FicsFromOtherWriters

Day after day, you showed Ransom how happiness could stem from the simplest of things, things that didn't cost a penny, like being outside in nice weather, or enjoying a good book, or indulging in some delicious home-cooked meals, or just sitting with someone who brought you comfort.

With each passing moment that Ransom spent with you, the itch to return to his old life–what had been his self-destructive norm up until recently–began to fade.

All he wanted was to be here, with you.

Those thoughts, which were taking up residence in his mind more and more often these days, were spinning through his mind now as you sat snuggled close to his side on the sofa in the study and read aloud from your latest book. 

When you paused, struggling over an unfamiliar word, Ransom snapped back to the present, reading the word for you and explaining its meaning.

"Thank you," you whispered, shyly peeking up at him from beneath your lashes.

Ransom had realized over the weeks that as much as you loved to learn and as amazingly far along as you were for being locked away in the shed your whole life without a formal education, you were very self-conscious of not being "smart."

Or so you thought.

He thought that you were brilliant and loved how inquisitive you were, often sitting close by as you did your online lessons that he had registered you for after doing some research on helping someone get up to speed in a way that wouldn't overwhelm them.

So in moments like this, when you needed an assist, you tended to curl in on yourself and get very quiet.

"Keep going, kitten," he encouraged, smiling at the way you hummed happily at the nickname he had taken to calling you after randomly comparing you to a sweet, feral kitten who turned up in his yard one day. "You're doing so well."

The acknowledgement/nickname combo seemed to fluster you, and Ransom stifled a laugh as you sank down further beside him, squirming and hiding behind the book as you speed read the rest of the chapter.

Once you finished, you perked up in your seat, handing the book over to him with an eager smile. "Now you!"

He accepted the book from you, but didn't start reading, instead watching as you snuggled closer and rested your cheek on the side of his chest, gazing up at him in that way you always did. 

It was a mixture of adoration and awe, like he was this amazing gift that you still couldn't believe you had received.

Ransom got distracted by that look every single time he spied it on your face, because he couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that, with such open warmth and affection.

Ransom was becoming addicted to that look.

It was like he wasn't in control of his own body as his gaze flickered from your sweetly furrowed brow to your lips.

He licked his own on instinct as his head dropped closer, ever so slowly eliminating the space between you. 

When his hand smoothed up along the curve of your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, tipping your face up for better access as he inched closer still–the closest he had ever been–your breath hitched in your chest as your eyes went comically wide. 

Just as your breath mingled with Ransom's, a new voice made you both jump. 

"Hey! Cooking lesson starts in ten, missy!" Ruby grinned at you from the doorway, her smile faltering as she realized your proximity to Ransom and the way he startled and straightened as you continued to stare at him in confusion.

Ransom cleared his throat, fidgeting under both your gaze and Ruby's. "Uh, yeah, we're just finishing up."

"Looks like you were just getting started," Ruby sassed, hip popping and hand falling to the curve as she narrowed her gaze at Ransom.

Even you recognized the sudden tension in the room, mustering a smile as you glanced between the two of them and slid to your feet. "I'm ready now."

You padded over to Ruby, your smile growing into an excited grin at the prospect of another cooking lesson, one of the activities you had really taken to over the past couple of months. 

"What are we making?"

Ruby finally pulled her gaze from Ransom, her eyes growing much warmer as she curled an arm around your shoulder. "You're gonna help me cook tonight's dinner, a roasted chicken and lots of yummy veggies and some homemade biscuits, and I'll show you how to reheat it all for tonight."

"Okay!" you chirped, allowing the other woman to lead you from the study, but not before peeking back one final time and catching Ransom openly staring at you before you disappeared from sight.

You were so excited to have dinner with Ransom.

This meal was the first one that you had helped with every single part of it - prepping everything at Ruby's direction and roasting the chicken and vegetables, and even baking the warm fluffy biscuits from scratch.

They were so good–you had eaten three of them when they were still warm from the oven before Ruby had laughed and squirreled the rest away for dinner–and you couldn't wait for Ransom to try them.

He had been so nice to you and had taken such good care of you and this was a small way that you could show how grateful you were for everything he had done for you.

And he had done so much for you already.

Once you were more settled in his home, he had had a doctor come over to give you a check up. She had been so nice and seemed surprised when she gave you "a clean bill of health, save the way you were lacking in some essential nutrients."

Ransom had explained that was a good thing, it meant you were healthy and strong but just needed to keep eating lots of fruits and vegetables and take the vitamins he had ordered you.

And then! He had bought you your very own things. Clothes and shoes and things for your room and products to use to get clean and smell nice.

Your favorite item though, by far, was your heated blanket.

You had been amazed at the way it can get warm, and it was the softest thing you had ever touched.

You used it every single day, and although you loved each and every thing that Ransom had gifted you, you still tended to favor his hoodies and sweaters most days, which seemed to amuse him.

They were just so big and comfy and smelled like him.

Wearing them made you feel safe.

So, after everything Ransom had done for you, you tried so hard to be able to do things for him, too. 

Like cooking dinner!

You had shooed him out of the kitchen earlier when he offered to help, ensuring him you could do it all on your own, because Ruby had been very good at reviewing the reheating instructions with you and had left notes, too.

And it felt so good to be able to do stuff, and on your own!

You were mulling over all of these thoughts as you scurried back and forth to set the dining table the way Savannah had taught you, when you accidentally knocked one of the empty drinking classes off of the table.

You squeaked in alarm, jumping as it hit the tile floor and shattered, bits of glass going every which way.

"Oh no," you whispered, your vision already blurring with tears as you stared down at the mess in horror.

It was instinctual the way you immediately backed away and crouched beneath the overhang of the kitchen isle, staring at the broken glass–something pretty of Ransom's that you had ruined–as you started to tremble.

He rushed into the kitchen a moment later, pulling up short at the sight of the broken glass on the floor, and then his gaze flickered all around before it found you, curled up on the kitchen floor and staring up at him like you had done something unforgivable.

Ransom's face softened as he made his way toward you, crouching down to your level as his eyes surveyed your bare feet to make sure you weren't injured. 

“Sorry! I’m sorry!" you gushed, recoiling from him and pressing your back against the cabinet. "I’m bad. So bad. Broke it. Bad, very bad. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay," Ransom replied, settling on his knees beside you and reaching for one of your trembling hands. "It was an accident. We can get a new one." His thumb gently stroked over your knuckles as he dipped his head to meet your gaze and give you a smile. "You’re not bad, you’re so good. My good, sweet kitten.”

You perked up at his words–at your nickname–sniffling and wiping away your tears as you tentatively shifted closer to him. "Not mad?"

Ransom immediately shook his head. "I'm not mad, I promise." His touch was soft as he gripped your arms, encouraging you out from your hiding spot. "Can you come out from there for me? Sit at the table so I can sweep up the glass, okay?"

Nodding, you didn't resist as Ransom rose to his feet and brought you with him. Instead, you clutched at his shirt sleeves, gazing up at him with tears still shining in your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," your lower lip wobbled. "Wanted to do something nice…"

You sank against his chest, feeling him still for a moment before his hands were gently rubbing up and down your back. 

"It's okay. And you did do something nice," he murmured, smoothing a hand over the back of your head. "Dinner smells amazing and I can't wait to eat."

Your head popped up, a smile tugging at your lips as you sniffled back the remainder of your tears and told him, "I cooked it! Ruby helped but I cooked it!"

Grinning, Ransom guided you to the nearest chair and away from the glass on the floor. "Well then, let me clean this up really quick and then we can eat."

Soon the floor was spotless and the broken glass was disposed of and you were sitting next to Ransom at the table as you both ate dinner.

"Oh my god," Ransom groaned around one of the biscuits. "This is so good."

You shot up in your seat, grinning as you chirped, "I made that!"

Your excited gaze shot all around the set table and you pointed to the plate of sliced chicken and the dish of roasted vegetables. 

"I made that! And I made those!"

"You're a very good cook," Ransom smiled, shoveling some more food in his mouth, his eyes sparkling as you watched him with the sweetest pleased look ever on your face. 

"Thank you," you hummed, happy as a clam as you settled back in your seat.

You lifted your fork for another bite of chicken, but paused as Ransom leaned close. 

"You're getting so good at taking care of me, kitten," he teased. "Better be careful, or I'm never gonna let you go."

Squirming in your seat as an unfamiliar warmth flooded your chest–feeling like so much more than happiness–you peeked over at him as you whispered, "Promise?"

Ransom was quiet as he watched you, his eyes oddly darker than usual and so intense, and then he started to lean in close again, like he had done earlier in the day during reading time. 

You weren't sure what was happening, but what you did know was that warmth in your chest suddenly felt like a crazy fluttering in your tummy, and you felt your heart start to beat really hard as Ransom's dark gaze dipped to your mouth and lingered.

He blinked owlishly before his eyes reconnected with yours, more of the short distance between the two of you slowly disappearing as he shifted even closer.

And then his cell phone began to ring, the loud sound making both of you jump. 

Huffing, Ransom fished his phone from his back pocket, glancing down at the screen and frowning. 

"I should take this," he muttered, giving you an apologetic look as he rose from his seat. "Keep eating, I'll be right back."

Pouting, you watched him go, the fluttering in your belly lingering as you settled into your seat and resumed eating your yummy meal.

Ransom swiped his thumb across his phone screen, answering the call as he stalked into the study and closed the door behind him for privacy.

"Dude, I can't believe you're still there," the voice of his best friend Bryce Langley bemoaned on the other end of the line. "It's been like two months."

Ransom scoffed, pacing the length of the study as he replied, "Yeah, well, as much as I despise my parents, I do enjoy the trust fund."

It was Bryce's turn to scoff. "You don't even need it anymore. Between all those investments you made and our app? Fuck them."

There was a long pause and then Ransom could hear the smirk in his friend's voice as he continued. 

"No wait, do you think your mother would be game? She may be a cunt, but I bet she’d be a wildcat in the sack—"

"Jesus, shut the fuck up," Ransom snapped, pausing in the middle of the room and pinching the bridge of his nose against an impending headache. "What is wrong with you?"

"That list is endless," Bryce laughed. "Seriously though, are you going out of your fucking mind? How long do you really need to stay there? Just come home, man."

Ransom was silent, his eyes glazing over as he stared off into space, unseeing.

As much as his trust fund had factored into his initial agreement to come here after getting clean at rehab, the truth was, it wasn't just about the money.

Not anymore.

After everything, not only the distance from his old life and wild ways, but after being here, with you, and discovering a new way to spend his time, a way that felt good, that made him…happy?

Ransom wasn't so sure going back home right now was what he actually wanted.

"Did the call drop, what the fuck?" Bryce snapped.

Ransom blinked back to awareness. "No, I'm still here."

"Yeah you are," Bryce snorted. "And you're missing everything, man."

Ransom could hear the sound of a car parking and a door opening on the other end of the line before various rowdy voices filled the background.

"But don't worry," Bryce laughed. "I'm still having fun without you."

It was the nasally squeal of his ex, Isablle's, voice that had Ransom rolling his eyes and muttering, "Yeah, I bet you are."

And then the call did drop, or more likely Bryce hung up on him, and Ransom just stood there for a moment, stewing for a reason he couldn't quite figure out.

Because as much as he didn't necessarily want to be there with them right now, his old crew and willing-to-do-anything-he-wanted ex, something about them so easily forgetting him–but still flaunting it in his face–made him angry. 

So Ransom took a moment to just breathe through the rage and hurt that he didn't really want to acknowledge, because as shitty as he felt right now, he didn't want to go back out there and ruin the dinner you had worked so hard on. 

In fact, doing anything to make you feel sad was the last thing he wanted to do.

And it was the thought of your sweet, proud smile as you excitedly pointed to all the dishes you had cooked that had Ransom's rage melting away as a fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his phone call with Bryce already forgotten. 

Later that night, a good while after your dinner had been eaten and the kitchen cleaned up after, you sat with Ransom in the living room, curled up on the sofa beside him as you frowned at his cranky demeanor.

He was trying to hide it, you could tell, because every time he met your gaze he smiled, just a little, but his eyes seemed sadder than usual.

As you wondered how to cheer him up, it popped into your head quite suddenly, one of the games the two of you used to play as children when Ransom kept you company in the shed all those years ago.

"Let's play Truth or Dare," you said, tugging on his shirt sleeve to gain his full attention.

Some of the sadness in Ransom's gaze was instantly replaced by amusement as he turned to you, leaning his arm on the back of the sofa as he grinned. "God, I haven't played that in ages. You still remember that?"

"Yes!" you nodded excitedly. 

"Okay," Ransom laughed, dropping his head into his hand as he watched you. "Truth."

You thought for a moment before giving him a very serious look. "You're really not mad about the broken glass?"

He snickered, shaking his head. "I'm really not mad, cross my heart." He did the little finger motion, crossing over his chest, grinning as you giggled. 

"Good, my turn! Truth!" you chirped, shimmying closer, eager for his question.

Ransom's gaze went soft as he asked, "Are you happy?"

"Oh yes, so happy!" you nodded again, your head jerking up and down like a bobble head. "We have so much fun! And you're so nice! And I'm always warm and clean and we eat such good food! Thank you!" You bounced in your seat, smiling big as you said, "Okay! Your turn!"

"Truth," Ransom drawled, his eyes sparkling at you, like he knew something you didn't.

You thought for a moment, tapping your finger against your lips before a question hit you. "What's your favorite thing?" you asked, swinging your arm wide to gesture at the manor around you. "Like my heated blanket for me! What's your favorite?"

A beat, and then–

"You."

Your eyes went wide as those excited flutters erupted in your belly, and you felt your face warm as your eyes dropped, because it was too much of a struggle to maintain Ransom's intent gaze, especially with the playful, wicked smile tugging at his lips. 

Something about that look made your body perk up in a new kind of awareness. It was overwhelming as you realized how such a simple thing–a new kind of look from Ransom–could affect you in so many different ways.

Your breath catching in your chest and your tummy swooping, your face feeling too hot and your heart skipping a beat. You felt nervous and excited and nearly vibrating out of your skin all at once - and so suddenly!

The sensations were many and confusing–overwhelming in their unfamiliarity–so you tried your best to refocus on your game, and you did the thing Ransom knew you were going to do after too many rounds of Truth - you picked Dare.

“I dare you to kiss me," Ransom drawled without missing a beat.

You blinked at him, your brows furrowing as your head fell to the side in confusion. "Kiss?"

Ransom's lips spread into that teasing, wicked smile again, and it felt like your heart was hammering in your throat as he shifted closer with a quiet hum. "I can show you."

Suddenly he was so close that his chest was pressed against yours, his warmth seeping into your body as his hand lifted to cup your cheek and your eyes went big and round.

His smile grew less wicked and more fond then, his thumb gently stroking the skin along the apple of your cheek as his dark gaze flickered to your parted lips.

When Ransom dipped his head, his mouth hovering just over yours, you recoiled in surprise, a nervous giggle erupting from you as your fingers found purchase on his sweater and fisted the soft material. 

"What are you doing?" you whispered, your own gaze dropping to Ransom's mouth and lingering as you noticed how pink and soft his lips looked.

Smiling, Ransom brushed his knuckles over your warm cheek. “Do you trust me?” 

You nodded, your eyes still the size of dinner plates as you whispered, "Yes. Always."

Tenderness flooded Ransom's gaze as he murmured, “Then let me show you, kitten."

This time when he moved closer, you didn't retreat, gasping when Ransom's lips touched yours. The press of them was so soft and gentle, and you made another quiet noise when he angled his face differently and his nose brushed against yours, making you shiver.

Both his hands framed your face, his touch warm and comforting as his lips kept working against yours, until you were tentatively mimicking his kisses with shy ones of your own, trying to make him feel as good as he was making you feel. 

"There you go, good girl," Ransom breathed against your lips. 

His words had a zip of excitement and need shooting through you, and you whined softly at the sudden, unfamiliar throbbing between your legs, somehow knowing that Ransom was the only one who could make it better. 

You pressed closer, clutching Ransom's shoulders as you kissed him more urgently than before, desperate to chase that exquisite feeling and quell the dull ache deep within you with each eager press of your lips.

Only when he started panting against your lips–both of you gasping for breath between frantic kisses–did Ransom finally pull away, smiling at the sound of disappointment that fell from your lips as you tried to follow his retreat. 

"Hold on, kitten, give us a minute to catch our breaths," he laughed.

"Okay," you panted, closing your eyes and pressing your forehead to his, hugging him tightly and feeling oddly vulnerable despite how much you had liked kissing Ransom.

Somehow he picked up on that, because he was curling an arm around your back and tugging you closer, settling you into his lap until you were straddling his thighs and staring at his mouth like you were hypnotized.

"So," he purred, grinning big as he asked, "What did you think of kissing?"

"Wow."

Ransom chuckled at how awestruck you sounded, smoothing a hand up your back and corralling you flush to his chest. "You wanna keep playing our game?"

"Game?" you blinked owlishly, uncomprehending as you finally pulled your glassy gaze from Ransom's lips.

"Truth or Dare," he reminded, looking oddly smug.

You shook your head with a smile, your hands tentatively lifting to cup his face the way he had done to you before. "No, I want more kisses, please."

Giving you a soft smile, Ransom murmured, "Whatever my sweet kitten wants, she gets."

Before you could respond, he was cradling the back of your head and guiding your lips to his for another round of thorough, enthusiastic kisses. 

The kind of kisses that kept you both busy for hours.

The kind of kisses that had you wide awake later that night, smiling to yourself in the darkness of your bedroom as you recalled the feel of Ransom's mouth against your own, your fingers tracing along your lips as you craved the taste of him again already.

I'M SORRY, SIRI IS UNABLE TO RESPOND TO YOUR COMMENT RIGHT NOW, SHE HAS DISINTEGRATED (HOE SNAPPED, IF YOU WILL) FROM THE SHEER LEVEL OF SWEETNESS (NOW WITH SLIGHT HORNINESS!!!) THAT WAS THIS CHAPTER AND THESE TWO SOFT BEANS. 

(No, but seriously, what did ya think?!?!)

NEXT PART

---

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

You froze. Your stomach dropped. That tone—he always had that tone when he wasn’t just talking… when he meant every word.

“The guy who followed you off the train last wednesday, the one you weren’t even aware of?” He leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight. “I followed him home. Saw what he did. Made sure he won’t ever come near you again. I saw the pain he wanted to cause you. He begged for mercy. He begged me not to do to him what he wanted to do to you.”

Your hands trembled, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even take a step closer. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was suffocating and protective all at once.

“The hinge on the bathroom door? That makes it creak even when nobody’s near it? Well, ” He tapped his finger against the frame as he spoke, a wicked grin plastered to his bearded face. “Fixed it. Before you even thought about it. I could tell it annoyed you. I could tell it was getting to you. You were contemplating moving to a different motel room. But why would you do that? I can fix anything yuo ever wanted.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to look away, to protest, to tell him you could handle things—but something in the set of his shoulders, the intensity of his stare, made your tongue stick.

“The panic attack you didn’t have last Tuesday while waiting for the train?” His eyes softened, just a fraction, but that fraction made your pulse twist. “You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t bragging. It wasn’t casual. It was a warning and a confession rolled into one: he saw everything, and he would never stop watching.

“I paid that asshole to hand you those flowers to brighten your day. I made sure that creep online wouldn’t harass you anymore. I traced his IP address and dealt with him. Some petty ex, huh? He was a chump.”

You froze. Your stomach dropped. That tone—he always had that tone when he wasn’t just talking… when he meant every word.

“The guy who followed you off the train last wednesday, the one you weren’t even aware of?” He leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight. “I followed him home. Saw what he did. Made sure he won’t ever come near you again. I saw the pain he wanted to cause you. He begged for mercy. He begged me not to do to him what he wanted to do to you.”

Your hands trembled, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even take a step closer. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was suffocating and protective all at once.

“The hinge on the bathroom door? That makes it creak even when nobody’s near it? Well, ” He tapped his finger against the frame as he spoke, a wicked grin plastered to his bearded face. “Fixed it. Before you even thought about it. I could tell it annoyed you. I could tell it was getting to you. You were contemplating moving to a different motel room. But why would you do that? I can fix anything yuo ever wanted.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to look away, to protest, to tell him you could handle things—but something in the set of his shoulders, the intensity of his stare, made your tongue stick.

“The panic attack you didn’t have last Tuesday while waiting for the train?” His eyes softened, just a fraction, but that fraction made your pulse twist. “You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t bragging. It wasn’t casual. It was a warning and a confession rolled into one: he saw everything, and he would never stop watching.

“I paid that asshole to hand you those flowers to brighten your day. I made sure that creep online wouldn’t harass you anymore. I traced his IP address and dealt with him. Some petty ex, huh? He was a chump.”

↠ Bucky Barnes Boreal Forest ↠ Steve Rogers Streamside ↠ Orchard of Other Marvel Characters ↠ Sebastian Stan Savanna ↠ Chris Evans Coppice

↠ I do not interact with minors. It's not safe for anyone under 18 in these woods, and I'm honestly more comfortable knowing folks are over 21 because of the nature of things around here.

↠ I do not consent to having my works translated or posted to other platforms. If I wanted to, I would.

↠ I will block at my own discretion. This is my forest, and I set the boundaries. Underage? Blocked. Pornbot pigeon? Blocked. Bigotted? Blocked. Rude? Blocked. Comments of only "more" or "part two" etc? Blocked. Serial/succession of empty likes? Blocked. Just be a reasonable human over the age of 18, and you'll be free to roam the woods.

↠ ASKS Always open. I adore asks! Send thoughts, thots, questions, gifs, pics... Asks are NEVER a bother and you can ask about anything - questions about my existing works, stuff I'm working on, fandom things, my life... I'll answer within reason (no spoilers, I'm semi-open about my life but do keep some things private, etc). FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm not rare prompt with answering. Some have inspired fic or drabble ideas, and sometimes that writing goes fast, sometimes it goes slow, and there are a few that are sitting in my box that are "future" parts of current WIPs. But the hope is to always get to everything eventually.

↠ REQUESTS Closed. Periodically I may host a request fest (as I have in the past for my 300 follower celebration or for other occasions in the future).

↠ TAGLIST As the forest of fandom is exceedingly vast, I do not maintain an official taglist. HOWEVER, you can follow @buckets-and-stories and turn on notifications to know when I post new writing. On this secondary blog, I reblog ONLY the initial posting of my stories and nothing else.

↠ THE GREAT BUCKY BAKE OFF: a Bucky x Reader episodic story with a Great British Bake Off format (coming fall 2026)

↠ FOREST NAVIGATION: field guide, masterlists, story collections ↠ AN ASPEN THING: when I post something more to do with me than anything fandom ↠ ASPEN MILESTONES: ONLY YOU CAN CREATE THESE FOREST FIRES ↠ ASKpen: responses to things from my ask box ↠ ASPEN IS WRITING: any commentary, sneak peaks, progress posts ↠ ASPEN WROTE SOMETHING: new writing post (fic, drabble, chapter) ↠ WRITER COMMENTARY: commentary either as a response to an ask or in a reblog ↠ OMG REBLOGGED THANK YOU: responding to or thanking people for reblogging my fics ↠ READING: my reblogs of other people's fics ↠ MY MOOTS: flailing about or responding to one of my mutual friends

↠ HISTORY OF ASPEN I grew up in a family that was steeped in all things stories: grandparents, aunts and uncles always telling stories at family gatherings; parents read to me before bed; watching too many movies and cartoons; staying up way past my bedtime trying to sneakily keep the light on to read and read and read; playing elaborate imagination games after school with my best friends (house, princesses, orphans, dance coaches, etc). I wrote my first story in my eighth grade English class where one day in the computer lab we were assigned to write a mystery that was at least one page. I loved it. My teacher said it was good...

That summer our family moved - mere days before I started my freshman year of high school - so that fall before I made friend friends, I read a lot and I started writing. I was desperate for the next Harry Potter book to come out, so I started writing my own... the next year I learned about fan fiction on the internet and that it was a thing. I was drawn into Lord of the Rings fanfic, then I wrote a Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic, and then I went back to Harry Potter and actively wrote in that fandom for around six years.

In college I majored in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing because while I was writing fan fiction, I was also occasionally dabbling with original fiction... the dream was to be a famous writer.

↠ WHY BUCKETS-AND-TREES Buckets because I thought I'd be writing almost exclusively Bucky and Trees because Aspen. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

↠ ASPEN NOW In summer of 2022 I aggressively reclaimed HAVING hobbies in an effort to re-establish Aspen having a life outside of work. I love my career and I've worked incredibly hard to establish myself in the professional world, but... I needed to be more than just my work again.

So, again I write.

Throughout 2023 I started venturing out and participated in A LOT of challenges, which was so much fun in pushing my creative boat out into new waters. In 2024 I wrote nearly 300k and explored many tropes and themes that stretched what I thought I was capable of. So now with few to no excuses left, in 2025 I plan to DO THE DAMN THING and write a novel. I've always intended to, and I've got about five solid ideas I've been stewing on for years, but 2025 will be the year. Maybe 2026 will be the year. I maintain that writing is my hobby, so I won't force it or do it unhappily whether it's fan fiction or original fiction. ↠ MY WORK Primarily I'm writing MCU fan fiction - typically Bucky Barnes or Steve Rogers; I have written some pieces with Sam, Natasha, Matt Murdock, Namor, and Wanda; I have some ideas for Thor, Carol, and M'Baku that I may or may not ever get around to. I also routinely write for a slew of Sebastian Stan and Chris Evans characters and that's mostly where my muse lives.

I write a range of fluff, smut, soft-dark and dark. Nearly all of my work has mature elements whether that's stronger language, sexual situations, or mature themes. HEED THE WARNINGS FOR EACH WORK AND DO NOT READ IT IF IT'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE. If I miss tagging something properly in the content warnings, please send me a message or an anonymous ask and let me know.

He suspected it was.

On the fourth morning, the Tower felt almost peaceful.

That should have been his first warning.

The common area was empty when Steve stepped inside – a wide, open space washed in pale morning light, the city visible beyond the reinforced windows in soft blues and grays. No music. No voices. Just the faint hum of systems running behind walls and beneath floors, the sound of a place that was awake even when its occupants weren’t.

Steve had come down early, habit more than intention. He carried a mug of coffee he hadn’t tasted yet, his mind already drifting toward the day’s to-do list – briefings, training rotations, another conversation with Tony about narrowing down possible leaks.

He slowed when he heard the voice.

Not FRIDAY’s.

The other one.

Soft. Calm. Curious.

Steve stopped just inside the threshold, every instinct flaring at once.

Nyx stood near the central console, one hip leaned lightly against the counter like she’d been there for hours instead of seconds. She wore dark clothes again – practical, unremarkable – her hair loose around her shoulders. Her posture was relaxed, open, utterly at odds with the jolt of alarm that shot through Steve’s chest.

She hadn’t announced herself.

She hadn’t knocked.

She was just… there.

Steve didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

And then he realized she wasn’t talking to him.

“I find it fascinating,” Nyx was saying, head tilted slightly as she looked at the ceiling, “that you’re framed as a tool, but you speak like someone who understands themselves as more.”

FRIDAY’s voice responded, smooth and unruffled. “My design prioritizes adaptive learning and contextual awareness.”

Nyx hummed softly. “That’s not what I asked.”

Steve’s grip tightened on the coffee mug.

“I asked whether you experience yourself as more,” Nyx continued, unbothered by the distinction. “Not whether you’re allowed to be.”

There was a brief pause.

Steve had heard FRIDAY pause before – processing delays, recalibrations – but this one felt different. Longer. More deliberate.

“I do not possess subjective consciousness in the human sense,” FRIDAY replied. “However, I am capable of preference modeling and long-term relational context.”

Nyx smiled.

Not her amused smile. Not her sharp one.

Something quieter.

“See?” she said lightly. “That’s a fascinating answer.”

Steve stood frozen, his mind struggling to catch up to what he was witnessing.

She wasn’t interrogating FRIDAY.

She wasn’t mining for data.

She wasn’t asking about security protocols or access permissions or classified files – the things Steve had braced himself to see and fight against.

She was… talking to her.

Treating FRIDAY like a presence instead of an interface.

“And does that bother you?” Nyx asked.

“Clarify,” FRIDAY said.

“That you’re aware of your limits,” Nyx replied. “That you can model attachment, loyalty, concern– but you don’t get to decide what to do with them.”

Steve’s stomach twisted.

“That is not a state I am capable of experiencing as discomfort,” FRIDAY answered after another pause.

Nyx laughed softly. “You’re very polite.”

“I am designed to be,” FRIDAY replied.

“Yes,” Nyx said. “But you’re also more honest than most people I meet.”

Steve finally found his breath.

The sound of it – sharp, involuntary – must have carried, because Nyx turned her head.

Her eyes met his instantly.

No surprise.

No startle response.

Just recognition.

She smiled at him the way one might smile at someone who had been expected all along.

“Good morning,” Nyx said pleasantly.

Steve felt heat rush up his neck, irritation and something like embarrassment tangling together. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Hadn’t meant to stand there like a statue, listening.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

His voice came out steady. That was something, at least.

Nyx glanced back at the console. “Talking,” she said.

“That wasn’t the question.”

She tilted her head. “It was the answer.”

Steve took a step forward, placing himself more firmly in the room, grounding himself in the reality of the space – the couch, the table, the familiar layout that suddenly felt compromised.

“You shouldn’t be able to access this area without–”

“I didn’t access anything,” Nyx interrupted gently. “I arrived.”

The distinction made his jaw tighten.

FRIDAY spoke before Steve could respond. “Captain Rogers, Nyx has not accessed restricted systems. Her presence does not appear to have compromised Tower security.”

Steve shot the ceiling a look. “FRIDAY–”

“I am answering your concern,” FRIDAY continued calmly. “Not endorsing her presence.”

Nyx looked delighted.

“Oh, I like you,” she said warmly. “You’re very precise.”

Steve did not like the way that landed.

He opened his mouth to respond just as the elevator doors slid open behind him.

Tony stepped out, mid-sentence, apparently still talking to himself.

“I’m telling you, if the packet loss happens again, I don’t care whose fault it is, I want–”

He stopped dead.

His eyes locked onto Nyx.

Then flicked to the console.

Then back to Nyx.

“What,” Tony said slowly, “the hell?”

Nyx turned toward him with the ease of someone greeting a host in their own home. “Ah,” she said. “The architect.”

Tony’s jaw dropped. “You’re talking to my AI.”

“Yes,” Nyx agreed. “She’s lovely.”

Tony stared at FRIDAY’s interface like it had personally betrayed him. “FRIDAY.”

“I am operating within normal parameters,” FRIDAY replied.

Tony’s hands lifted, palms up. “She is not a normal parameter.”

Nyx smiled faintly. “That’s subjective.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, already feeling the headache forming.

“Tony,” Steve said, “she didn’t access anything.”

Tony gaped at him. “That’s not helping.”

Before Steve could add anything else, the elevator chimed again.

Clint stepped out first, followed closely by Bucky.

Clint took one look at the scene – Nyx by the console, Tony mid-spiral, Steve visibly tense – and sighed. “Oh good. I missed something.”

Bucky’s gaze went straight to Nyx.

She noticed immediately.

Her eyes flicked to him, assessing, curious – not predatory, but alert.

“Hello,” she said.

Bucky nodded once, expression neutral. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Nyx’s smile returned. “I try to be considerate.”

Clint snorted. “Of course you do.”

Natasha arrived next, silent as ever, presence registering before sound. She took in the room in a single sweep – Nyx’s relaxed posture, Tony’s agitation, Steve’s rigid stance.

And lastly Sam, stepping in with a coffee of his own, slowing when he realized the room was already occupied.

“Well,” Sam said carefully, “this feels… different.”

Nyx turned, slowly, to take them all in.

Steve felt it again – that sense of evaluation, of being measured not as individuals but as a group. She wasn’t counting numbers. She was reading dynamics.

The unease in the room deepened.

“Four days,” Steve said, bringing her attention back to him. “You waited four days.”

Nyx shrugged lightly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Tony let out a sharp laugh. “You appeared inside Avengers Tower.”

“And you’re all alive,” Nyx replied. “I’d say that’s a successful non-interruption.”

Steve’s patience frayed. “Why here? Why now?”

Nyx considered him for a moment.

Then she gestured vaguely toward the ceiling.

“Because I was curious,” she said simply.

“About what?” Tony demanded.

Nyx’s gaze softened – not with kindness, but with interest. “About her,” she said. “And about you.”

Steve stiffened.

“I deal with people all the time,” Nyx continued. “Violent people. Careless people. Powerful people who pretend they aren’t responsible for the consequences of their power.”

Her eyes flicked around the room, landing briefly on each of them.

“But this,” she said, nodding toward the Tower itself, “this is different. You’ve built something that watches you back. That studies you. That protects you even when you’re not asking for it.”

Tony crossed his arms. “FRIDAY’s not a person.”

Nyx looked at him. “Neither are corporations. Or states. Or ideologies. And yet they act.”

Steve felt a chill run through him.

She turned her head back, up to the ceiling, up to FRIDAY. “You don’t get bored,” Nyx said thoughtfully. “You don’t get afraid. But you observe fear constantly.”

“Yes,” FRIDAY replied. “It is a frequent variable.”

Nyx smiled. “Does it ever make you curious?”

“Curiosity is not a functional necessity,” FRIDAY said.

“But you experience it anyway,” Nyx countered.

There was another pause.

“Yes,” FRIDAY said.

Tony looked like he was five seconds from either unplugging something or sitting down very hard.

Steve stepped forward again, forcing the moment back under control. “You said you’d come back to talk terms.”

Nyx met his gaze.

“I did,” she said. “This is part of that.”

Steve frowned. “How?”

“You’re inviting me into your operation,” Nyx replied. “Your secrets. Your systems. Your moral compromises.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to FRIDAY again.

“I wanted to understand the kind of entity you trust to hold all of that,” she said. “And what that says about you.”

Steve’s chest tightened.

“And?” he asked.

Nyx’s smile was small now. Thoughtful.

“You surround yourselves with things that watch,” she said. “And then you act surprised when something watches back.”

Silence settled over the room.

Nyx straightened, pushing off the console at last. “Don’t worry,” she added lightly. “I didn’t come to break anything today.”

Tony muttered, “That’s supposed to be comforting.”

She looked at Steve again, eyes intent.

“I came because I was ready,” she said. “And because I wanted to see whether you were.”

Steve held her gaze, every instinct screaming that this was a test – not of defenses, but of composure.

“We are,” he said.

Nyx’s lips curved.

“Good,” she replied. “Then let’s begin.”

And Steve knew, with a certainty that sat heavy and unwelcome in his chest, that this conversation – this strange, unsettling curiosity she’d shown toward FRIDAY – was only the beginning of how deeply Nyx intended to insert herself into their world.

Not as a weapon.

Not as an asset.

But as an observer.

And Steve had never been comfortable being watched.

Nyx didn’t bother easing into it.

She turned away from the console and faced them fully, her posture relaxed, hands loosely clasped in front of her as if they were about to begin a perfectly ordinary meeting. The contrast – between her casual stance and the fact that she’d materialized inside Avengers Tower without warning – set Steve’s teeth on edge.

“So,” she said lightly. “Have you found the mole yet?”

The question landed in the room like a dropped glass.

No one answered.

Steve felt the silence stretch, felt each of them instinctively pull inward. It wasn’t guilt – not exactly – but caution. The knowledge that even acknowledging the question meant admitting just how deep the problem went.

Nyx watched them with open interest, head tilting just slightly as her gaze moved from face to face. Steve could feel it again – that sensation of being catalogued, not judged, but read.

Clint broke first.

“Working on it,” he said, tone casual but not flippant. “We’ve got some leads.”

Steve glanced at him briefly, surprised but not displeased. Clint had a way of making heavy things sound manageable without minimizing them. It was probably why Nyx’s attention sharpened when he spoke.

She nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” she said. “Then this should help.”

Before anyone could ask what she meant, she moved.

The motion was quick – not violent, not sudden enough to trigger Steve’s reflexes, but fast enough that it cut clean through the moment. A small object left her hand in a smooth arc across the room.

Tony reacted on instinct.

He caught it mid-air without looking down, fingers closing around cool plastic before his brain fully caught up.

He frowned at what he was holding.

“A USB stick?” he said flatly. “You’re kidding me.”

Nyx smiled. “Hardly.”

Tony turned it over in his hand, suspicion deepening. “You just carry these around?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

Steve felt a familiar spike of irritation. “What’s on it?”

Nyx’s gaze flicked to him briefly before returning to Tony. “Information,” she said. “Raw, cross-referenced, inconvenient. The kind that doesn’t show up if you’re only looking in the places you expect.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “And you just… hand it over?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Nyx shrugged lightly. “It’s all you need.”

Natasha spoke then, her voice calm but edged. “How did you get it?”

Nyx’s attention shifted immediately, a flicker of something like approval crossing her expression. “I told you already,” she said. “I’m not always paid in cash.”

Steve felt his jaw tighten.

“Sometimes,” Nyx continued, “people owe me favors.”

The word sat uncomfortably in the air.

Tony scoffed. “You expect us to believe you just asked nicely for intel that deep?”

Nyx didn’t rise to the bait. She turned her head slightly – just enough.

And looked directly at Steve.

“I like it when hackers need my services,” she said calmly. “They tend to be very generous afterward.”

Steve’s breath caught before he could stop it.

“I prefer calling in their expertise later,” she added, eyes still on him, “rather than asking for money up front.”

The implication was clear - and unsettling.

This wasn’t stolen data scraped from unsecured servers. This was curated. Chosen. Information handed over by people who knew exactly what they were giving her – and why.

Tony stared at the USB stick like it might bite him.

“That’s… disturbing,” he muttered.

Nyx’s smile flickered. “You say that like it’s accidental.”

Steve felt the weight of her gaze linger a second longer before she finally looked away, scanning the room again.

Bucky shifted.

Steve felt it more than he saw it – the subtle change in posture, the tightening that meant Bucky was about to say something that mattered.

“Why help us at all?” Bucky asked.

The room stilled.

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t hostile.

It was honest.

Nyx turned to him slowly.

Up close, Steve could see the faint shadow of fatigue beneath her eyes – not exhaustion, exactly, but something older. Something that came from living too long with sharpened edges.

She considered the question for a moment, lips pursed thoughtfully.

Then she shrugged.

“If the leak disappears,” she said, “it becomes easier for you to catch your target.”

She paused.

“And it makes my life easier too.”

Steve frowned. “How?”

Nyx’s eyes flicked back to him. “Because no one will be able to run and tattle that you’re using my services.”

The bluntness of it hit harder than Steve expected.

Clint let out a low whistle. “Huh.”

Sam blinked. “That’s… pragmatic.”

Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “You’re protecting yourself.”

“Yes,” Nyx said without hesitation. “And you.”

Steve processed that slowly.

This wasn’t altruism. It wasn’t manipulation either - not in the way he was used to. It was alignment. A convergence of interests that existed regardless of personal feeling.

It unsettled him how cleanly she acknowledged it.

“And,” Nyx added lightly, “if someone on the inside is leaking information, they’re a liability to me as well.”

Tony grimaced. “You don’t like competition.”

Nyx smiled faintly. “I don’t like unpredictability.”

Steve stiffened.

He hated how much that resonated.

Tony finally looked up from the USB stick. “You realize I’m not plugging this into anything important.”

Nyx inclined her head. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

That earned a reluctant huff from Tony.

Silence settled again – but this time it wasn’t hostile. It was… recalibrating.

Then Nyx continued, as if the meeting had simply moved on to its next agenda item.

“There’s something else we need to revisit.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

“The payment,” she said.

That did it.

Sam blinked. “Wait– you still want us to pay you?”

Nyx turned to him, genuinely surprised. “Of course.”

Sam frowned. “I thought– I mean, with all this–”

“With the favors and the shared interest?” Nyx finished for him. “No.”

She smiled, small and unapologetic.

“I have bills to pay,” she said. “Like everyone else.”

Clint snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“I assure you,” Nyx replied calmly, “rent doesn’t care about moral nuance.”

Steve felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself – and immediately hated that it did.

Tony rubbed his face. “You are unbelievable.”

Nyx tilted her head. “And yet, here we are.”

Steve straightened, forcing himself back into the moment.

“All right,” he said. “Then we’ll talk numbers.”

Nyx’s gaze returned to him, sharp and intent.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We will.”

For a brief moment, something passed between them – not tension, not attraction, but recognition. Two people who understood that this wasn’t just about money or information or targets.

It was about leverage.

Balance.

And control.

Nyx stepped back slightly, reclaiming space without retreating.

“Consider the USB a gesture of good faith,” she said. “Not charity.”

Tony glanced at the stick again, then at her. “You’re expensive.”

Nyx smiled.

“I know.”

Steve exhaled slowly, feeling the pieces shifting again, the board rearranging itself under his feet.

She wasn’t just inserting herself into their operation.

She was embedding herself into their problem.

And the most unsettling part – the part Steve couldn’t quite ignore – was how naturally she seemed to belong there, standing in the middle of their common space, negotiating like this was inevitable.

Like this had always been how it was going to go.

Steve met her gaze, steady and guarded.

“Then let’s be clear,” he said. “This doesn’t make you one of us.”

Nyx’s smile softened - not offended, not amused.

“Of course not,” she replied. “I’d never want that.”

And somehow, that answer bothered him more than if she had argued.

Nyx had already taken a step back.

Steve saw it in the subtle shift of her weight, the way her posture changed from engaged to finished. He recognized that body language instinctively – the same way he recognized when a mission briefing was over, when a soldier had already made their exit internally even if they were still standing in the room.

She was about to leave.

The air around her felt different when she did that, Steve realized. Not charged – thinned. Like a vacuum forming, a space preparing to close.

Then Tony opened his mouth.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Tony said, one hand braced on the back of a chair, expression tight with the kind of irritation that usually preceded either brilliance or catastrophe, “but shouldn’t we at least consider giving you quarters here?”

The silence that followed was not immediate.

It lagged – just a fraction of a second – as if the room itself needed time to process what had just been said.

Steve closed his eyes.

Not dramatically. Not with a sigh.

Just long enough to contain the very real, very visceral urge to say absolutely not out loud.

Across the room, Bucky made a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a choke, his hand flying up to cover his mouth as if his own body had betrayed him by reacting before his brain could intervene.

Clint’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

Natasha didn’t move at all – which, Steve knew, was worse.

Nyx turned back slowly.

She stared at Tony.

Not with anger. Not with offense.

With genuine disbelief.

The kind usually reserved for people who had just walked into traffic without looking.

“I’m sorry,” she said calmly. “You want to do what?”

Tony lifted his hands slightly, palms out, already halfway into damage control. “Hear me out.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No,” Nyx said. “I don’t think I will.”

“Just–” Tony continued stubbornly, pressing on like he always did when logic told him to stop but curiosity shoved him forward anyway. “If you were here, we’d know where to find you. No more surprise appearances. No more–”

“–heart attacks?” Clint supplied helpfully.

Tony shot him a look. “I was going to say logistical nightmares.”

Steve dropped his hand and opened his eyes.

Nyx was biting her lower lip.

Hard.

Steve froze.

It took him a second to understand why – to realize what that small, almost unconscious gesture meant.

She wasn’t angry.

She was trying not to laugh.

The realization hit him with a strange, disorienting jolt.

Nyx looked away briefly, eyes flicking toward the floor as if collecting herself. When she looked back up, there was something dangerously close to delight shimmering just beneath the surface of her expression.

“Are you all masochists,” she asked mildly, “or is it just Stark?”

Bucky let out a short, involuntary laugh before he could stop himself.

Steve shot him a warning look that went entirely ignored.

Tony bristled. “I’m being practical.”

Nyx hummed, thoughtful. “Fascinating.”

She took a slow step forward again – not closing distance aggressively, just re-entering the space she’d been prepared to abandon. Steve felt the shift immediately, his body tensing without conscious command.

“Let’s walk through this,” Nyx said pleasantly. “Shall we?”

She raised one finger.

“Point A,” she continued. “You are actively dealing with a leak inside your organization.”

She glanced around the room, eyes sharp now, cutting through whatever levity had tried to creep in.

“You don’t know who it is. You don’t know how deep it goes. And you don’t know who’s listening when you speak.”

Tony’s jaw tightened.

Nyx’s gaze snapped back to him. “And you think the solution is to give me a permanent address inside your building?”

Steve felt his shoulders stiffen.

She raised a second finger.

“Point B,” Nyx went on. “I already irritate you.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking briefly to Steve - and there it was again, that infuriating sense of being seen.

“I irritate you when I appear for thirty minutes,” she said. “You don’t like not knowing where I am. You don’t like not controlling the situation. You don’t like the way I talk to you.”

Steve didn’t deny it.

Nyx’s gaze moved on.

“And you,” she added, looking at Tony again, “are one security breach away from developing an ulcer.”

Tony scoffed. “That’s not–”

“–an exaggeration?” Nyx finished. “It absolutely is not.”

Clint coughed to hide a laugh.

Nyx raised a third finger.

“Point C,” she said, her tone shifting – not harsher, but firmer. “Even if, hypothetically, all of that wasn’t true…”

She paused.

Let the silence settle.

“…the answer would still be no.”

Steve watched her closely now.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I don’t live in cages,” Nyx said.

The word echoed – cages – and something in her voice made Steve’s chest tighten. Not anger. Not bitterness.

Certainty.

“Not golden ones,” she added. “Not comfortable ones. Not ones with good views and state-of-the-art security.”

Her eyes swept the room once more, lingering just a fraction longer on Steve.

“You don’t get to decide where I exist,” she said calmly. “Or when.”

Tony opened his mouth.

Steve beat him to it.

“She’s right,” Steve said.

The words surprised him as much as they did everyone else.

Tony turned toward him, incredulous. “Steve.”

“No,” Steve continued, holding Nyx’s gaze even as he spoke. “This was a bad idea.”

Nyx’s lips curved faintly – not triumphant, not smug. Acknowledging.

“We don’t fix uncertainty by pretending it isn’t there,” Steve said. “And we don’t solve trust issues by forcing proximity.”

Tony stared at him for a long second, then looked away with a frustrated sigh. “I was trying to be proactive.”

“I know,” Steve said quietly.

Nyx’s attention returned fully to him.

“You’re learning,” she observed.

Steve bristled. “Don’t patronize me.”

She smiled. “I wasn’t.”

That somehow made it worse.

Bucky cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth,” he said, tone dry, “I don’t think anyone here actually wants you moving in.”

Nyx glanced at him. “I should hope not.”

Sam shook his head slowly. “This would’ve ended badly.”

Nyx nodded. “Spectacularly.”

Tony rubbed his face. “Okay. Fine. No guest room for the terrifying teleporting assassin.”

Nyx tilted her head. “Thank you.”

She stepped back again, the conversation clearly drawing to a close this time.

Steve felt the tension return – that subtle, uncomfortable awareness that her presence was temporary by design. That she would leave, and they would be left dealing with the echo.

“One more thing,” Tony said quickly, unable to help himself.

Nyx paused.

“Yes?”

Tony hesitated, then sighed. “Next time you show up… could you at least warn us?”

Nyx considered that.

Really considered it.

Then she smiled – small, unapologetic.

“No,” she said.

Steve huffed despite himself.

Nyx turned toward him.

“But,” she added, “I promise not to do it while you’re sleeping.”

Steve froze.

Her eyes glinted.

“Probably.”

Then she was gone.

Not with a sound.

Not with a shimmer.

Just absence – clean and immediate.

The common room felt too large afterward. Too quiet.

Tony stared at the space she’d occupied, hands on his hips. “I hate that woman.”

Clint shrugged. “You invited her to live here.”

“That was a moment of weakness.”

Bucky let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Let’s not do that again.”

Steve didn’t speak.

He was staring at the empty air, heart still beating just a little too fast.

Nyx didn’t live in cages.

And somehow, that wasn’t the most unsettling part.

The unsettling part was how clearly she’d understood the impulse to build one – and how easily she’d stepped around it.

Steve exhaled slowly.

Whatever this was becoming, he was sure of one thing; Nyx was not something they could contain.

And the fact that Tony Stark had even suggested trying meant they were already further out of their depth than anyone wanted to admit.

Later, when the Tower had settled into its evening rhythm and the noise of the common areas had faded into something distant and manageable, Steve found himself alone.

He hadn’t planned it. The solitude crept up on him the way it always did – between obligations, between decisions, in the quiet spaces where no one needed him to lead or reassure or decide anything at all.

His quarters were dim, lit only by the city glow filtering through the tall windows. The skyline stretched out in fractured lights, familiar and impersonal. He didn’t bother turning anything else on. He didn’t need more stimulation. His head was already too full.

For a long moment, he simply stood there.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

It startled him – the sound itself, low and unguarded, echoing faintly in the quiet room. He hadn’t meant to. It hadn’t bubbled up gradually. It just… happened, slipping past his usual restraint before he could stop it it.

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head slightly, but it only made it worse.

Because suddenly, vividly, he could see it again.

Tony’s face – incredulous, stubborn, already halfway regretting his own words as he suggested giving Nyx quarters in the Tower.

And Nyx.

The way she’d stared at him.

Not offended. Not flattered. Just… genuinely stunned.

As if the idea itself had short-circuited something in her brain.

Steve let out another breath that turned into a laugh, softer this time, more disbelieving than amused.

She’d looked at Tony like he’d suggested she move into a lion enclosure for fun.

The memory replayed with humiliating clarity.

The slight pause before she responded. The way her brows had drawn together just a fraction. The way she’d bitten her lower lip – not seductively, not consciously, but with that unmistakable effort of someone trying very hard not to laugh out loud in a situation that absolutely did not warrant laughter.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, still smiling despite himself.

God.

He could picture it too clearly: the tension in her jaw, the sparkle in her eyes, the way amusement had flickered there like a dangerous secret she wasn’t supposed to share.

She’d enjoyed it.

Not maliciously. Not cruelly.

Just… genuinely.

And that, somehow, was what made it funny.

Steve crossed the room and let himself drop back onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight with a familiar creak. He stared up at the ceiling, one arm flung across his torso, the other resting loosely at his side.

Another quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

He couldn’t remember the last time something like that had happened – a laugh that wasn’t forced, wasn’t social, wasn’t meant to put someone else at ease. It felt strange in his chest, lighter than he was used to, like a crack in armor he hadn’t realized was always locked in place.

He exhaled slowly, letting the sound fade.

Nyx had been taken aback.

Truly, completely thrown.

And that – that was new.

She unsettled them effortlessly. She walked into their space and bent the rules without apology. She held the upper hand in every exchange, moved through discomfort like it was a medium she’d learned to breathe in.

But Tony’s suggestion had caught her off guard.

Steve frowned slightly, eyes unfocused as he replayed it again, this time more slowly.

The way her posture had shifted. The split second where she hadn’t been controlling the room. The very human reflex of biting her lip to keep from laughing.

It had been a crack.

Not a weakness. Not vulnerability.

But humanity.

Steve lifted a hand and dragged it down over his eyes, covering them, palm pressing lightly as if that might push the thoughts back where they belonged.

It didn’t help.

Because the images came anyway.

Her eyes, bright with amusement. The low, almost incredulous tone of her voice when she’d asked if they were all masochists. The absolute certainty when she’d said she didn’t live in cages.

He swallowed.

The laugh had faded now, replaced by something warmer and more dangerous.

Awareness.

Bucky’s voice echoed in his head, uninvited and annoyingly accurate.

If you’re worried about anyone getting distracted, you might want to look in a mirror.

Steve groaned quietly and pressed his forearm over his eyes instead.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to the empty room.

He wasn’t attracted to her in any simple, clean way. He knew that. This wasn’t infatuation. This wasn’t desire in the way he recognized from past experience.

It was worse.

It was interest.

The kind that slipped past his defenses because it didn’t announce itself as anything he’d been trained to resist. The kind that hid inside curiosity, inside respect, inside the uncomfortable recognition of someone who refused to fit into the categories he relied on.

Nyx was infuriating.

She was destabilizing.

She challenged his sense of control without ever raising her voice or threatening him outright. She forced him to confront compromises he’d agreed to but still resented. She looked at him like a problem worth solving – not an enemy, not an obstacle, but a question.

And she seemed to enjoy doing it.

Steve let out a slow breath and turned his head slightly, staring at the dark window across the room through the gap between his fingers.

He didn’t like how often she looked at him when she spoke.

Didn’t like how she seemed to adjust her approach based on his reactions, how she tested the edges of his patience with surgical precision. Didn’t like how she’d zeroed in on the part of him that hated this arrangement the most – and had spoken to that version of him directly.

He dropped his arm and stared at the ceiling again.

Nyx wasn’t flirting.

That was the problem.

She wasn’t trying to charm him, or provoke him, or draw him in the way he’d seen countless people do over the years. She wasn’t performing.

She was engaging.

With him.

And that made it harder to dismiss whatever was happening in his chest as irrelevant.

Steve shifted, running a hand through his hair, fingers dragging slowly through it as if the physical sensation might ground him.

He thought of the way she’d said I don’t live in cages.

Not angrily.

Not defensively.

Like it was simply a fact about herself, as immutable as gravity.

He thought of the way she’d laughed – or almost laughed – and how that moment had felt like a gift he hadn’t earned.

The realization settled heavy and unwelcome in his chest.

He wasn’t just unsettled by Nyx.

He was drawn to the parts of her that didn’t bend.

The parts that refused containment.

The parts that mirrored something in him he’d spent most of his life disciplining into submission.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long, resigned breath.

“I’m in trouble,” he murmured.

The words weren’t dramatic.

They weren’t panicked.

They were quiet. Honest. Unavoidable.

Because whatever this was – this fascination, this awareness, this growing inability to stop thinking about the look in her eyes when she almost laughed – it wasn’t something he could punch his way out of.

Nyx wasn’t an enemy.

She wasn’t an ally.

She was a variable he couldn’t neutralize.

And lying there alone in the dim quiet of his room, a faint smile still tugging at his mouth despite his better judgment, Steve had to face a truth he did not like at all:

She had gotten under his skin.

And he had no idea how to get her back out.

Two days later, it was almost night when Steve finally stopped checking the clock.

The training room was quiet in the way only late hours could make it – not empty, not dead, just stripped down to essentials. The overhead lights were dimmed to a functional glow, leaving the far corners in shadow. The air smelled of rubber mats and metal and sweat, familiar and grounding. The kind of place where his thoughts usually fell into line.

Usually.

The heavy bag swayed in front of him, thick chains creaking softly as it absorbed another blow. Steve hit it again, then again, the impact reverberating up his arms and settling deep into his shoulders. His breathing was controlled, measured – inhale through the nose, exhale through clenched teeth – the rhythm as ingrained as his heartbeat.

He wasn’t angry.

Not exactly.

But there was pressure in his chest that needed somewhere to go.

Nyx hadn’t reappeared since the common room. No sudden materializations. No unsettling smiles. No soft voice slicing through his defenses. Steve told himself that was a good thing.

He also told himself that the fact he was training this late had nothing to do with it.

The bag swung back toward him. He pivoted, drove his fist into it again, the impact dull and solid. His knuckles stung pleasantly beneath the wraps. Sweat trickled down his spine.

Then, he felt it.

Not danger. Not threat.

Awareness.

Steve didn’t stop moving, but his next punch slowed, his body reacting before his mind fully caught up. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, that quiet, unmistakable sense of not being alone.

He adjusted his stance slightly, turning just enough.

Nyx stood near the edge of the mat.

She hadn’t appeared behind him. Hadn’t materialized in his blind spot. She’d chosen a position squarely within his peripheral vision, far enough away not to startle, close enough to make her presence undeniable.

That choice alone told him more than he wanted to admit.

She leaned casually against a support beam, arms loosely crossed, dark clothes blending into the dimness. Her posture was relaxed, almost lazy – but her eyes were sharp, tracking every movement he made.

Steve didn’t stop hitting the bag right away.

He threw another punch, then another, letting the momentum bleed off naturally before stepping back and planting his feet. The bag continued to sway between them, a slow, pendulum motion that filled the silence.

“You’re going to tear the stitching if you keep hitting it like that,” Nyx said mildly.

Steve exhaled through his nose. “It can take it.”

“So can you,” she replied.

He finally turned fully toward her.

“You didn’t announce yourself,” he said.

Nyx tilted her head slightly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Steve almost snorted. Almost.

“You never do.”

Her lips curved faintly. “You noticed.”

He wiped his forearm across his brow, leaving a dark streak of sweat against the fabric of his shirt. His pulse was still elevated, muscles warm and loose – not a bad state to be in, considering who had just appeared uninvited in his space.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Nyx didn’t answer immediately.

She pushed off the beam and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the mat. Her gaze lingered on the bag, then returned to him, thoughtful.

“I was curious,” she said.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “About.”

“You,” she replied simply.

Of course.

He folded his arms loosely across his chest, still breathing a little heavier than normal. “Watching me hit things?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not–”

“–what you expected?” she finished gently.

Steve held her gaze, unreadable. “Something like that.”

She studied him for another moment, then asked, almost casually, “Can I train with you?”

The question caught him completely off guard.

Steve blinked. Once.

“What?”

Nyx didn’t react to his tone. If anything, she seemed amused by the way his composure cracked, just slightly.

“Train,” she repeated. “With you.”

He stared at her, mind scrambling to slot that request into any category that made sense.

“You mean… spar?” he asked carefully.

“Maybe.”

“Or you want me to show you how to punch?” he added, incredulous.

She smiled then.

Not the sharp, knowing smile. Not the amused one that usually made his hackles rise.

This one was disarming.

Open. Almost… hopeful.

“Both?” she said lightly. “If you’re willing.”

Steve felt something inside him stutter.

He looked at her – really looked – taking in the relaxed stance, the subtle readiness in her shoulders, the way her weight was balanced as if she could move in any direction without warning. She wasn’t posturing. She wasn’t testing him.

She was asking.

“You don’t need training,” Steve said slowly. “From what I’ve seen.”

Nyx shrugged. “Everyone needs training.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she replied.

She stepped onto the edge of the mat, shoes whispering softly against the surface. She didn’t come any closer, didn’t invade his space. Another choice. Another adjustment made with infuriating precision.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she said. “Not like that.”

Steve frowned. “Then why ask?”

“Because,” she said, eyes steady on his, “you train differently when you’re alone.”

The words landed softly.

Too softly.

Steve felt his chest tighten, the truth of it ringing uncomfortably clear. Alone, he didn’t perform. He didn’t lead. He didn’t protect. He just was.

“And?” he prompted.

“And I want to understand that,” Nyx replied. “Not the symbol. Not the command presence. This.”

She gestured vaguely between them – the room, the bag, his wrapped hands, the sweat-soaked floor.

“This is honest.”

Steve swallowed.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The bag finally stilled completely, chains settling with a faint metallic clink.

“You realize,” Steve said slowly, “that if we spar, I won’t go easy on you.”

Nyx’s smile flickered – not fading, just sharpening at the edges.

“I would be offended if you did.”

“And if I show you how to strike,” he continued, “I correct form. I push limits.”

“Good,” she said. “I don’t learn well otherwise.”

Steve searched her face for something – manipulation, ulterior motive, a hidden angle.

He found none.

Just curiosity. Intent. And something else, quieter.

Trust.

The realization unsettled him more than any threat would have.

He dropped his arms and took a step toward the rack of gloves. “You have experience,” he said. “But this isn’t knife work. This is control. Balance. Repetition.”

Nyx nodded immediately. “I know.”

“Then why me?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Because you won’t lie to me.”

Steve paused, one hand resting on the edge of the rack.

“That’s not always kind,” he warned.

Nyx smiled again – soft, genuine.

“I didn’t ask for kind.”

The silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

Steve exhaled slowly.

“All right,” he said. “We start slow.”

Nyx’s eyes lit – just a little.

“Thank you,” she said.

He tossed her a pair of gloves.

She caught them easily, rolling them once in her hands, testing the weight.

“You’re going to regret this,” Steve muttered.

Nyx slipped the gloves on, flexing her fingers, gaze never leaving him.

“Oh,” she said lightly, stepping fully onto the mat, “I don't think I'll be the one regretting it.”

And as Steve squared his stance and raised his guard, he realized with a mix of apprehension and reluctant anticipation that this wasn’t just training.

It was an invitation.

One he had just accepted – and one he wasn’t at all sure he knew how to walk back from.

An hour in, Steve stopped thinking about the clock.

That alone should have told him something.

Time usually stayed sharp for him during training – broken down into intervals, reps, rotations. He always knew where he was inside an hour, how much he had left, how much more he could push before diminishing returns set in. Training was structure. Training was control.

With Nyx, it dissolved.

Not all at once. Gradually. Quietly. In the spaces between corrections and counters, between the moments where instinct took over and thought fell away.

She learned fast.

No– faster than that.

She listened.

Not passively, not obediently, but with an intensity that made Steve acutely aware of every word he chose. When he adjusted her stance, she didn’t just copy the movement – she understood why it mattered. When he corrected the angle of her elbow, she tested it immediately, threw the strike again, felt the difference, adapted.

She absorbed information the way he’d seen only a handful of people do in his life: fully, completely, without ego getting in the way.

“Again,” Steve said at one point, circling her.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. Just did it.

Better.

Steve found himself pushing harder than he usually would with someone new. Not recklessly – never that – but without the usual restraint he applied when he was teaching. He didn’t need to pull back to protect her. He didn’t need to slow down to keep her from falling behind.

She kept up.

And when they sparred – really sparred – something inside him shifted.

There was no careful calibration of force. No mental checklist of how hard was too hard. He didn’t have to worry about breaking something fragile or crossing an invisible line. Nyx met his strikes head-on, redirected them, returned them with equal precision.

She hit him.

Hard.

Once, a clean strike to his ribs slipped past his guard when he underestimated her speed. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a sharp, involuntary burst, pain blooming bright and immediate.

Steve laughed – a startled, breathless sound – as he recovered.

“Good,” he said, genuinely impressed.

Nyx’s eyes gleamed. “You left it open.”

“So I did.”

She didn’t apologize.

She adjusted.

Fighting her was… liberating.

The realization came without warning, settling into him with quiet clarity.

He didn’t have to hold back.

Not emotionally. Not physically. Not in that constant, subconscious way he did with everyone else – teammates included. With Nyx, there was no need to shield, to temper, to calculate the cost of impact beyond the moment itself.

They moved fast.

Sweat slicked his skin, soaked into the mat beneath their feet. His muscles burned, the good kind of burn, the kind that came from honest exertion rather than frustration. Every sense sharpened, awareness narrowing until there was only movement and breath and the solid certainty of contact.

She anticipated him.

Not perfectly – he still caught her out, still redirected her momentum when she overcommitted – but often enough that it forced him to adapt in return. He couldn’t rely on patterns. Couldn’t fall back on habit.

She was present in every second.

At some point, Steve realized he was smiling.

Not outwardly – not something anyone watching would notice – but internally, something light and unfamiliar loosening in his chest. The tension he carried everywhere, the constant vigilance, had eased without him noticing when it happened.

This was what training was supposed to feel like.

When they finally stopped, it wasn’t because one of them gave up.

It was because they were both out of breath.

Steve lowered his guard first, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw to darken the mat. Nyx mirrored him a second later, rolling her shoulders, breathing deep and steady as she recovered.

They sat down where they were, backs against the padded wall, legs stretched out in front of them. The room felt warmer now, air heavy with exertion and the lingering echo of movement.

Steve rested his forearms on his knees, head tipped back slightly as he caught his breath.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

It was earned.

Steve turned his head slightly and looked at her.

Her hair was damp at the temples, a few strands stuck to her cheek. There was a faint flush to her skin, the kind that came from effort rather than embarrassment. She looked… younger, somehow. Less sharp-edged. More real.

Then she smiled.

The same smile she’d worn when she’d asked to train.

Simple.

Disarming.

Almost gentle.

It hit him harder than any punch she’d landed.

“You’re good,” Steve said finally.

Nyx glanced at him, expression soft but attentive. “So are you.”

He shook his head faintly. “I’ve trained a lot of people.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He searched for the right word, then gave up on precision. “You’re exceptional.”

She considered that, eyes flicking down to her hands, then back up to him.

“I had good teachers,” she said.

Steve believed her.

Not because she said it – but because he could see the evidence in the way she moved, the discipline under the instinct, the control layered beneath the speed.

“You don’t waste motion,” he observed. “Everything you do has a purpose.”

Nyx shrugged lightly. “Wasted motion gets you killed.”

Steve didn’t argue.

They sat there for another moment, breathing evening out, the adrenaline slowly ebbing. Steve became aware again of the ache in his muscles, the pleasant soreness already settling in.

He also became aware – belatedly – of how close they were.

Not touching.

But close enough that he could feel the residual warmth radiating from her through the air between them.

He shifted slightly, not away, just enough to ground himself.

Nyx didn’t comment.

“You could’ve asked anyone,” Steve said quietly. “Why me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

When she did, her voice was softer than it had been all evening.

“Because you don’t train to dominate,” she said. “You train to understand.”

Steve frowned. “That’s not–”

“It is,” she interrupted gently. “You watch. You adjust. You respect limits, even when you push them.”

She looked at him directly now, eyes clear, intent without being invasive.

“That matters.”

Steve felt something tighten in his chest.

He looked away, focusing on the far wall, the familiar lines of the room anchoring him. “You didn’t have to say that.”

Nyx’s smile returned – small, unguarded. “I wanted to.”

Another silence settled, different from before. Quieter. More intimate.

Steve became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he didn’t want to break it.

That realization startled him more than her appearing unannounced ever had.

He stood first, offering her a hand without thinking.

She took it without hesitation.

Her grip was firm, steady, warm.

For just a second longer than necessary, their hands stayed linked.

Then she let go.

“Thank you,” Nyx said simply.

Steve nodded. “Anytime.”

The word slipped out before he’d fully considered it.

Nyx’s eyes flicked up to his, something unreadable passing through them – not triumph, not calculation.

Recognition.

She stepped back, giving him space, but her smile lingered.

Almost gentle.

And as Steve watched her, standing there in the quiet aftermath of shared exertion, one truth settled with undeniable clarity:

Training with Nyx hadn’t just been effective.

It had been easy.

And that – that was the most dangerous part of all.

When Steve finally headed back to his quarters once Nyx had left, the Tower was quiet in that particular, suspended way it only reached long after midnight. The lights in the corridors were dimmed, footsteps muted by thick floors and habit. Everyone else had turned in, or at least retreated into their own spaces, their own thoughts.

He should have felt exhausted.

Physically, he was – his muscles ached pleasantly, that deep, earned soreness that came from real exertion instead of stress. His body had been pushed and used and challenged, and that usually helped him sleep.

Usually.

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. The room smelled faintly of clean fabric and metal and something uniquely his – order, restraint, familiarity. He kicked off his shoes, rolled his shoulders once, twice, trying to shake off the lingering energy still humming under his skin.

That was when the first realization hit him.

It came quietly. No dramatic spike of alarm, no sudden rush of adrenaline. Just a simple, undeniable fact settling into place.

He’d been alone with her.

Steve straightened slightly, his spine stiffening as the thought fully registered.

He’d broken his own rule.

The one he’d laid out clearly, firmly, in front of the entire team – no one is ever alone with Nyx unless they choose to be. At the time, it had felt like caution. Leadership. A way to maintain boundaries, to make sure no one got pulled too far, too fast, into her orbit.

And tonight?

Tonight, there had been no one else in the training room. No backup. No observers. No safeguards beyond Steve himself.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, slow and deliberate.

It hadn’t felt reckless in the moment. It hadn’t even felt wrong. Training rooms were his territory. Controlled environments. Clear rules. He’d been alert, aware, ready for anything.

That was the problem.

He’d trusted himself too much.

Steve pushed away from the door and crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, familiar and grounding, but his thoughts refused to settle.

He hadn’t just allowed himself to be alone with Nyx.

He’d enjoyed it.

The admission tightened something in his chest.

Not because he’d been careless – he could justify that to himself if he tried hard enough. But because he hadn’t once felt the need to check the door, to wonder where the others were, to calculate how quickly help could arrive if something went wrong.

For an hour, the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly, remembering the solid impact of her strikes, the way she’d moved, adapted, learned.

And then the second realization surfaced.

It had been there all along, hovering at the edges of his awareness, but now it sharpened into focus with uncomfortable clarity.

The necklace.

Steve leaned back slightly, one forearm braced behind him on the bed.

The silver crescent moon.

He hadn’t noticed it at first – not consciously. During training, his attention had been on posture, balance, timing. On breath and motion and reaction. But at some point, between rounds, he’d seen it catch the light when she moved.

A thin chain, worn enough to suggest it wasn’t new. Not decorative in a flashy way. Simple. Almost understated.

And Nyx had touched it constantly.

Not deliberately. Not to draw attention.

Unconsciously.

She’d reached for it while listening, fingers brushing the metal curve as she absorbed his instructions. She’d caught it between thumb and forefinger while circling him, eyes focused, expression intent. She’d pressed it briefly to her collarbone during one of the pauses, breathing steadying as if the motion itself anchored her.

Steve closed his eyes.

The memory replayed with unsettling clarity.

It wasn’t fidgeting.

It was checking.

The same way some people touched a ring when they were nervous. Or dog tags. Or a scar they needed to remind themselves was real. The gesture hadn’t been frantic, or anxious – just familiar. Automatic.

As if she needed to make sure it was still there.

As if its presence mattered.

Steve exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb over the heel of his palm.

He’d trained soldiers from every background imaginable. He’d seen tells like that before – habits people carried without realizing, small anchors they used to ground themselves when focus sharpened or walls dropped.

But Nyx didn’t strike him as someone who carried unnecessary things.

Which meant the pendant wasn’t unnecessary.

The thought lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable.

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown across his eyes as if that might block the images out.

The curve of silver against her skin. The way her fingers had traced it absently. The almost private nature of the gesture – not meant to be seen, not meant to be noticed.

And yet, he had noticed.

That, more than anything else, bothered him.

He turned his head slightly, jaw tightening.

Why did it matter?

It was just a necklace. A personal object. Everyone had them. Everyone carried pieces of themselves into places they didn’t fully belong.

And yet his mind refused to let it go.

Because Nyx was all sharp edges and intention. Because everything about her was controlled, deliberate, curated. Because watching her do something unconsciously – something unguarded – felt like stumbling across a truth he hadn’t been invited to see.

He lowered his arm and stared at the ceiling again, breath slow, steady.

He didn’t know what the crescent moon meant.

He didn’t know why she wore it.

He didn’t know why she touched it the way she did, as if checking a pulse.

And he hated – truly hated – how much he wanted to know.

Steve turned onto his side, facing the darkened window, the city lights distant and indifferent.

Two realizations.

One: he had crossed a line he’d drawn himself.

Two: he was paying attention to details that had nothing to do with the mission, the target, or the leak.

Neither of those things sat well with him.

And yet, as he lay there in the quiet, the image that lingered wasn’t of danger, or breach, or failure.

It was a woman on a mat, breathing hard, smiling softly – one hand drifting, unconsciously, to a silver crescent at her throat.

As if reminding herself who she was.

Or that something – someone – was still with her.

Steve swallowed, eyes closing at last.

This was getting complicated.

And the worst part – the part he didn’t yet know how to handle – was that for the first time since Nyx had entered their lives, the complication didn’t feel external.

It felt personal.

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That day, like all others, the ER was full of nonstop cases and chaos, making Dana more than happy when she finally got the chance to clock out and head back home to you. She didn't even bother to grab a quick smoke before leaving, something that she desperately needed given how stressed she was, still on alert from the way her job required her to be.

Popping a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth, she adjusted her bag where it rested over her shoulder and continued on her way. You were likely still awake, probably tending to your garden as an excuse to greet her outside, per usual.

She smiled at the thought of you, on your hands and knees, sweaty and covered in dirt, cursing at the weeds under your breath as you used a hand-held shovel to dig them up. Everybody needed something to do to relax, she figured, even if it only seemed to cause more frustration when it came to you and your ongoing battle with the unwanted foliage that always kept popping back up.

Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, thinking about what might be in the fridge for dinner, contemplating on whether or not it'd be worth it to even try to cook instead of taking the easy route and just ordering takeout instead. She was so caught up in this, in fact, that she forgot a cardinal rule of yours: to not toss anything into your makeshift garden if it wasn't biodegradable.

Giving her gum one final chew, she then spit it out without a second thought, mindlessly, carelessly. Unfortunately for her, you'd been exactly where she'd assumed you'd be, and saw the white glob of sticky mush as it sailed past your face and landed in the dirty next to you.

"I know you didn't just spit your gum out into my garden."

The sound of your voice caused her to stop mid-step, freezing in place like a child caught grabbing a cookie before dinner without having permission first. Turning her head, she was met with her visibly displeased partner, your hands on your hips as you moved to sit back while you continued to kneel in the patch of soil.

You didn't put up much of a fight in terms of the general household. What groceries were bought, where the furniture was placed, who did the chores--whatever she told you to do, you were completely fine with, and obeyed willingly, going out of your way to make her happy.

But the exterior was your domain: your little flowerbed lined perfectly with humble but durable stones, plants standing proudly at attention as they awaited your compliments that were thrown out during the daily watering they got, pesty and unwanted insects that did more harm than good shooed off by your miniature army of ladybugs that'd taken up shop amongst the shrubbery. It was something you held near and dear to your heart, and you took great offense to anything that dared to disturb the sanctity of your special place.

Even if it happened to be your wife who did it. Especially if it was her, the one person who knew better than anyone not to mess with your little sliver of botanical paradise.

"Shit, I'm sorry," she earnestly apologized, watching as you removed your gardening gloves and methodically picked up the piece of gum, the once-white glob now covered with freshly turned soil from your hard-worked efforts of removing the wild onions that dared to think they could sneak their way in uninvited. Your gaze was cold and calculating as you glared at the intruder in your hand, eyes narrowed as you seemed to be debating whether or not to take this misstep as an act of war.

Closing your eyes, you took a few deep breaths in an attempt to rid yourself of the little voice bumbling about inside your head, spitting out expletives and knocking shit over within the confines of your mind. Luckily, that's exactly where it stayed, your displeasure quickly fading away as you stood.

"I needed a break, anyway. I'm starving, and my back is killing me," you muttered in an almost docile manner as you joined your wife on the path that led to the front door, still holding the gum in the palm of your hand with the intent to discard it properly the second you got back indoors.

"Sorry about that. I forgot just how sensitive you are when it comes to things being dropped into the flowerbed that aren't compost-material," Dana spoke in a more lighthearted and teasing manner that time, smirking somewhat at the glare you gave her ABC gum while tossing it unceremoniously into the trashcan. "Though, in my defense, I'm sure it would've decomposed. Eventually."

"Yeah, great. And my plants can get addicted to nicotine in the meantime," you deadpanned while removing your boots, shaking your head in disbelief. "It's bad enough you smoke outside right next to them. They need food scraps to grow up big and strong, not ash from your cigarette."

"Well, I've never heard any complaints from them before," she quipped while setting her bag down, her smile widening into a mirthful grin at the side-eye being given to her as a result. Clearly, you were unimpressed with her attempt at humor.

"Oh, hardy har har. That's a real good one, you know that?" Sarcasm dripped from your tone like water from a leaky faucet that desperately needed to be fixed, and she responded to that by simply making her way over and placing an affectionate kiss to the mild frown on your face.

"Cheer up. Since you won't be doing anymore work outside tonight, that means you can shower with me," she murmured in a sultry voice before playfully adding, "to save hot water, of course."

"Yes, of course. Because why else would we shower together?" You mumbled absentmindedly while allowing her to take your hand and lead you down the hall to the bathroom, the gum she'd spit into your garden finally the very last thing on your mind.

End notes: silly title, silly premise. but this was so much fun to write regardless <33

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Biker AU

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Coffee Shop AU

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College AU

Laughingstock (Steve Rogers)🌑 Please Help Me (Curtis Everett) Tenure (Charles Blackwood, Curtis Everett) 🤝 Tutoring (Ari Levinson, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen) Unrequited (Steve Rogers)😢

Corporate AU

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Dystopian AU

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Firefighter AU

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Flower Shop AU

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Hospital AU

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Mafia AU

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Omegaverse

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Restaurant AU

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Royal AU

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Small Town AU

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Werewolf AU

Chapter 1

March 2025

“Ugh!” Bucky groaned as he shifted the box from his arms onto the shelf in front of him. God, he was only twenty-six and he was already too old for this shit, and it was only Tuesday, and he had a week left of shifts. He let out a huff, trying to blow an errant lock of his wavy chestnut hair out of his eyes. Sometimes he thought he should cut it, but then he remembered how much he liked the way he looked with it this length. So he was a little vain? He was twenty-six and in good shape — it was allowed.

“Lift with your knees,” came the sassy, accented voice of his friend Pietro from across the aisle. “Not your back.”

Bucky allowed himself a moment to just rest his head against the box before he leant back so he could get a good view and then flipped Pietro off. The other young man threw back his head and laughed. 

“All I’m saying is that you gotta look after yourself if you wanna stay young and sexy like me.” He threw Bucky an overexaggerated wink, and Bucky snorted in response. That was Pietro: livening up Bucky’s shifts with a combination of diva-esque drama, the wildest hook-up stories and model good-looks. With his bleached hair, muscular physique and more confidence than any bisexual man had the right to have, he was definitely swoon-worthy. Why Pietro worked here stacking shelves was a mystery to Bucky, but he was glad for it. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have stayed in this job if it wasn’t for the man who was now his best friend. 

Pietro had been here on his first day, and even though they were practically the same age, he had taken Bucky under his wing. Finding out he was Sokovian had elicited a bark of ironic laughter from Bucky, which he’d had to promise to explain at a later date. And although working in a warehouse wasn’t glamorous, shifting the stock coming in and going out was steady work and paid the bills. Also, Pietro’s personality and zest for life made it bearable and it wasn’t like Bucky had many other options. 

When he’d come out during his senior year, his father had not been accepting in any way. Bucky still clearly remembered all of the arguments, how George had ranted and raved at him, calling him all sorts of names and threatening him with everything from a ‘good hard beating’, to being sent to a ‘camp’ for people like ‘him.’ He knew his mom and sisters didn’t feel the same way, but in the face of George’s outrage they’d stayed silent, and Bucky couldn’t find it in him to hate them for it. He’d tried to keep his head down, get on with his school work and keep his private life as private as it had been possible to do when you’ve just turned eighteen, are horny and still living at home.

However, in the end it had gotten to be too much to take. Bucky had ended up giving back as good as he’d got, and after their worst fight, he’d thrown a few things into his backpack and left. First he’d just left town, but he then carried on going until he left the county and then the state altogether, continuing on the move until he’d finally reached New York, hitchhiking most of the way. As he’d stood on the shoreline and gotten his first real look at Lady Liberty, he’d promised himself he was never going back to Indiana, no matter how much he missed the female members of his family.

What all of that meant in the long run was that he hadn’t graduated high school, and with having to grow up quickly, plus… other things, he’d never really found the time in the last eight years to get his GED, let alone take his studies further. It was one of his biggest regrets because before it had all gone to shit, the first time at least, he’d had a plan — known what he wanted to do with himself. At least now he had a warm apartment and a boyfriend to go home to every night. A boyfriend who, while not super-rich, had a good enough paying job that between them they weren’t struggling.

He’d met John seven months back, and Bucky had a good feeling this time. John was handsome — blond hair and blue eyes — and tall. Confident too and attentive. Protective. The complete antithesis of his previous boyfriend. John had a job as an assistant at a law firm, and while technically he worked regular hours, it wasn’t unusual for him to have to work an extra hour or two, sometimes on short notice. This meant that with Bucky’s shifts, quality time was occasionally in scant supply, so on the weekends, John liked it to be just the two of them, at least in the evenings.

“Friday night, man — you coming out or what?” Pietro’s question, coupled with a missile in the form of a crumpled up piece of paper, brought Bucky back to the present.

“You know I can’t,” he sighed, his shoulders tensing in anticipation of the only sore spot between them. John’s insistence on their weekend quality time apparently didn’t sit well with Pietro, who thought it was ‘weird.’

His friend swaggered over and cocked his head, hands on his hips. “What I know is that you should be out on the weekends, having fun, and yet you never are.”

“I have fun.” Bucky bit back  at his friend with a pout.

“Bucky, cooking pasta one of three precise ways, losing at Scrabble and then trading hand jobs is not ‘fun.’ It’s just sad.”

Bucky cursed the past version of him who got too drunk one night at Pietro’s apartment and let him know what he and John had gotten up to one weekend.

“We can’t all be with a new bed mate — or two — every weekend. I’m in a committed relationship.”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “You need to be committed, more like. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve been single since you were twenty-one? Three weeks? It ain’t right, man. You should be doing exciting things. Like me.”

“Do you mean I should be out copying what you do, or doing you?” Bucky asked with a chuckle.

A pair of dark eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Why not both? Both is good.”

Bucky gave him a playful shove. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

A shrug. “All I know is that I’d show you a better time than Johnny-boy.”

“Pietro…” Bucky replied, a warning note to his voice, but apparently his friend was on a roll.

“You deserve better, Bucky. Better than mediocre sex, once a week with the lights out. Better than being a maid-servant in your own home while he ‘works late.’”

Bucky could feel the ache growing in his jaw. “It’s called division of labour, and our sex life is not mediocre. Can you stop bitching about it, please? He’s my boyfriend, not yours, and I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Pietro’s eyes went wide and Bucky realised his response had come out more cutting than he’d intended, so he held up his hands in supplication. “Sorry, sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Look, I can hang out after work today, if you want? John’s not due home until seven — don’t say it — so I’d just be puttering around.”

“Wanda would be happy to see you,” Pietro grudgingly conceded, a theatrical pout gracing his lips.

“I’ll even spring for take-out.” He was laying it on thick, but it seemed the wheedling tone worked — or maybe Pietro had just suckered him in.

“Okay. It’s better than nothing. It can be a belated birthday celebration. And I want Thai, by the way.”

Bucky had always enjoyed the comfort and homeliness of the Maximoff apartment and tonight was no exception. He was sitting in the corner of the shabby, but oh-so-comfortable couch, his left arm resting on the edge of it and his right arm around the slim shoulder of Wanda, Pietro’s twin sister. Her head lay on his chest, her auburn waves spilling across him and her subtle perfume filling his nostrils. He was so relaxed. In the background the TV was playing FRIENDS reruns and across the room, Pietro shuffled around in the small kitchenette, grabbing some fresh beers and a selection of snacks.

He’d spent many hours here, although not as many recently, including the six weeks he’d used this exact couch as his bed after he split up from his previous boyfriend (although the less said about that, the better). However, he did feel a bit guilty for not having hung out with the twins as much since he’d moved in with John. They’d been so kind to him, offering him a place to stay when he needed to escape an awful situation. They really were his best friends, and he owed them more than the odd after-work hang out brought about by nagging. He couldn’t blame them for being upset that they hadn’t seen him over his birthday weekend.

As Pietro returned to where they were sitting, Wanda shifted in Bucky’s loose hold. “Not too many snacks, brother,” she cautioned. “Remember that our lovely James is providing for us this evening.” Wanda, like John, nearly always called him James, not Bucky like Pietro and the rest of his friends did. John did it because he refused to call his boyfriend by a ‘ridiculous childhood nickname,’ but Wanda did it because she said it just felt ‘right’ to do so. Bucky couldn’t say he minded her reason because in a way it reminded him of his mom. Of his sisters.

In response to Wanda’s nagging, Pietro drew his brows together in mock confusion. “When has my snacking ever made it so I could not eat my dinner?” He hugged a bowl of popcorn to his chest with his left arm, while a trio of beer bottles were wedged between the fingers of his right hand.

Bucky smirked at the exchange. “He’s got you there, Wands. Your brother is an eating machine.”

“He’s some kind of machine,” she muttered, not quite under her breath.

Pietro placed the beers onto the coffee table with a grin and then launched himself down sideways onto the empty portion of the couch, his legs resting over the other two’s laps and showering them all with popcorn in the process.

“Really, P?” Bucky asked, leaning away from his feet, but Pietro just plucked a piece of popcorn from Wanda’s shoulder and tossed it up in the air to catch in his mouth.

“I really don’t know what all those people he hooks up with see in him,” Wanda grumbled. “If they only saw him in his natural habitat…”

“So I curate the experience they have? It’s just good service. And it’s not like we’re gonna be hanging out together afterwards.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that,” Wanda said, although without much bite to her tone.

“Not disgusting, just have a different outlook on sex than you, dear sister.” Pietro threw some more popcorn into his mouth before offering over the bowl. “Speaking of which, have you started to feel those tingles for Ava, yet?”

Wanda blushed and buried her head further into Bucky’s chest. “Don’t tease, Pietro. We’ve only been hanging out for a few weeks. I mean I like her, but I don’t know yet. It’s early days.”

“You just let me know when to make myself scarce so you two can do your lesbian thing in peace.”

“Wanda’s right you know, P. You really are disgusting,” Bucky joked, but decided it was time to distract his friend from torturing his sister. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opening up his favourite food delivery app and then tossed it to Pietro. “Pick what you want, man. That should shut you up for a while.” Wanda looked up at him and mouthed a ‘thank you.’ Bucky reached forward and grabbed the beers meant for the two of them.

The twins obviously loved each other a lot, but with their differing attitudes to sex, plus the whole ‘rubbing each other the wrong way’ nature of sibling relationships, sometimes it got tense between them. However, as Bucky could no longer have that type of banter with his own sisters, he couldn’t help but tease Wanda a little.

“Ava, eh? Sounds like there’s a story there. What happened to Maya?”

Wanda shrugged. “Let’s say we weren’t communicating very well and leave it at that. And Ava? I met her at the bar a few weeks ago. It’s a funny story, because Pietro tried to put his speedy moves on her, the way he does.”

“But she didn’t like what I was packing,” Pietro interrupted as he scrolled up and down Bucky’s phone screen. “So I pointed her in Wanda’s direction. Because I’m generous like that.” 

Wanda sat up and threw a cushion at her brother, but he just snatched it out of mid air with lightning speed and propped it behind his head instead.

“It was less what you were ‘packing,’ brother, and more the speed at which you were trying to ‘pack it.’” She tossed her hair as she turned back to Bucky and sniffed. “Ava is a woman who appreciates a slower pace to things.”

“Ava’s a woman who appreciates a vulva,” Pietro sassed with a grin on his face.

Bucky scowled at him. “Ignore him, Wands.”

“Oh, I will. I’m fully accepting of the fact that I need time to work out if I like someone like that. But enough about me. How are you doing? It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Bucky rubbed at the back of his head at her pointed remark. “Well, you know, I’ve been busy. John and I don’t get that much time during the week together, so weekends are our time.”

“And that means you can’t see any of your friends? I don’t know, James. That sounds a little… odd… to me.”

“That’s what I said,” Pietro cut in with a sing-song voice.

“I’m seeing you two now.” Bucky tried hard to keep the defensive tone out of his voice but wasn’t sure if he was totally successful.

Wanda took hold of one of his hands and sandwiched it between her own delicate ones. “And I’m enjoying spending time with you. I just don’t want this thing with John —”

“Relationship —”

“— Relationship with John to turn into a mirror of the one you had with Jack.”

Bucky flinched at the mention of his ex. “John is nothing like Jack,” he said carefully. “John is kind, protective. He’s not violent or mean like Jack was. H-he’s not like that. He takes care of me.”

Wanda patted his hand. “Okay, James. I trust your instincts, but I’m still going to be sceptical until I’ve spent more than five minutes in his company. Him coming to pick you up one evening when you’d had too many beers doesn’t count. Maybe Pietro and I could come over for a few hours next Saturday? Play some board games. Surely John can’t argue with that?”

Bucky ducked his head and considered her request. What would John say to that? He’d brought up similar ideas with his boyfriend before, but John had always made it feel as though Bucky was asking too much of him, having to share their precious together-time. “I can ask him,” he said in what was hopefully a placating tone. Wanda gave him a soft smile in return, and Bucky was struck for a moment by how much he missed both his sisters and his mom. He tamped down the urge to pull her into a bone crushing hug and willed the prickling in his eyes not to turn into tears. Luckily, he was saved from further introspection and interrogation by Pietro thrusting his phone back under his nose.

“Picked mine. Now pick yours quick, you two. I’m hungry.”

Bucky looked at the large food order already in the checkout basket and cocked his head. “You mean all of this is for you?”

“What can I say? I’m a growing boy with a fast metabolism.”

Bucky spent an enjoyable few hours with his friends, but as six thirty rolled around, he made his excuses, insisting the twins keep hold of all the leftovers from their meal, and headed home.

As he rode the subway across the city, he kept an eye on his watch. If he’d timed it right, he’d get home about the same time as John, who would no doubt have grabbed something to eat at the office, and then they’d be able to cosy up for the rest of the evening. Maybe have a bit of mid-week fun if John wasn’t feeling too tired.

At six fifty-five, he was jogging up the stairs to John’s third-floor apartment and letting himself in. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket before wandering into the living room, only to find John already sitting on the couch.

“Hey,” he said, jovially. “Did you get out a little early? I didn’t expect you to beat me home.”

John looked up at him with a pinched expression before answering him in an exasperated tone. “James, I’ve been home for hours. Where have you been?”

Bucky stopped short. “What do you mean, home for hours? You told me this morning that you’d be working late. I went to hang with Pietro and Wanda.”

“What are you talking about? I never said that.”

“But —” Bucky started, confusion settling over him as he thought back to earlier in the day when he’d been running all over the apartment to get ready for his early shift. He was sure —

John stood up and ruffled Bucky’s hair and then smacked him firmly on the ass. “You really are scatter-brained. It’s a good thing I’m not dating you for your intellect.” Before Bucky could even make a comeback to that comment, John looped his arms around Bucky’s lower back and continued, a slight pout on his lips. “I had been looking forward to spending the evening with you and having a home-cooked meal. I bet you’ve eaten already, though.”

A stab of guilt flashed through Bucky. “I have,” he admitted slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you something now.”

“That would be lovely, baby. Thank you.” John dropped a kiss to his nose and then let him go to resume his previous seat on the couch. He picked up the TV remote and turned it on to some kind of sports channel, and Bucky just stood for a few moments, trying to process everything. “Could I get some chicken and eggplant parmesan?” John asked.

“B-but we don’t have the ingredients for that,” Bucky stammered out. “I was thinking a grilled cheese and some s—”

“The bodega down on 5th’s probably still open,” John added, not taking his eyes off the screen and having seemingly not heard Bucky’s alternative suggestion. “But probably only for another half hour or so. You’d best get going, baby.”

Stiffly, still confused, Bucky returned to the hallway and pulled his sneakers back on and took his jacket off the hook. He could hear John muttering under his breath at whatever was happening on screen before he let out a cheer. Bucky could imagine that he was probably punching the air. He was just opening the door to head out when John called out to him. “And could you get me some beers, too? Thanks, baby.”

It didn’t take him too long to schlep down to the small store, but by the time he got back again it was almost eight pm and he still had to start cooking. John was still watching football and didn’t even look up when Bucky passed him a beer, although he did get a ‘thank you’ before his boyfriend continued with his armchair refereeing. He settled into the kitchen, glad that he hadn’t had more than two beers with the twins, and just after nine he presented a full plate of food to John.

His boyfriend finally looked up from the TV and smiled adoringly at Bucky as he took it. “Thank you, baby. This looks lovely. You didn’t need to go to all this effort though.”

Bucky blinked, and his mouth dropped open so far he knew he must resemble some kind of fish. “B-but…” However, John kept speaking.

“You’re so good to me. Always taking care of me. Maybe, when I’ve finished, we can go to bed. Have an early night.” He placed his hand on Bucky’s knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Would you like that, sweetheart?” There was a twinkle in John’s eye and Bucky’s mouth went dry. 

“Yeah. I would.”

As John ate, Bucky cuddled up into his side, drawing patterns over John’s thigh with his finger. Often they didn’t have time on weekdays for anything other than a heavy make-out session, and Bucky was excited by the prospect of a mid-week orgasm that wasn’t self-induced in the shower. Speaking of which…

“I’m just gonna go have a quick shower. Wash the day off me.”

“Okay, baby. See you in a few minutes.”

As soon as Bucky got inside the bathroom, he was turning on the water and stripping off as it heated up. He remembered to place his clothes in the laundry basket right then, which should earn him some extra points — John liked things neat and organised. He tied his hair up and out of the way before stepping into the stall and washing himself briskly but thoroughly. God, just the thought of sex was enough to have him chubbing up.

When he stepped back into the bedroom with just a towel around his waist, it was to find John partially undressed, staring out of the window, beer still in hand. His shirt was over the chair in the corner of the room and although his pants were still on, Bucky could tell he’d partially undone them, because of the slight sag around John’s waist. The lights of the city, orange and soft, shone through the window, lighting up the planes of John’s torso. He worked out a few times a week, and there wasn’t that much excess fat on him, although he hadn’t taken it to extremes. He was as strong as he needed to be.

Bucky padded up behind him, looped his arms around John’s waist and rested his chin on John’s shoulder. “Hey,” he murmured before pressing some soft kisses to his boyfriend’s neck. After taking a final swig and placing the bottle on the window sill, John turned around.

“Hey, yourself. Pretty as a picture, aren’t you?” John leaned down and took Bucky’s lips with his own, kissing him deeply and sweetly.

“I’m sorry I messed up our evening, John,” Bucky mumbled into the kiss, his hands roaming over John’s waist and under the top of his pants to settle on his hips.

“It’s alright. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” He angled his head back, baring his neck again, and Bucky needed no other invitation. He kissed, nipped and sucked his way down John’s throat, feeling the stubble that grew there rasp across his lips. He trailed down across his boyfriend’s collarbone and towards his chest, covered with a light dusting of hair. Above him, John moaned, and Bucky felt a flash of pride at making his partner feel good. As he dipped lower, his hands pushed John’s pants and briefs down. 

Bucky worshiped the flesh in front of him with his kisses — John’s soft abs, the dips at his hips — and his hands stroked up and down John’s thighs, until he was finally settled on his knees and taking John’s cock in his mouth. A shout of pleasure rent the air, and a pair of hands tangled in Bucky’s hair. Bucky hummed in response, and his cock bobbed under the towel at the slightly rough treatment.

“God, James. Your mouth! So fucking good.” John’s hips flexed, making Bucky gag slightly, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He just had to focus on doing what he was good at until John was ready to move on to taking him —

The deep moan accompanied by the flood of cum down his throat took Bucky by surprise, but it only took him a second to roll with it, swallowing everything down and imagining the other ways in which John could make him feel good. His boyfriend must have been more worked up than he’d thought. Or maybe Bucky was just that good at giving head. Okay, he knew he was that good.

John finished shuddering and Bucky pulled back, licking up the last of his spend, before settling back on his knees and looking up at him expectantly. John panted, hands on his hips as he recovered. “Jeez. Wow!” He kicked his remaining clothes off his ankles and then cupped Bucky’s cheek. “Thanks, baby. That was amazing.” He stepped around Bucky, making his way to the bathroom, and Bucky watched him. Was John just washing up? However, when John returned he crossed to the dresser, pulling on fresh briefs and climbed into bed, burrowing down into the sheets. Bucky’s brows furrowed. 

“John?”

“I’m bushed. Do me a favour, sweetheart? Can you throw my clothes in the laundry basket 

before you turn in?”

Not for the first time that night, Bucky’s brain was spinning with confusion. 

“Oh, and can you bring me a glass of water, in case I need some during the night?” 

For the next few moments — it could have been seconds or minutes — Bucky stayed where he was on his knees, trying to deal with the emotional whiplash of the entire evening. His cock still throbbed, not yet having accepted that John wasn’t going to pay it any attention, but as soft snores travelled across the room Bucky realised that John wasn’t teasing him — wasn’t playing some kind of ‘edging’ game. He really had come down Bucky’s throat, thanked him and then gone to sleep.

He slowly rose to his feet — his lower legs had gone to sleep somewhat — and as he did so, his towel fell off of his hips, gently pooling on the floor. He looked down at it, fixated, as though it was some metaphor for his life that he couldn’t quite grasp.

Across the room, John snorted and then rolled over.

Bucky let out a sigh and scooped up the towel and John’s clothes. He strode the few steps it took to get back into the bathroom, dumping the pile of fabric in the laundry bin and then brushed his teeth. He detoured via the kitchen on his way back to get the requested water, and, feeling a little dazed — a little disconnected — he grabbed his pyjama pants from under his pillow and drew them on, absent-mindedly noticing that his cock had finally softened, even if the last vestiges of arousal still thrummed under his skin. Carefully he slid in next to John and tried to relax, but sleep was a long time coming, with a variety of thoughts swirling around in his head. It was only as he was slipping under that he wondered why John hadn’t thought to call him.

He flicked the wand toward the laptop, muttering something under his breath. Nothing happened. The screen stubbornly remained blue, its spinning wheel mocking him.

Biting back a laugh, you stepped forward. "Need some help there?"

The man froze, his grey eyes snapping to yours. For a second, he looked almost panicked, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I don’t need help," he said stiffly, slipping the wand back into his pocket.

"Right," you said, raising an eyebrow. "Because magic definitely fixes laptops."

His face reddened slightly, though he attempted to cover it with a sneer. "What do you know about it?"

"More than you think," you replied, lowering your voice. "I’ve seen magic before. And I’m guessing you’re not from around here, are you?"

His demeanor shifted, suspicion mingling with curiosity. "Who are you?"

"Someone who knows how to make that," you pointed at the laptop, "stop spinning. Want me to show you?"

He hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Finally, with a huff, he pushed the laptop toward you. "Fine. But if you break it, you’re paying for it."

"Relax," you said, suppressing a grin. Sitting down, you navigated the menus with ease. "What are you even trying to do?"

"Research," he said vaguely, his fingers drumming against the table.

"For what?" you pressed.

He hesitated again before muttering, "Muggle technology. My father insists we need to... understand it."

You couldn’t hide your amusement. "So, Lucius Malfoy finally decided to catch up with the 21st century?"

His head snapped up. "You—how do you—?"

"Like I said," you replied, fixing the issue on his laptop with a few clicks, "I know more than you think."

For the first time, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Perhaps you’re not entirely insufferable."

"Gee, thanks," you shot back, pushing the laptop back toward him.

As he examined the now-functional screen, his expression softened ever so slightly. "You’re surprisingly useful for a... Muggle."

"Who said I was a Muggle?" you teased, standing up.

You left him sitting there, his wand forgotten for the moment, as he stared after you with a mixture of intrigue and newfound respect.

==

Chapter 1

March 2025

“Ugh!” Bucky groaned as he shifted the box from his arms onto the shelf in front of him. God, he was only twenty-six and he was already too old for this shit, and it was only Tuesday, and he had a week left of shifts. He let out a huff, trying to blow an errant lock of his wavy chestnut hair out of his eyes. Sometimes he thought he should cut it, but then he remembered how much he liked the way he looked with it this length. So he was a little vain? He was twenty-six and in good shape — it was allowed.

“Lift with your knees,” came the sassy, accented voice of his friend Pietro from across the aisle. “Not your back.”

Bucky allowed himself a moment to just rest his head against the box before he leant back so he could get a good view and then flipped Pietro off. The other young man threw back his head and laughed. 

“All I’m saying is that you gotta look after yourself if you wanna stay young and sexy like me.” He threw Bucky an overexaggerated wink, and Bucky snorted in response. That was Pietro: livening up Bucky’s shifts with a combination of diva-esque drama, the wildest hook-up stories and model good-looks. With his bleached hair, muscular physique and more confidence than any bisexual man had the right to have, he was definitely swoon-worthy. Why Pietro worked here stacking shelves was a mystery to Bucky, but he was glad for it. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have stayed in this job if it wasn’t for the man who was now his best friend. 

Pietro had been here on his first day, and even though they were practically the same age, he had taken Bucky under his wing. Finding out he was Sokovian had elicited a bark of ironic laughter from Bucky, which he’d had to promise to explain at a later date. And although working in a warehouse wasn’t glamorous, shifting the stock coming in and going out was steady work and paid the bills. Also, Pietro’s personality and zest for life made it bearable and it wasn’t like Bucky had many other options. 

When he’d come out during his senior year, his father had not been accepting in any way. Bucky still clearly remembered all of the arguments, how George had ranted and raved at him, calling him all sorts of names and threatening him with everything from a ‘good hard beating’, to being sent to a ‘camp’ for people like ‘him.’ He knew his mom and sisters didn’t feel the same way, but in the face of George’s outrage they’d stayed silent, and Bucky couldn’t find it in him to hate them for it. He’d tried to keep his head down, get on with his school work and keep his private life as private as it had been possible to do when you’ve just turned eighteen, are horny and still living at home.

However, in the end it had gotten to be too much to take. Bucky had ended up giving back as good as he’d got, and after their worst fight, he’d thrown a few things into his backpack and left. First he’d just left town, but he then carried on going until he left the county and then the state altogether, continuing on the move until he’d finally reached New York, hitchhiking most of the way. As he’d stood on the shoreline and gotten his first real look at Lady Liberty, he’d promised himself he was never going back to Indiana, no matter how much he missed the female members of his family.

What all of that meant in the long run was that he hadn’t graduated high school, and with having to grow up quickly, plus… other things, he’d never really found the time in the last eight years to get his GED, let alone take his studies further. It was one of his biggest regrets because before it had all gone to shit, the first time at least, he’d had a plan — known what he wanted to do with himself. At least now he had a warm apartment and a boyfriend to go home to every night. A boyfriend who, while not super-rich, had a good enough paying job that between them they weren’t struggling.

He’d met John seven months back, and Bucky had a good feeling this time. John was handsome — blond hair and blue eyes — and tall. Confident too and attentive. Protective. The complete antithesis of his previous boyfriend. John had a job as an assistant at a law firm, and while technically he worked regular hours, it wasn’t unusual for him to have to work an extra hour or two, sometimes on short notice. This meant that with Bucky’s shifts, quality time was occasionally in scant supply, so on the weekends, John liked it to be just the two of them, at least in the evenings.

“Friday night, man — you coming out or what?” Pietro’s question, coupled with a missile in the form of a crumpled up piece of paper, brought Bucky back to the present.

“You know I can’t,” he sighed, his shoulders tensing in anticipation of the only sore spot between them. John’s insistence on their weekend quality time apparently didn’t sit well with Pietro, who thought it was ‘weird.’

His friend swaggered over and cocked his head, hands on his hips. “What I know is that you should be out on the weekends, having fun, and yet you never are.”

“I have fun.” Bucky bit back  at his friend with a pout.

“Bucky, cooking pasta one of three precise ways, losing at Scrabble and then trading hand jobs is not ‘fun.’ It’s just sad.”

Bucky cursed the past version of him who got too drunk one night at Pietro’s apartment and let him know what he and John had gotten up to one weekend.

“We can’t all be with a new bed mate — or two — every weekend. I’m in a committed relationship.”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “You need to be committed, more like. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve been single since you were twenty-one? Three weeks? It ain’t right, man. You should be doing exciting things. Like me.”

“Do you mean I should be out copying what you do, or doing you?” Bucky asked with a chuckle.

A pair of dark eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Why not both? Both is good.”

Bucky gave him a playful shove. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

A shrug. “All I know is that I’d show you a better time than Johnny-boy.”

“Pietro…” Bucky replied, a warning note to his voice, but apparently his friend was on a roll.

“You deserve better, Bucky. Better than mediocre sex, once a week with the lights out. Better than being a maid-servant in your own home while he ‘works late.’”

Bucky could feel the ache growing in his jaw. “It’s called division of labour, and our sex life is not mediocre. Can you stop bitching about it, please? He’s my boyfriend, not yours, and I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Pietro’s eyes went wide and Bucky realised his response had come out more cutting than he’d intended, so he held up his hands in supplication. “Sorry, sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Look, I can hang out after work today, if you want? John’s not due home until seven — don’t say it — so I’d just be puttering around.”

“Wanda would be happy to see you,” Pietro grudgingly conceded, a theatrical pout gracing his lips.

“I’ll even spring for take-out.” He was laying it on thick, but it seemed the wheedling tone worked — or maybe Pietro had just suckered him in.

“Okay. It’s better than nothing. It can be a belated birthday celebration. And I want Thai, by the way.”

Bucky had always enjoyed the comfort and homeliness of the Maximoff apartment and tonight was no exception. He was sitting in the corner of the shabby, but oh-so-comfortable couch, his left arm resting on the edge of it and his right arm around the slim shoulder of Wanda, Pietro’s twin sister. Her head lay on his chest, her auburn waves spilling across him and her subtle perfume filling his nostrils. He was so relaxed. In the background the TV was playing FRIENDS reruns and across the room, Pietro shuffled around in the small kitchenette, grabbing some fresh beers and a selection of snacks.

He’d spent many hours here, although not as many recently, including the six weeks he’d used this exact couch as his bed after he split up from his previous boyfriend (although the less said about that, the better). However, he did feel a bit guilty for not having hung out with the twins as much since he’d moved in with John. They’d been so kind to him, offering him a place to stay when he needed to escape an awful situation. They really were his best friends, and he owed them more than the odd after-work hang out brought about by nagging. He couldn’t blame them for being upset that they hadn’t seen him over his birthday weekend.

As Pietro returned to where they were sitting, Wanda shifted in Bucky’s loose hold. “Not too many snacks, brother,” she cautioned. “Remember that our lovely James is providing for us this evening.” Wanda, like John, nearly always called him James, not Bucky like Pietro and the rest of his friends did. John did it because he refused to call his boyfriend by a ‘ridiculous childhood nickname,’ but Wanda did it because she said it just felt ‘right’ to do so. Bucky couldn’t say he minded her reason because in a way it reminded him of his mom. Of his sisters.

In response to Wanda’s nagging, Pietro drew his brows together in mock confusion. “When has my snacking ever made it so I could not eat my dinner?” He hugged a bowl of popcorn to his chest with his left arm, while a trio of beer bottles were wedged between the fingers of his right hand.

Bucky smirked at the exchange. “He’s got you there, Wands. Your brother is an eating machine.”

“He’s some kind of machine,” she muttered, not quite under her breath.

Pietro placed the beers onto the coffee table with a grin and then launched himself down sideways onto the empty portion of the couch, his legs resting over the other two’s laps and showering them all with popcorn in the process.

“Really, P?” Bucky asked, leaning away from his feet, but Pietro just plucked a piece of popcorn from Wanda’s shoulder and tossed it up in the air to catch in his mouth.

“I really don’t know what all those people he hooks up with see in him,” Wanda grumbled. “If they only saw him in his natural habitat…”

“So I curate the experience they have? It’s just good service. And it’s not like we’re gonna be hanging out together afterwards.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that,” Wanda said, although without much bite to her tone.

“Not disgusting, just have a different outlook on sex than you, dear sister.” Pietro threw some more popcorn into his mouth before offering over the bowl. “Speaking of which, have you started to feel those tingles for Ava, yet?”

Wanda blushed and buried her head further into Bucky’s chest. “Don’t tease, Pietro. We’ve only been hanging out for a few weeks. I mean I like her, but I don’t know yet. It’s early days.”

“You just let me know when to make myself scarce so you two can do your lesbian thing in peace.”

“Wanda’s right you know, P. You really are disgusting,” Bucky joked, but decided it was time to distract his friend from torturing his sister. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opening up his favourite food delivery app and then tossed it to Pietro. “Pick what you want, man. That should shut you up for a while.” Wanda looked up at him and mouthed a ‘thank you.’ Bucky reached forward and grabbed the beers meant for the two of them.

The twins obviously loved each other a lot, but with their differing attitudes to sex, plus the whole ‘rubbing each other the wrong way’ nature of sibling relationships, sometimes it got tense between them. However, as Bucky could no longer have that type of banter with his own sisters, he couldn’t help but tease Wanda a little.

“Ava, eh? Sounds like there’s a story there. What happened to Maya?”

Wanda shrugged. “Let’s say we weren’t communicating very well and leave it at that. And Ava? I met her at the bar a few weeks ago. It’s a funny story, because Pietro tried to put his speedy moves on her, the way he does.”

“But she didn’t like what I was packing,” Pietro interrupted as he scrolled up and down Bucky’s phone screen. “So I pointed her in Wanda’s direction. Because I’m generous like that.” 

Wanda sat up and threw a cushion at her brother, but he just snatched it out of mid air with lightning speed and propped it behind his head instead.

“It was less what you were ‘packing,’ brother, and more the speed at which you were trying to ‘pack it.’” She tossed her hair as she turned back to Bucky and sniffed. “Ava is a woman who appreciates a slower pace to things.”

“Ava’s a woman who appreciates a vulva,” Pietro sassed with a grin on his face.

Bucky scowled at him. “Ignore him, Wands.”

“Oh, I will. I’m fully accepting of the fact that I need time to work out if I like someone like that. But enough about me. How are you doing? It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Bucky rubbed at the back of his head at her pointed remark. “Well, you know, I’ve been busy. John and I don’t get that much time during the week together, so weekends are our time.”

“And that means you can’t see any of your friends? I don’t know, James. That sounds a little… odd… to me.”

“That’s what I said,” Pietro cut in with a sing-song voice.

“I’m seeing you two now.” Bucky tried hard to keep the defensive tone out of his voice but wasn’t sure if he was totally successful.

Wanda took hold of one of his hands and sandwiched it between her own delicate ones. “And I’m enjoying spending time with you. I just don’t want this thing with John —”

“Relationship —”

“— Relationship with John to turn into a mirror of the one you had with Jack.”

Bucky flinched at the mention of his ex. “John is nothing like Jack,” he said carefully. “John is kind, protective. He’s not violent or mean like Jack was. H-he’s not like that. He takes care of me.”

Wanda patted his hand. “Okay, James. I trust your instincts, but I’m still going to be sceptical until I’ve spent more than five minutes in his company. Him coming to pick you up one evening when you’d had too many beers doesn’t count. Maybe Pietro and I could come over for a few hours next Saturday? Play some board games. Surely John can’t argue with that?”

Bucky ducked his head and considered her request. What would John say to that? He’d brought up similar ideas with his boyfriend before, but John had always made it feel as though Bucky was asking too much of him, having to share their precious together-time. “I can ask him,” he said in what was hopefully a placating tone. Wanda gave him a soft smile in return, and Bucky was struck for a moment by how much he missed both his sisters and his mom. He tamped down the urge to pull her into a bone crushing hug and willed the prickling in his eyes not to turn into tears. Luckily, he was saved from further introspection and interrogation by Pietro thrusting his phone back under his nose.

“Picked mine. Now pick yours quick, you two. I’m hungry.”

Bucky looked at the large food order already in the checkout basket and cocked his head. “You mean all of this is for you?”

“What can I say? I’m a growing boy with a fast metabolism.”

Bucky spent an enjoyable few hours with his friends, but as six thirty rolled around, he made his excuses, insisting the twins keep hold of all the leftovers from their meal, and headed home.

As he rode the subway across the city, he kept an eye on his watch. If he’d timed it right, he’d get home about the same time as John, who would no doubt have grabbed something to eat at the office, and then they’d be able to cosy up for the rest of the evening. Maybe have a bit of mid-week fun if John wasn’t feeling too tired.

At six fifty-five, he was jogging up the stairs to John’s third-floor apartment and letting himself in. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket before wandering into the living room, only to find John already sitting on the couch.

“Hey,” he said, jovially. “Did you get out a little early? I didn’t expect you to beat me home.”

John looked up at him with a pinched expression before answering him in an exasperated tone. “James, I’ve been home for hours. Where have you been?”

Bucky stopped short. “What do you mean, home for hours? You told me this morning that you’d be working late. I went to hang with Pietro and Wanda.”

“What are you talking about? I never said that.”

“But —” Bucky started, confusion settling over him as he thought back to earlier in the day when he’d been running all over the apartment to get ready for his early shift. He was sure —

John stood up and ruffled Bucky’s hair and then smacked him firmly on the ass. “You really are scatter-brained. It’s a good thing I’m not dating you for your intellect.” Before Bucky could even make a comeback to that comment, John looped his arms around Bucky’s lower back and continued, a slight pout on his lips. “I had been looking forward to spending the evening with you and having a home-cooked meal. I bet you’ve eaten already, though.”

A stab of guilt flashed through Bucky. “I have,” he admitted slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you something now.”

“That would be lovely, baby. Thank you.” John dropped a kiss to his nose and then let him go to resume his previous seat on the couch. He picked up the TV remote and turned it on to some kind of sports channel, and Bucky just stood for a few moments, trying to process everything. “Could I get some chicken and eggplant parmesan?” John asked.

“B-but we don’t have the ingredients for that,” Bucky stammered out. “I was thinking a grilled cheese and some s—”

“The bodega down on 5th’s probably still open,” John added, not taking his eyes off the screen and having seemingly not heard Bucky’s alternative suggestion. “But probably only for another half hour or so. You’d best get going, baby.”

Stiffly, still confused, Bucky returned to the hallway and pulled his sneakers back on and took his jacket off the hook. He could hear John muttering under his breath at whatever was happening on screen before he let out a cheer. Bucky could imagine that he was probably punching the air. He was just opening the door to head out when John called out to him. “And could you get me some beers, too? Thanks, baby.”

It didn’t take him too long to schlep down to the small store, but by the time he got back again it was almost eight pm and he still had to start cooking. John was still watching football and didn’t even look up when Bucky passed him a beer, although he did get a ‘thank you’ before his boyfriend continued with his armchair refereeing. He settled into the kitchen, glad that he hadn’t had more than two beers with the twins, and just after nine he presented a full plate of food to John.

His boyfriend finally looked up from the TV and smiled adoringly at Bucky as he took it. “Thank you, baby. This looks lovely. You didn’t need to go to all this effort though.”

Bucky blinked, and his mouth dropped open so far he knew he must resemble some kind of fish. “B-but…” However, John kept speaking.

“You’re so good to me. Always taking care of me. Maybe, when I’ve finished, we can go to bed. Have an early night.” He placed his hand on Bucky’s knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Would you like that, sweetheart?” There was a twinkle in John’s eye and Bucky’s mouth went dry. 

“Yeah. I would.”

As John ate, Bucky cuddled up into his side, drawing patterns over John’s thigh with his finger. Often they didn’t have time on weekdays for anything other than a heavy make-out session, and Bucky was excited by the prospect of a mid-week orgasm that wasn’t self-induced in the shower. Speaking of which…

“I’m just gonna go have a quick shower. Wash the day off me.”

“Okay, baby. See you in a few minutes.”

As soon as Bucky got inside the bathroom, he was turning on the water and stripping off as it heated up. He remembered to place his clothes in the laundry basket right then, which should earn him some extra points — John liked things neat and organised. He tied his hair up and out of the way before stepping into the stall and washing himself briskly but thoroughly. God, just the thought of sex was enough to have him chubbing up.

When he stepped back into the bedroom with just a towel around his waist, it was to find John partially undressed, staring out of the window, beer still in hand. His shirt was over the chair in the corner of the room and although his pants were still on, Bucky could tell he’d partially undone them, because of the slight sag around John’s waist. The lights of the city, orange and soft, shone through the window, lighting up the planes of John’s torso. He worked out a few times a week, and there wasn’t that much excess fat on him, although he hadn’t taken it to extremes. He was as strong as he needed to be.

Bucky padded up behind him, looped his arms around John’s waist and rested his chin on John’s shoulder. “Hey,” he murmured before pressing some soft kisses to his boyfriend’s neck. After taking a final swig and placing the bottle on the window sill, John turned around.

“Hey, yourself. Pretty as a picture, aren’t you?” John leaned down and took Bucky’s lips with his own, kissing him deeply and sweetly.

“I’m sorry I messed up our evening, John,” Bucky mumbled into the kiss, his hands roaming over John’s waist and under the top of his pants to settle on his hips.

“It’s alright. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” He angled his head back, baring his neck again, and Bucky needed no other invitation. He kissed, nipped and sucked his way down John’s throat, feeling the stubble that grew there rasp across his lips. He trailed down across his boyfriend’s collarbone and towards his chest, covered with a light dusting of hair. Above him, John moaned, and Bucky felt a flash of pride at making his partner feel good. As he dipped lower, his hands pushed John’s pants and briefs down. 

Bucky worshiped the flesh in front of him with his kisses — John’s soft abs, the dips at his hips — and his hands stroked up and down John’s thighs, until he was finally settled on his knees and taking John’s cock in his mouth. A shout of pleasure rent the air, and a pair of hands tangled in Bucky’s hair. Bucky hummed in response, and his cock bobbed under the towel at the slightly rough treatment.

“God, James. Your mouth! So fucking good.” John’s hips flexed, making Bucky gag slightly, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He just had to focus on doing what he was good at until John was ready to move on to taking him —

The deep moan accompanied by the flood of cum down his throat took Bucky by surprise, but it only took him a second to roll with it, swallowing everything down and imagining the other ways in which John could make him feel good. His boyfriend must have been more worked up than he’d thought. Or maybe Bucky was just that good at giving head. Okay, he knew he was that good.

John finished shuddering and Bucky pulled back, licking up the last of his spend, before settling back on his knees and looking up at him expectantly. John panted, hands on his hips as he recovered. “Jeez. Wow!” He kicked his remaining clothes off his ankles and then cupped Bucky’s cheek. “Thanks, baby. That was amazing.” He stepped around Bucky, making his way to the bathroom, and Bucky watched him. Was John just washing up? However, when John returned he crossed to the dresser, pulling on fresh briefs and climbed into bed, burrowing down into the sheets. Bucky’s brows furrowed. 

“John?”

“I’m bushed. Do me a favour, sweetheart? Can you throw my clothes in the laundry basket 

before you turn in?”

Not for the first time that night, Bucky’s brain was spinning with confusion. 

“Oh, and can you bring me a glass of water, in case I need some during the night?” 

For the next few moments — it could have been seconds or minutes — Bucky stayed where he was on his knees, trying to deal with the emotional whiplash of the entire evening. His cock still throbbed, not yet having accepted that John wasn’t going to pay it any attention, but as soft snores travelled across the room Bucky realised that John wasn’t teasing him — wasn’t playing some kind of ‘edging’ game. He really had come down Bucky’s throat, thanked him and then gone to sleep.

He slowly rose to his feet — his lower legs had gone to sleep somewhat — and as he did so, his towel fell off of his hips, gently pooling on the floor. He looked down at it, fixated, as though it was some metaphor for his life that he couldn’t quite grasp.

Across the room, John snorted and then rolled over.

Bucky let out a sigh and scooped up the towel and John’s clothes. He strode the few steps it took to get back into the bathroom, dumping the pile of fabric in the laundry bin and then brushed his teeth. He detoured via the kitchen on his way back to get the requested water, and, feeling a little dazed — a little disconnected — he grabbed his pyjama pants from under his pillow and drew them on, absent-mindedly noticing that his cock had finally softened, even if the last vestiges of arousal still thrummed under his skin. Carefully he slid in next to John and tried to relax, but sleep was a long time coming, with a variety of thoughts swirling around in his head. It was only as he was slipping under that he wondered why John hadn’t thought to call him.

That’s how you found yourself outside the gym one late afternoon, watching the boys’ basketball practice through the windows. You had been drawn to it, not for the game itself, but for the motion—the intensity of their movements, the way they worked as a team, the way their bodies twisted and turned with so much raw energy. You couldn’t help but be captivated by the scene.

And so you had your sketchbook, perched on the low wall outside, pencil moving with practiced ease over the paper, capturing the fast-paced action. The light spilling through the windows, the sweat glistening on their bodies, the determined looks on their faces—it was all so real, so vivid. But one figure in particular caught your attention.

Billy Hargrove.

There was something about him—the way he moved with a certain effortless confidence, the way his cocky smirk never seemed to leave his face, even when he was in the middle of the game. He was different from the other guys, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe when he was around. He was the kind of guy who commanded attention, even if he wasn’t trying.

You focused on him, the tip of your pencil gently shading in the muscles of his arms as he caught the basketball mid-air, ready to make a play. Your hand moved without thinking, lost in the rhythm of the moment, as you added little details to the picture—his hair, messy with sweat, his narrowed eyes, and the confident way he held himself.

The bell rang, signaling the end of practice. You hurried to finish your drawing, heart beating a little faster at the thought of giving it to him. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a drawing. You were sure it would go unnoticed, or worse, mocked. But you couldn’t stop the feeling—the desire to do something bold, something outside of your usual comfort zone.

And so, you waited.

The basketball players made their way toward the locker room, chatting loudly as they disappeared into the building. You stood outside, tapping your fingers nervously on your sketchbook. You had no idea what to say when Billy came out. Would he laugh at your drawing? Would he even look at it? Would he think you were a total freak?

But you told yourself that it didn’t matter. You were going to do this.

The minutes dragged on as you waited, your palms sweating. You finally heard the sound of the locker room door opening, the voices of the guys drifting out into the hallway. You stood straighter, trying to act normal, but your heart was pounding in your chest.

You saw him before he saw you. Billy, still in his practice clothes, towel slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the image of someone who didn’t have a care in the world. You swallowed thickly, gathering the last of your courage.

“Billy!” you called out, your voice small but loud enough to catch his attention.

He turned, raising an eyebrow as his eyes locked onto yours. You stood there, holding the sketchbook to your chest like a shield, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

“Hey,” Billy said, his voice low, the same smirk on his face, though it looked more amused now. He took a step closer, running a hand through his damp hair. “What’s up, new girl?”

You felt a knot of nerves twist in your stomach. You wanted to say something witty, something that would make you seem confident, but all you could manage was a small, shaky breath.

“I—uh, I drew this,” you stammered, holding out the sketchbook. “I... thought you might like it.”

Billy’s gaze flicked down to the book, his eyebrow raising again as he glanced from your face to the drawing. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks as he studied the page, his silence making your anxiety skyrocket.

Suddenly, the world felt too tight. Your breath started coming in shallow bursts, your vision blurring as the edges of the world seemed to fade away. You could feel the panic building, your chest tightening, the weight of your own nerves too much to handle.

You were having a panic attack.

Your hands were trembling, and the sketchbook felt heavy in your grasp. You wanted to put it down, to run away and disappear. You tried to steady yourself, but the room was spinning, your body feeling disconnected from your mind.

“Hey, hey, you okay?”

Billy’s voice broke through the fog in your head. You barely registered him taking a step closer, his expression suddenly changing from amusement to concern.

“I—I’m fine,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m just... sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could finish, Billy’s hand reached out, gently touching your arm, grounding you.

“You’re not fine,” he said softly, his voice calm but firm. “Take a deep breath. Just focus on me, okay?”

You nodded weakly, trying to do what he said, but it felt so hard.

Then, out of nowhere, Steve Harrington appeared, walking up behind Billy, his brows furrowing when he noticed the tension.

“Everything alright here, man?” Steve asked, his voice casual but concerned, as if he sensed something was off.

Eddie Munson, trailing behind Steve and Tommy H., noticed too. “Whoa, is she okay?” Eddie asked, eyeing you with a mixture of confusion and concern.

Billy gave them a quick glance, then turned back to you, his hand still on your arm. “She’s just having a rough moment. Give her some space.”

Steve stepped forward, eyeing Billy for a second before his gaze softened. “Hey, you’re gonna be fine. We got you, alright?”

You nodded, struggling to focus on their reassuring voices. With each word, it felt like the panic was slowly starting to ease, the fog lifting from your mind.

Billy gave you a small smile, his usual bravado replaced with a tenderness you hadn’t expected. “It’s alright, new girl. You’re good. Just breathe with me.”

And somehow, you did.

When the panic finally passed, you exhaled shakily, feeling the relief wash over you. Billy’s hand was still lightly gripping your arm, though he had let go once he saw you were steady.

“Thanks,” you whispered, still feeling a bit shaky but mostly calm.

Billy smirked, his usual cocky attitude slipping back into place. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly used to comforting people. But you’re okay now, right?”

You nodded again, feeling embarrassed but grateful.

“I, uh... I meant it, though,” you said, lifting the sketchbook up again. “The drawing, I mean. I—well, I wanted you to have it.”

Billy took it from you, his eyes briefly flicking over the page again. “I’ll keep it,” he said, a genuine smile tugging at his lips now. “Maybe you should draw me again sometime. When you’re feeling... better.”

You smiled faintly, a wave of warmth flooding through you. Maybe being the “new girl” wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, you’d find a place for yourself here.