soft smiles again, glasses slightly askew from the scuffle. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentle. Like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t terrifying a second ago.

“I—I… yeah,” you stammered. “I… thank you.”

He offered you a hand, and when you took it, his grip was firm, reassuring, grounding. “No one messes with people I care about,” he said softly. “Especially not someone like you.”

Your knees felt weak. Someone like me? You hadn’t realized just how much your chest was pounding—not from fear, but something else entirely. Something that made you notice the kind warmth behind his dangerous eyes.

Your chest tightens as you push the door open.

He’s there—slumped against the far wall, breathing uneven, like every inhale is something he has to remember to do. His glasses sit crooked on the floor beside him. One of his sleeves is pushed up, hands trembling where they rest against his knees.

For a second, you can’t move. “Bruce—” Your voice breaks, and that’s what makes his head snap up.

His eyes find yours, wide and startled, like you’ve caught him doing something he can’t explain. Something he doesn’t want you to see. “…you weren’t supposed to be here,” he says, voice rough, hollowed out.

You cross the room before he can say anything else.

“Hey—hey, no, don’t—” he tries, but it falls apart halfway through.

You drop to your knees in front of him, hands hovering for just a second before you finally grab onto him—his arms, his shoulders, whatever you can reach, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t hold tight enough.

“What happened?” you whisper, even though your voice is shaking too much to sound calm. “Bruce, what—what did you do?”

He lets out a weak, broken laugh that doesn’t sound like him at all.

“Nothing that worked,” he says, like it’s supposed to be a joke. Like it’s supposed to make this easier.

It doesn’t.

“Don’t,” you breathe, gripping him tighter. “Don’t say it like that.”

His eyes flicker—guilt, shame, something deeper. “I just—” he starts, then stops, jaw clenching. “I wanted it to stop. Just for a minute. The noise, the… everything. I thought if I could just—” His voice cracks, and suddenly he can’t finish.

You pull him into you before he can shut down again, arms wrapping around him, pressing his face into your shoulder. For a second, he resists—because of course he does, because this is Bruce—but it doesn’t last. It never does with you.

His hands clutch at your back like he’s drowning. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, over and over, voice muffled against you. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want you to see me like this, I didn’t—”

“Stop apologizing,” you say softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “Just… stay here. Okay? Just stay.”

His breathing stutters, uneven and fragile. “I don’t know how,” he admits, so quietly you almost miss it.

That—more than anything—breaks something in your chest.

So you pull back just enough to look at him, your forehead pressing against his. “Then we figure it out,” you whisper. “Not you. We. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to decide if you mean it. If you’ll still be here when the moment passes. When he’s not this broken, when he’s just… him again. “You shouldn’t—” he starts.

“I’m not leaving you,” you cut in, firm despite the tears in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

There’s a long pause. Then something in him gives. Not all the way—not fixed, not healed—but enough. Enough that he leans into you again. Enough that his grip tightens, grounding instead of desperate.

“…okay,” he whispers.

Too late. His breathing had gone uneven, chest rising too fast, hands trembling at his sides. Someone shouted. Something exploded too close.

And then Green. Massive. Unstoppable. The Hulk roared, and the ground seemed to shake with it.

“Everyone back!” someone yelled.

But you didn’t move. Because you knew him. Because somewhere in there, beneath all that rage, was Bruce—and Bruce would never hurt you.

Right?

“Hey!” you shouted, stepping forward despite the chaos. “It’s okay—it’s just me—”

The Hulk turned.

His eyes locked onto you—but they weren’t seeing you. Not really. Not yet.

“Easy,” you said, softer now, hands raised slightly. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You don’t need to—”

He moved too fast.

One second he was across the debris-strewn ground, the next— Impact.

Pain exploded through your side as you were thrown back, your body hitting the concrete hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Everything went white for a split second, sound swallowed by a ringing void.

Then nothing.

When Bruce came back, it was like waking up in a nightmare he couldn’t escape. The battlefield was quiet now. Too quiet. Debris everywhere. Scorch marks. Cracks splitting the ground.

And then he saw you. Lying too still. “No—”

The word fell apart as it left his lips.

He scrambled toward you, ignoring everything else—ignoring the voices calling his name, the hands trying to pull him back.

“Y/N—hey—hey, look at me—”

His hands hovered over you, shaking so badly he was afraid to touch you. Like even now, even like this, he might still hurt you.

“This wasn’t— I didn’t—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean to.”

You stirred faintly, a soft sound slipping past your lips. Relief hit him so hard it almost made him dizzy.

“You’re okay,” he whispered quickly, even though you clearly weren’t. “You’re okay, you’re okay—”

But he could already see it—the way you winced, the way your breathing hitched, the way your body refused to move quite right.

And the realization hit him like a second blow. He did that.

After that… Bruce disappeared. Not physically—not entirely. He still showed up when he had to. Missions. Meetings. The necessary things.

But you?

He avoided you like you were made of glass and guilt. If you walked into a room, he found a reason to leave. If you tried to talk, he’d mumble something about work, about needing space, about not wanting to make things worse.

It was driving you insane. And a little bit furious. So you stopped letting him. You found him in the lab. Of course you did.

Bruce stood hunched over a workbench, shoulders tight, like he carried something heavy even now. Maybe he always did.

“Really?” you said from the doorway. “This is how we’re doing this?”

He froze. Didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be up,” he said instead, voice strained. “You’re still healing—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, stepping inside. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you gestured between you. “Talking around me like I’m not the actual problem you’re avoiding.”

That made him flinch. Finally, he turned. And god—he looked wrecked. Dark circles. Tension carved into every line of his face. Eyes that wouldn’t quite meet yours for more than a second.

“I hurt you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry. Just… defeated.

“Yeah,” you said. You didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did.

Bruce swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I lost control,” he continued. “And you paid for it. So forgive me if I don’t think being around you is a good idea right now.”

“Or ever?” you challenged. He didn’t answer. That told you enough. You stepped closer. He tensed immediately. “See?” you said softly. “That right there. You won’t even let me stand near you.”

“I could do it again.” His voice cracked on the last word.

That stopped you for a second. Not because you believed it—but because of how much he did. “You think I don’t know the risk?” you asked gently.

He shook his head, frustrated now. “No, I think you do, and you’re ignoring it. Which is worse.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” you said. “I’m choosing it.”

That made him look up. Really look at you. “What?”

“I’m choosing to still be here,” you said, steady. “With you.”

His expression twisted. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you messed up? Because you lost control for a second in the middle of a battlefield?”

“A second is all it takes!” he snapped, then immediately recoiled from his own volume. “That’s the problem. That’s always the problem.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I can’t risk you like that again.”

You took another step closer. He didn’t move this time—but his hands clenched at his sides like it took everything in him to stay still.

“You’re not the only one who gets a say in that,” you said.

“That’s not how this works—”

“It is for me.” You were right in front of him now. Close enough to see the way his breathing stuttered. Close enough that he could reach out but he didn’t. “Look at me,” you said softly.

He hesitated. Then he did.

“I’m still here,” you continued. “I’m hurt, yeah. But I’m healing. And I’m not afraid of you, Bruce.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not.” Your hand lifted slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Your fingers curled gently around his wrist—careful, grounding, real.

He sucked in a breath like the contact burned.

“I know it wasn’t you,” you said quietly. “Not really. And I’m not going to punish you for something you already hate about yourself.”

His eyes shut tight. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I didn’t say it did.” You squeezed his wrist lightly. “I said I’m not leaving.”

That broke something. His shoulders sagged, tension unraveling just enough for the cracks to show. “I thought—” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “I thought if I stayed away, at least I couldn’t hurt you again.”

“Or,” you countered gently, “you just end up hurting both of us in a different way.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he admitted. “That too.”

A small, fragile moment passed between you. Carefully, he turned his hand, letting his fingers brush against yours. Testing. Like he expected something to go wrong. Nothing did. “I’m still scared,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

“Then trust me a little,” you offered.

His lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “You always make things sound easier than they are.”

“Only because you make them sound impossible.” That earned you the faintest huff of breath. Progress.

You stepped a little closer, resting your forehead lightly against his shoulder.