Mickimoo

Steve left you on a random Tuesday afternoon. No fanfare, no warning, no discussion. He barely even looked at you when he shattered your heart.

In the two years you'd known him, and the six months you loved him, you'd never seen him so callous. He'd looked at motorcycles with more affection than he looked at you in that moment.

You didn't understand, couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Your relationship was over, and your life felt like a held breath ever since.

He said he'd love you all his life, but for a man that's been alive for a century, six months was barely a blip. You were barely a blip.

But you couldn't dwell, couldn't break down like you wanted to, because you were one of the top assassin's at SHIELD, and missions didn't care about your feelings.

So you were sent out into the field, day after day, week after week, with a smile on your face and your shoulders thrown back, never ever missing your mark. And still, SHIELD demanded more of you.

Fortunately, you could do it with a broken heart.

“Agent L/N, report to Fury’s office for assignment,” the earpiece in your ear crackled to life, jarring you from the workout you were pretending to do.

“Another one? Seriously?” Nat said, looking up from the squat rack, sweat glistening along her hairline.

You shrugged. “The fun never stops,” you said with a half-hearted smile, and she rolled her eyes, returning to her reps.

As quick as you could, you pulled an oversized hoodie over your sports bra and retied your ponytail, which has fallen into sweaty disarray during your workout.

Normally, you'd change into your suit, but when Fury called, he didn't like to be kept waiting.

You take the elevator direct to his office, and when the doors roll open, you're greeted by Nick Fury, Sergeant Barnes, and, of course, the back of Steves head.

His hair has grown a little longer since you were together, and your fingers itched to run through it, to scratch his scalp in the way that makes his dark lashes flutter, to tug on his roots in the way that makes him groan low in his throat…

You shook yourself and slapped on a smile. “Good morning, Nick,” you chirped, sauntering into the room.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, offering as close to a smile as he could manage. “Have a seat.”

You perched on the edge of Bucky’s table, and he gave you a stiff nod in greeting . Steve didn't look up from the open file in front of him, but you could tell by the angle of his shoulders that he wasn't happy.

Nausea twisted in your stomach, your heart splintering a bit further, but you kept your expression pleasant.

“Would it kill you two to be a little more cheerful?” Fury quipped, and Bucky snorted. “Could all use a little more sunshine around here.” Fury winked at you, and you winked back.

Steve’s fingers tightened on the file, but you chalked it up to its contents.

“Little Miss Stabs-a-lot seems to be managing just fine for all of us,” Bucky said, his voice dry even though his eyes were smiling.

That's you, managing just fine.

Fury chuckled and passed you a similar file to Steves. “Your target is Lugoff Isaacson, HYDRA weapons director.”

You flipped through the file, finding a laundry-list of diabolical misdeeds, as well as a number of altercations with the two men beside you.

“Dinosaur’s couldn't hack it?” You teased, but only Nick laughed.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Isaacson lives like a hermit, and the only people allowed in his company are fellow HYDRA agents—” Nick paused, bracing his hands on the desk. “And pretty women.”

You heard Steve's teeth grind together, and Bucky glanced over at him, but you kept your eyes on your boss. “When do I leave?” You asked, already rising.

“Nick, she can't go in there with Isaacson alone,” Steve snapped, pushing the file away from him. His voice was rough and low, menacing, and it sent a chill up your spine.

“She certainly can,” Nick rebuffed. “Unless you want to go with her?”

Steve glared at Nick, so sharp it was practically lethal, but didn't say another word.

You felt like he stomped your heart beneath his boot, and were seized by the urge to fall at his feet and beg for a reason why he would do this to you. But instead, you flipped through the file, finding your orders in the back. “Flights at 2:30. I need to pack and get a blowout. I'll update when I land.” You tucked the file under your arm, blew Nick a kiss, and flitted back to the elevator, not sparing Steve a second glance.

He certainly wouldn't look back at you.

“How many is that this month?” You heard Bucky ask as the doors started to roll closed.

“15,” Fury answered, pride clear in his voice. “She's our most productive assassin to date.”

Steve's POV

“Don't give me that look, Rogers,” Fury droned, avoiding Steve's eye.

“She's not some goddamn chess piece you can just play however you want,” he bit, barely contained anger simmering underneath the surface. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his mouth shut during that meeting, to not grab you around the middle and run for the fucking hills.

The thought of Isaacson, that slimy rat laying a hand on you—it made Steve's mind bleed red with rage. He knew you could handle him, knew you'd make quick, clean work of the kill, but the things you'd have to endure to get that perfect opportunity…

He couldn't bear it.

“Thats exactly what she is,” Fury said, snatching the file from in front of Steve. “It's what you all are.”

Bucky scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, and Steve rose from his chair, bracing his hands on the table to lean into Fury’s smug face.

“I'm done playing your fucking games. And if you think I won't take her and leave, then you don't know me very well,” he growled.

Bucky got to his feet, metallic arm flexing as tensions mounted.

“Oh, I know you, Cap. I know you'll do whatever you need to do, move wherever the fuck I want you to move, so she stays on the damn board. Right?”

Steve grit his teeth. “And when we leave, whose going to come after us? Him?” He gestured to Bucky. “Nat? Thor? Quill? Whose it gonna be?”

Fury narrowed his eye.

“Because here's the thing you've never understood. Without us, there is no fucking SHIELD. You broke us up so she'd be free to your dirty work right? Without my interference?”

Fury scoffed and went to back away, but Bucky was standing directly behind him, blocking any escape route.

“She likes it—”

“It's killing her.” Steve cut him off. “When's the last time she had a day off? A vacation? A job that wasn't too hard for another agent, but too low profile to send us? Hm? Call her fucking sunshine while your burying her alive.”

“Steve,” Bucky warned, and the table cracked beneath Steve's hands.

“It ends now. Either SHIELD takes care of her, or I do.” Steve pushed off the desk and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs to get to the control room faster.

Nat was already there. “She just got to her apartment. Steve, she's—”

“I want eyes on her 24/7, and a team waiting to deploy within twenty miles of Isaacson bunker,” he ordered.

A chorus of ‘yessir’s’ answered him, and he sunk down in the vacant swivel chair, steepling his fingers as he watched the entrance to your apartment building, a SHIELD van idling just outside.

“Cap, listen.” Nat leaned against the control panel beside him. “This has to end, before she fucks up.”

“I know—”

“No, you don't. At this level of burnout, one misstep and that's it.”

“I know!” He barked, and the surveillance workers all jumped. “I'm fixing this. I just need a little more time.”

“She might not have time.” Nat pushed off the panel. “It might not be this mission, but it could be the next one, or the next. Stop being a fucking coward and fix it before it's too late.” She stormed off, leaving Steve staring at the monitors, his heart in his throat.

He was going to fix this. He had to fix this, before he lost you for good.

You hurried out of your apartment, dressed in slacks and blouse, wrapped up in a leather trenchcoat. The driver jumped out to greet you and took your bag, and you slipped into the backseat.

He flipped the camera to the car feed, a wonky fisheye from the dashboard, and saw you check your mascara in the mirror, faint smudges of black under your eyes, your nose kissed pink.

You'd been crying.

“I'm gonna fix it, baby,” he muttered to himself, wishing you could hear him somehow. “I promise.”

Reader's POV

You took out Isaacson without any issues, just smiled and tried to ignore the way he groped your thighs, ogled your tits. He made it too easy to slit his throat.

And as soon as you returned, there was another assignment, and another, and another, until you didn't even bother going home anymore. Which was well enough for you. You didn't care to sleep in the bed Steve held you in, or the couch you'd watched his favorite black and white movies on. Didn't care to eat in the kitchen where you taught him to make your mother's signature recipe, or shower in the stall he'd washed your hair in when you were sick. It was better to stay away from all the little reminders that you didn't imagine the whole thing.

You pretended to love being busy, treated every mission like a birthday gift, and pushed forward. Until, you were assigned to work at the Winter Gala.

SHIELD hosted the annual event as an excuse for the team to rub elbows with politicians, diplomats, and executives. You'd be masquerading as a guest, of course, but in reality you were on intel duty, eavesdropping on conversations and flirting trade secrets out of the most powerful people in the world.

One of the few perks of still being anonymous to the world.

You were dreading it. A night filled with romantic music, dancing, and drinks, watching Steve schmooze with women twice as wealthy and twice as powerful as you? You'd rather choke on your own dagger. But you were determined to look fabulous, a young woman in her glittering prime, and maybe you'd feel something besides emptiness.

Tony had a gorgeous ball gown sent to your apartment that probably cost more than your annual salary, and you spent three hours on your hair and makeup for the occasion, mainly because you kept crying it off. But at the last minute you steeled yourself and carpooled with Nat to Stark Tower.

She wolf whistled as you climbed into the car, looking downright stunning herself. “I know I'm not supposed to comment, but that fossil is going to lose his fucking mind.” She chuckled, tearing off down the street.

“Lose his mind?” You snorted inelegantly. “I can barely get a ‘hello’ out of him.”

Nat looked at you sidelong, the expression sharpened by her eyeliner. “And why do you think that is, babe?”

You didn't dare comment, didn't dare think about it. You'd never get through the night if you clung to a razor thin thread of hope.

The party was in full swing when you arrived, and you came in separately from Nat to forgo any suspicion. With a glass of champagne in hand, you circled the party, trying to tune out your own thoughts so you could absorb all the conversations going on around you.

But the noise completely stopped when your eyes met Steve's across the room.

He was dressed in an immaculately tailored Navy blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and brown leather loafers. His hair was styled back from his face, his beard freshly trimmed, and he was staring at you like hunter through a scope.

“Y/n, sweetheart, come with me for a moment,” Tony appeared to your left, startling you out of your reverie. “There's someone I want you to meet.” He winked, and you flashed a toothy smile, even though you felt like screaming.

“Lead the way, Mr. Stark,” you cooed, for the benefit of anyone in earshot.

Tony led you away, but you could feel Steve's eyes burning a hole in your back, tracking you through the crowd.

“Alex, this is Lydia, the daughter of a colleague of mine. You both attended Stanford!” Tony lied through his teeth to a handsome, dark haired gentleman, and you picked it up without delay.

“Oh, of course! It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!” You gushed, sliding onto the stool beside the stranger. “Tell me, what was your favorite time of year on campus?” You brushed your fingers along his forearm, noting the model of the Rolex on his wrist, the designer of his suit.

“Fall, of course. Can't beat those colors,” Alex grinned, and you fawned like it was the most ground breaking thing you'd ever heard.

Tony left you to it, and twenty minutes later you were tucked into a booth with Alex, his arm slung over your shoulders, and his phone face up and unlocked right in front of you. Oblivious to the way you scanned every message that came through.

Alex leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, and you had to swallow a shiver of revulsion. His hand came up to cup your cheek as you wracked you mind for a way out of this—

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Trevais, but I need to steal Lydia for a moment.” Nat appeared suddenly beside the table, looking smug, and Alex scowled.

“Right now? Really?” He argued.

“I'm afraid so.” Nat batted her lashes and Alex immediately caved.

“Fine, I'll see you later then?” He winked, alluding to the room key he slipped into your bag a few minutes prior.

“Perhaps.” You winked back, playing coy, and he grinned like a fool. “What's going on?” You hissed as Nat led you out of the party and down an dark, empty hall. "I was in the middle of something—"

“You'll see,” she whispered back, stopping at a door and doing a quick sweep before pulling it open and ushering you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you.

“Nat, what—”

The lights came on in the room, dim and golden to reveal the luxurious study you were standing in, all black leather and granite, shelves of books and expensive furniture.

But you barely registered any of that, because Steve Rogers was waiting for you by the window. Moonlight kissed his face, highlighting the flawless angles on his bone structure, and your mouth ran dry, your heart falling through the floor.

“Uh, is there a problem, Captain Rogers?” You asked, propping up the professional barrier despite the urge to launch yourself at him, the need to kiss him, or strangle him, pushing against the underside of your skin.

When he looked at up you, the air was sucked from the room. His eyes were stormy, fogged with sorrow, water collecting on his lower lashes.

“You really have turned espionage into an art form,” he chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “Like you're having the time of your life.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“But that's not true, is it? You're as miserable as I am.”

You shook your head. “I—I’m fine.”

He huffed a laugh, pushing off the window sill. “You put on a good act, honey. But I can tell when you're performing.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, indignation flaring in your gut. “What do you want, Steve? You haven't spoken to me in months.”

He grimaced, a look of genuine pain crossing his face. “Y/n, I—”

“You disappeared for two weeks after dumping me out of the blue. You refuse to take missions within a hundred miles of me. You won't even train at the same time." You were yelling, unable to stop once you started. You'd kept it all bottled up for so long, there was no forcing it back now. "You've barely looked at me, Steve! It's like we never happened, like I made it all up in my head!”

“Because it was killing me!” He shouted back, and you flinched, tears pricking behind your eyes. You could count on one hand the amount of times Steve Rogers raised his voice, and it was never at you.

“You left me!” You yelled, your voice cracking at the edges.

“Because I had no choice! They gave me no choice.”

Your stomach dropped. “W-what?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure. “Fury, SHIELD, they threatened to send you overseas if I didn't. To some desolate base in Russia.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. This couldn't be real. “Steve, that doesn't make sense—”

“You really think I would leave you like that? That I would just throw away what we had? I was trying—” his voice caught in his throat. “I thought I was protecting you. But they lied to me.”

You were shaking your head, backing away. You couldn’t take any more empty words, any more bullshit—

Steve rushed toward you, catching your face in his large hands before you could turn away. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, softening. “They wanted me out of the way so you would be more likely to do whatever they wanted. When we were together, we were working less, we were happier, we cared about something that wasn't SHIELD, and they couldn't stand it.”

“But Fury—”

“Is a manipulative fuck that took advantage of your broken heart.” You gasped at his language, usually reserved for sex or intense fighting. Steve lowered himself to his knees, his hands gripping the curve of your waist and shaking you. “I need you to believe me, honey. I'm begging you. I would never have done this if I knew the truth. I'm so sorry for hurting you, and I wish I could take it back. But I can't, all I can do is tell you the truth.”

“You didn't want to leave me?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course not.” He rested his forehead on your belly, drawing a shaky breath before looking up at you again, pleading with big, blue, watery eyes. “I-I love you. And I agreed because I was terrified to lose you completely but then I—I did anyways because I'm a fucking coward.”

You wiped a tear from his cheek with your thumb, the last of your trepidation falling away. “I love you too, Stevie,” you said, and he surged upwards, slamming his mouth to yours in a ruinous, bone-melting kiss.

He parted your lips with his tongue, possessing your mouth in a display of dominance you rarely saw from him. He licked along your teeth, groaning low in his throat as you dug your nails into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like black coffee and something sweet, like he'd hit the dessert table instead of the bar, and it made your heart flip.

God, you'd missed him.

Your lungs screamed for air, an affliction super soldiers didn't contend with, and you were forced to break the kiss to breathe.

“Cameras?” You panted, craning your head back as Steve planted wet, open-mouth kisses down your jugular.

“This is Fury's personal study. No cameras,” Steve mumbled against the peak of your shoulder, his hands all over you.

You scoffed. “Of course, because he can have priv—”

“Forget about him.” Steve captured your lips again, and you nipped at his lower lip for cutting you off. He backed you against the desk, breaking the kiss to toss you up onto it.

“Forgotten,” you replied, breathless as you looked into his eyes.

“I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet, have I?” He asked, leaning back a bit to take you in, your chest heaving against the deep plunge of your dress, lips kiss-stung and eyes bright.

You shook your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder with a smirk.

“I love this color on you,” he murmured, rubbing the hem of your dress between his thumb and index finger. And your makeup—”

“Steve.” You grabbed him by the lapel and tugged him closer, bringing his face down towards yours. A flare of arousal twinged between your legs, you loved when he let you manhandle him. “I know you're trying to be a gentleman and not fuck me without some proper flirting, but it's been months. I need you.”

Steve smiled, leaning forward to lay you back on the desk. “You don't need me, honey,” he hummed, kissing down your sternum while his hands moved your dress up your legs. He looked up at you when he settled between your thighs. “You've proven that you're a force all on your own. And that's okay, you don't have to need me, as long as you want me.”

You nibbled your lower lip, processing his words. He was right, you'd proven that you could live through heartbreak, that you didn't need him to carry on. And as much as it hurt, and as much as you missed him, there was something liberating in that knowledge.

“So, do you want me?” He asked, grazing his thumb over the gusset of your panties, maddeningly light.

“Yes, I want you,” you answered, threading your fingers through his blond hair and urging him forward.

He chuckled, smiling up at you, then pulled your panties to the side with his middle finger and flattened his tongue against your slit, licking a firm stripe up your pussy. Your head fell back onto the desk when he sucked your clit between his teeth, wasting no time in his pursuit of your pleasure.

Steve, for all his propriety and politeness, loved nothing more than feasting on your pussy. He was sloppy with it, rough and self-indulgent, as if making up for the decades he went without it. He often stayed until you were overstimulated and orgasmed-out, weakly trying to push his head from between your legs while he lapped up the mess you made for him.

“Missed you so damn much,” he mumbled against your pussy, eyes fluttering closed as he drove his tongue into your entrance.

“Missed you,” you whined, your hips bucking up into his mouth as he devoured you, lashing every one of your sweet spots with expert precision.

His hands tightened on your hips while he massaged your clit with his tongue, and even that fraction of his real strength was enough to leave a dull ache. The reminder of his true strength made your head spin, your mind empty. You may not need him, but there was something thrilling about being able let go while you were with him. Trusting that he would keep you safe and you could just be.

He licked one last stripe up your pussy before pulling back, kissing his way up your body. “Baby, I need you,” he mumbled, nosing into your neck. You could feel just how badly from the ridge beneath his trousers, his hips rocking slightly into yours. “Please, can I fuck you?” He asked, unlatching his belt with a flick of his wrist, and a shiver rolled up your spine at the desperation in his voice.

“You want to fuck me?” You repeated, toying with him. You reached between your bodies and pulled out his cock, thick and long and flushed, and pumped it once, twice, smearing precum down his shaft.

He moaned, hot and breathy against your skin. “I know I hurt you, and I still have to make up for that, but I just—fuck, I need to feel you. Please, please let me make you come on my cock.”

“Just start slow,” you cooed, petting his cheek when he lifted his head in excitement. “Been awhile since I took you.” You glided his cockhead through your folds, his breath hitching when you notched it at your drooling entrance.

Gently, he eased his hips forward, sliding in one inch, then another. "Shit, honey. Have a little mercy," he panted, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his shirt, tendons in his neck flexing.

You groaned, releasing his cock to grab hold of his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt at the stretch, bright and burning.

“Gotta relax, baby. Let me in.” He gently guided you thigh up and around his waist, squeezing the fat of your haunch in reassurance. He moved a little deeper, and you both gasped when your walls clenched around him. “So goddamn tight,” he rasped, drawing his hips back a bit, assuaging some of the discomfort before easing back inside, coaxing your muscles to loosen for him.

“Fuck, Steve,” you panted when he pushed a little deeper, your eyes rolling back in your head when he grazed your g-spot.

“Almost there, doll. You can do it,” he encouraged, reaching up to hold your face. He caught your gaze, smiling a little when your eyes struggled to stay focused, lashes fluttering. “Starting to feel good?”

You nodded, pleasure spilling through you as your body accepted him inch by inch, until finally, you felt his pelvis press against yours.

“There we go,” he purred, leaning down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, giving you a few more seconds to adjust. “Good girl, takin’ all that cock.”

He ground into you, stifling a fractured moan against your shoulder when your pussy made an obscene squelching sound, dripping wet for him. You were on another planet, tingling head to toe as waves of pleasure crested. Every beat of your heart had you clenching around him, full to splitting, and you wanted more.

“Please, baby, need more,” you whined, trying to rock your hips against his, but he was too heavy for you to do much.

He braced his hands on either side of your head, sweeping his eyes down your body as you squirmed beneath him. He chuckled, the sound low and almost malicious. “Need more?"

He drew his hips back and delivered a punishing thrust, two, three, five, until you were all but screaming, unable to do anything but lay there and take everything he gave you.

"How's that for more?" He asked, his cock brutalizing your cervix and stretching you beyond your limits, molding your pussy to the shape of his cock. Ruining you with a fervor that made your head spin.

Your peak was rapidly approaching, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust until you were half-mad with desperation, clawing at his forearms by your head and leaving pink, raised lines across his flesh.

“Gonna come for me, baby? God, I missed this little pussy—feels so good,” he grated, bringing one of his hands down to circle to your clit, firm and deliberate. Exactly what he knew you needed. “That's my good girl. C'mon, I’m right there with you—” Another thrust and he sent you both flying over the edge, sparks exploding behind your eyes as the orgasm ravaged your body, flaying you open.

You grabbed onto his arm, desperate for something to ground you as you soared, his hips still thrusting erratically as he pumped you full of his release.

Crack!

The desk suddenly tilted beneath you and Steve whisked you up into his arms, still buried inside you. You clung to him in shock as the desk collapsed to floor, sending all of Fury's belongings scattered across the carpet.

"Are you alright?" He asked, searching your face.

You nodded, easing your grip on him.

Steve adjusted you, lifting and lowering you onto his cock, and you gasped, still sensitive from the lingering orgasm, and mildly shocked by his lack of reaction to what you'd just done.

“Steve, we—”

“We did,” he hummed, kissing along your neck as he caught his breath, lazily working you over his length to wallow in the last dregs of pleasure. “And if he has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

“I think he's going to have a problem,” you snickered, and Steve smiled.

“And I'll deal with it.” He eased himself out of you and set you on your feet, straightening your panties and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. You felt like you were floating in a dream, in disbelief that you had your Steve back, that he never really was gone in the first place.

“How are you going to deal with it?” You asked after righting your dress and he had tucked himself back into his trousers.

Steve pulled you back into his arms, like even that moment of separation was more than he could bear. “Depends on how much of a problem he has,” he replied, smirking. “I told you, forget about him. I'll handle it for us.”

Us. Your knees went a little weak at the word. “Yes, Captain,” you replied rising on your toes to kiss his cheek.

Thank you so much for reading!

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. My inbox is open for requests, check my pinned post for fandoms & characters!

“The fate of the planet rode on the crew of Icarus II. Either they would succeed and save humanity or we would have perished. And then one day the people of Earth woke to find the sun burning brighter than ever before. Icarus II had succeeded though not without hardships and loss.”

A lump formed in your throat as you proudly watched your child read out a report for class.

“I’ve spoken to a lot of people. Some knew the Earth before it froze while others were born during the new ice age. Kids who had never seen the ocean move or a flower grow outside. Had never once felt the rays of the sun warm their skin. And if we stop to gaze upon a star.” A sniffle and a deep breath filled the quiet room. “We can stand outside and see them clearly. Almost as clearly as Icarus II was able.” The crew members and their roles were explained until one remained. “Space Engineer James Mace. To everyone else he’s a hero. But to me he’s something even greater. My Dad. And one day I hope I can make him proud.”

Heart swelling you clapped with the rest of the crowd. “I hope you heard that James. Our child wants to make you proud” you murmured.

You started when a hand caught yours and squeezed gently. Mace’s blue eyes were warm with love and pride for his child who gave a little wave from the stage.

“Mission Accomplished.”

A/N 3 - I very nearly went down the angst route till I realized what day it was. Happy birthday to Chris Evans who brought amazing characters to life!

Everyone else was thirteen.

And because your brain had always run ahead of your body, you had grown up believing the gap didn’t matter.

That was the first lie adolescence corrected.

The first week back after winter break, you stood in front of your bathroom mirror and stared at yourself like you were studying a stranger.

Your mother had bought you a new backpack. New shoes. A few shirts that weren’t babyish, because she’d learned – slowly – that you hated looking younger than you already were.

She didn’t push you into ruffles or bright colors. She asked what you liked. She listened. She tried.

She couldn’t change the fact that your wrists were still too thin, your shoulders still too narrow, your face still too soft.

You looked like a kid.

You were a kid.

But the world didn’t treat kids kindly once they decided you were old enough to be noticed.

You pulled on a long-sleeved shirt even though it wasn’t that cold. You always did, instinctive as breathing. You tugged the hem down like fabric could be armor. Then you tied your hair back and looked at your eyes in the mirror – sharp, watchful, too steady for your age.

You tried to practice a smile.

It looked wrong.

So you didn’t.

Your mother called, “You ready?”

You picked up your bag. “Yes.”

You were always ready. Ready meant controlled. Ready meant no one could tell you were bracing.

Outside, the street was wet with melted snow. Your breath came out in small clouds. You walked toward school with your shoulders slightly hunched, not from cold but from the feeling that middle school hallways were designed like funnels – tight, loud, unavoidable.

Steve was waiting by the corner like he always was.

He had grown since fall. Not drastically, but enough that the change sat wrong in your mind for a second. His limbs were longer. His hoodie sleeves didn’t swallow his hands anymore.

He smiled when he saw you, quick and bright, then softened it like he remembered you didn’t like too much attention.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” you replied.

He fell into step beside you without crowding you. He never crowded you. He walked like he understood the invisible space you needed the way some people understood personal boundaries without being told.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to.

A few steps behind him, Bucky barreled up the sidewalk like a storm with sneakers.

“You two are walking without me?” he demanded, loud enough to make an older woman on the opposite sidewalk glance over.

Steve rolled his eyes. “We didn’t know you could be on time.”

“I’m always on time,” Bucky argued automatically, and you could hear the grin behind his words.

He reached you and hooked an arm around Steve’s shoulders, yanking him closer like they were magnets. Steve swore under his breath and shoved him away.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you.

Just a flick.

But it landed.

“You’re wearing sleeves,” he observed.

You looked down at yourself like you hadn’t dressed yourself on purpose. “Yes.”

“It’s not even that cold.”

“I know.”

Bucky stared at you for another second as if he expected you to explain your own choices, then huffed and bumped his shoulder lightly into yours – an old habit, familiar enough that you didn’t flinch.

“Whatever,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He ran ahead without waiting for you to respond, sneakers splashing through a shallow puddle, already shouting Pietro’s name across the street like volume was a love language.

Pietro, predictably, shouted back.

Wanda stood near the school entrance with her arms crossed, expression unimpressed in a way that made teachers wary and boys nervous. She looked older than thirteen somehow – like she’d been born already tired of everyone’s nonsense.

When she saw you, her face softened in a way that was so quick most people missed it.

“There you are,” she said, like she’d been waiting specifically for you. Then she narrowed her eyes at Bucky. “Don’t trample her.”

Bucky made a face. “I didn’t trample her.”

“You breathed on her aggressively,” Wanda shot back.

Pietro laughed, already spinning some story about how he’d almost gotten detention for “existing too loudly” last semester.

You stood in the middle of them and tried not to let the noise get under your skin.

You had known these people for years now.

They were your constant.

But adolescence had a way of making even constants feel unstable, like the ground was shifting and no one was naming it out loud.

Inside the building, the hallways were packed. Lockers slammed. Someone yelled a name across the corridor like they owned the space. A group of older kids laughed too hard, too sharp, and the sound crawled over your shoulders.

You tightened your grip on your backpack straps.

Wanda noticed immediately. She always did.

She moved in closer – not touching, not infantilizing – just positioning herself on your other side like a barrier.

“New semester,” she muttered. “Same zoo.”

You nodded.

Steve leaned toward you slightly. “You okay?”

You gave him a small, automatic nod. “I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t look convinced.

Bucky didn’t ask.

Bucky never asked if you were okay. Not because he didn’t care – he cared like it was his default setting – but because Bucky’s version of care wasn’t questions.

It was presence. It was hovering. It was being there like a guard dog who didn’t know he was a guard dog.

He walked a half step behind you through the hallway, shoulder angled like he’d decided the crowd wasn’t allowed to touch you.

You pretended not to notice.

Your first class was English.

The teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, was young and enthusiastic and had the kind of smile that looked like she had never been betrayed by her own hormones. She talked about symbolism and narrative voice like it was the most important thing in the world.

You liked her immediately.

It made you cautious.

People you liked had the potential to matter, and things that mattered could be taken away.

You sat at your desk and took out your notebook, writing the date at the top of the page with careful, neat handwriting.

Your handwriting had always been tidy. A controlled line on paper. Proof you could be good.

Around you, the other kids fidgeted. Whispered. Twirled hair around fingers. Thumped shoes against chair legs. Passed notes.

You listened.

You always listened.

You caught fragments without trying.

“…he totally looked at her–” “…did you see what she wore?” “…my mom says–” “…I got it last summer–”

You didn’t always understand what they were talking about, but you understood the tone.

Everyone sounded… electric.

Charged.

Like they had secrets under their skin and didn’t know what to do with them.

You knew what to do with secrets.

You hid them.

When the teacher called on you, you answered calmly, succinctly. Your voice didn’t shake. Your face didn’t flush. You didn’t get excited.

Mrs. Kennedy smiled like she wished everyone in the room would take notes on how to be a person.

A boy behind you muttered, “She’s such a robot.”

You didn’t turn around.

Turning around meant engaging. Engaging meant attention. Attention meant - 

Wanda’s chair scraped lightly against the floor as she leaned back and said, loud enough for him to hear, “At least robots are useful.”

A couple of kids laughed.

The boy shut up.

You didn’t look at Wanda, but your chest loosened by a fraction anyway.

After English came gym.

Gym was where adolescence became crueler.

Not because the exercises were difficult.

Because gym required bodies.

Required changing clothes in front of other people. Required running in front of other people. Required being seen.

You hated being seen.

The girls’ locker room smelled like deodorant and damp towels and the sharp, acidic edge of fear disguised as perfume. Voices bounced off the tiles, too loud, too close.

You moved quickly, eyes down. You changed as fast as possible, keeping your shirt close to your body. You didn’t take your long-sleeve off until the last second. You kept your back turned.

Wanda changed near you, deliberately, like she’d decided you would not be cornered.

Pietro’s voice echoed faintly from the boys’ locker room through the wall, already laughing. Steve’s quieter laughter followed. Bucky’s loudest of all.

For a moment, you felt steady again. The way you always did when you remembered the world contained them.

On the gym floor, your class divided into teams. Basketball.

You hated basketball.

Too much chaos. Too many bodies moving unpredictably.

Bucky loved it.

He became a different creature the moment a ball entered the equation – competitive, fast, hungry. He wasn’t even trying to impress anyone, he just… didn’t know how to do something halfway.

Steve was decent, but he played like he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Like he was always checking his own strength.

Pietro – predictably – played like the rules were suggestions.

Wanda sat out with an excuse that looked suspiciously like I don’t care.

You were put on the court anyway.

You stood near the edge, hands open, waiting for a pass that never came.

Not because you were bad.

Because you were small.

Small meant invisible.

Invisible meant safe.

The ball bounced. Sneakers squeaked. A girl shoved past you hard enough that you stumbled.

Bucky’s head snapped toward you instantly.

He didn’t see who did it. He just saw you move.

His jaw tightened.

He played harder after that. Too hard.

The gym teacher blew the whistle twice and shouted at him to calm down.

Bucky threw his hands up like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of “calm.”

When class ended, you left the gym with your heart beating too fast and your throat tight.

You didn’t cry.

You just… felt raw.

Steve fell into step beside you in the hallway, towel draped over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges.

“You did okay,” he said.

You blinked at him. “I did nothing.”

Steve shrugged. “Sometimes doing nothing is doing okay. Middle school rules are weird.”

You almost smiled.

Then you heard a girl behind you whisper, “That’s Steve Rogers. He’s cute.”

Your stomach did something strange.

Not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Something more like… awareness.

Steve’s shoulders stiffened slightly.

He heard it too.

He pretended he didn’t.

You pretended you didn’t.

But the air between you shifted, just a little, like a page turning.

At lunch, you sat at the same table you always did – near the window, far enough from the loudest groups to breathe.

Wanda unwrapped her sandwich with surgical precision. Pietro stole a fry from someone at a nearby table and got yelled at. Steve drew something in the corner of his notebook instead of eating. Bucky complained about the cafeteria food like it had personally offended him.

It should have felt normal.

It almost did.

Until the conversation at the table behind you rose above the din.

“…she got her period in class.” “…shut up– seriously?” “…she cried, it was so gross.” “…my sister said it happens and–”

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Wanda’s head snapped up.

Pietro wrinkled his nose. “People are idiots.”

Steve looked uncomfortable, cheeks slightly pink.

Bucky said, “What’s a period?”

Everyone froze.

Pietro choked on his drink.

Wanda stared at Bucky like she might actually kill him.

Steve’s eyes widened, horrified.

Bucky looked between them, baffled. “What? What did I say?”

Wanda leaned in and hissed, “Eat your food.”

Bucky leaned back, defensive. “I’m just asking.”

Pietro muttered, “Ask your mother.”

Bucky made a face. “No.”

Steve cleared his throat and said quickly, “It’s… not important.”

“It sounds important,” Bucky argued.

You stared down at your tray, throat tight in a different way now.

Not fear.

Just… the sensation of being excluded from something everyone else seemed to be orbiting.

Your body.

Your future body.

Things you hadn’t asked your mother about because asking meant admitting you didn’t know the rules.

And you hated not knowing the rules.

Wanda reached under the table and squeezed your knee lightly, once.

A secret check-in.

You didn’t look at her, but you exhaled.

Later, in the hallway, you went to your locker and twisted the combination carefully, deliberately, like precision could stop your hands from shaking.

You weren’t sure why they were shaking.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

You didn’t even feel sick.

You just… felt off.

A shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Bucky.

He leaned against the lockers across from yours like he’d been waiting on purpose but didn’t want to admit it.

“What?” you asked, because if you didn’t speak first, he would.

Bucky squinted at you. “You’re being weird today.”

You blinked slowly. “I’m always weird.”

He huffed, like you’d stolen his argument. “Yeah, but you’re… extra.”

You closed your locker. “Is this your way of asking if I’m okay?”

Bucky’s ears went slightly pink. “No.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, quieter – almost grudging – he added, “Maybe.”

Your chest tightened. Not painfully. Just… in that strange way it did when someone did something you didn’t expect.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Bucky didn’t move.

You could tell he didn’t believe you.

He looked at you like he was trying to read something on your face, and when he couldn’t, his expression sharpened with frustration – not at you, exactly, but at the fact that he couldn’t fix what he couldn’t name.

Finally, he muttered, “Okay,” like it wasn’t okay at all.

Then he reached out and took your backpack strap – just for a second – and tugged it gently.

A wordless gesture.

Come on.

I’m here.

You followed him down the hall without thinking.

And somewhere between your locker and the exit, you realized the truth you hadn’t been ready to admit yet.

Steve was becoming important in a new way.

Not just as the boy next door. Not just as the steady presence who understood silence.

People were looking at him now.

Talking about him.

Measuring him.

And that meant the world was going to try to take him from the safe, familiar orbit you’d all built around each other.

You didn’t know what you felt about that yet.

But you knew, with the sharp certainty you’d carried since you were four - 

That change rarely asked permission.

And that whatever came next, you would have to learn new rules again.

At home, it didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn’t like one day you all woke up and suddenly everything was different.

It was… a slow tightening. A shift in the air. A new kind of awareness that settled over the house like humidity – something you couldn’t see, but felt on your skin.

You noticed it first with Bucky.

You always noticed Bucky first.

Not because he was the loudest – though he was – but because he was the one whose orbit had always brushed too close to yours. The one who had always moved through your space like he belonged there.

Middle school changed that.

It put lines on the floor that hadn’t been there before.

You didn’t know if Bucky saw them at first. You didn’t even know if he understood what they were. But you felt him hesitate in doorways now. You felt him pause before sitting too close on the couch. You felt the way he stopped barging into your room the way he used to – like it wasn’t his to enter anymore.

It should have felt like relief.

It didn’t.

It felt like being quietly evicted from something you’d never been brave enough to name.

It started with small, humiliating things.

With your mother coming home one afternoon with a paper bag and an expression that was too careful.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle in the way that meant this conversation was going to be awkward no matter how she tried to soften it. “Can we talk for a second?”

You froze in the hallway, backpack still on your shoulders. You nodded once.

She led you into her bedroom, not yours. Like she didn’t want this to become a memory in the walls of your own space.

She set the bag on the bed and sat beside it.

“I’m not… entirely sure how to do this gracefully,” she admitted with a small, nervous laugh. “But you’re growing. And I want you to be comfortable.”

You stared at the bag.

Comfortable was a weird word. Comfort was not something you assumed you deserved by default. Comfort was something you earned by being good.

Your mother pulled out a soft cotton bralette first. Pale, simple. No lace. No unnecessary femininity. She’d chosen it like she knew you would hate anything that felt like it was meant to make you pretty.

“This is just… for support,” she said quickly, like she was explaining a tool. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. But some girls like having it. It can help.”

You took it from her hands as if it might burn you.

The fabric was soft.

Too soft.

Your throat tightened.

Not because you were upset. You weren’t even sure what upset would look like.

Because it felt like proof that your body was changing in ways that would make you visible.

Visibility was dangerous.

You nodded again because nodding was what you did. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t make your mother sit in discomfort longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” you said. The words came out flat.

Your mother’s eyes softened. She reached up, hesitated, then brushed your hair behind your ear.

“You can ask me anything,” she said quietly. “Anytime.”

You nodded again.

You didn’t ask anything.

You didn’t because you didn’t trust the words to come out right.

And because part of you still believed that asking for help was the first step toward being sent away.

That night, you put the bralette on alone in your room with the door locked, like you were committing a crime.

You stared at yourself in the mirror afterward.

You didn’t look older.

Not really.

But you looked… different.

The shape of you was beginning to change, and you didn’t know what to do with the fact that other people would notice.

The next morning, you came down to breakfast wearing a hoodie even though it was warm in the kitchen.

Bucky was already there, leaning against the counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth like he was trying to win a race against time.

He glanced up when you entered.

His gaze flicked over you, quick.

Then – just as quick – he looked away.

He cleared his throat like something had gotten stuck.

“Morning,” he said, voice too casual.

“Morning,” you replied, voice careful.

Your mother moved around the kitchen like she always did, humming softly, trying to keep the atmosphere normal. Wanda was over, perched on a stool, legs crossed, watching the whole thing like she could smell tension the way sharks smelled blood.

Pietro was outside already, yelling something at Steve through the open window.

Normal noise.

Normal life.

But Bucky didn’t look at you again.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about why.

Because you were too smart for your own good. Because you were the kind of child who tried to solve people like puzzles.

Because the space between you and Bucky had never existed before, and now it did, and you didn’t know what rule you’d broken to create it.

The next shift came in the bathroom.

It was stupid. Small. A nothing-thing.

Bucky came out one morning with toilet paper stuck to his chin, one hand pressed to his jaw and the other holding his razor like it had betrayed him.

Steve was leaning against the hallway wall outside the bathroom, waiting his turn, arms crossed, expression half amused, half resigned.

You were coming down the hall with your toothbrush when you saw Bucky.

Blood.

Not a lot – just a thin line, bright red against his skin.

But it startled you anyway. You stopped mid-step.

Bucky saw you looking and his whole face went red.

“What are you staring at?” he snapped, defensive.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not–” He looked down, realized you were right, and swore under his breath. “Shut up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “You cut yourself shaving.”

“I know what I did,” Bucky growled.

Steve’s tone was maddeningly calm. “You want help?”

“No.”

Bucky pressed harder against his chin and winced. “Maybe.”

Steve stepped forward, took the razor out of his hand like he was disarming a bomb, and guided him back into the bathroom with a gentle shove.

You stood there, frozen, toothbrush in your hand, watching the door close.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Because suddenly Bucky was doing things you weren’t part of. Things he didn’t want you to see. Things he was embarrassed by.

And the embarrassment wasn’t just about blood.

It was about you.

About being seen by you.

The realization sat oddly in your chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

A few weeks later, you noticed the biggest change of all.

You woke from a nightmare one night – thunder outside, the kind that made the windows tremble.

Your heart was pounding. Your breath came in thin, shaky pulls.

You lay still, waiting.

Waiting for footsteps.

Waiting for the familiar creak of your door.

Waiting for Bucky.

Because even if he hadn’t come every time anymore, he still did sometimes. Sometimes he still slipped into your bed like it was instinct, still pressed you against his side and muttered that you were fine.

But this time, the house stayed quiet.

No footsteps.

No door.

No warmth beside you.

You stared at the dark ceiling, throat tight, body cold.

And it hit you then – not like an insult, not like rejection, but like a rule settling into place:

He wasn’t coming anymore.

Because you were eleven now.

Because you were “old enough.”

Because boys weren’t supposed to crawl into their sisters’ beds.

Even when the sister wasn’t their sister by blood.

Even when the sister didn’t know how to feel safe alone.

You swallowed the panic down, the way you always did, and forced your breathing to slow.

It took a long time.

The next morning, you ate breakfast with your hands folded in your lap and didn’t mention the storm.

Bucky didn’t mention it either.

But you noticed the way his eyes kept flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking, like he was checking for something. Like he wanted to ask if you were okay and didn’t know how.

You let him keep his silence.

Silence was something you understood.

At school, the world got meaner.

Not always openly. Sometimes it came in laughter that wasn’t meant for you – until it was.

Sometimes it came in boys who called you “weird” because you didn’t giggle when they wanted you to. Sometimes it came in girls who whispered that you thought you were better than everyone because you got good grades.

Sometimes it came in the way people talked about your body like it wasn’t yours.

Flat. Tiny. Childish.

Or – worse – comments that made your skin crawl, the kind that were meant to see if you would react.

You didn’t.

You never reacted.

That was the problem.

Bullies got bored when you gave them nothing. But middle school boys didn’t bully only for reaction – they bullied to perform.

To prove they could.

So sometimes they tried harder.

And that was when your friends stepped in.

Not gently.

Not diplomatically.

Bucky, especially, became a storm.

It happened one afternoon near the lockers. A boy – older, bigger – leaned too close to you and said something under his breath that made your stomach twist.

You didn’t answer.

You just opened your locker and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.

The boy laughed like your silence was permission.

“You hear me?” he pressed.

A shadow fell over you.

Bucky.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped in between you and the boy like he was building a wall with his body.

“You got a problem?” Bucky asked, voice low.

The boy scoffed. “Relax. I’m talking to your sister.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She’s not here to talk to you,” he said.

The boy smirked, eyes sliding past Bucky to you like you were a prize behind glass. “Maybe she wants to.”

Bucky moved so fast you barely registered it – one hand fisting in the boy’s shirt collar, slamming him back against the lockers with a sound that made heads turn.

“You don’t get to decide what she wants,” Bucky snarled. “You don’t even get to look at her like that.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

Bucky leaned closer. “If you ever talk to her again, if you ever so much as breathe in her direction like you think you own the air around her–”

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice cut in sharply.

You hadn’t even realized he was there until he was.

Steve’s hand clamped around Bucky’s forearm, firm. Controlled.

Bucky’s breathing was hard, angry. But he listened – just enough – to loosen his grip and shove the boy away instead of hitting him.

Pietro arrived a second later, eyes bright with the kind of protective rage that made him dangerous in a different way.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” the boy snapped, straightening his shirt, trying to regain dignity.

Pietro smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Funny. Because you look like you just remembered you’re not invincible.”

Wanda appeared beside you and touched your elbow lightly. “You okay?” she asked, her voice the only gentle thing in the whole scene.

You nodded, because that’s what you did.

Bucky glared at the boy one last time, then turned away like he didn’t want you to see his face.

Like he didn’t want you to see how much he cared.

It wasn’t the last time.

As the months went on, it became a pattern.

A boy asked you to a dance, voice cracking with courage, and Bucky materialized behind you like a summoned demon.

“She’s busy,” Bucky said.

The boy blinked. “I didn’t ask you.”

Bucky smiled. “You should’ve.”

Another boy tried to walk you home after school, offering his jacket like he’d seen it in a movie.

Bucky stepped between you and the jacket.

“She doesn’t need it.”

The boy frowned. “Dude. What is your problem?”

Bucky’s voice was calm, almost friendly.

“My problem,” he said, “is you.”

Steve sometimes stepped in too, but differently – more like a quiet correction than a threat.

He’d show up beside you, shoulder brushing yours, and ask you a question about homework like he hadn’t noticed the boy hovering.

A graceful rescue.

Pietro’s approach was sharper. He called boys out with words, dismantling them with a smile and a sentence that made them feel stupid for trying.

Wanda just stared until they left.

But Bucky… 

Bucky made it physical.

Not by hitting, usually. Not enough to get caught.

By occupying space.

By blocking.

By making sure everyone understood that getting to you meant going through him first.

And every time he did it, part of you felt grateful.

Because protection was familiar.

Protection was what love looked like in your world.

But another part of you – quieter, more frightened – felt the loss underneath it.

Because Bucky could keep boys away from you.

He could keep the world away.

But he couldn’t give you what you had lost the night he stopped climbing into your bed.

He couldn’t give you that simple, wordless safety anymore.

Not without breaking the new rules adolescence had written between you.

So instead, he hovered.

He guarded.

He glared.

He called you his sister out loud like a warning, like armor, like a line in the sand.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t know how to tell him that the word sister felt like both a shield… And a cage.

Thank God middle school didn’t last forever.

High school was supposed to be the upgrade – the fresh start, the bigger building, the promise that everyone would suddenly grow out of their cruelty and become interesting, complex people.

It wasn’t.

Not for the first two years, anyway.

If anything, the hallways were wider but the stares were sharper. The jokes were louder. The social rules got more complicated, and the punishment for not knowing them became more public.

You were thirteen.

Most of your classmates were fifteen.

Two years still didn’t sound like much when adults talked about age gaps.

In high school, it was a canyon.

You were still too small in the shoulders, too young in the face. Your voice still held softness where the girls around you had started to sound like themselves – deeper, steadier, flirtier. Even when you tried to dress older, you looked like you were borrowing someone else’s life.

And somehow – miraculously, cruelly – you were all still in the same class.

Same schedule. Same lunch period. Same cluster of lockers.

Same orbit.

Which meant you never got the relief of becoming invisible.

Because Bucky and Steve made that impossible.

The first day of freshman year, you stood at the entrance of the high school with your stomach tight and your backpack straps biting into your palms. The building seemed to breathe – doors opening and closing, bodies pouring in, voices echoing off the high ceilings.

Wanda nudged your shoulder. “Stop staring like it’s going to eat you.”

You blinked. “It might.”

She smirked. “If it does, I’ll set it on fire.”

Pietro was already talking to someone, because Pietro couldn’t enter a room without becoming a performance. He waved at you across the courtyard like you were his lighthouse.

Steve stood close, hands in his hoodie pocket, looking like he wanted to disappear into the brick wall. High school didn’t make him bolder. It made him quieter, more careful, because now there were more people who could notice bruises.

Bucky, on the other hand…

Bucky walked into high school like it owed him something.

He had grown over the summer. Not just taller, but broader, like someone had quietly started building him into the man he would become. His shoulders filled his varsity jacket in a way that made girls look twice without even meaning to.

He noticed.

You saw the moment he noticed.

It wasn’t arrogance exactly.

It was… discovery.

Like he’d spent years believing the world would never look at him and then, suddenly, it did.

And Bucky Barnes didn’t know how to ignore attention.

He knew how to weaponize it.

By October, both he and Steve were on the basketball team.

It wasn’t like they were aiming for scholarships. They didn’t talk about “the future” like that. But they were good, and being good at a sport in high school made you visible in a way that was almost mythological.

People learned their names.

People shouted them across the gym.

People wore their numbers.

Steve looked uncomfortable with it – like he couldn’t quite reconcile being admired with having grown up afraid.

Bucky ate it alive. 

You learned how it felt to be adjacent to a kind of attention you didn’t want.

Girls started drifting near your table at lunch, laughing too loudly at Bucky’s jokes. Touching his arm when they talked. Asking Steve questions that had nothing to do with homework.

They didn’t look at you much.

Not in a real way.

You weren’t competition. You were a shadow at the edge of their stage.

Except sometimes… sometimes they looked at you because you were near him, and their eyes sharpened with curiosity.

Who is she? Why is she always here? Is she… his girlfriend?

The first time you heard someone whisper it, your stomach dropped.

Because there was no safe answer to that question.

If you said sister, they would laugh – because you didn’t look like him, because you weren’t his blood, because “sister” was a word people teased.

If you said nothing, they would decide something for you.

Bucky heard it too.

You could tell because his entire posture changed when the rumor started. Like he turned into a wall.

“That’s my sister,” he said loudly one day when a girl tried to flirt her way into your orbit, voice sharp enough that half the cafeteria turned.

The girl blinked, embarrassed. “Oh. I– sorry. I didn’t know.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Now you do.”

You stared down at your tray and focused on breathing.

Because the word sister made you feel safe.

And sick.

Because it was both protection and distance.

And you didn’t know how to tell him you hated it without sounding ungrateful.

High school also came with its own kind of betrayal.

Your body.

It happened one morning in late November.

You woke up and felt wrong before you even opened your eyes. Heavy, achy, like your bones were filled with wet sand.

When you shifted under your sheets, you felt the dampness and froze.

The world held its breath.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding, and pulled the blanket back.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough.

Enough to make your throat close. Enough to make your hands go cold.

You stared at it for a second too long, mind scrambling for rules you had never really been given.

You had known this would happen eventually. You had read about it. You had overheard girls talking. You had seen your mother’s careful glances in the pharmacy aisle.

But knowing something intellectually did not prepare you for the reality of it.

The reality of it was messy. Warm. In your bed.

And your first instinct was not to call your mother.

It was to hide.

Because hiding was what you did when your body betrayed you. Because life had taught you, early and thoroughly, that needing help was dangerous.

So you stripped your sheets in silence, hands shaking. You shoved them into the laundry basket as if you could erase the evidence of being human. You cleaned yourself up too fast, not wanting to look too closely, not wanting to think about it too much.

And then the cramps hit.

Not a gentle ache.

A sharp, nauseating twist low in your abdomen that made you fold over the sink with your breath caught halfway in your throat.

For one horrible second, you wondered if something was wrong. If you were sick. If you were dying. If you should tell someone.

Then the pain eased just enough for you to understand.

This was just… how it was.

You dressed in a hoodie and jeans and went downstairs like nothing had happened.

Your mother looked up from the kitchen. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning,” you said, voice flatter than usual.

You poured yourself cereal. Your hands trembled slightly. You hid it by gripping the spoon too tightly.

Steve and Bucky were already there, arguing over something completely stupid in that familiar way that meant neither of them was actually angry. Your mother sighed at them over her coffee. Bucky grinned. Steve rolled his eyes. The whole thing should have felt normal.

It didn’t.

Every movement felt wrong. Too careful. Too deliberate. Your abdomen throbbed in slow, mean pulses. You sat down, forced yourself to eat three bites, and nearly gagged on the third.

Your mother noticed that.

She always noticed.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

You nodded too fast. “Just tired.”

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, unconvinced, but she let it go.

You loved her for that. You hated it too.

By the time you left the house, the pain had sharpened again.

The cold late-November air bit at your cheeks as the three of you headed down the street. Your backpack felt too heavy. Your steps felt uneven. You kept your arms folded tight across your stomach and hoped neither Steve nor Bucky would notice.

Bucky did glance at you once.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You shrugged.

Steve looked over too, his expression pinching slightly, but before either of them could push, you turned the corner onto the street where Wanda and Pietro lived.

Their house came into view at the end of the block, small and familiar, with the porch light still on against the grey morning.

Pietro was already outside, slouched against the railing with his bag hanging off one shoulder, impatient in the way only Pietro could be. Wanda stood in the open doorway behind him, one hand still on the frame, dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking half awake and entirely unimpressed with the world.

Then her gaze landed on you.

And she knew.

It was terrifying, how quickly she knew.

Her expression changed in an instant — not dramatically, not enough for Steve or Bucky to catch it, but enough. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her head tilted. She took in your face, the stiffness in the way you were standing, your arms folded too tightly across your middle.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t confirm anything.

You didn’t have to.

Wanda stepped down from the doorway before you even reached the porch.

“What?” Pietro asked, straightening.

“Nothing,” Wanda said automatically, still looking at you.

Steve slowed. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, fully intending to lie, and then a cramp twisted low and vicious through your abdomen so suddenly that your breath hitched.

It was small. Barely noticeable.

Wanda noticed.

Her whole face sharpened.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Your throat closed.

Pietro frowned, looking between the two of you. “What oh?”

Wanda ignored him. She came straight to you, took one look at your face, and said in a tone so casual it was almost absurd, “Hey. Come inside.”

You blinked at her.

“Bathroom,” she added, quieter now.

Pietro’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

She caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to make it clear it wasn’t really a suggestion — and tugged you gently toward the house.

Behind you, Pietro made an offended sound. “That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” Wanda shot back.

Steve glanced at Bucky, then toward the doorway. “Do we need to–”

“No,” Wanda said over her shoulder, already guiding you inside. “Two minutes.”

The warmth of the house closed around you all at once, and for a second it made everything worse. The smell of toast. Old radiator heat. Coffee. Normal life carrying on as if your body hadn’t just become something unfamiliar and humiliating.

Wanda led you down the short hallway and into the bathroom, then shut the door behind you and leaned back against it.

For a moment, she just looked at you.

Then she said, very quietly, “It happened.”

You stared at the floor tiles.

Wanda’s voice softened. “Hey. It’s okay.”

You swallowed hard. “It hurts.”

She nodded immediately, as if she had expected that answer. “Okay. We’ll deal with that part too. Do you have pads?”

You hesitated.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t tell me you don’t.”

You shook your head once, ashamed.

Wanda exhaled sharply, not at you – at the world, at adults, at the unfairness of anything that left girls unprepared for this.

“Okay,” she said. “Fine. We’ll handle it.”

She crouched by the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a small stash like she had been building it in secret for exactly this kind of emergency. She held one out to you without making it weird, without making you feel smaller than you already did.

Then she showed you what to do.

No jokes. No teasing. No pity.

Just clear, practical instructions, calm and matter-of-fact, as if she were showing you how to wrap a bandage or fix something broken.

When you were done, she studied your face again.

“How bad is the pain?”

You shrugged, because you didn’t know how to answer that. Pain was pain. Pain was something you survived until it stopped.

Wanda made a face, already irritated on your behalf. “If it gets worse, tell your mom. Or tell me. Or tell Pietro, if I’m not there.”

You looked up at that.

She crossed her arms. “Yes, Pietro. He’ll panic, but he’ll still help.”

That almost made you smile.

Almost.

Wanda’s expression softened again. “Don’t just pretend you’re fine.”

You looked away.

Because pretending you were fine was the thing you knew how to do best.

That day, you went to school anyway.

The cramps got worse by third period.

By lunch, you were pale enough that Pietro frowned at you and asked if you were sick.

You said no.

Bucky glanced at you sharply, immediately suspicious. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Stop saying that.”

You stared at him. “Stop telling me what to do.”

Steve looked between you like he was waiting for an explosion.

Wanda kicked Bucky under the table and said, “She’s coming with me after lunch.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue – then shut it again when Wanda’s eyes turned dangerous.

You stayed home the next day.

Then another, a month later.

Your periods were brutal.

They came with cramps that left you curled in bed, sweating, shaking, nauseous. Sometimes you could barely stand upright long enough to brush your teeth.

Your mother worried. Wanda advocated. Pietro hovered like he wanted to fight your uterus personally. Steve offered quiet company – sitting on your bedroom floor with a sketchbook, drawing while you slept, as if his presence alone could guard you.

Bucky paced outside your door like a caged animal.

“Do you want me to get you something?” he asked one afternoon, voice too careful.

You didn’t open the door. “No.”

“Do you want me to–”

“No.”

Bucky went silent.

Then, after a pause, he muttered, “Okay,” like it wasn’t okay at all.

The months kept moving.

People kept growing.

Wanda got her first real boyfriend.

A guy from the basketball team – tall, loud, charming in the shallow way teenage boys could be charming. He made her laugh sometimes, and when Wanda laughed, it felt like watching the sun break through clouds.

You were happy for her.

And also… quietly relieved.

Because it meant she was experiencing something you didn’t know how to want without fear.

Pietro got a girlfriend too.

A girl from the art club with paint under her fingernails and a laugh that sounded like she didn’t care what anyone thought.

It lasted a few months.

Then it ended in a way that made Pietro laugh in disbelief.

“She said we’re too close,” he told you one afternoon as you walked home, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You and me.”

You frowned. “Too close how?”

Pietro snorted. “Like she thought I was in love with you.”

Your stomach tightened for half a second.

Then Pietro laughed harder, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? People are so weird.”

You forced a small smile. “Yes.”

Because you could imagine.

You could imagine far too easily what it looked like from the outside.

The way you leaned into Pietro’s space without thinking. The way he always found you in a crowd. The way you trusted him with things you didn’t trust anyone else with.

But the idea of romance with Pietro was laughable to you too – not because Pietro wasn’t handsome or good or loyal.

Because Pietro felt like… home.

Not the kind of home you wanted to set on fire.

Steve got his first girlfriend sometime in sophomore year.

It was quiet at first – just a girl in his art class who sat close to him and laughed at his jokes like she was grateful he existed.

Steve didn’t bring her around your group much.

Maybe because he didn’t want you to feel left out.

Maybe because he didn’t want Bucky to glare holes through her skull.

Bucky did, anyway.

Not always obviously.

But you noticed the way Bucky’s eyes tracked Steve when he was with her. The way Bucky’s mouth went tight. The way he got more restless, more irritable, as if Steve’s attention being divided was a personal insult.

You wondered, sometimes, if Bucky was jealous.

Not of the girl.

Of Steve leaving the orbit you’d all created.

And then there was Bucky’s new world.

The girls.

It started with flirting – little smiles in the hallway, notes slipped into his locker, hands brushing his arm.

Then it became a steady rotation.

Bucky Barnes discovering that he could be wanted was like watching someone taste sugar for the first time and decide he never wanted to eat anything else.

He didn’t settle. He didn’t linger.

It wasn’t cruel – he wasn’t mean to them – but it was careless in the way teenage boys could be careless when they didn’t understand that hearts bruised easily.

One week it was a cheerleader with glossy hair.

The next it was a girl from his math class.

Then another, and another.

He came home smelling like someone else’s perfume sometimes, and you would pretend you didn’t notice.

Your mother pretended too, mostly. She tried to talk to him once about being respectful, about not hurting feelings.

Bucky rolled his eyes and said he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

And maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe he was just… trying to prove something to himself.

Trying to prove he was normal.

Trying to prove he could want and be wanted without it meaning anything deeper.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You told yourself it was his life.

You told yourself you were his sister.

And sisters didn’t…

Didn’t watch the way his mouth curved when he smiled at someone else. Didn’t feel something sour in their throat when his attention shifted away. Didn’t notice every time a girl touched him like she had a right to.

But you did.

Of course you did.

You were thirteen, trapped in a body that felt like it belonged to everyone else’s opinions. You were smart enough to understand what you couldn’t have and young enough to still believe it might kill you anyway.

And Bucky – whether he realized it or not – made it worse and better at the same time.

Because even as he discovered girls and parties and new versions of himself, he still watched you.

Still tracked the boys who looked at you too long.

Still stepped between you and the world without thinking.

There were boys who asked you out sophomore year.

Not many.

But a few brave ones.

The first time it happened, you were at your locker, pulling out your history book, when a boy – tall, awkward, painfully earnest – cleared his throat behind you.

“Hey,” he said. “Um. Would you maybe want to go to the movies sometime? With me?”

You turned slowly, surprised enough that you forgot to hide it.

He smiled hopefully.

You opened your mouth– 

And Bucky appeared like a curse.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, voice sharp.

The boy straightened, startled. “Nothing. I was just asking her–”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my sister.”

The boy blinked. “Okay? I wasn’t–”

Bucky stepped closer. “She’s my sister,” he repeated, slower this time, like the boy was stupid.

The boy’s face flushed. “I… didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Bucky said flatly. “So you can stop.”

The boy swallowed, glanced at you – apologetic, embarrassed, confused – then backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood there, history book in your hands, throat tight.

Bucky turned to you, frowning like he expected you to be grateful.

“You don’t know him,” he said.

“I could have,” you replied before you could stop yourself.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“I could have,” you repeated, voice quiet but steady. “That’s how getting to know people works.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You don’t need to go out with some idiot from school.”

You stared at him.

You wanted to say, I don’t need you to decide that.

You wanted to say, I’m not yours.

But the words tangled up with something else, something softer and uglier:

Please don’t stop hovering. Please don’t step away. Please don’t leave me alone with the world.

So you swallowed it.

You did what you always did.

You made it smaller.

“Okay,” you said.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened slightly, as if the tension had been about protecting you, not controlling you.

He bumped your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

And you walked with him down the hallway like you weren’t carrying a bruise inside your chest.

High school rolled on like that.

Two years of watching everyone else begin their lives.

Two years of pain once a month that reminded you your body was changing whether you liked it or not.

Two years of Wanda growing fiercer, Pietro growing more certain, Steve growing quieter and kinder, Bucky growing louder and more wanted by everyone - 

And you, caught in the middle, trying to convince yourself that you were fine.

Trying to convince yourself that being the youngest didn’t mean being the most breakable.

Trying to ignore the truth that sat under everything, waiting for the day it would become impossible to pretend: Bucky was learning how to want people.

And you didn’t know what you were going to do when he finally figured out what he wanted most.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff

"You're full of shit Rogers!" You screamed across the meeting room table, shoving your seat back so you could attempt to get eye level with the man standing at the head, arms folded across his chest as he delivered the debrief for the mission you'd got home from just hours before.

"Language." Steve scolded with a tense jaw.

"Oh fuck you Mr righteous!" You yelled, pointing your finger at him aggressively, while the rest of the team recoiled in their chairs, none of them wanting to get involved in whatever the hell this was.

"You broke protocol." Steve snapped back, "You went against my orders."

"No I didn't!" You argued, hands flying into the air dramatically while you made your point, "I followed your shitty little plan, even though I knew it could be better, so the fact this mission failed is on you not me!"

"The plan was foolproof, the plan was sound." He scolded, shifting on his feet and placing his hands on his hips, trying as always to appear the ever calm in control captain of the team, "But once again you thought you could do better, you deviated!"

You looked at him through narrowed eyes, slamming your fists down on the table as you got progressively more and more riled up, "I only deviated when I had no other choice!"

Across the room, Peter shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as he watched you and Steve screaming at eachother. It had been his first mission with the team and he wasn't sure what to expect at his first debrief, but it definitely wasn't this.

"Erm..are they always like this?" Peter asked quietly, leaning over towards Sam and Bucky to make sure you didn't hear, not wanting you to turn your anger on him.

"Yup." Bucky scoffed, arms folded across his chest.

"Ever since the break up." Sam mumbled, watching the two of you with a raised brow. 

"They were together!" Peter gasped in shock, eyes flicking between the two of you, noticing the tense postures, the wrinkled noses and snarls passing between you.

"Yup." Bucky grunted, lips curling up in amusement at your continued spat.

"Hard to imagine right?" Sam replied turning to Peter with a smirk, while the younger man looked completely stunned.

"Fuck this!" You yelled, pulling all the gazes in the room back to you, "I'm not gonna listen to the shit coming out of your mouth anymore!"

You turned on your heel, storming over to the glass doors of the room. 

"This conversation isn't over!" Steve yelled after you.

You didn't care, sticking your middle finger up over your shoulder as you yanked the door open, slamming it closed behind you and storming off into the compound.

It was hard to imagine there was a time when you could only smile in his presence, only look at the stoic man and see nothing but pure adoration and love. Nowadays all you felt was anger and hatred, betrayal. You were still hurt, still carrying the pain that came with not being his, of not being enough, but you'd never let him see that, he didn't deserve your tears. 

A short while later, you were sat on the edge of your bed, elbows digging into your knees and your face in your palms while you tried to calm down from your fight with Steve, failing miserably.

A knock on the door had you groaning loudly into your hands, not ready to face anyone.

"Go away Sam." You muffled loudly into your skin, "I'm not in the mood."

"It's Steve." Came a stern shout from behind the wood separating you.

"Oh well in that case.." You yelled, pulling your face out of your palms to glare at the back of the door, "FUCK OFF!"

"Open the god damn door!" Steve yelled, attempting to accentuate his order by hitting the door loudly once.

"No." You shouted back.

"You're being a child." He scolded, causing you to roll your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain.

He yelled your name again and you rose to your feet, stomping over to the door to give him a piece of your mind.

You threw the door open, not even blinking when it slammed against the nearby wall.

"What?!" You practically screamed, eyes narrowed and heart hammering as you glared up at him. 

His expression matched yours, laced with anger, exasperation and exhaustion from the constant fighting.

"You can't just walk out of a debrief like that." He said sternly, pressing his palm to the door frame above your head, wood creaking under his weight.

"I can and I did." You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest.

"You're being unreasonable." He spat.

"You just pinned an entire missions failure on me but I'm being unreasonable?" You squeaked in annoyance, "Let me guess. You go around saying our relationship ended cause of me too huh?"

A flash of confusion and pain crossed his face, finally cracking through the stern facade he'd brought to your door.

"What?" He hissed, shaking his head, "That's not...No, never!"

"Sure." You scoffed, looking down at your toes as you kicked the carpet, debating kicking him straight in the shin.

"I don't." He said sternly, "You know I wouldn't do that."

"I don't know anything about you anymore Rogers." You snapped back, looking back up at him through your eyelashes as your brows furrowed.

"Stop calling me that." He ordered, jaw ticking furiously.

"Why? It's your name?" You scoffed sarcastically.

"Not to you." He said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, would you prefer captain now?" You clapped back, raising your brow when you saw his throat bob harshly and his cheeks tint pink.

"Stop." He grunted.

"Oh yeah, you would wouldn't you?" You sneered with a smirk, "You used to love that one when you fuc...."

"I said stop!" Steve yelled, hand coming up to wrap around your throat as you stumbled onto your toes and your breath caught in your throat.

"Make me." You hissed.

His lips were on yours before you could blink, free hand grabbing your hip and guiding you backwards into the room. Steve kicked the door closed with a slam before turning you back and pushing you against it.

You grunted into his mouth when his body pushed to yours, feeling his cock already rock hard and pushing against your abdomen.

You hated him, hated that he could still make you feel this way, hated that you didn't want to say no despite your body screaming that you should. It had been so long since you'd felt this way, with his lips melded to yours, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Steve groaned when your tongue slipped into his mouth and your hands reached up to desperately clutch at his neck and hair.

It was messy and rushed, Steve's hand moving from your throat to grab and grope at every inch of your skin he could reach.

Your pussy pulsed, slick dampening your underwear as he humped his cock against you, grinding his hips desperately against your body.

You pulled at the bottom of his shirt, yanking it up and Steve quickly took the hint, separating from your mouth so you could reveal his chiselled torso. The shirt was tossed to the floor as Steve's lips connected to your neck, sucking and kissing at your soft skin while his hands grabbed your hips, shoving your bodies together and igniting the fire in your core.

"Finally, you've shut your mouth." He grunted against your skin.

"Oh fuck you." You breathed shakily, unable to find the bite in your voice that you had just minutes before.

"I'm going to sweetheart." He mumbled, nipping at your neck, "Don't worry about that."

"I hate you." You whimpered, slamming your head back against the door.

"I know." He sighed as he pulled away, "I don't care."

He gripped the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head before you had time to protest and quickly snapped the band of your bra, ripping the fabric from your body that was keeping you from him.

His lips met your shoulder, palms massaging the flesh of your waist as your nipples skimmed his chest, stiffening from the contact, while your hands ran over Steve's corded muscles, reveling in the feeling of his warm skin.

"Fuck I needed this." He groaned.

"Language." You breathed with a smirk.

He growled against your neck, pulling back to look at you with a raised brow.

"Don't be a brat." He scolded, eyes dark and cock harder than ever before.

"Or what?" You teased.

"Or I'll fuck your ass dry." He replied and your pussy pulsed at his tone, "And we both know you can't take it there unless it's nice and wet."

You gulped harshly, blinking up at him but staying silent, obedient.

"That's what I thought." He scoffed, pressing his lips against your cheek, then your jaw before he dipped his head down and took a nipple in his mouth, making you gasp. Your hands found their way into his hair, gripping him with your eyes clenched shut while he nibbled your peaks and lavished your flesh.

"Missed these tits." Hr grumbled against you, "Missed this cunt. Missed you."

Your breath hitched, heart skipping a beat but your head knew better than to believe his words, so you did what you needed to, summoning back the sharp tongue that you always used in his presence lately.

"Shut up and fuck me already." You ordered, though it came out in a rasp.

"Remember who you're talking to sweetheart." Steve smirked back at you, standing back to his full height, "Be polite."

"Fuck me please," You said sarcastically, "Please captain."

He rolled his eyes before sliding his palms under your ass.

"Better I guess." He teased before pulling you up off of the floor. 

Steve took the few steps towards your bed before tossing you down onto the mattress. He was quick to pull off your remaining clothes before shoving his jeans and underwear down and off of his feet.

"Get those fucking legs up." He ordered while he took his cock in hand, giving it a few strokes while he raked his gaze over your body, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip.

You did as you were told, lifting your legs into the air so your ass and cunt were exposed to him, taking the backs of your thighs in your hands to help keep them there.

"Good girl." He growled watching as your pussy clenched from the praised.

He bridged the gap, taking your knees in his palms and stroking your calves gently as he settled your ankles over his shoulders. Your arms dropped to your sides, fisting the bedding in anticipation as you watched his huge cock bob between your legs.

Steve let your legs rest on his body and steadied one hand on your thigh, while his other took his cock his his fist, rubbing the tip against your wet folds.

You groaned in pleasure, biting down on your lip.

"There we go." Steve groaned as he pushed the tip into you, "Fuck."

The stretch was more than you remembered, every inch of your body igniting in heat just from the small amount he had given you.

"Oh...." You mewled, back arching from the bed.

"Shhhh I know baby I know." Steve groaned softly as he slowly worked more of his cock into you, "Been a while, but I know you can take it."

You only moaned in response, clenching your eyes tight as he thrust his length into you at a torturous pace, until he finally bottomed out, stilling at the hilt and gripping onto both your hips while he took a deep shuddered breath.

Your eyes opened, locking on his as you both panted quietly, staring at each other with want and need.

Steve pulled back suddenly, before slamming back into you, making you cry out in pleasure as he smacked your cervix.

His eyes stayed locked on yours while he started a rapid assault on your cunt, dragging his cock along your spongy walls and hitting against your cervix in the way he knew would have you screaming for him.

"Shit you feel so good." Steve groaned, "Not gonna last long."

"Mghhh." You tried to respond, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth as your stomach tightened and you felt yourself getting closer to the edge.

"You either huh baby?" He grunted with a smirk, "Feels good doesn't it, bein' a good girl, taking orders from your captain?"

"Please Stevie." You gasped and his cock twitched inside of you, heart hammering against his rib cage while he watched you coming undone beneath him, just like you always used too.

"There she is." He moaned, "Fuck baby."

He pushed his body over yours, pressing your legs tight between your own bodies so he could press his lips to yours.

The angle pushed his cock deeper than before and you let out a strangled groan into his mouth.

"No one compares to you baby, no one." He groaned, pressing his palms down on your thighs while he fucked you with no remorse, kissing every inch of you he could reach. "You're all I want. Fuck. All I...need."

Despite the pain in your heart, the fire spread further through your body, ears burning hot and eyes rolling back.

"You gonna come?" Steve grunted against your cheek.

You could only nod in response, slipping your hands off of the mattress where you had desperately clawed at the bedding and placing them around his back, holding him as tightly as possible.

"What do you say?" He breathed and all fight in you to yell or tell him to fuck off had gone, there was only the need to come racing through you.

"Please captain, please can I cum?" You whimpered.

"Go ahead baby." Steve groaned, "Show me what I do to you."

All at once your body flooded with warmth and tingles, cunt clamping down on Steve's cock while your eyesight fuzzed and you cried out his name.

"Oh shit." He whined, hips faltering, "Fuck. So fucking tight."

He began slamming into you at speed, chasing his high while yours was strung out, body shaky and writhing in pleasure.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna come." He rasped, "Not pulling out, never pulling out, gotta fill my baby up, make sure you know you're mine."

He groaned as he pushed his cock to the hilt, stilling and pressing his lips to yours as his warm cum flooded into you.

You kissed lazily as you both came down from your high, until Steve rolled off of you, lying next to you on the bed with his legs dangling off the edge and his forearm over his head.

With the orgasm filtering out, your mind began to clear and tears began pooling in your eyes.

You stood up and quickly worked your clothes back over your body, ignoring the cum soaking into your trousers.

Steve still lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a smile and a dreamy expression, like a blissed out man, a man who'd just won the lottery.

You grabbed his clothes from where they were scattered on the floor and shoved them onto his stomach, hearing him let out a little "oomph" at the impact. His hand came down instinctively to cradle the clothing and his head tipped up to look at you in confusion.

"What?" He asked with a hurt look in his eye, "You're making me leave?"

"Yup." You sniffed, wiping your face with your sleeve as a few stray tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Baby." He rasped, quickly jumping to his feet and extending his arm towards you.

"No don't baby me." You scoffed through the tears, folding your arms across your chest.

"I thought this would...that we..." He stuttered trying to find the words, while you cried before him.

"That we what Steve?" You cried, unable to hold it back, "That sex would make me forget you kissed Sharon fucking Carter right in front of me? That i'd forget how badly you tore my heart open."

"Baby... please...I.." He begged, placing his hands on your arms with tears filling his own eyes, but you shook him off.

"Save it and get out." You spat breathily, stepping away from him and staring at the floor, unable to look at his face any longer.

He hesitated, watching your shoulders shake as you cried, wanting to reach out and comfort you but knowing that's not what you wanted right now, you needed time, you needed space.

"Okay I'll go." He sighed, quickly pulling on his clothes. He stepped up to the door, hand braced on the handle and shook his head.

"But just so you know." He said softly, "I'm not gonna stop trying until you're mine again. Sharon...was a moment of weakness, a mistake. It's always been you. I love you. I never stopped."

The door clicked and your body dropped to the floor, palms rubbing at your weeping eyes as you tried to process what he'd just said, knowing that despite the pain he'd caused you, if Steve Rogers said he was going to do something, he would follow through.

Everything tag - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club @marvelgurl

You gagged – not unexpected given how hard and fast Lee pushed into your throat – and your nails dug into your palms where they were still cuffed behind you. But you didn’t pull away. You wanted this. Just like you’d wanted him to use you last night. There was some fucked up thing in your head that made you crave this and you’d long given up trying to understand it.

Above you, Lee leered down. His hand held your jaw still as he pulled back, watching his cock, now covered in your saliva, withdraw. Then, with a grunt, he pushed back in again. “Fuck. Knew this whore mouth o’ yers wud feel like sin, just like yer pussy.” Another thrust of his hips had you rocking on your knees, the snag on the knee of your pantyhose growing bigger.

The weight of him – the taste of him – was heavy on your tongue and your eyes fluttered shut has he fucked your face, his tip dipping into your throat with each movement forward.

“’M swearin’ this’ll be the last time, girly, but it prob’ly won’t.” A hard thrust and you gagged again, unable to answer, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. “I reckin imma use your mouth, yer pussy and even that sweet ass of yers, anytime I want.”

You moaned around his length at the thought and Lee chuckled.

“Knew a slut like you wud git off on such filth. Bet yer wet inside them panties, ain’t cha?” You looked up at him from under fluttering eyelashes, the truth clear to see.

Suddenly he pulled from your drooling mouth and took himself in his fist, pumping hard and fast.

“Now stay right there, imma make you pretty as a picture.”

You closed your eyes and stuck out your tongue.

You didn’t have words like trap. You didn’t have words like hypervigilant or survival mechanism. But you knew how it felt in your ribs when the room changed temperature without the heat being touched. You knew how to keep your hands in your lap and your face blank even when something inside you wanted to cry.

Crying was loud.

Loud meant attention.

Attention wasn’t always good.

So you learned to be small in ways that had nothing to do with your height.

The orphanage smelled like soap that never fully washed anything clean. Like boiled vegetables. Like old wood and damp wool. The hallways were always a little too cold, even in summer. There was a chapel that was bigger than it needed to be, and when you sat on the benches your legs didn’t reach the floor. You swung them sometimes when you forgot yourself, and the sound of your shoes tapping the wood made your stomach drop as if you’d done something terrible.

Sometimes you watched the other children to learn what to do.

Some of them were loud anyway, like they couldn’t help it, like their bodies didn’t understand the rules the way yours did. They ran. They laughed with their whole faces. They grabbed each other’s hands and spun in circles until they got dizzy and fell down in a heap.

You didn’t understand them.

Not because you didn’t want to laugh. You did. You wanted it so badly you could taste it.

But you watched how quickly laughter turned into silence when an adult looked their way.

You watched how quickly someone’s name being called could change the shape of the day.

So you didn’t run unless you were told.

You didn’t touch unless you were asked.

You didn’t ask questions unless the questions were safe – questions with simple answers, questions that made you look obedient, polite, easy.

The easiest children were the ones the grown-ups talked about in soft voices.

She’s so good. She never causes trouble. She’s so quiet.

Quiet sounded like praise. Quiet sounded like a warm hand on your head. Quiet sounded like being allowed to stay.

So you were quiet.

You became quiet the way you became right-handed or learned your own name – something you did so often it stopped being a choice and started being part of your bones.

In the mornings, you lined your shoes up against the wall because shoes were supposed to point in the same direction. You folded your blanket into a square and pressed the creases down with your palms until the corners behaved. You learned to make your bed not because you cared about neatness, but because neatness meant nobody stopped to look too closely.

You learned to eat quickly. Not messy. Not hungry. Just… efficient. The faster you finished, the faster you could leave the room where the adults watched.

Sometimes you counted things to keep your head from drifting.

How many ceiling tiles above your bed. How many steps from the dorm room to the dining hall. How many beads on the rosary hanging near the chapel door.

Counting made the world predictable.

Predictable was safe.

You didn’t remember much from before the orphanage. Your memories were like pictures left in the rain. Edges blurred. Colors running.

You remembered a woman’s laugh once, somewhere far away. You remembered sunlight on a window and a smell like oranges. You remembered the feeling of being lifted and spun, and then the memory ended abruptly like someone had closed a book too hard.

You didn’t know if those memories were real or dreams you’d made up because it hurt less to believe you had once been wanted.

Sometimes, late at night, you tried to picture a face. A mother. A father. Anyone.

But your brain was too sharp for that.

You understood, in a way other children didn’t, that if you couldn’t remember it clearly, it probably wasn’t something you were supposed to have.

So you stopped trying.

You focused on what you could control.

You learned to make your face polite. You learned to say please and thank you in the right order. You learned to smile without showing your teeth. You learned to look adults in the eye just enough that they didn’t call you rude, but not long enough that they felt challenged.

Some of the adults liked you. You could tell. Their voices softened when they spoke your name. They called you “sweetheart” sometimes, or “dear,” like you were something fragile they were proud to keep intact.

Other adults didn’t like anyone. They liked rules. They liked quiet. They liked when children didn’t require anything.

With those adults, you became even quieter.

You did not ask to be held.

You did not ask for extra food.

You did not ask if someone could sit with you when you woke up from a nightmare.

You learned to swallow nightmares whole and let them dissolve inside you where no one could see.

If you woke up afraid, you stayed still.

Stillness was a kind of invisibility.

Invisibility was protection.

Sometimes, you watched the door.

Not because you expected someone to come for you. Not really.

But because part of you – an old part you didn’t entirely trust – kept waiting for a miracle like it was something that happened to other children in storybooks.

The door was heavy wood, painted a dull color. Adults came in and out. Volunteers. People dropping off donations. People bringing boxes. People doing paperwork in the small office down the hall.

Families came, sometimes. Couples holding hands. Women with warm scarves and nervous smiles. Men with kind eyes and deep voices.

They walked through the orphanage like they were in a museum. They looked at children like they were choosing furniture.

You understood that, too.

Some children performed. They ran up and took hands. They said, Pick me. They climbed into laps like they belonged there already.

You didn’t.

You watched.

You learned which smiles were real and which smiles were practiced. You learned the difference between a person who wanted a child and a person who wanted to feel like a good person.

When families stopped in front of you, you stood up straight. You said hello. You said your name. You did not cling.

Clinging was desperate.

Desperate was messy.

Messy was dangerous.

A woman once crouched in front of you and asked, “Would you like a new home?”

You had stared at her for a second too long, trying to understand how she could ask something like that as if it was a toy.

You had said, “Yes,” because that was the correct answer.

But you had also thought: And if I say no? Do I disappear?

Adults liked answers. Adults did not like questions that made them feel guilty.

So you never asked the questions in your head.

Time in the orphanage didn’t feel like days. It felt like blocks. It felt like routines. It felt like you were living inside a schedule instead of inside your own life.

Morning. Prayer. Breakfast. Quiet time. Lessons. Lunch. Chores. Prayer. Dinner. Beds lined up like little boats in a sea you couldn’t swim in.

The only truly private place was inside your own mind.

That was why you read when you could.

There were books, old ones, donated. Picture books missing pages. Thin paperbacks with cracked spines. A children’s bible with illustrations that looked sad.

Words made the world bigger than the building.

Words were a place you could go where no one could reach you.

You didn’t understand everything you read. But you understood enough to know you understood more than most kids your age.

That knowledge was strange. It was power, but it was also loneliness.

If you were too smart, adults expected more of you.

Expectations were another kind of invisible rule.

So you hid your intelligence the way you hid your hunger.

You pretended to struggle sometimes, just enough.

You let other children answer first.

You let adults feel like they were teaching you.

You made yourself easy.

Because easy was kept.

There was a day – just an ordinary day – that began to feel different before you knew why.

You woke up and the air was too still, like the building was holding its breath.

The older children whispered. Adults moved with brisker footsteps. Someone told you to wash your face and comb your hair and make sure your clothes were neat.

You obeyed, because you always obeyed.

You smoothed your dress down. You rubbed at a small spot on the fabric that wasn’t actually dirty but felt wrong. You made your bed tighter than usual.

Then you sat on your hands and waited.

Waiting was familiar.

Waiting was what you did best.

They brought you to the small office near the front, the one that smelled like paper and ink and adults. You sat in a chair that was too big, feet not touching the floor, and stared at a framed picture on the wall because staring at people was risky.

The picture was of a building with a cross on top.

You didn’t know if it was supposed to make you feel safe.

It didn’t.

A door opened.

Footsteps.

A woman’s voice, low and unfamiliar.

Your spine straightened automatically. Your hands went still in your lap, fingers interlaced tightly.

She walked in alone.

That was the first thing your brain recorded: alone.

No man beside her. No hand on her back guiding her. No shared smile.

Just her.

She wasn’t old. Not like the women who ran the place. She looked… tired, but not in a harsh way. More like someone who had been worrying for a long time and hadn’t found relief yet.

Her coat was neat. Her hair was pinned back. Her eyes moved around the room like she was trying to take it all in at once without letting anyone see how much it cost her.

She saw you.

And her face changed.

Not dramatically. Not like people in movies.

But her eyes softened so quickly it made your throat tighten without warning. Like her expression had been holding itself together and then – just for a second – it forgot.

You watched her carefully.

You watched the way her hands clenched at her sides and then relaxed, as if she’d caught herself wanting to reach out.

Adults didn’t reach out unless they were sure.

Her gaze dropped to your feet dangling above the floor.

She smiled – small, uncertain, like she didn’t want to scare you with warmth.

“Hello,” she said.

Your mouth opened automatically.

“Hello,” you echoed. Polite. Correct.

She stepped closer, slowly, like she knew you might run even though you hadn’t moved an inch.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

You told her.

Your voice came out soft, almost too soft.

The woman repeated it under her breath, like she was tasting it. Like it mattered.

Then she glanced up at the adult behind the desk, the one with the stiff smile, and said something you didn’t fully understand because her voice was lower, but you caught the parts that mattered.

“She’s… smaller than I thought,” the woman murmured, and there was something in her tone like pain. Like guilt.

The adult said something back – something reassuring, probably. Adults liked to reassure other adults.

The woman nodded, but she didn’t look reassured.

She looked at you again.

“Do you like to draw?” she asked.

You didn’t know why she asked that. It seemed like a trap-question. The wrong answer could mean something.

So you chose the safest option.

“I like books,” you said.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Books?”

You nodded once.

“I can read,” you added, because you could. Because it was true. Because it might make you valuable.

Immediately, the adult behind the desk made a pleased sound, as if you’d performed well.

The woman didn’t react like that.

The woman’s expression softened again, but this time it looked… complicated.

“You can,” she repeated quietly.

Then she crouched.

The movement made your muscles tense, because adults didn’t come down to your level often unless they wanted something.

But she didn’t touch you.

She just crouched there, making herself smaller on purpose, so you didn’t have to crane your neck to look at her.

“I’m–” she began, and stopped, swallowing like the words got stuck.

She tried again.

“My name is–” She said it. “And I came because… I wanted to meet you.”

You blinked.

Adults didn’t come for that reason.

Adults came for paperwork. Adults came because they had to. Adults came because they were told.

Wanted was a strange word to attach to you.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

So you stared at her face and tried to read the invisible rules in her eyes.

Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying.

Her voice was steady, but it trembled slightly at the edges.

She looked at you like you were a person, not a problem.

That was unfamiliar enough to make you wary.

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked gently.

You understood, of course. You understood what this was. You understood the concept of adoption the way you understood weather: something that happened over your head, something you couldn’t control, something you had to prepare for.

You nodded once.

“You want to… take me,” you said carefully.

The words felt wrong in your mouth.

The woman flinched, almost imperceptibly.

“Not take,” she said softly. “If you don’t like that word. I want to bring you home. If… if you want to come.”

Home.

Home was another storybook word.

Home meant warmth and safety and permanence.

Permanence wasn’t something the orphanage taught you to believe in.

Your brain did its sharp, fast calculation:

If you say yes, you might leave. If you leave, you might come back. If you come back, it will be worse, because you will have known what you lost.

But if you say no, you would stay here, and staying here meant surviving, and you were very, very good at surviving.

You looked at the adult behind the desk.

Her eyes were on you, watchful.

This was the kind of moment that could become a story they told about you later. She refused. She didn’t want a family. She’s difficult.

Difficult children weren’t chosen twice.

So you turned your gaze back to the woman.

You made your voice polite and careful.

“Yes,” you said. “I want to come.”

The woman’s eyes filled fully then, the wetness spilling over the line of control she’d held so tightly.

She lifted a hand halfway, hesitated – like she was asking permission without words.

You watched her hand.

Hands could be dangerous.

Hands could also be kind.

You didn’t know which this was yet.

So you did the bravest thing you knew how to do.

You stayed still.

And after a second, she placed her hand lightly on your shoulder.

Not gripping.

Not forcing.

Just… resting there, warm and trembling.

Your body froze out of habit, but your brain catalogued every detail: the softness of her palm through the fabric, the careful pressure, the way she pulled her hand back immediately when she felt you tense.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered quickly, like she’d broken a rule. “I– I shouldn’t– I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, small.

“It’s okay,” you said, because it was the correct thing to say. Because adults liked reassurance.

But your voice came out different this time.

Not practiced.

Just… quiet.

The woman looked like she might cry for real then, and she swallowed hard and forced a smile.

“Okay,” she said, voice rough. “Okay. We’ll go slow. We’ll do everything slow.”

Slow sounded safe.

Slow sounded like there would be time to learn the rules.

The adult behind the desk began talking about papers and signatures and procedures. The woman stood up and listened, nodding, but her eyes kept drifting back to you like you were the only part of the conversation that mattered.

And you sat there, feet still dangling above the floor, hands folded tightly in your lap, mind moving too fast for your small body.

You thought about the dorm room you would leave behind. The bed lined up with all the others. The schedule. The chapel. The smell of soap.

You thought about the possibility of a bedroom that was yours.

You didn’t let yourself imagine toys. Toys were too much. Toys were the kind of wanting that got punished by disappointment.

You imagined something smaller.

A door that closed.

A blanket that wasn’t scratchy.

A place where you could keep your shoes without lining them up like proof you deserved to exist.

The woman – your mother, though you didn’t know how to attach that word to her yet – turned toward you as the adult finished speaking.

“Do you have anything you want to bring?” she asked gently. “Anything special?”

You blinked.

Special was another unfamiliar word.

You had a small stuffed animal once, but it wasn’t yours anymore. You had a book you liked, but it belonged to everyone.

You had… yourself.

You had your habits. Your carefulness. Your intelligence hidden behind obedience.

You looked down at your hands.

Then you looked back up at her.

“No,” you said. “I don’t need anything.”

The woman’s face did something strange – like it wanted to break and didn’t.

“Oh,” she whispered.

It wasn’t disappointment.

It was sorrow.

But not at you. For you.

She crouched again and, this time, she didn’t touch you. She just looked at you like she was trying to memorize your face.

“You don’t have to earn things with me,” she said softly, as if she was speaking to a version of you that lived somewhere deeper than your four-year-old understanding. “Okay? You don’t have to be… easy.”

Easy.

Your stomach tightened.

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You didn’t know what she wanted from you.

So you did what you always did.

You nodded.

Because nodding was safe.

Because nodding kept adults calm.

Because nodding was a way to agree without promising anything you couldn’t control.

The woman stood, reached for your hand slowly, palm open.

She didn’t grab you.

She waited.

Your fingers hovered in the air for a second.

Then – very carefully – you placed your hand in hers.

Her hand closed around yours with a gentleness so deliberate it made your chest ache. Like she was holding something precious, something breakable.

Your first instinct was to pull away.

Your second instinct – quieter, unfamiliar – was to hold on.

So you held on.

And as you walked out of the building, the hallway stretching long and cold behind you, you didn’t look back.

Not because you weren’t scared.

Because you understood something already, in the sharp, too-old way you understood most things:

Looking back made it harder to keep moving forward.

You stepped outside.

The air smelled different – car exhaust and wind and the faint sweetness of something baking in a nearby building.

The woman squeezed your hand once, like a promise.

You didn’t know yet what promises were worth.

But you kept walking anyway, feet small on the sidewalk, mind racing, heart beating too fast in your chest.

And for the first time in your life, the door behind you closed, and you weren’t inside it anymore.

A few months after you moved in with your mother, the adults decided you were… ahead.

That was the word they used. Ahead, like you had started running before anyone else noticed the race had begun.

You didn’t really understand what it meant at first. You just knew that one day you were sitting in a classroom where everything felt slow – painfully slow – and the next, you weren’t anymore.

They tested you. Quietly. Methodically. Worksheets slid across tables. Questions asked in gentle voices that pretended not to be evaluating you. You answered them because answering questions was something you were good at. Because questions had rules. Because questions didn’t shout.

When the results came back, your mother looked stunned. Proud, yes – but also worried, like she was suddenly afraid the world might touch you too roughly.

“They want to move you up,” she said carefully one evening, sitting across from you at the small kitchen table. “Not just one class. Two.”

You stared at your plate. You had already finished eating. You always finished before her.

“Is that… bad?” you asked.

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Then she softened her voice. “No. It just means you’re… learning faster than most kids your age.”

You nodded, absorbing the information without reacting outwardly. Inside, though, your mind was already calculating.

New class meant new rules. New classmates meant new eyes on you. New eyes meant attention.

Attention was dangerous.

But staying bored was dangerous too, in a quieter way. Bored made your thoughts wander back to places you didn’t want to revisit. Bored made the walls feel too close.

So you agreed.

You always agreed.

The first day in your new class, your feet didn’t touch the floor when you sat at your desk. You noticed it immediately. You noticed everything.

The other children were bigger. Louder. Their voices filled the room in a way that made your shoulders tense. They laughed too easily, talked too much, interrupted each other without consequence.

You sat straight. Hands folded. Eyes forward.

Your teacher paused when she saw you.

She smiled, but there was confusion in it. Maybe even discomfort.

“This is–” she said your name aloud, testing it like she wasn’t sure it belonged there. “She’ll be joining us starting today.”

A few kids stared openly. A few whispered. One boy snorted, like the idea of you being there was funny.

You didn’t react.

Reacting invited questions.

You learned very quickly that your calm unsettled people.

Other children fidgeted. They bounced their knees. They chewed on pencils. They sighed when the lesson dragged.

You didn’t.

You listened. You absorbed. You finished your work early and then sat, waiting, eyes on your paper, posture perfect.

Sometimes the teacher forgot you were there until she looked up and saw your hand already raised.

Sometimes she didn’t call on you even when she saw it.

Sometimes she asked you to help another student, and the student resented you for it.

You didn’t mind.

Resentment was easier than attention.

It wasn’t until recess that things shifted.

You stood at the edge of the playground, watching the others run. You didn’t know the rules to their games yet, and you didn’t ask. Asking meant wanting. Wanting meant vulnerability.

A girl approached you.

She had dark hair and sharp eyes, and she looked at you like she’d already decided something important.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

You tilted your head slightly. “I talk,” you replied. “Just not all the time.”

She stared at you for a second, then smiled.

“I’m Wanda.”

You told her your name.

She nodded, like that confirmed something. “You’re small.”

You shrugged. “I’m younger.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Why are you here, then?”

“I read fast,” you said. It was the simplest explanation.

She grinned. “Good. You can help me with math.”

Just like that, she took your hand and pulled you toward the swings.

You froze for half a second at the contact – muscle memory flaring – but she didn’t pull hard. She didn’t trap you. She didn’t even notice your hesitation.

She just assumed you’d follow.

And somehow… you did.

Wanda became your anchor without meaning to. She sat next to you in class, leaned over to whisper jokes under her breath, rolled her eyes dramatically when the teacher wasn’t looking.

She introduced you to her twin brother like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“This is Pietro,” she said, pointing to a boy who looked like he had never, ever sat still in his entire life.

Pietro squinted at you. “She’s tiny.”

“I know,” Wanda said. “She’s mine.”

Mine.

The word landed strangely in your chest.

Pietro didn’t baby you. He didn’t soften his voice or crouch down like adults did. He talked to you like you were just… another person.

Sometimes too loudly. Sometimes too fast.

He asked questions. Real ones.

“Do you have a favorite book?” “Why do you always finish first?” “Do you ever get bored?”

You answered honestly.

“Yes.” “Yes.” “All the time.”

He laughed like that was the best answer you could have given.

Steve came later.

Steve was quieter than Pietro, steadier. He lived down the street, and you met him because Wanda decided one afternoon that you were all walking home together.

Steve noticed things the way you did.

He noticed when you walked half a step behind. When you flinched at sudden sounds. When you went quiet instead of loud when you were overwhelmed.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just… adjusted.

Matched your pace. Lowered his voice. Offered you the corner of the sidewalk away from traffic without making a big deal of it.

You liked him almost immediately.

And then there was Bucky.

You met Bucky because Steve brought him along one day, like he was an extension of himself.

“This is my friend,” Steve said simply.

Bucky looked at you, really looked at you, like he was trying to figure something out.

“You’re the kid who skipped grades,” he said.

You nodded.

“You don’t look like it.”

“I don’t look like a lot of things,” you replied before you could stop yourself.

Steve shot you a surprised look. Pietro laughed. Wanda smirked.

Bucky blinked – and then smiled.

It wasn’t a soft smile. It was crooked, a little sharp at the edges. But it wasn’t unkind.

“I like her,” he declared, as if that settled the matter.

From that point on, the four of them became your orbit.

Wanda took on the role of protector without asking permission. She corrected people who talked down to you. She glared at anyone who laughed when you answered questions in class with words they didn’t know yet.

Pietro became your noise. Your distraction. Your reminder that movement didn’t always mean danger.

Steve became your constant. The one who sat next to you without touching, who listened without pushing, who never once asked why you were the way you were.

And Bucky…

Bucky hovered.

Not in a creepy way. In a watchful way. Like he’d decided you were fragile without underestimating you.

He walked you home when it got dark earlier in the year. He waited outside your house until your mother waved from the window.

Sometimes, when things got too loud or too fast, you found yourself drifting toward him without thinking. Standing close enough that you could feel his presence without needing to speak.

It scared you a little how natural that felt.

At school, you still unsettled adults.

Your teachers wrote notes home about how you were exceptionally mature. About how you didn’t socialize like other children. About how you seemed withdrawn.

Your mother read them with a tight expression, then asked you gently if you were happy.

You didn’t know how to answer that question.

Happy felt like too big a word.

“I’m okay,” you said instead.

She studied you, then nodded. She had learned quickly not to push where you pulled away.

When your birthday approached, your mother sat on the edge of your bed one evening.

“We should do something,” she said. “Invite friends.”

Friends.

You thought about the four names without hesitation.

When she asked who you wanted to invite, you said them out loud, one after the other, like you were afraid the list might disappear if you paused.

She smiled. “All right.”

The day of your birthday was strange in the best way.

There was cake. Real cake. Candles with numbers that didn’t quite match your age because no one was sure what day you’d actually been born.

Your mother tried not to make a big deal out of it.

But she did anyway.

Wanda showed up first, gift in hand, confidence blazing. Pietro burst in right behind her, already talking, already laughing.

Steve arrived with Bucky.

And behind Bucky was a man you had never seen before.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a kind face that looked tired in the way of people who worked hard and worried harder.

Your mother froze for half a second when she saw him.

Then she smiled.

Introductions were made. Polite, careful, adult.

You watched it all from the couch, legs tucked under you, eyes sharp and observant.

You noticed the way your mother’s posture shifted when she spoke to him. The way her voice softened, just a fraction.

You noticed the way the man – Bucky’s father – looked at her like she was someone worth listening to.

You didn’t know, then, that this was the beginning of something that would reshape your family.

You just knew that for the first time in your life, your birthday felt… crowded.

Not overwhelming.

Just full.

And as you sat there, cake on a paper plate in your hands, surrounded by noise and laughter and people who had, somehow, chosen you, you felt something unfamiliar settle in your chest.

Not safety.

Not yet.

But possibility.

And for a child who had learned how to survive before she learned how to hope, that was everything.

The wedding didn’t feel like a beginning.

Not to you.

Beginnings were loud. Beginnings announced themselves. Beginnings came with certainty, the kind of certainty you still didn’t fully trust.

This – your mother marrying Mr. Barnes – felt quieter. Like an agreement the adults had been building toward in pieces for two years, one dinner at a time, one shared laugh at a time, one moment of softened eyes when they thought you kids weren’t watching.

You were six.

Bucky was eight.

You wore something your mother had bought specifically for the day, and you kept smoothing the fabric down as if it might betray you if you stopped paying attention. Wanda’s mother had done your hair for you, because your mother’s hands shook too much to pin it neatly and she didn’t want you to see how nervous she was.

You did see anyway.

You always saw.

Bucky stood stiff at the front, jaw set like he’d been told to behave and had decided the only way to do that was to become a statue. Steve sat beside Wanda and Pietro in a row that was too long for their legs, feet swinging above the floor.

You watched your mother’s face when she looked at Mr. Barnes.

You didn’t know the language for love yet, not really. Not the adult kind. But you knew what it looked like when someone exhaled in relief after years of holding their breath.

When it was over, the adults hugged and smiled and took pictures.

You stood at the edge of it all and waited for the moment the attention would turn into pressure.

But it didn’t.

Your mother came to you, crouched, straightened your collar with careful fingers, and whispered, “We’re okay,” like she was saying it to herself as much as to you.

Then she kissed your temple and stood.

And that was that.

Two weeks later, you moved.

The house was bigger than the one you’d lived in with just your mother. It smelled like fresh paint and cardboard and the faint citrus cleaner your mother used when she wanted everything to feel new. There were boxes stacked in the hallway. Your mother kept saying, “We’ll unpack slowly,” and you nodded like you believed her.

You unpacked anyway.

Quietly. Efficiently.

You always unpacked. You never fully trusted that you’d be allowed to stay unless you proved you could belong without causing chaos.

The new house was right next door to Steve’s.

That detail mattered more than the adults seemed to understand.

It meant the world you’d built – carefully, cautiously – didn’t have to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch. It meant Wanda could still knock on your door after school without needing a ride. It meant Pietro could still race up the sidewalk like a storm and throw himself onto your porch steps as if he lived there.

It meant Steve could still be Steve.

And Steve was constant in a way the universe rarely was.

In two years, your friendship – the five of you, if you counted Bucky the way you were apparently supposed to now – had already become a living thing.

It had grown. Changed shape. Learned where it could bend.

Wanda was still the first to pull you into her orbit. She still looked at you like you were hers to protect, even now that you weren’t the youngest in the room anymore.

But Pietro…

Pietro had become your secret keeper.

It had started with a vase.

You could still see it clearly if you wanted to. Your mother’s favorite. Thin glass, painted flowers, kept on the shelf in the living room like it was something precious.

You hadn’t meant to break it.

You had reached for it because you’d wanted to dust around it the way you’d seen your mother do, because helping was safe and being useful made adults smile.

Your fingers had slipped. The vase had fallen. The sound had been sharp enough to cut.

You had frozen.

Not with guilt. With fear.

Fear was immediate. Automatic. Like breathing.

And Pietro had walked in at the exact wrong moment, seen your face, and understood something that no eight-year-old should have been able to understand.

He had looked at you – at your wide eyes, your stillness, the way your hands had gone limp at your sides like you’d turned into a doll – and he had stepped in front of you without thinking.

When your mother rushed into the room, Pietro had pointed at the shattered pieces and said, “I did it.”

You had stared at him, heart pounding so hard you’d thought it might give you away.

Your mother had scolded him gently, more relieved that no one was hurt than angry about the vase.

Then she had sent him outside and knelt to check your hands for cuts.

You had nodded and said, “I’m fine.”

You had not cried.

You had not thanked Pietro until hours later.

Because gratitude was intimate. Gratitude meant admitting you needed someone.

But that night, when Wanda and Pietro were walking home, you had followed him to the front door and tugged lightly on the hem of his sleeve.

Pietro had stopped.

Looked down at you.

Waited.

“I… didn’t mean to,” you whispered.

He blinked, then shrugged like it was nothing. Like it had cost him nothing at all.

“I know,” he said.

That simple certainty had made something in your chest loosen.

After that, you started telling him things.

Not big things at first. Small ones. The kind of truths you could afford to risk.

That you didn’t like when the house got too loud. That you hated surprises. That sometimes you woke up and couldn’t remember where you were for a second, and it scared you.

Pietro never laughed. Never told you you were weird.

He just listened. Then talked, because that was how he loved – by filling the space until it didn’t feel dangerous anymore.

Wanda stayed close too, always. But Wanda loved like a shield.

Pietro loved like a lockbox.

Steve, meanwhile, was a mirror you hadn’t known you needed.

You didn’t have to be told what was wrong in Steve’s house.

You could read it the way you read adults’ expressions and hallway silences. The way he flinched when someone slammed a door. The way he watched the street outside your houses like he was always listening for footsteps.

He was careful in the same way you were careful.

Not obedient. Not people-pleasing.

Just… tuned.

You noticed bruises sometimes. Not always visible, not always fresh. But there were days when Steve’s eyes carried something heavy, and you understood instinctively that it wasn’t something a child should carry.

You never told him to report his father.

Other kids might have. Other kids might have thought that was the simple answer.

You knew better.

Because adults were not always safe.

Because sometimes telling made things worse.

Because sometimes survival meant choosing the danger you already understood.

So instead, you did what you did best.

You made space.

You gave Steve an excuse to be at your house as often as he wanted. You let him sit at your kitchen table and eat dinner with you. You let him fall asleep on your couch during movie nights without waking him.

You never asked questions that would force him to lie.

And somehow, Steve understood that you were offering him a kind of mercy.

Then there was Bucky.

Technically your brother, now.

In practice…

In practice, you both hated that word.

Not because you didn’t like each other.

Because liking each other had never been the problem.

The problem was that becoming siblings made something feel like it was being taken away from you before you had even figured out what it was.

Bucky had always been… Bucky. Loud in the way you weren’t. Confident in the way you didn’t know how to be. Protective like it was built into his bloodstream.

But when the adults started using words like “family” and “brother” and “sister,” Bucky got prickly.

So did you.

You didn’t fight, exactly.

But there were edges.

He rolled his eyes when your mother told him to “watch out for his sister.” You corrected people when they called him your brother too eagerly, not out loud, but with your face – flat, unimpressed, refusing to play along.

And Bucky…

Bucky started acting like he had something to prove.

He started making jokes about how he didn’t want a sister. How it was “gross” that he had to share a house with a girl.

You didn’t laugh.

You didn’t cry either.

You just looked at him with that steady, unnerving calm that made adults pause mid-sentence.

It drove him crazy.

“You’re creepy,” he said once.

You blinked. “You’re loud.”

Wanda cackled. Pietro nearly choked on his juice. Steve smiled like he was trying not to.

Bucky scowled at you – and then, like he couldn’t help it, he smiled too.

You were too young to name what that smile meant.

But you felt it anyway.

The feelings were there, early, like a bruise forming under the skin before you ever remembered being hit.

Neither of you knew what to do with them.

So you did what children did.

You turned them into irritation. Into competition. Into stubbornness.

You fought over the remote. Over the last pancake. Over who got the better seat in the back of the car.

You were six and eight, and your world was still small enough that love and anger could look like the same thing.

And then – one night – it changed.

It was late. Not very late, but late enough that the house had settled. The adults were asleep. The hallway light was off.

You were in bed, blankets pulled tight to your chin, staring at the ceiling.

A storm had rolled in.

The kind of storm that didn’t just rain – it announced itself. Thunder that rattled the windows. Wind that made branches scrape against the siding like fingernails.

Your body went still the way it always did when fear arrived.

You didn’t cry out.

You didn’t call for your mother.

You lay there and listened, heart hammering, telling yourself to be quiet. Quiet meant safe.

But the thunder hit again – closer this time – and something in you cracked just enough that a small sound escaped.

Not a scream.

Not even a sob.

Just… a breath that caught too sharply.

The sound barely existed.

But somehow, it carried.

You heard a soft thud in the hallway – bare feet on wood. A door opening. Then closing.

Then a pause outside your room.

Your muscles locked.

You stared at your door like it might explode.

The knob turned slowly.

A shape slipped into the darkness.

“Hey,” a voice whispered.

Bucky’s.

Your mouth went dry.

“What are you doing?” you managed, the words barely formed.

Bucky stood there in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. Hair sticking up at the back. Pajama shirt wrinkled. Eyes half-lidded with sleep, but alert.

“I heard you,” he said, as if that explained everything.

You hadn’t meant him to.

You swallowed. “I didn’t–”

“I know,” he cut in quickly, voice low, almost annoyed. Like your fear was inconveniencing him. Like admitting he cared would be embarrassing.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then mumbled, “Do you… want me to stay?”

The question hit you harder than the thunder.

Because no one had ever asked you that.

Not like that.

Not offering comfort as something optional. Something for you, not for their own sense of being good.

You stared at him.

Bucky huffed quietly. “It’s just a storm,” he muttered, defensive. “I’m not saying you’re–” He stopped, then tried again, softer. “I used to get scared too.”

That wasn’t true.

You didn’t believe it for a second.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t scared of anything. Bucky Barnes ran toward dogs bigger than him and laughed when he fell off his bike. Bucky Barnes had the kind of courage that looked like it grew on trees.

But his voice wasn’t teasing.

It was careful.

You didn’t know how to respond.

You didn’t know how to ask.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You made space.

You lifted the edge of your blanket, just a little.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to it. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Then he crossed the room and climbed into your bed like he’d been doing it his whole life.

He lay down beside you, awkward at first – arms stiff, body not quite sure where to go. He smelled like soap and the faint grass scent of being outside earlier in the day.

You didn’t touch him.

You didn’t even breathe too loudly.

But Bucky shifted closer, and then – like it was the simplest solution in the world – he reached an arm across you and pulled you against his side.

You froze.

Your entire body went rigid, every instinct screaming that closeness meant danger, that closeness demanded payment.

Bucky didn’t notice your panic.

Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it.

His hand rested against your shoulder, warm and heavy through your pajama shirt.

“You’re fine,” he whispered.

The words weren’t gentle.

They were certain.

Certainty was unfamiliar.

Certainty felt like a door locking from the inside.

You didn’t relax immediately.

It took time.

It took the next roll of thunder, and Bucky tightening his arm around you without speaking.

It took realizing he wasn’t going to leave.

That he had come because he heard you, and that was enough.

Slowly – so slowly you barely noticed – you let your body sink.

You let your breathing match his.

You let your forehead rest against his chest and listened to his heartbeat like it was a metronome, steady and real.

And for the first time in your life, you understood something your brain had never been able to solve before: this was what safety felt like.

Not silence.

Not control.

Not being easy.

Safety was a person who heard you and came anyway.

You didn’t have a name for the feeling that bloomed in your chest then, small and fierce and terrified.

You just knew, even at six, even without the words…

That whatever this was, you were going to cling to it.

And that one day, losing it would hurt more than you could imagine.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30

You shrugged off your coat, folded it over your arm out of habit even though he would have hung it up if you’d let him. Your bag slid down your shoulder. Your fingers clenched around the strap like an anchor.

“You’re early,” he called from the kitchen.

“Only by five minutes,” you answered, voice lighter than you felt.

Bucky appeared around the corner with a dish towel slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair still slightly damp like he’d showered not long ago. He looked… soft, in the way he rarely let himself look outside the safety of his own walls. Domestic. Normal.

Your brain did that stupid thing it always did – catalogued details you didn’t want to notice. The faint red mark on his wrist where he’d tested the heat of a pan. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth when you smiled. The tension he carried even when he was relaxed, like he was always bracing for something to hit.

“You eaten today?” he asked, like he didn’t know you’d never show up full.

“Just a coffee.”

His mouth twitched, half amusement, half disapproval. “Of course.”

He took your coat before you could protest, hung it in the closet by the door, then came back and nudged your shoulder with his as he passed – an ordinary, thoughtless contact that still sent a sharp line of awareness through you.

“Wine?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He poured you a glass without asking what kind. He already knew. He always knew. You hated how easy it was for him to know you. You hated how easy it was for you to let him.

The kitchen table was small, only four chairs, but he had set it like he was trying. Real plates. Cloth napkins. A candle stub in a chipped holder that looked like it had survived three moves and a dozen near-throws into the trash. The flame wavered when you sat.

“You didn’t have to–” you started.

“I wanted to,” he said, and the firmness in his tone closed your mouth.

It should have been simple.

It should have been the two of you eating pasta and talking about Pietro’s latest idiotic plan, or Wanda’s new job, or Steve’s insistence on calling you once a week like some kind of concerned father figure. It should have been the kind of evening you’d had a hundred times – safe, familiar, stretched between conversation and comfortable silences.

Bucky plated the food and sat across from you, but he didn’t start eating right away. He reached for his water, took a sip, set the glass down with a care that didn’t match the movement.

He was bracing.

You felt it in your bones before he said a word.

“So,” he began.

You picked up your fork to give your hands something to do. “So.”

He let out a breath through his nose like he was steadying himself. His gaze was on the table, on the candle, on the edge of his plate – anywhere but your face.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Your stomach dipped. Not because you didn’t already know. Because you did.

You had known the moment you’d opened the door. The way he’d looked like he’d rehearsed. The way he’d made this dinner into an event. The way he kept swallowing like his throat was too tight.

You held the fork poised above your plate, suddenly unable to eat.

“Okay,” you said, because you were good at being okay. Because your whole life had been built on being okay.

He lifted his eyes then, finally, and there was something vulnerable there that made your chest ache – something you didn’t have a name for, something that belonged to the boy he’d been before he learned to hide everything behind grit and silence.

“I’m going to ask Natasha to marry me,” he said.

For a fraction of a second, the words didn’t land. They hovered between you like smoke, like a bad smell you couldn’t immediately place.

Then they hit.

Your lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. Your throat tightened so hard it burned. Something inside you – something old and raw and terrified – lurched awake like it had been sleeping with one eye open for years.

And you laughed.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t happy. It was a single, sharp sound that escaped you before you could catch it, the kind of laugh you’d heard in movies right before someone broke down. Disbelieving. Wrong.

Bucky’s face changed instantly.

The softness was gone, replaced by a hard, wounded stillness. His shoulders went rigid. His jaw set. His eyes narrowed, not in anger – not yet – but in shock that curdled fast into hurt.

“What the hell?” he said quietly.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, too late. Your eyes stung. You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat.

“I– Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Why are you laughing?” His voice was still controlled, but there was something fraying at the edges. “What’s funny about it?”

You shook your head quickly, words stumbling over each other. “Nothing. Nothing is funny. I just–” You tried again, breath unsteady. “I thought you were kidding.”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him.

“Kidding,” he repeated, flat.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. That was the worst part. The candlelight caught the pale flecks in his eyes, the ones that always made him look like he was holding back a storm.

“I didn’t–” You swallowed hard. “It just… it sounded like a joke. You said it like– like you were telling me you bought a new couch. I wasn’t ready.”

His nostrils flared. The hand holding his fork tightened until his knuckles whitened.

“You weren’t ready,” he echoed.

You set your fork down carefully, because your hand was trembling and you didn’t want him to see. You wrapped your fingers around the stem of your wineglass instead, using the cold as a grounding point.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, softer. “I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the table. For a moment he said nothing, and that silence was worse than shouting. It was the silence of him deciding what to do with the pain you’d just put in him – where to place it, how to shape it so it didn’t cut him too badly.

When he looked up again, there was heat in his expression now. Not the warm kind. The kind that warned.

“Why?” he asked, and the question was sharper than before. “Tell me why you laughed.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because the truth was a thing you had carried so long it had fused to your ribs. Because saying it out loud felt like pulling a thread in a sweater you’d been wearing your whole life – one tug and everything unraveled.

Because you couldn’t say, Because I love you, and mean it in a way that made sense.

So you did what you always did.

You made it smaller.

You tried to make it safe.

“I didn’t expect it,” you said, voice careful. “That’s all.”

“That’s all.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something you weren’t giving him. “You’ve known her for, what, two years? And you… laugh.”

“I said I was sorry.”

He huffed a short, humorless breath. “Yeah. You did.”

You could feel the night slipping. Like sand through fingers. Like the edge of something breaking, and you were still pretending it wasn’t.

You tried to patch it, instinctively. “Natasha’s great,” you said. The words tasted like ash. “She’s– she’s smart and she makes you happy and–”

“Don’t,” he snapped, and the suddenness made you flinch. His voice went lower immediately, like he regretted the sharpness but didn’t take it back. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say the right thing.” His eyes were bright, but not with tears. With anger. With hurt. “You always say the right thing. Like you’re reading off a script.”

Your throat tightened again. “I’m trying.”

“I know you’re trying,” he said, and now there was bitterness in it, something exhausted. “That’s the problem. Everything with you is trying. Everything is… controlled. Managed. Like you’re afraid if you feel something too hard you’ll… I don’t know. Break.”

You swallowed, nails digging into your palm under the table.

He kept going, words coming quicker now, like the dam had cracked and the pressure was finally finding release.

“I want to do this,” he said, and he tapped the table with his fingertips, each tap a tiny punctuation mark. “I want to have a normal life. I want a wife. Kids, maybe. A goddamn dog. I want to wake up and not feel like my whole world is… complicated.”

Your chest hurt.

He watched your face as if he needed you to react correctly this time. As if he needed your blessing, your approval, your something.

And you couldn’t give it.

Not when your skin felt too tight and your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat.

“Bucky–” you started, but your voice cracked on his name.

His expression shifted, something sharp and wounded flashing across it.

“What?” he demanded. “What, you’re going to cry now? Is that what this is?”

You flinched again, and that flinch did something to him. It made him look angrier. Like your hurt was an accusation.

“I’m not–” you tried.

“You know what?” he cut in, leaning forward now, forearms on the table. “Maybe I’m just not like you.”

The words were thrown like a knife. Casual, but aimed.

Your stomach dropped.

He kept his gaze locked on yours, relentless.

“I’m not… completely empty,” he said, and his mouth twisted. “I actually want things. I want someone. I want a life that doesn’t feel like I’m standing in a doorway waiting for somebody to decide whether they’re coming in or leaving.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass so hard you thought it might crack.

“I’m not empty,” you said, very quietly.

He didn’t hear you. Or he did and chose not to.

“You never let anybody have you,” he went on, voice rising in spite of himself. “Not really. You keep everyone at arm’s length and then you act surprised when people stop trying.”

You stared at him.

The room felt distant, like you were underwater and his voice was the only thing that carried through, distorted and too loud.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

He laughed once – short, harsh. “Not fair? You want to talk about fair?”

He shook his head like he couldn’t believe you. Like you were the one being unreasonable. Like you were the one hurting him for no reason.

“You know what I think?” he said, and there was a dangerous edge to the calm he forced into his tone. “I think you don’t know how to love anybody. I think you don’t even want to.”

Your breath caught.

He saw it. You watched the moment his eyes registered that he’d hit something real. Something that wasn’t just surface.

But instead of stopping, he pressed harder – as if the damage was already done, so why not finish it.

“Maybe it’s in your genes,” he said. “Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you. Because you’re… like this. Like them. Because you don’t attach. Because you don’t need anybody.”

Silence fell so abruptly it was like a door slamming.

The candle flame flickered hard, as if startled.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Those words weren’t just cruel. They were precise. They were targeted at the exact wound you’d been trying to bandage for your whole life, the exact fear that kept you awake on nights when Pietro’s steady breathing in the next room wasn’t enough to quiet your thoughts.

Maybe you’re unlovable. Maybe you were always going to be left. Maybe there’s something wrong in you that makes people walk away.

Bucky’s face changed in real time.

He looked like he’d watched himself throw the knife and only afterward realized where it landed.

His mouth parted, and for the first time since he’d started speaking, there was no anger there. Only shock. Regret so fast and sharp it made his expression look almost young.

He swallowed.

His eyes flicked over your face – your stillness, your wide stare, the way you’d gone very, very quiet.

“Oh,” he breathed, as if he hadn’t meant it. As if he had meant to hurt you, but not that much. Not there.

You felt something inside you – something fragile you’d been holding together with routines and politeness and careful distance – give way.

Not with a dramatic snap.

With a soft, sickening shift.

Like a bone sliding out of place.

You set your wineglass down.

The sound it made against the table was small. Final.

Bucky’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach across, to stop you, to take it back, to grab the words out of the air and shove them back into his mouth.

He didn’t move fast enough.

You pushed your chair back and stood.

Not in a rush. Not in anger. The opposite, almost. As if you had all the time in the world. As if the decision had already been made somewhere deep inside you and your body was simply following instructions.

Bucky stared up at you, frozen.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, suddenly uncertain. “Hey– wait. I didn’t–”

You didn’t answer.

You walked to the entryway, your footsteps quiet on the floor. You retrieved your coat from the closet, your movements smooth. Automatic. You slipped your arms into the sleeves, picked up your bag, adjusted the strap on your shoulder.

Behind you, Bucky’s chair scraped a fraction against the floor. Not fully standing. Just… shifting, like he couldn’t decide whether to follow.

“You’re leaving,” he said, stupidly, as if naming it would make it less real.

You paused with your hand on the doorknob.

Not because you wanted to stay.

Because there was a part of you – an old, trained part – that still waited for his permission, his command, his reassurance that you weren’t doing something wrong.

Your voice came out level, even. It scared you, how level it was.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You can’t just–” he started, then stopped. His voice dropped. “You always come back.”

The words weren’t a comfort. They were a confession.

You stared at the door in front of you, at the peephole, at the faint scuff marks near the bottom from shoes and time and living. You felt your heartbeat like a heavy thing in your chest.

You always came back.

Even when he’d been cold. Even when he’d been distant. Even when he’d been wrong. You always came back because you believed, stupidly, that your steadiness could make up for everything he didn’t know how to say.

You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

He was still sitting at the table. His hands were flat against the wood like he needed the support. His face looked hollowed out, the anger completely gone, leaving only the raw aftermath.

He looked like someone who had lit a match and only realized too late he was standing in gasoline.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t soften your expression.

You didn’t give him anything to hold onto.

“I’m sorry about the dinner,” you said, because you couldn’t say the real thing. Because the real thing would have cracked you open. “Goodnight, Buck.”

Then you opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The air outside was colder, emptier. The sound of the building – distant pipes, someone’s TV, footsteps above – rushed in around you like the world hadn’t stopped just because yours had.

You closed the door behind you gently.

No slam.

No dramatics.

Just… the click of the lock settling into place.

For a fraction of a second – barely the length of a blink – you thought you were going to fold right there in the hallway, forehead against his woodgrain, knees giving out like your body had finally received permission to stop pretending.

Your breath hitched. Shallow, trembling. The kind of breathing that made your ribs ache.

You stared at the peephole like it might open again, like the door might soften, like he might step out and undo what he had said.

Nothing moved.

So you forced your feet to move instead.

One step. Then another.

The corridor was too bright, too clean, too normal. Your boots sounded wrong against the floor – too loud, too present. You kept walking anyway, past the elevator, past the stairwell, past the little “No Smoking” sign that had probably been there since before you were old enough to read.

By the time you reached the lobby, your hands had stopped shaking. Not because you were okay. Because your body had decided to survive.

Outside, the cold bit into your cheeks and the city swallowed you whole.

New York didn’t pause. Cars hissed over wet asphalt. Someone laughed on the corner like the world hadn’t just been split open. A couple walked past you, fingers linked, talking about dinner plans, about a movie, about nothing.

You stepped onto the sidewalk and you walked.

No destination. No plan. Just motion.

You didn’t know how long you walked. Time stopped behaving like time. It was just streets and lights and the constant press of people around you, all of them moving with purpose you didn’t have.

Every time you slowed, every time your body tried to stop, his voice rose up in your head like a hand fisted in your hair and yanked.

Maybe it’s in your genes.

The words repeated, dull and rhythmic, like a bruise being pressed again and again, as if your brain couldn’t stop checking if it still hurt.

It did.

You didn’t know when the tears started.

One moment you were breathing through your mouth, trying to keep the tightness from closing your throat. The next, your cheeks were wet, and when you swiped at them with the back of your hand, the moisture just came back, stubborn and endless.

You kept walking anyway.

You wiped your face, harder this time, as if you could erase the evidence. The skin under your eyes burned. Your nose ran. You hated how human it all was. How visible.

You turned down a street you didn’t recognize, then another. You crossed against the light because you didn’t care if a cab honked at you, because the idea of following rules felt obscene when the only rule you had lived by – be good, be easy, be grateful – had just been used to cut you open.

At some point – later, or sooner, you couldn’t tell – you found yourself on a bridge.

The railing was cold under your palms. The river below was a moving sheet of black, broken by streaks of reflected light. Wind tore at your hair and threaded through your coat and made you shiver.

You leaned forward and looked down.

You weren’t suicidal. You never had been.

But what terrified you, standing there, was how easy it would have been.

One climb. One step. One second of letting your body do what your mind was too tired to prevent.

And it wouldn’t just stop the pain. It would stop the shame. The fear. The constant, lifelong ache that said no one wanted you – that you were born as a mistake and you had spent your whole life trying to be good enough to be kept.

Your breath came out in a sharp, broken sound. Not quite a sob yet, but close. Your chest convulsed around it like your body was trying to cough something out.

You gripped the railing harder.

The world tilted.

For one awful moment, your brain offered it to you like a solution. Clean. Simple. Final.

You swallowed, hard enough to hurt. The taste of salt was on your lips.

A sob tore free anyway – quiet, humiliating, involuntary – and it startled you back into yourself.

You jerked away from the railing as if it had burned you.

You stumbled a step, then another, hands scrabbling for balance, heart slamming so hard it made you dizzy.

“No,” you whispered, into the wind, into the empty air between streetlights. Not pleading. Commanding.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your coat and forced yourself to breathe again.

In. Out.

In. Out.

You were not going to die because someone had said something cruel.

You were not going to let a sentence decide your ending.

You stepped away from the edge. You kept stepping until the bridge was behind you and the river was out of sight and the noise of the city returned – distant, indifferent, grounding.

And you walked.

Because stopping meant hearing him again.

Because stopping meant feeling everything.

And you weren’t ready to feel it yet.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then it started again – longer, insistent, the screen lighting up with a name you couldn’t bear to see.

BUCKY

You didn’t answer.

It buzzed again.

And again.

Your hand fumbled the phone out of your pocket like you were pulling out something hot. Your thumb hovered over the screen.

You could picture him calling. Pacing. Jaw clenched. Rage draining into regret. The same hands that had set a table like he was trying now pressing the phone to his ear like he could force you back through a signal.

You couldn’t listen to him breathe. You couldn’t hear him say your name like it still belonged to him.

So you hit decline.

The phone rang again immediately.

Then another call came through, as if the city had a network of people who could sense the exact moment you had snapped.

WANDA

Your chest tightened. Wanda’s voice, soft but firm, would pull at you. Would ask what happened. Would say your name in that careful way that made you feel like something fragile on a shelf.

You couldn’t be fragile. Not tonight.

You declined again.

A second later… 

PIETRO

And that almost broke you.

Pietro didn’t ask gently. Pietro didn’t wait. Pietro didn’t let people disappear without a fight. Pietro knew you too well, knew every pattern you had ever used to survive.

Your thumb hovered.

You couldn’t answer him. Not because you didn’t want him. Because if you heard his voice, you would stop. You would crack open. You would let yourself be found. And being found felt like being dragged back to the table, back to the candle, back to the knife still lodged in you.

You watched the screen buzz until it went dark.

Then it lit again.

STEVE

Just one call. One attempt. Like he had been holding himself back from being that person who pushed when you didn’t want to be pushed.

That did something worse than the others. It made your throat close.

Steve’s call meant he knew. Or he sensed. Or he had looked at Bucky and seen enough in his face to understand that something had happened that couldn’t be fixed with an apology and a long talk.

You couldn’t take Steve’s pity. You couldn’t take his concern. Not tonight.

Your hands were shaking again now, the phone slick in your grip from cold and sweat.

You turned it off.

The sudden silence was its own kind of relief. Like stepping underwater. Like escaping the surface where voices could reach you.

You kept walking.

You didn’t remember deciding to go home.

One street turned into another. The city blurred at the edges, lights smearing into each other with every blink. Your legs moved on autopilot, carrying you back through neighborhoods you’d walked a hundred times in daylight, back to the building you had chosen because it was quiet and clean and – until tonight – felt like yours.

The lobby smelled like someone’s laundry detergent and old radiator heat. The elevator ride up felt too short. Too close to stillness.

When you unlocked your door and stepped inside, the apartment greeted you with warmth and familiarity – your books stacked in uneven towers, the faint scent of coffee grounds from the morning, the soft hum of the fridge.

And then you saw it.

The photo on the wall by the entryway.

You and Bucky.

A stupid candid someone had taken at Pietro’s birthday last year – your cheeks flushed from wine, his arm slung around your shoulders like it belonged there, his smile rare and real. Your head tilted toward him without thinking, like gravity had always been on his side.

Your stomach lurched.

You swallowed hard, the motion scraping your throat. For a second you just stood there, staring at it as if the frame might dissolve if you looked long enough.

It didn’t.

You stepped forward and took it down with hands that didn’t quite feel connected to you. The hook creaked softly. The glass was cold against your fingertips.

You turned the frame over and set it face down on the entryway table.

A small, domestic funeral.

You didn’t stop to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking led to your hands shaking, to your chest tightening, to the image of his face at the table – regret flashing too late – looping in your mind until you couldn’t breathe.

You went straight to your bedroom.

Lights on. Closet open.

Your suitcase was under the bed. You dragged it out, the wheels catching on the rug, and snapped it open like you were late for a flight.

Clothes. Whatever your hands grabbed first. Sweaters, jeans, socks. Enough for weeks, not because you had a plan, but because you refused to be caught unprepared.

Your toiletry bag went in next – automatic. Toothbrush. Shampoo. The boring necessities of a life that insisted on continuing.

Then your laptop.

Your charger.

Your notebook with thesis notes stuffed between the pages like pressed flowers.

You paused in the doorway for half a heartbeat, eyes scanning the room. A second photo. A mug he’d left once and never took back. A spare key dish by the nightstand you’d put there without thinking, because you’d trusted the world to stay stable.

A laugh tried to crawl up your throat, sharp and bitter.

Not a plan, you reminded yourself. Just… distance.

Because Bucky would panic for a while. He would call and call and call.

And then, when the panic burned off and the instinct kicked in, he would remember.

He had a spare of your key.

He would show up here.

He would let himself into your space like he’d done a hundred times, like the right to do it was carved into your history.

The thought made your skin prickle.

You zipped the suitcase with a harsh sound that felt too loud in the quiet.

You didn’t leave a note. Not for him. Not for Wanda. Not for Steve. A note was an invitation. A note was proof you expected to come back soon.

You grabbed your bag, slung it over your shoulder, locked your door behind you, and walked out again before your courage had a chance to evaporate.

Outside, the air was colder than when you’d first left. The street was quieter now – late enough that most people had retreated into their own lives.

You pulled up an app with your thumb, found the closest hotel that didn’t look like it would ask questions, and booked a room two blocks away.

Two blocks. Close enough that if you needed something – food, a pharmacy, your laptop charger you’d forgotten – you wouldn’t have to trek through the city again.

Far enough that no one would think to look.

The hotel lobby was dim and smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. The man at the desk barely glanced at you. You gave him your ID. You paid. You took the keycard with fingers that were starting to ache from holding yourself together too tightly.

Up the elevator. Down a hallway that looked identical to every other hallway you’d ever walked in your life.

Room 614.

The lock beeped. The door swung inward.

The room was small. Beige. Impersonal. A bed with too-white sheets. A TV bolted to the wall. A lamp that cast a weak pool of light.

It didn’t matter.

You closed the door behind you and threw the deadbolt, the click loud in the quiet.

Then you slid the chain into place, because you didn’t trust your own logic anymore.

Only when the room was sealed – only when there were two locks and a thin, flimsy sense of control between you and the world – did your body finally give up.

Your knees hit the carpet before you even realized you were moving.

A sound tore out of you, raw and broken, the kind of sob that didn’t ask permission. Your breath came in jagged gasps, your hands curling into the fabric of your coat like you could anchor yourself to something real.

You pressed your forehead to the side of the bed and cried until your chest burned.

Until your throat hurt.

Until your whole body shook with it, as if grief was something physical trying to claw its way out.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, beneath the noise of your own breaking, his words kept echoing anyway – soft now, poisonous, persistent.

Maybe it’s in your genes.

You curled tighter on the floor, as if making yourself smaller could make it stop.

Ten minutes passed before it hit him.

Not the way it should have hit him – immediately, like a hand on a stove. Not in the moment, when you had gone still and quiet and something in your face had changed in a way he didn’t understand fast enough.

It hit him after the door had clicked.

After the hallway had swallowed your footsteps.

After the apartment had settled back into silence like nothing had happened.

Bucky stared at the place where you had been sitting, at the untouched food, at the candle still burning down into a misshapen puddle of wax, and the words he had thrown at you replayed in his head with sickening clarity.

Maybe it’s in your genes. Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you.

His stomach turned.

“No–” he breathed, too late.

He stood so fast his chair scraped backward, legs catching on the edge of the rug. His hands hovered over the table as if he could rewind the last five minutes by touching the wood hard enough.

His mind latched onto the only thing it could do: fix it. Find you. Apologize. Make you come back.

He grabbed his jacket and bolted.

Down the hall. Down the stairs because waiting for the elevator felt like dying. Out into the night air with his breath already ragged, already wrong.

He ran the perimeter of his own neighborhood like you might still be within reach, like you might have wandered to the corner deli or the nearest subway entrance, like you might have sat on a stoop somewhere with your head in your hands, waiting for him to come to his senses.

He checked the sidewalk. The crosswalks. The benches at the tiny park three blocks over. He scanned faces under streetlights and felt his pulse spike every time he saw a coat like yours, a silhouette that could have been you from behind.

Nothing.

Thirty minutes of circles, and the reality began to tighten around his ribs: you were gone.

Panic came next, thick and ugly.

He went back to his apartment, hands shaking as he tore through the drawer for his car keys. He didn’t remember locking the door behind him. He didn’t remember the ride down the elevator. He only remembered the way his thoughts kept snagging on the same terrible image: you standing still at his table, something breaking inside you so quietly he had mistaken it for calm.

He drove to your place like the city could part for him if he went fast enough.

He parked badly. Left the car crooked at the curb. Took the stairs two at a time.

He knocked. Once. Twice. Hard enough to rattle the frame.

No answer.

“Hey,” he called, voice rough. “Open the door. Please.”

Silence.

He tried your doorknob like an idiot, like you’d left it unlocked, like the world had somehow stayed kind.

Locked.

His phone was already in his hand before he realized he’d pulled it out.

He called you.

The first ring went on and on, long enough for a part of him to hope you’d answer just to scream at him. Long enough for him to imagine your voice, sharp and alive.

Then the call dumped into voicemail.

He called again.

Two rings.

Voicemail.

Again.

One ring.

Voicemail.

Your silence stopped being empty and started being deliberate.

You were refusing him.

He swallowed, hard, and tried to breathe around the pressure in his chest.

Then he did what he always did when he couldn’t reach you: he reached for the people closest to you.

He called Wanda.

She answered on the second ring, sounding distracted, normal.

“Hey– what’s up? Everything okay?”

His mouth opened. Closed again. His throat felt too tight to form a sentence that wasn’t a confession.

“Has she… has she texted you?” he managed. “Have you heard from her?”

A pause. The shift, immediate – Wanda’s voice sharpened, the way it always did when she sensed a problem.

“No,” she said slowly. “Why? She said she was having dinner with you.”

Bucky stared at your door like it might accuse him out loud.

“I–” His fingers curled around the phone. “I said something. I shouldn’t have. I–”

“What did you say?”

“It–” He swallowed. “It was… we had a fight.”

“James.”

The use of his first name was a warning. Wanda didn’t do that unless she was bracing herself.

He tried to dodge. He couldn’t.

“She laughed,” he blurted, because his brain wanted context so badly it kept trying to justify the unjustifiable. “I told her I was going to ask Natasha to marry me and she– she laughed and I–”

“What did you say to her?” Wanda cut in, voice suddenly flat.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I–”

“What did you say.”

He pressed his free hand to his forehead, nails biting into skin. The words tasted like blood even in his mouth.

“I told her… I told her she didn't know how to love anyone. That maybe she was like that because her biological parents were the same.” His voice cracked, ugly with shame. “I said maybe that was the reason why they didn’t want her.”

Silence on the line.

It lasted long enough that he thought the call had dropped.

Then Wanda exhaled – one sharp, disbelieving breath that sounded like someone being punched.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wanda–”

“No. Don’t.” Her voice was shaking now, anger threaded with something colder. Protective. “Don’t say my name like I’m supposed to help you feel better about that.”

“I didn’t mean it–”

“You said it.”

“I was hurt–”

“You were hurt so you decided to hit her where it would destroy her?” Wanda’s words came out clipped, precise, as if she had to keep them controlled to avoid screaming. “Do you have any idea– no. Actually, don’t answer that. The fact you’re asking tells me enough.”

“Is she with you?” Bucky pushed, desperate. “Please. I need to talk to her.”

“If she wanted you to know where she was, you would know.” Wanda’s voice went razor-thin. “And if I do hear from her, I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“Wanda–”

The line went dead.

Bucky stared at his screen.

His reflection stared back from the black glass: pale, wild-eyed, sick.

He didn’t let himself think. Thinking was where guilt lived, and guilt was going to drown him if he stopped moving.

He called Pietro.

Pietro picked up almost casually. “What’s up?”

“Is she with you?” Bucky demanded. “Is she at your place?”

“What did you do?” Pietro said, voice very quiet.

“Nothing–”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I–” Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. “I said something. I–”

A sharp pause. The kind that meant Pietro was reading a message at the same time he was listening.

Bucky could hear Pietro’s breathing change. Could hear the moment the air in his lungs went from normal to weaponized.

Pietro cut him off with a sound that wasn’t a laugh. It was uglier. “Wanda just sent me what you said.”

Bucky’s blood went cold.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, stupidly, like the sentence could erase what it described.

“You don’t get to mean it or not mean it,” Pietro snapped, the quiet gone now, replaced by something lethal. “You don’t get to use her like that. You don’t get to say that to her and then call me like I’m your emergency contact.”

“I just need to know she’s safe–”

“You lost that right when you opened your mouth.”

“Pietro, please–”

The call ended.

Bucky stared at the phone again, throat burning.

No you. No Wanda. No Pietro.

The city around him kept moving, uncaring, headlights smearing across wet pavement. He stood outside your door for another beat like an idiot, listening to nothing, waiting for a miracle.

Then he did the only other thing he could think to do.

He went to Steve.

Steve opened the door looking like he had been expecting Bucky and hoping he was wrong.

His face was tight. His hair was a mess, like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. There was anger in his eyes, but worse than anger – there was disappointment so heavy it made Bucky’s stomach twist.

“I know,” Steve said before Bucky could speak.

Bucky blinked. “What–”

“Wanda called me,” Steve said, voice flat. “So start talking.”

Bucky’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Steve’s jaw flexed. He stepped back, letting Bucky in, but it didn’t feel like permission. It felt like containment.

Bucky stumbled into the apartment like a man who’d been punched. He paced once, then again, hands running through his hair, breath coming too fast.

“I can’t find her,” he blurted finally. “She’s not answering. Wanda hasn’t heard from her. Pietro–”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Of course Pietro hung up on you.”

Bucky flinched.

Steve didn’t soften. He didn’t move closer. He stood there like a wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

“Explain it to me,” Steve said, controlled in that terrifying way he got when he was holding back something bigger. “Explain how you got from being hurt… to deciding the best response was to hurt her back.”

Bucky swallowed. His throat felt scraped raw.

“I didn’t–” he started, then stopped, because the lie died in his mouth. “I don’t know.”

Steve stared at him for a long moment.

Then Steve’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, and something shifted in his expression – recognition, and then a tightening.

He looked back up slowly.

“When I called her just now,” Steve said, voice quieter, “it didn’t ring.”

Bucky’s breath caught.

Steve’s eyes held his. “It went straight to voicemail.”

Bucky felt like the floor tilted.

“She turned it off,” he whispered.

Steve’s mouth hardened. “Yeah.”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face, nails catching at stubble. “I didn’t know she was going to–” His voice broke. “I didn’t think she’d leave. She always–”

He stopped himself, but Steve’s expression flickered at the same time, like they’d both heard the words Bucky hadn’t said out loud.

She always comes back.

Steve’s gaze sharpened again. “You always counted on that.”

Bucky shook his head, frantic. “No– Steve, I just–”

Steve cut him off. “And you were going to propose to Natasha?”

Bucky froze.

Steve’s eyes were hard now. “Because Wanda didn’t know. Pietro didn’t know. I didn’t know.” His voice rose, incredulous, the anger finally pushing through the restraint. “None of us knew you were planning to do that.”

Bucky’s chest tightened, shame piling on shame.

“I was trying to–” He swallowed. “I was trying to make it real. Normal. I thought if I– if I committed to something, if I stopped–” He gestured helplessly, as if he could point at the invisible thread between you and him and cut it in front of Steve. “I thought it would get easier.”

Steve stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“So you decided to punish her for not making it easy for you?” Steve’s voice went low again, dangerous. “You decided to take her worst fear and hand it back to her like proof?”

Bucky’s eyes burned. “I didn’t want–”

“You did it anyway,” Steve said.

The words landed like a verdict.

In the silence that followed, Bucky’s phone sat heavy in his hand, a useless slab of glass and regret. The city was still out there, huge and bright and indifferent.

And you – somewhere in it – were gone.

Not missing.

Not lost.

Gone by choice.

Because of him.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30

Bucky had claimed the armchair – your armchair – with the kind of entitlement that only came from knowing he could get away with it. One leg was slung over the arm, socked foot bobbing idly, a half–empty beer on the side table and your throw blanket pulled across his lap like he lived here. He didn’t, technically. But sometimes it felt like he did anyway.

Steve was on the couch, stretched out with a pillow behind his head and his sketchbook on his stomach. He wasn’t even drawing. He was just… flipping pages, pausing occasionally to frown at something like a man reviewing evidence in a case he hadn’t asked to be assigned.

The TV was on. Muted. Some cooking show. A chef gesturing aggressively at a cutting board as if the onions had personally insulted him.

Bucky had been throwing pieces of popcorn at the screen for the last ten minutes, trying to land them in the chef’s open mouth whenever the camera angle cooperated.

Steve had been quietly moving the bowl out of Bucky’s reach every time Bucky got too accurate.

You tried, valiantly, to focus on your thesis.

You really did.

But the sound of popcorn hitting your wall – tap… tap… tap – was starting to feel like a mild form of torture.

You didn’t look up at first.

You just said, flatly, without turning your head, “If I find a kernel in my laptop, I’m charging you both a consulting fee.”

Bucky’s voice came immediately, smug and sweet. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

Steve snorted. “He’s gonna pretend he didn’t hear you.”

“I did hear her,” Bucky argued, like you weren’t even in the room. “I’m just choosing to ignore the hostile tone.”

You finally turned, eyes narrowing as you took in the scene: the beer. The blanket. The popcorn. Steve’s socked feet on your couch. The two of them looking like they’d been dropped into a domestic photograph they had no business being in.

You lifted your highlighter and pointed it at them like a judge’s gavel.

“Do either of you have any concept,” you asked, “of how ridiculous you look?”

Bucky blinked slowly. “Excuse you?”

Steve glanced over the top of his sketchbook, eyebrow raised.

You gestured at the room with a broad sweep of your hand. “You’re both employed. Fully grown. Allegedly responsible. You have insurance. Retirement plans. Paychecks with taxes taken out.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “I don’t–”

“And I’m the student,” you continued, not letting him interrupt. “The one living off a TA stipend and sheer spite. And yet somehow I’m the only one sitting upright and doing actual work while you two are–” you paused, eyes dragging over Bucky’s posture with disgusted affection, “–actively regressing.”

Steve’s lips pressed together, hiding a smile.

Bucky sat up a fraction, offended on principle. “First of all, I’m not regressing. I’m decompressing.”

“You’re aiming popcorn at a man making risotto,” you deadpanned.

“It’s stress relief.”

“It’s vandalism.”

Steve’s laugh slipped out, quiet and genuine.

You pointed your highlighter at him too. “And you. You’re supposed to be the mature one.”

Steve tilted his head. “I am mature.”

“You’re lying on my couch like a Victorian woman with consumption.”

“I’m resting.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Bucky leaned toward Steve, stage–whispering loudly, “She’s mad because she wants to throw popcorn too but she’s pretending she’s above it.”

You turned your head slowly toward him. “Do you want me to start reading my dissertation draft out loud?”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “That’s cruel.”

Steve made a thoughtful sound. “Technically that’s a war crime.”

You smiled sweetly. “Then behave.”

They both went quiet for exactly six seconds.

Then Bucky, unable to help himself, glanced at your laptop screen and said, “What are you even reading right now?”

You hesitated, because the answer was long and you didn’t have the energy to translate your brain into normal–people language.

“It’s about–” you started.

“Don’t,” Steve said immediately, sitting up a little. “Don’t do the thing where you apologize for being smart.”

You blinked at him.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “She does that?”

Steve looked at him, unimpressed. “All the time.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat warmed the back of your neck anyway. “I don’t apologize.”

“You do,” Steve said gently. “You just hide it in jokes.”

Bucky watched you for a second too long, expression shifting into something that wasn’t teasing. Something quieter. More attentive.

You hated it. You hated how easy it was for him to see you. How easy it was for both of them, sometimes, in different ways.

You looked back at the screen, grasping for safety.

“It’s a comparative analysis of funerary inscriptions from–” you started again.

Bucky’s face pulled into exaggerated pain. “Nope.”

Steve chuckled. “Keep going.”

“–from the Hellenistic period,” you continued, pointedly ignoring Bucky’s suffering, “and how regional variations reflect social hierarchy and gender roles in–”

Bucky groaned loudly and flopped back in the chair. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“Because,” you said, voice dry, “some people have hobbies, James.”

Steve’s head tilted. “Popcorn assassination doesn’t count as a hobby?”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Bucky muttered into your blanket.

You glanced at him, and something in your chest pulled tight in that familiar, frustrating way.

Bucky was your brother.

Not in blood. Not legally, in any clean, official way that would satisfy a form. But in the only way that mattered most of your life: he had been there when you were small. He had been a constant in the house your mother built into a home. He had climbed into your bed on nights when thunder cracked the sky open and you were too proud to ask for comfort out loud.

He’d been there before you had language for fear.

Before you knew what survival looked like.

He had been family.

And that word should have made everything simple.

It didn’t.

Bucky caught your gaze and smirked, like he could hear your thoughts. “What?” he asked. “You gonna psychoanalyze me?”

“No,” you said immediately. “That’s Pietro’s job.”

Steve snorted at the mention of Pietro like it came with its own set of memories. Wanda’s too, by extension. Your first real friends. The ones who’d made life feel less like a constant fight and more like somewhere you belonged.

Bucky sat up again, restless energy returning. “Where is Pietro anyway? Doesn’t he usually show up here and steal your snacks and judge my life choices?”

“He has patients,” you replied. “Because unlike you, he’s a functioning member of society.”

Bucky placed a hand dramatically on his chest. “I’m an engineer at Stark industries, which, let me remind you, is a major corporation.”

“And yet,” you said, not missing a beat, “here you are.”

Steve’s smile softened, the kind that always made your throat feel a little tight. Steve had that effect on you. Not the sharp, sparking pull Bucky had – something else. Something steadier. Something you’d once mistaken for forever.

Steve was your neighbor turned best friend turned boyfriend turned… whatever you were now.

Ex. Friend. Family–adjacent.

You had loved him. Really loved him. You still did, in a way that lived in the bones of your history rather than the urgency of your present. A love that had gentled into something loyal.

Sometimes you looked at him and remembered being sixteen, pressed against the side of a building in Brooklyn, laughing into his shoulder like the world couldn’t touch you there.

Sometimes you looked at him and were grateful you’d survived the ending without losing him completely.

Steve set his sketchbook aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze flicking between you and Bucky like he was reading the room.

“So,” he said casually, “how’s the thesis going?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I feel like that’s a loaded question?”

“It’s not loaded,” Steve said, too innocent. “It’s… caring.”

“It’s loaded,” Bucky muttered.

Steve ignored him. “You’ve been working nonstop for weeks.”

You shrugged, the motion tight. “It’s the final stretch.”

Steve nodded, face softening. “You’ve got this.”

You looked away quickly, because praise still did something weird to you, no matter who it came from.

“Anyway,” you said briskly, “I’m not the topic.”

Bucky made a sound of agreement that was almost smug. “Yes you are.”

You glared at him. “No.”

“You’re always the topic,” Bucky said, like it was obvious. “You’re the only one in this room who’s allowed to have a nervous breakdown about academia and we’re supposed to just… watch politely.”

“I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

Bucky pointed at your coffee mug. “You’ve reheated that coffee twice.”

“It’s called sustainability.”

“You also color–coded your citations,” Steve added, voice amused.

“It’s called organization.”

“And,” Bucky continued, relentless, “you’ve been tapping your foot for fifteen minutes like you’re about to sprint out the window.”

You stopped tapping your foot out of spite.

Steve’s smile turned gentler. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

The words were simple.

They should have been comforting.

They were, in a way.

But you felt the reflex anyway – that trained flinch somewhere inside you that always went, Careful. Don’t need too much. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t become a burden.

You kept your expression neutral. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

Steve’s face softened further, like he heard the lie and didn’t punish you for it.

You shifted your weight on the rug and forced your tone lighter. “Besides, what are you two going to do? Write my conclusion?”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “I could.”

“You would write ‘therefore, archaeology is hot’ and call it a day,” you said.

Steve laughed. “That’s not… entirely inaccurate.”

Bucky glared at both of you, “Traitors", then leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, finally engaged. “Okay, explain something to me. Like I’m stupid.”

“You are,” you said immediately.

Steve groaned. “Be nice.”

Bucky ignored both of you. “What’s actually stressing you out? The research? The writing? The fact that you’ve made your committee hate you with your perfectionism?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

He always stared like that – direct, unblinking, as if the truth would come out if he just waited long enough.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You wanted to throw something at him.

You exhaled slowly, defeated.

“It’s… not the research,” you admitted. “Not really.”

Steve’s attention sharpened.

Bucky leaned back slightly, letting you talk.

“It’s the timeline,” you said. “It’s the idea that I’ve put years into this, and at the end of it there’s this… cliff. And I don’t know what’s on the other side.”

Steve nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “After the doctorate.”

You nodded. “After the doctorate.”

Bucky frowned. “But you already know what you want. You’ve talked about Europe for years. Since Mom took you to Rome.”

You hesitated.

Because yes, you’d talked about it. The idea of leaving. Of digging somewhere sunny and ancient and far from the weight of your own history. The idea of being someone else in a place that didn’t know you.

But wanting something didn’t mean believing you were allowed to have it.

“I know what I want in theory,” you said carefully. “I just don’t know if it’ll work. If I’ll… fit.”

Steve’s voice was quiet. “You always fit.”

You huffed. “Spoken like a man who looks like you.”

Steve blinked, then laughed. “That’s not–”

Bucky cut in, dry. “Fair.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

Silence settled, softer now.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, uncomfortably gentle.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, quieter than his usual teasing. “You’re you.”

The words hit you in the chest anyway, because you’re you could mean anything. It could be a blessing. It could be a sentence.

You looked away.

And then, because you couldn’t stay in sincerity too long without feeling exposed, you lifted your highlighter again and pointed it at them like a weapon.

“Okay,” you said briskly, “since we’re all sharing feelings now… why are you both here, exactly?”

Steve’s mouth opened.

Bucky answered first. “Because you haven’t eaten.”

You stared.

“I ate,” you lied.

Steve gave you a look.

Bucky’s eyebrows rose. “You had coffee.”

“That counts.”

“It does not,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded. “We’re staging an intervention.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You two are the least qualified people I know to intervene in anything.”

Steve looked offended. “I’m very qualified.”

“You’re qualified in art and moral righteousness,” you said.

Steve’s lips pressed together. “That’s… not wrong.”

You looked at Bucky. “And you–”

“I’m qualified to be annoying?” Bucky offered.

“You’re qualified to be impossible,” you corrected.

Bucky smiled like it was a compliment.

Steve stood up, stretching, then headed toward your kitchen like he belonged there, like he’d done this a thousand times. He opened your cabinets without asking, found the pasta like he already knew where it was, and started boiling water.

“You’re letting him do that?” Bucky asked, watching Steve.

You shrugged, eyes back on your screen. “He’s domesticated.”

Steve’s voice floated from the kitchen. “I heard that.”

Bucky scoffed. “You’re not domesticated, you’re just… aggressively helpful.”

Steve leaned back into the doorway, arms folded, looking fondly exasperated. “And you’re aggressively in the way.”

Bucky smirked. “I’m adding character to the environment.”

“You’re shedding popcorn,” Steve replied.

You watched them bicker – watched the ease of it, the years of friendship that sat between them like a foundation. Steve and Bucky had been a unit since childhood. You had fit into their orbit early, slid in like a third point on a triangle that never quite balanced.

Sometimes it felt like you were lucky to be included.

Sometimes it felt like you were the thing that made the shape dangerous.

You looked down at your notes again, throat tight for no reason you wanted to name.

“Hey,” Steve said softly.

You glanced up.

He was watching you, eyes kind.

“What?” you asked, too sharp.

Steve’s expression didn’t change. “You’re doing great,” he said again, simple. “I know you don’t like hearing it. But it’s true.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to Steve, then to you, something unreadable passing over his face.

You forced your mouth into a shrug. “Yeah, well.”

Steve didn’t push.

He went back to the kitchen.

Bucky stayed in the armchair, quieter now, watching you with that frustrating steadiness.

After a moment, he said, low enough that Steve couldn’t hear, “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself.”

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not.”

Bucky’s voice stayed calm. “You are.”

You exhaled sharply, turning toward him with a glare that was mostly defensive. “And you’re not hard on yourself?”

Bucky blinked like the question surprised him, then gave a small, crooked smile. “I’m hard on myself in different ways.”

“Right,” you muttered.

He watched you for another beat, then said, softer, “You’re allowed to want things.”

Something in your chest tightened.

You forced your tone light. “I want you to stop being profound in my living room.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Can’t. It’s a gift.”

Steve called from the kitchen, “She’s allergic to sincerity, Buck.”

“I noticed,” Bucky called back.

You threw a pen toward the kitchen doorway. It hit the wall instead.

Steve laughed.

Bucky laughed too – quiet, warm.

And for a moment, the apartment felt like what it always almost was: safe. Familiar. The three of you in a room, pretending the future wasn’t waiting with its teeth bared.

You looked down at your laptop again, the cursor blinking patiently, and let yourself breathe.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to believe that this – this ridiculous, domestic chaos – could last forever.

Steve had barely turned his back before Bucky started undoing his own damage.

It wasn’t like him to leave a mess behind – not really. He was the kind of person who took up space like he didn’t deserve it, then tried to erase the evidence that he’d ever existed in the first place. So once Steve had moved into the kitchen and the water started boiling, Bucky stood, stretched his arms above his head with a low sound that was half relief, half restlessness, and began gathering the popcorn he’d scattered like a menace.

He moved around your living room with that practiced familiarity he pretended he didn’t have. He picked up the beer bottle, rinsed it quickly at the sink, set it beside the other recyclables. He folded the throw blanket and put it back exactly where it lived, as if his hands knew the shape of your habits better than his mouth ever admitted.

He collected the stray papers he’d nudged off your coffee table earlier – careful not to disturb the piles too much, as if he’d learned, over years, what was sacred territory.

Steve’s voice floated from the kitchen, distracted and warm. “Bucky, don’t touch her notes. She’ll stab you.”

“I’m not touching anything,” Bucky called back. “I’m saving her from living like a raccoon.”

“I heard that,” you said without looking up.

Bucky made a sound that could only be interpreted as a grin.

He leaned down, grabbed the pen you’d thrown earlier and placed it back on the coffee table with exaggerated delicacy, like he was returning a weapon to its sheath.

“Violent,” he murmured.

You didn’t dignify it with a response.

Because your brain had finally latched onto a sentence that made sense and if you let go now, you knew you’d lose the thread and spend the next hour spiraling over citations.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps slowed.

You felt him hovering a moment before he spoke.

“I should go,” he said.

You glanced up just enough to see him rubbing the back of his neck – habitual, like he was always trying to scrub anxiety out of his skin.

“Natasha?” you guessed, tone neutral on purpose.

He nodded once. “Yeah. We’re… doing dinner.”

Steve appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “You could, I don’t know, stay and eat the food I’m making.”

Bucky snorted. “You’re making pasta.”

Steve’s expression turned offended. “Pasta is a food.”

“It’s barely a plan,” Bucky countered, but the corner of his mouth lifted anyway.

You went back to your screen, letting them bicker in the background like white noise.

“Text her you’ll be late,” Steve said.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you for half a second – one of those quick glances you might’ve missed if you didn’t know him as well as you did. Like he was checking whether you cared. Like he was checking whether you noticed.

You didn’t give him anything to hold onto.

Not because you wanted to punish him.

Because it was safer that way.

Bucky exhaled, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as if he’d decided what kind of man he needed to be for the next few hours, and headed for the door.

He paused in the entryway long enough to grab his shoes and tug them on, shoulders angled slightly toward the living room.

You didn’t get up.

You raised your hand in a small wave without looking away from your notes.

“See you,” you said, casual.

Bucky’s voice came softer than usual. “Yeah.”

Then, like he always did when he wasn’t sure how to leave without making it feel like something, he added, “Don’t work yourself to death.”

You scoffed faintly. “That’s literally the plan.”

Steve called, “She’s kidding.”

You weren’t entirely.

Bucky huffed a laugh, the sound brief and warm, and then the door clicked shut behind him.

The apartment shifted immediately.

It wasn’t that Steve wasn’t good company. He was. He always had been.

But when Bucky left, the air changed. Like an instrument had stopped playing and you only noticed when the silence settled in its place.

Steve turned back into the kitchen, and you heard him moving – drawer opening, cutlery clinking, the hiss of butter or oil in the pan. The smell of garlic grew stronger, warmer. Domestic.

You tried to lean into it. Tried to let it anchor you.

You reread the sentence you’d been working on and added a line, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard, grateful for the way research could swallow you whole when emotions threatened to climb out of your throat.

By the time Steve finally brought two plates to the coffee table, you’d managed an entire paragraph.

He sat one plate down carefully, then the other beside it.

“Eat,” he said.

“I will,” you replied automatically.

Steve’s gaze narrowed.

You sighed, set your highlighter down, and reached for the fork because he wasn’t going to stop staring until you did.

You took two bites. Three.

He sat on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body through the space between you, but he didn’t talk. He didn’t fill the room with questions. He didn’t ask about your writing.

He just watched you like he was waiting for something.

It made your skin prickle.

“Steve,” you said finally, still looking at your plate. “What?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he shifted – and in one smooth motion, he scooted closer until his thigh pressed against yours, and then his hands came up and settled on your shoulders.

Not rough. Not sudden enough to scare you.

But firm enough that you couldn’t pretend he hadn’t touched you.

Your spine went rigid on instinct.

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Steve’s fingers tightened gently, grounding rather than restraining, thumbs pressing small circles through the fabric of your shirt like he was trying to massage tension out of you without calling it what it was.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You swallowed, throat tight. “Hey.”

Steve’s gaze stayed on your face, patient.

“You’re not okay,” he said.

You huffed a breath, attempting a shrug, but his hands anchored you too well for it to work. “I’m fine.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change.

He wasn’t angry.

That was what made it worse.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be… composed.”

You stared at your laptop screen as if it could save you. The cursor blinked back at you, indifferent.

“I’m not composed,” you muttered.

Steve’s thumbs pressed once, reassuring. “You are,” he said gently. “You’re always composed. You’re composed when you’re exhausted, you’re composed when you’re scared, you’re composed when you’re hurting.”

Your chest tightened.

You tried to pull away, not sharply, just instinctively – the way you always did when tenderness got too close.

Steve didn’t hold you tighter. He didn’t trap you.

He just kept his hands there, steady, like an open door that wouldn’t slam shut if you stepped back.

You swallowed hard. “I have work to do.”

“I know,” Steve said. “And you’re going to do it. You always do.” His voice softened further. “But you’re allowed to be a person while you do it.”

The words landed somewhere deep.

Your eyes stung suddenly, unexpectedly.

You blinked fast, annoyed at yourself.

Steve’s hands shifted, one sliding up toward the base of your neck, fingers brushing the spot where you carried all your tension like a second spine.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened.

And for a second – just one – you let your shoulders sag under his hands. Let the weight drop an inch.

Steve felt it instantly. His grip softened, like he’d been waiting for that tiny surrender.

“There you are,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t exist.

You swallowed, voice barely a breath. “I’m here.”

Steve nodded, as if that was all he’d needed.

He didn’t ask you to talk.

He didn’t ask you to explain.

He just stayed, hands warm on your shoulders, anchoring you in place while the pasta cooled and the city outside kept moving, indifferent, as if the world hadn’t always been so loud and you hadn’t always had to learn how to be silent just to survive.

Steve didn’t take his hands off your shoulders when he asked.

It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t accusatory. It was said the way Steve said things when he already knew the answer but needed to hear how you were going to phrase it.

“How are you holding up,” he asked quietly, “with Natasha?”

Your fingers tightened around the fork for half a second before you forced them to relax. You kept your eyes on your plate. On the steam rising faintly from the pasta. On anything that wasn’t his face.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Steve didn’t move. Didn’t react. He just waited.

You hated that about him sometimes. The patience. The way he could sit in silence and let the truth corner you all on its own.

You exhaled slowly.

“It’s good for him,” you added. “Natasha is… good for Bucky.”

Steve’s hands shifted slightly on your shoulders, thumbs pausing in their small, grounding circles.

“In what way?” he asked, gently.

You swallowed.

“She grounds him,” you said. “She challenges him, but she doesn’t… orbit him. She has her own life. Her own center of gravity.” You forced a small smile. “He needs that.”

Steve hummed quietly, not disagreeing.

“And you?” he asked.

You hesitated.

The silence stretched – not uncomfortable, just heavy.

You could feel Steve watching you now. Not searching. Not interrogating. Just seeing.

You shrugged, finally, a movement that was more honest than words. “I don’t have anything to say against it,” you said. “It makes him happy.”

Steve’s grip tightened, just a fraction.

You felt it immediately.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, then opened them again, jaw setting.

“There are times,” you admitted, voice lower, more careful, “when it’s hard.”

Steve didn’t interrupt.

You continued, words coming more slowly now, like you were choosing each one to make sure it couldn’t betray you.

“Sometimes it’s the little things,” you said. “Hearing her name. Seeing her jacket at the door. Knowing where he is without having to ask.” You let out a breath. “Sometimes it’s just… knowing I’m not the person he reaches for.”

Steve’s thumbs stilled completely.

“But,” you added quickly, like you were afraid of what the pause might invite, “that’s on me. That’s not something he’s doing wrong.”

Steve’s voice came soft but firm. “I didn’t say it was.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I know,” you murmured. “I just–” You searched for the right phrasing. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who resents someone else’s happiness.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, very gently, “You’re allowed to be hurt without being resentful.”

Your throat tightened.

You shook your head, a small denial. “It doesn’t matter,” you said. “Bucky’s happy. That’s what counts.”

Steve leaned back slightly so you had no choice but to feel the absence of his hands before he settled one of them again, firmer this time, like he needed you to listen.

“That’s not the whole truth,” he said.

You turned your head just enough to look at him, irritation flickering. “It is.”

Steve met your gaze calmly. Too calmly.

“It’s part of it,” he said. “But it’s not all of it. And you know that.”

You looked away again.

“That’s why we broke up,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Not accusatory. Just factual. “Because you saw things I didn’t want to name.”

Steve’s mouth tightened – not in regret, but in recognition.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” he said.

You swallowed. “I know.”

“I left because I loved you,” he continued. “And because loving you meant not pretending I didn’t see what was hurting you.”

Your chest ached.

Steve’s voice softened even more. “You’ve always been very good at surviving,” he said. “At choosing what hurts less. At telling yourself that if everyone else is okay, then you should be too.”

You laughed softly, humorless. “Someone had to.”

Steve shook his head slightly. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

You didn’t answer.

After a moment, Steve squeezed your shoulders once more, then let his hands drop to his lap, giving you space again.

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” he said. “I’m not asking you to confront him. Or her. Or yourself.”

You nodded, relieved.

“I just want you to know,” Steve added, quietly, “that I see you holding it together. And I know that takes work.”

Your eyes stung again, and this time you didn’t bother blinking it away immediately.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Steve gave a small, sad smile. “You’re very good at loving people,” he said. “Even when it costs you.”

You looked down at your plate, appetite gone, heart heavy in that familiar way.

“I don’t know how to do it differently,” you admitted.

Steve stood, reached for your plate, and gently took it from your hands.

“Maybe one day,” he said softly, “you’ll let someone love you back without paying for it.”

You watched him carry the dishes to the kitchen, his presence steady, familiar, safe.

And for a moment – just a moment – you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to want something without immediately calculating the cost.

Steve came back from the kitchen quietly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of whatever fragile equilibrium you’d managed to reach. He dried his hands on a towel out of habit, folded it once, then twice, then set it aside before sitting down next to you again on the couch.

Close. But not crowding.

You stared ahead, eyes unfocused, watching the muted television without really seeing it. Your hands were folded in your lap, fingers worrying at each other in a way you hadn’t even noticed you were doing.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke.

“I would have liked it to be you,” you said softly.

The words were barely above a breath. No accusation. No regret sharpened into a blade. Just truth, laid down carefully, like you were afraid that if you said it too loudly it might shatter something you’d both fought to preserve.

Steve’s breath hitched.

For a split second, he closed his eyes. Not because the words hurt – though they did – but because they mattered. Because they were heavy with everything you hadn’t said when you were together, and everything you’d learned since letting each other go.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifted closer and wrapped his arms around you, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. You leaned into him, forehead pressing lightly against his chest, and he held you like that – solid, warm, familiar. The kind of embrace that didn’t demand anything in return.

“I know,” he said quietly, chin resting against the top of your head. “I really do.”

His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it – an echo of what might have been, acknowledged and set aside without bitterness.

“But I also know,” he continued, one hand smoothing over your hair in a grounding, almost absent–minded gesture, “that if we’d stayed together… we would’ve hurt each other. Slowly. In ways that would’ve taken longer to notice, and longer to fix.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

“We would’ve tried to make it work,” he said. “We would’ve compromised and adjusted and told ourselves it was enough. And one day we would’ve woken up and realized we’d both given up pieces of ourselves just to keep standing in the same place.”

His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Certain.

“And we wouldn’t have this,” he added. “Not like this.”

You nodded against him, the movement small but decisive.

You shifted slightly, lifting one hand to his wrist where it rested against your arm. Your thumb traced the ink there, slow and reverent, following the familiar curve of the letters as if you could read them blind.

No matter when.

You remembered the day you’d gotten them. The impulsiveness of it. The laughter that had followed, the way it had felt like a promise big enough to outlast anything.

Your own wrist still bore the answer to it.

No matter where.

You traced the words again, feeling the slight texture of healed skin beneath your fingers.

“We really thought we were clever,” you murmured.

Steve let out a soft, almost fond huff of a laugh. “We were very convinced we’d cracked the code.”

You smiled faintly, sadness and affection braided together in a way that no longer hurt as sharply as it once had.

“I don’t regret it,” you said after a moment. “Any of it.”

Steve tilted his head, looking down at you. “Me neither.”

You stayed like that for a while, the city humming outside your windows, the past and present settling into something that finally felt balanced. There was no urgency in the moment. No need to resolve anything. Just the quiet understanding that some loves didn’t end – they changed shape.

Steve pressed a gentle kiss to your hair, not romantic, not possessive. Just there.

“No matter when,” he said softly.

You closed your eyes and breathed him in, steady and familiar.

“No matter where,” you replied.

And for the first time in a long while, the words felt like a comfort rather than a goodbye.

Steve kissed your forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world – like it hadn’t once been a privilege, like it didn’t still mean something even now.

His lips lingered for half a second longer than necessary, warm and steady, and then he leaned back just enough to look at you.

“I’m gonna go,” he said softly. “I start early tomorrow.”

You hummed, not moving, still tucked against the corner of the couch with your legs folded beneath you, your laptop open on the coffee table like it was an extension of your spine.

“And you,” Steve added, voice gentler, “you need to sleep.”

You made a face. “I sleep.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed with the same patient skepticism he’d used on you since you were teenagers.

“You sleep,” he repeated, slow and unimpressed, “maybe three hours a night.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

Steve lifted a hand before you could. “No. Don’t. I’ve seen your schedule. You’re living on caffeine, spite, and whatever god is in charge of doctoral candidates.”

You couldn’t help it – you smiled.

“More than three hours,” he insisted, like he was negotiating with a stubborn child. “At least. Tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the affection in it softened the gesture. “Stop acting like my dad.”

Steve’s mouth tugged upward into a smile too – small, tired, fond.

“I’m not acting like your dad,” he said. “I’m acting like your friend who has watched you run yourself into the ground since you were eighteen and would really like you to keep your organs functioning.”

You snorted softly, the sound warm in your throat.

Steve’s gaze held yours for a beat longer, serious beneath the humor.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he added, quieter.

Your eyebrows rose. “Jesus, Steve.”

He shrugged as if it was nothing, as if it didn’t reveal the part of him that still worried like worry was the only way he knew to love.

“Just… so I know you’re not still staring at footnotes at three in the morning,” he said.

You didn’t promise. You just gave him a look that said I hate that you care like this and thank you in the same breath.

Steve stood, moving around your living room with the familiarity of someone who’d spent half his life in it. He gathered his sketchbook from the couch, slid it under his arm, then reached for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

He paused in the entryway, keys in hand.

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Something heavier.

But he didn’t.

He just gave you one last soft smile.

“Get some sleep,” he repeated.

You lifted two fingers in a lazy salute. “Yes, Mom.”

Steve laughed under his breath, shook his head, and then he was gone – door opening, hallway light spilling briefly into your apartment, then the click of the lock settling back into place.

Silence followed.

Not an empty silence – New York never allowed that. There were always pipes, distant footsteps, the low hum of a neighbor’s TV through the wall, a siren somewhere far enough away to sound more like a memory than a threat.

But it was your silence again.

You sat there for a long moment, unmoving, letting the warmth Steve had left behind fade from the air.

Then you exhaled, long and slow, like you’d been holding your breath without noticing.

Your laptop screen still glowed on the coffee table, cursor blinking patiently in the middle of an unfinished sentence. The kind of blink that felt accusing when you were already tired.

You stared at it.

Considered reopening your document. Just for ten minutes. Just to finish the paragraph. Just to tidy the thought.

The familiar spiral.

Steve’s voice echoed in your head – More than three hours. Tonight.

You sighed, almost irritated by how much it mattered to you.

With deliberate slowness, you reached forward and closed the laptop.

The sound – click – felt final. Like a decision. Like an act of mercy.

You stood, stretching your arms above your head, spine cracking lightly. Your apartment was dim now, lit only by the lamp near the couch and the faint glow filtering in from the city through the blinds.

You walked to the window and tugged the blinds closed the rest of the way, shutting out the skyline and the reminder that the world kept moving whether you did or not.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth on autopilot, washed your face with water that was too cold and made you flinch awake just enough to hate it. You changed into an old T–shirt and soft shorts, the fabric familiar against your skin in the way comfort always was – quiet, uncomplicated, earned.

When you returned to your bedroom, the bed looked too big.

Not because it was physically large.

Because it was empty in that way empty beds always were when you were used to occupying them alone – sprawled across them in odd positions, surrounded by papers and stress and thoughts that refused to shut up.

You pulled back the covers and slid in, curling onto your side out of habit.

The sheets were cool. The pillow smelled faintly like laundry detergent and your shampoo.

You stared at the ceiling.

And there it was, inevitable as gravity.

Bucky.

Natasha.

The image of him leaving earlier – jacket on, casual goodbye, that brief glance at you like he was checking something he wasn’t allowed to ask for.

The knowledge that he was somewhere else now. With her.

That he chose her. That he had built a life that didn’t include you in the way you secretly – stupidly – wanted.

You swallowed, throat tight.

Don’t. you told yourself, firm. Not tonight. Not right now.

You tried to picture something else.

The map on your wall. The timeline. The defense date circled in your planner. The feel of Steve’s arms around you. The softness of his voice when he said I know.

But the mind was cruel like that.

It circled what hurt.

It poked the bruise to see if it was still tender.

You turned onto your other side, pulling the blanket up to your chin like it could protect you from your own thoughts.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your chest felt tight, but you forced your breathing to slow anyway – counting in fours like Pietro had taught you years ago when you’d confessed you sometimes couldn’t fall asleep because your brain wouldn’t stop moving.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Hold.

The tension didn’t disappear.

But it shifted, a fraction.

You stared into the darkness until your eyes blurred.

And finally, exhausted enough that your body won over your mind, you let your eyelids close.

Just… hoping.

Hoping that when sleep came, it would be kind.

That it wouldn’t hand you his voice.

Or her name.

Or the ache of wanting something you had no right to claim.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93

Gathering your courage, and the fire of desperation simmering insistently in your belly, you shoved against Steve’s chest, trying to twist your knee up into his groin while creating some distance between you and the two men. But Steve was stronger and quicker, and he simply yanked you closer, allowing Bucky to crowd you into the broad body of his enforcer.

You were stuck, and it didn’t take long before you recognized that trying to fight your way out from between a rock (Steve’s firm chest) and a hard place (Bucky’s broad body) would only leave you tired. When your struggles finally ceased, Bucky gave a low, teasing chuckle, the warmth of his breath ghosting down your bare neck as he loomed above you from behind.

“It’s a shame you caught her so soon,” Bucky said, speaking to Steve even as his hands shifted higher on your body, curling around your ribs. His palms were scorching hot and greedy through the thin fabric of your gown. “We might’ve been able to learn what she was up to without having to pry it out of her—but it is more fun this way.”

The casual way the mob boss spoke about you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d spill all your secrets to him and his enforcer, pricked at your pride. You straightened your spine and tossed your head in annoyance, glaring at Bucky over your shoulder.

“I’ll never tell you anything,” you hissed. 

The steel in your voice had no effect on the mafia boss.

If anything, he looked even more amused, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth deepening infinitesimally, and his blue eyes sparking with a glimmer of delight. The tips of his fingers brushed the underside of your tits, distracting you, and it took everything in you to stop yourself from shivering at his touch. 

God help you, but it felt good to have Bucky’s hands on you—and not just his, but Steve’s too. Their fingers were deft, their palms warm. It didn’t matter that you were certain their hands had, at one time or another, been stained in blood. Not when they touched you with so much greedy possessiveness, it was liable to make you forget your mission and why it was so important you get that diamond and get free. 

“Y’know, when a woman tries to infiltrate my organization, the first thing they do is sleep with me,” Bucky went on, as if you hadn’t spoken, his tone entirely too conversational. You tried to focus, but it was difficult with both men touching you.

“Oh, have a great many women infiltrated your organization, then?” you shot back before he could continue, ignoring the thorn of jealousy that had lodged between your ribs, making it hard to breathe. It certainly had nothing to do with the proximity of the mob boss and his enforcer—nothing at all. “Sounds like you have a security problem.”

Your eyes found Steve, giving him a sarcastic sneer that had his gaze heating, his hand tightening around your wrist in a warning. Bucky’s fingertips dug into your ribs and he pulled your back flush against his chest, the long line of his body fitting perfectly to yours—so perfectly that you could feel the hard bulge of his cock against your lower back.

“But not you, doll,” Bucky said, ignoring you again. Instead, he ground his hardness into your ass until you were sucking in a gasp, heat pooling between your thighs as your body ached to shift so that thick bulge was pressed against your heated center. “Did you think teasing me, making me hard for you and leaving me wanting, would make me a dumber, easier mark?”

Truthfully, that had been your plan. Sort of.

In your life as a thief, you’d learned that every job needed its own approach, and that most men were much easier to manipulate when they were thinking with their dicks. With his playboy persona, you’d thought Bucky Barnes would be a simple mark who would be too distracted by your tits and ass to notice you robbing him blind—and that his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, was too much of a meathead to catch you.

What you’d failed to account for was how much the two men would intrigue and charm you. Bucky, with his charismatic smile and dazzling personality, and Steve, with his handsome glower and too-sharp eyes, had snuck their way beneath your defenses, stealing more of your heart than you’d even realized.

Well, on some level you’d understood how dangerous they could be. That was the real reason you hadn’t slept with Bucky—you knew that if you fell into bed with the mob boss, you might start envisioning a life where you were free to be with who you wanted, rather than indebted to your employer. Leaving Bucky wanting had just been an added bonus.

Still, your pride smarted from how easily he’d nailed it on the head, and you couldn’t let that slide. So, you raised your chin and managed to look down your nose at the mob boss, giving him an imperious look as you responded to his question.

“No, I just didn’t want to fuck you,” you taunted, lying through your teeth. “I may be a thief, but I have standards.” 

It was the wrong thing to say if you’d wanted to placate the mafia boss—which made it exactly the right thing to tell him, since your only play was to poke and prod at the men trapping you until a chink appeared in their armor and you could slip away. You just had to bide your time, you were sure, and then you could escape.

Bucky’s expression darkened, like storm clouds rolling in to block out the sunny blue sky, and you had to bite back a grin at the obvious ire on his face. You didn’t know what to expect from him, didn’t know if you were prepared for Bucky’s anger, but a part of you welcomed it with open arms. You wanted to see what he’d do if you pushed him far enough.

But it wasn’t just outrage in the mob boss’s expression—there was amusement and desire, too. Maybe even a hint of respect. It swirled into a heady cocktail that had your body clenching tight in anticipation despite you trying to ignore your attraction to him.

Quick as a flash of lightning, Bucky shoved one of his hands between your thighs, cupping your heated core through your dress. Your body jerked in surprise, even as your pussy pulsed with desire at the warmth and strength of his palm. You squirmed in Steve and Bucky’s arms, trying to get away from the burgeoning pleasure you felt.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you intended to ask the mob boss what the fuck he was doing, but before you could, Bucky’s hand was pulling back. Then, he gave you a sharp smack, right between your thighs—right against your pussy.

“Ah!” you cried, a little stinging pain mixing with a whirlwind of pleasure that tore through your body, making you lurch forward, only for Steve to hold you tighter. You braced against the enforcer with your free hand, turning your head to catch Bucky’s eye over your shoulder. “What the hell was that for?”

Instead of answering your question, Bucky only grinned unrepentantly, and did it again. He spanked your pussy while he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, which you were determined not to give him.

The fabric of your dress and panties softened the blow, so it barely stung, but despite your best intentions, you couldn’t hide the way it left you panting and feeling empty. A dizzying desire surged through your body, clouding your mind and making your eyes go hazy, your mouth dropping open on a soft sound of need.

“For every lie you tell, doll, you’ll get one spank,” Bucky rumbled, his chest pressing against your shoulders until you were pinned to Steve in front of you. 

There was nowhere for you to go, nowhere to look but into the mafia boss’s heated, sparkling blue eyes while his enforcer held you up. It was embarrassing to realize how shaky your legs were after a couple of soft spanks, and you resented how grateful you felt toward Steve for keeping you upright, so you didn’t lose your dignity—not yet anyway.

“If you keep lying,” Bucky went on, rubbing his palm against your smarting center and making your breath catch in your throat as you held back a moan. “You’re only torturing this sweet little cunt, and she doesn’t deserve that, does she?” He petted you between your thighs, managing to make the soothing gesture feel condescending.

“I…I haven’t lied,” you said, wincing a little at how breathless you sounded. But you dug deep for your own self-preservation and scrounged up a glare, hurling it at Bucky while he loomed over your shoulder.

The mob boss tsked low in his throat and slapped your pussy again, harder, making you squirm and bite back a whine. Your heart pounded in your chest and you were growing uncomfortably wet, your panties sticking to your damp flesh, but you tried to rein yourself in, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction of seeing any more of your reaction. 

“That’s lie number three,” Bucky tutted, soothing your pussy with soft, teasing touches that were working you up just as much as his spanks. “Should I tell you what the first two were, or would you rather be a good girl and confess?”

Something in your belly swooped at the words ‘good girl’ and you had to tamp down on the urge to do what he asked. Instead, you gritted your teeth and glared at him, shaking your head. Bucky remained completely unfazed, chuckling at your furious expression like you were nothing more than an unruly kitten. 

“Looks like our little thief isn’t ready to be good for us, huh, Stevie?” Bucky commented, tossing a cavalier grin at his enforcer, who grunted in agreement, the sound hotter than it had any right to be. “But that’s alright, we’ve got all night, don’t we?”

“All night,” Steve repeated in confirmation, and you angled your head so you could look up into his face. He was watching you with stormy blue eyes, lust and a possessive kind of promise roiling in the depths of his gaze. “All week, all month—hell, we could keep her forever if we wanted.”

Your breath inexplicably hitched at the word ‘forever’, your heart beating so hard against your ribs that you wondered if Steve could feel it through his suit. From the way his eyes darkened and narrowed on your face, you could tell he was reading your reaction—and he liked what he saw, a hint of a smile flickering around the edge of his mouth.

“The lies you told,” Bucky began, amusement in his tone as he dragged your attention back to him. “First, you lied when you said you weren’t going to tell us anything.” His hand stroked your pussy through your dress and you had to fight not to writhe against him. “And the second lie was when you said you didn’t want to fuck me.”

An affronted scoff burst from your lips, your mind momentarily clearing of the pleasure Bucky had been stoking in your core. “You think real fucking high of yourself, boss,” you sneered, ignoring the fact that he was telling the truth, and you did, in fact, want to fuck him—and his enforcer.

You’d hoped your comment might push Bucky to breaking, but he only grinned, sharing the expression with Steve before ducking down so his face was close to yours.

“Oh, so you aren’t soaking wet for us, doll?” Bucky mocked, his fingers teasing along the seam of your sex. You were so embarrassingly wet, you wondered if he could feel it even through the fabric of your dress and panties. “If I pulled your dress up and pushed your panties to the side, you wouldn’t be dripping wet for us, huh?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t protest because you’d only be lying, and you didn’t need Bucky spanking you again. You weren’t sure you could hold in your moan if he did. So you simply rolled your eyes and refused to give him the satisfaction of answering truthfully. Pouting, you stared petulantly at Steve’s chest. 

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky rumbled, a smile in his voice as he grabbed your face, refusing to let you ignore him. Your stomach flipped at the sight of his small grin, and you glared harder, which only made the mob boss chuckle under his breath. “Just wait and see, doll, we’ll make you our good girl yet.”

It was difficult to speak with the way Bucky’s fingers were digging into your cheeks, but you rolled your eyes and managed a testy, “Doubtful,” that he completely ignored. 

“Get rid of her dress, Stevie,” Bucky ordered, a smirk on his face as he glanced at his most trusted enforcer. When he looked back at you, there was an eager kind of hunger in his eyes that had your belly bottoming out with anticipation.

It was a good thing the mob boss had such a tight hold on you because without it, you would’ve stumbled when Steve stepped back. Cold air rushed against your front, and you couldn’t hold back a shiver at the loss of his warmth, your nipples pebbling against the lace of your undergarments. 

Steve’s eyes lingered on your chest, his expression too calm and stoic to be leering, which somehow only made you hotter. You had to stop yourself from squirming in Bucky’s arms, belatedly remembering you were meant to be planning your escape. 

Your mind was lethargic as you tried to assess your surroundings and look for a way out. You were too distracted by the sight of Steve lowering his big body down onto one knee, an image flashing in your mind of Steve tossing one of your thighs over his shoulder and burying his face between your legs. Your hips twitched toward his head, and you could’ve sworn a smirk flickered at the edge of his mouth.

But then Steve was gathering the skirt of your dress in his big hands. He tore through it easily, like he was ripping a piece of tissue paper instead of rending the fabric of a designer dress. 

“This cost me three month’s rent!” you screeched before you could stop yourself, not realizing just how revealing those words were. 

Steve paused, his eyes finding Bucky’s over your shoulder. The men had a silent conversation that would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t so focused on appraising the damage done to your dress and wondering if there was any way to fix it. 

It had been an extravagant purchase, even after your last score, but you’d looked at it as an investment, something you could wear for multiple jobs. But it was ruined. You knew just by looking at it that there was no salvaging the tear right up the center of the skirt. It was such a shame because the dress was beautiful and, more importantly, you’d looked exquisite in it.

You were very near to tears when Bucky’s hand shifted, his palm pressing beneath your chin, fingers digging lightly into your cheek to turn your head to look at him. You tried to blink the tears from your eyes, but you weren’t quick enough and you were sure he saw them. Embarrassment blazed hot in your face. 

“I’ll get you another one, doll,” Bucky said softly, his tone gentler than you thought possible from the mob boss. “I’ll pay for it.”

An uncomfortable feeling snuck between your ribs, burying deep in your heart and it was such a foreign emotion that it took you a moment to recognize it as gratitude. No one, let alone the men you stole from, had ever made such a generous offer before, and you didn’t know what to do with it. 

Rather than do something stupid, like thank the mafia boss, you set your jaw so your lower lip wouldn’t wobble and nodded your head in acceptance. 

Bucky stared at you for a short moment longer, an almost affectionate smile playing on his lips, before gesturing for Steve to continue. The sound of rending fabric wasn’t nearly so painful when you knew the dress would be replaced, and you simply watched as the enforcer continued his rough removal of the garment. 

In no time at all, Steve was yanking the tattered shreds of your gown away from your body and leaving them in a pile of fabric on the floor of the storage room. Squaring your shoulders and raising your chin proudly, you feigned a practiced poise as you stood before the handsome men in nothing more than a matching set of lacy lingerie and heels.

“Pretty,” Steve mumbled as he stood, one of his hands skating up your ribs, the rough callouses on his fingers teasing your soft skin. His other hand traced the edge of your panties where they sat snugly on your hip, his blue eyes warm and molten as he stared at your body, making your breath stall in your lungs. 

For a brief moment, Steve explored the curves of your body—the dip of your waist, the weight of your breasts, the roundness of your hips and ass—before he seemed to remember himself. With an audible swallow, the muscle in his jaw popping, he forced his hands to his sides, meeting your gaze with hard eyes.

“For a thief, anyway.”

Steve’s scornful words felt like a thorn pricking your heart, and it took every bit of your self-control not to show it on your face. You weren’t sure how successful you were when something flickered in his eyes, something that looked a bit like regret. 

Behind you, Bucky gave a soft chuckle, like he was amused by you and Steve. But you didn’t have the capacity to think about why you’d responded to Steve’s dismissive comment the way you did, not when Bucky was ducking his head so his mouth teased the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been torturing my enforcer for weeks, doll,” Bucky murmured, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Whaddya say we put him out of his misery?”

It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that you’d offered to put Steve out of his misery before Bucky had made himself known—and the enforcer had refused your advances. How tortured could he possibly be if he’d turned you down? 

But you didn’t say any of that, you just let Bucky guide you backward, watching Steve trail after the two of you, his eyes on your body, like he was entranced by the sight of so much of your skin on display for him.

Bucky’s hands were on your hips, leading you deeper into the room and away from the door. Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted a wall of books, all of them looking old and priceless. When Bucky bumped into an antique sofa, he sank down into the sumptuous seat, pulling you into his lap. 

Your ass pressed flush against the hard bulge of Bucky’s cock in his pants, and you shot him an unamused look over your shoulder, but he wasn’t paying attention to you. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure why you weren’t fighting back, only that you’d abandoned trying to form an escape plan. You were curious where things were headed with Bucky and Steve—and hopeful that you be able to have some fun before you fulfilled your mission.

Focusing back on the men, you watched as Bucky gestured for Steve to come forward, until the enforcer was standing right in front of you, practically blocking out the rest of the room and its treasures. But Steve was a treasure unto himself. 

The thick length of his cock jutted against the zipper of his slacks, twitching when your tongue darted out to moisten your lips. You glanced up at Steve, your eyes dragging languidly over his narrow waist and broad shoulders until you met his eyes. 

His face was fixed into a glower, but deep in his gaze, you saw the hunger that had been there earlier, when you’d thought he was about to kiss you. The longer you looked, the easier it was to see the naked yearning in Steve’s pretty blue eyes, and it made you want to nuzzle your cheek against his bulge before paying homage to his gloriousness.

“Go on, doll,” Bucky’s voice, soft and entreating in your ear, compelled you as he leaned forward, urging your face into Steve’s lap until your nose brushed the ridge of the enforcer’s cock through his pants. The hard length gave a responding twitch that made the corner of your mouth curve in a slight smile. “Stevie’s been hard for you since he met you, so why don’t you be a good girl and suck his cock—show us what that mouth can do besides lying.”

A shiver of desire raced down your spine at the rough velvet of Bucky’s voice, and you tipped your head back, your eyes finding Steve as he stared down at you with his own lust written plainly across his handsome face. You wanted to suck his cock so bad, but you hesitated. 

So far, Bucky had been the one pushing you and Steve together, and although the enforcer looked like he wanted you to suck him off, he hadn’t really given you any indication that he was consenting to it. So you waited, your mouth a hairsbreadth away from his hard length, looking up at him with a question in your gaze.

Something in Steve’s expression cracked, and his fingers brushed softly against your cheek, tracing your jaw with one finger while he stroked his thumb along your lower lip. You let your mouth fall open and Steve pushed the tip of his thumb between your lips. You gave him a teasing suckle, the edge of your mouth flickering in a smirk when his eyes darkened, his pupils blowing wide with lust.

“Yeah, sweetheart, let me see what that mouth can do,” Steve rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, as he pulled his hand away from your face. 

As you watched, he shed the jacket of his suit, tossing it onto the back of the sofa, and began rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down. You were fascinated by the way the muscles of his forearms shifted beneath his golden tanned skin, and you watched in rapt attention until Steve’s hand settled on the crown of your head, pushing your face back into his lap.

“Show me how a little thief like you would’ve made it worth my while to betray my boss,” Steve teased roughly, using his grip on your head to drag your parted lips along the length of his cock through the soft fabric of his pants. “Be a good slut and suck my cock—and if you’re any good, maybe I’ll ask Buck to go easy on you.”

At those words, you narrowed your eyes, shooting a glare up at Steve in an effort to show him how unmoved you were by his offer. But then you took a deep breath and all you could smell was Steve. Instantly, you forgot your annoyance. You forgot that the men were playing with you hoping to extract information—you even forgot your entire damn reason for being in that mansion in the first place.

The masculine musk of Steve’s smell invaded your senses, filling your head with cotton candy clouds of lust that pushed out all thoughts other than the man and the cock in front of you. Instinctively, you swayed closer to Steve, pressing your lips against his bulge in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, reveling in the way his dick twitched in response. 

You settled your hands on Steve’s thick thighs, your fingers lightly groping the muscles you could feel beneath his slacks, while you pressed kisses along the length of his cock. Although you could feel him getting harder beneath your ministrations, when you tipped your head back, the enforcer’s expression was hard and unyielding as he stared down at you.

The only indication Steve was at all affected by what you were doing was the blaze of possessive heat in his darkened blue eyes, and the rigid set of his jaw. You could tell that Steve was enjoying your mouth, but you wanted him to come undone, to let loose of that control he held onto with an iron grip.

But before you could set your mind to your task, Bucky reminded you of his presence, his hands grabbing your hips and yanking you deeper into his lap, until the softness of your pussy was pressed against the hard ridge of his cock. You let out a lustful moan, sinking into the sensation while you suckled on the tip of Steve’s thick length, feeling him throb against your lips.

For long moments, you indulged in being pinned between the two men, your mouth worshipping Steve’s cock through his pants while Bucky’s hands explored your mostly naked body. His palms swept down your ribs, groping your hips and guiding you to rock gently in his lap before his hands moved back up your body to cup the swell of your tits. 

Bucky’s mouth kissed along your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin and his tongue soothing over every spot he bit while he learned the curves of your body. His fingers dipped beneath the lace of your bra, teasing over your nipples and playing with them until they were hardened peaks and you were whining helplessly in the mafia boss’s lap.

When Steve was hard and throbbing enough that his precum had left a little wet spot on his pants, he let out an impatient growl, thrusting his hips into your face and shoving the shaft of his cock into your mouth. All you could smell was him, your drool soaking the front of his slacks while you moaned against his bulge.

“Enough teasing, doll,” Bucky rumbled, nipping at the spot on your neck just beneath your ear, the one that turned you liquid in his arms. “Take him out and suck his cock like the good girl we know you are.”

You were so far gone in your lust that you didn’t protest. Your fingers fumbled eagerly at the button and fly of Steve’s pants, undoing them in just a few, breathless seconds. When you shoved his pants down his thighs, along with his navy blue boxer briefs, his thick cock bounced free and nearly hit you in the face.

All you could do was giggle in excitement, your job and the reason for why you couldn’t get close to the two men completely forgotten. All that mattered was getting what you wanted, which in that moment, was a taste of the hot enforcer in front of you.

Taking him in one hand, you dragged your tongue up the underside of Steve’s cock, indulging in the filthy decadence of him straight from the hot, hard source. Your tongue flicked at his tip, lapping up the dribble of precum that had gathered there, and you moaned at the taste of him, so clean and musky and perfect. 

When you opened hazy eyes and looked up at Steve, he looked like a man on the verge of breaking, his eyes so full of greedy lust and his jaw clenched so tight, the muscle in his cheek was popping wildly. It made you want to give him a little push and see if the tension that had his muscles pulling so taut would snap. 

“How’m I doing?” you murmured huskily before pressing a wet, suckling kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock, swirling your tongue around the crown and watching as his eyes darkened even further. “Do you like the feeling of my hot little mouth on your big cock, sir?”

You didn’t think it was possible, but Steve’s jaw clenched tighter, his eyes filled with so much unchecked desire and possessiveness that they looked like a churning, stormy sea. You parted your lips, sucking Steve’s cock into your mouth, and watched him get even closer to losing it. 

Not to be forgotten, Bucky’s hands groped your tits, pushing your bra down until the swells of your breasts popped free. He touched you like he already owned you, his fingers plucking teasingly at your nipples, making you moan around Steve’s shaft.

“Answer our girl, Stevie,” Bucky growled, and you could see him shooting a hard look at his enforcer out of the corner of your eye. “Tell our little thief how good she looks sucking your cock—tell her how good she feels.”

“Fuck,” Steve groaned on a deep exhale. His hands settled on your head, guiding you up and down his cock, pushing his hard length deeper into your mouth with every thrust. “She looks so fucking gorgeous sucking my cock, and she feels like heaven—I could fuck her slutty mouth every goddamned day and never get sick of it.” 

Warm pride and something else, something you were too frightened to try to name, bloomed in your chest and you eagerly sucked on Steve’s cock, wringing another groan from the big man. He responded by shoving your head closer to his lap, until the tip of his dick was bullying the back of your throat, making you gag in surprise. 

“I wanna fuck our little thief’s mouth like the slutty cocksleeve that she is, wanna see her throat bulge from my cock,” Steve rambled, sounding half-feral, half-possessed as the filthy words tumbled off his tongue. “I wanna cum all over our girl’s face and mark her as mine—mark her as ours. Our fuck toy, our perfect set of holes.” 

You couldn’t help it, your eyes rolled back in your head and you let out a loud moan at Steve’s words, at the way he’d finally lost control and was fucking your mouth like you were nothing more than his toy to use. It was all you could do to brace your hands on his muscular thighs and try not to gag while the enforcer worked his cock deeper and deeper into your throat.

“That’s fucking right, use our girl, Stevie,” Bucky crowed, cheering his friend on while he kept groping and playing with your tits. One of his hands slid down your body, cupping your pussy through your panties, and pressing his fingers into the wet fabric at the seam of your sex. “She’s our good girl, isn’t that right, doll?” 

Pleasure and sensation made your mind go blank, until you were nothing more than a creature of lust, focused entirely on giving Steve the satisfaction he sought in your mouth and getting yours from Bucky’s fingers. You rocked your hips, humping Bucky’s hand while you sucked eagerly on Steve’s cock, feeling him beginning to throb in your mouth as your pussy pulsed and fluttered, both of you getting close.

You were right on the precipice of coming, and could feel that Steve was as well, when Bucky pulled his hand from between your thighs, pushing them wide across his lap and tugging your head off his enforcer’s cock. For a moment, you sat stunned in Bucky’s lap, panting and wondering what the hell had just happened. 

The frenzied beating of your heart slowed and you focused on the sight in front of you, Steve’s big hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing the hard length so tight, his knuckles were turning white. The flushed tip of his dick was so red and angry, you tried to sit forward and lick it better, but Bucky’s arm banded around your waist, holding you pinned to his lap.

“Tell us what we want to know, pretty doll,” Bucky murmured silkily in your ear, his hands soothing over your body, though they didn’t touch you anywhere you wanted them—your tits or between your thighs. “What are you here to steal? Who are you working for?”

It finally hit you what was happening, how Bucky had let you get close to your release only to yank it away at the last second. Your body throbbed with unslaked pleasure and a sob bubbled up in your chest. You had to bite your lip hard to keep it from spilling free. 

It just wasn’t fair. 

You’d been such a good girl for them, you’d done everything they asked, but you couldn’t give them this. You couldn’t tell them about the mess you were in, you couldn’t trust them—no matter how much a part of you wanted to. It was there, like a niggling thorn stuck between your ribs, the desire to trust them with the truth, but you ignored it.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you shook your head in refusal of Bucky’s questions, fear and anxiety swirling uneasily in your stomach. It wasn’t until Steve cupped your face with his free hand, his thumb stroking over your cheek, that you realized a few tears had escaped without you noticing.

“You’re even prettier when you cry, sweetheart,” Steve said softly, his voice so sweet it took you a moment to understand his words. When you did, you tried to pull away, but Steve’s hand gripped your face tightly, his blue eyes burning with a possessiveness that nearly stole your breath. “Answer Buck’s questions and we’ll fuck you so good, baby, we’ll make you cry so prettily on both our cocks.”

A shiver of want raced down your spine and you trembled in Bucky’s lap, your eyes falling miserably away from Steve’s face as emotions swirled turbulently in your chest and stomach. “I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.

All the while, your mind raced as you tried to think of a way out of your predicament. Your employer wouldn’t suffer failure, and if you didn’t return to him with the diamond he’d commanded you steal, it could have deadly consequences. But you were so thoroughly trapped by Bucky and Steve, and even if you were able to get away from them, they’d destroyed your dress, which made escaping the mansion without being seen even more difficult.

Behind you, Bucky huffed out a sound like a bitten off sigh and wrapped his arms around your body, holding you in a tight hug while he gently nuzzled his cheek against yours. The rough stubble of his scruff soothed some of your anxiety away, enough that you could focus back on the moment, back on the two men who were staring at you with something like concern in their eyes.

“Are you afraid of us—afraid we’ll be upset with you,” Bucky began, his voice rumbling in his chest and teasing down your spine where he was pressed flush against your back. “Or the person who hired you?”

Your heart gave a pathetic lurch in your chest at the gentleness in Bucky’s voice, and in the watchful look in Steve’s eye as he crouched down in front of you, so his face was level with yours. The enforcer’s hand cupped your cheek almost tenderly, and his eyes stared deep into your own, like he was imploring you to answer.

“If I tell you, he’ll kill me,” you whispered, your eyes avoiding Steve’s face as you hurried on to explain the mess you were in that had led you to infiltrating the mob boss’s party in an attempt to steal from him. “And not just me—he has my father.”

Both Bucky and Steve let out harsh breaths, and when you glanced up at the man in front of you, you found him looking at his boss over your shoulder. The two of them were having a wordless conversation that you couldn’t even begin to decipher, so you simply waited for them to be done.

“We can protect you,” Bucky murmured a moment later, his arms settling more securely around your body until he held you in the tightest hug you’d ever felt. It felt so good, so safe, you nearly sobbed. “Steve and I will make sure nothing happens to you or your father. Right, Stevie?”

“Right,” Steve confirmed, his expression and tone so resolute, you had no choice but to believe him. The calm, stoic enforcer was back, but his eyes were still stormy, still simmering with emotion—all of it for you. “We’ll keep you safe, but you need to tell us what’s going on.”

Steve looked so earnest, so ready to step in and save the day, that it overwhelmed you. It was too much to hope that he was being honest, that he really could save you from your predicament. You had to close your eyes to think. But even then, you still felt Bucky’s steady, strong presence wrapped around your body, holding you while you trembled with indecision.

In the life of a thief, it was imperative that you only rely on the right people. In your life, you’d learned the hard way that it was better if you didn’t rely on anyone at all. Your father, the man who was supposed to protect you above all others, had instead offered you up as the solution to his problems. He’d been in debt to your employer and had promised your skills to repay those debts.

It didn’t seem to matter to your father that you’d be killed along with him if you were unsuccessful, and unfortunately for you, you weren’t as unfeeling. For all his poor decisions, he was still your dad and you didn’t want to see him killed. 

For a brief, blistering moment, you wished the night had gone to plan and you’d been able to sneak in, steal the diamond and get back to your employer to free your father from him. But that’s not how things had worked out, and now your only option was to trust the men you’d planned to steal from. They were your only hope.

“Tony Stark hired me to steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë,” you murmured, your eyes still closed so you didn’t have to see Bucky or Steve’s reactions to your confession. “If I don’t bring it to him tonight, he’ll kill my father and then me.”

The men were quiet for a moment, long enough that you finally gathered the courage to open your eyes, finding them both staring at you, their expressions filled with a tender kind of sympathy. Before you could scoff at their pity, Steve broke the silence, his voice ragged with emotion.

“We won’t let that happen, sweetheart,” he vowed, catching your eye and staring deep into your soul. It was hard to believe him, but he sounded so genuine, how could you not?

“Make the call,” Bucky ordered from behind you, talking to his enforcer while his arms tightened around your body. His hold was the same reassurance Steve had given you, and you relaxed slightly into it.

But before Steve followed his boss’s command, he shocked the hell out of you by leaning forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss. Sparks danced inside your head at the soft press of the enforcer’s mouth, and you sucked in a gasp that allowed Steve to lick between your lips. He kissed you gently, teasingly, an unspoken promise on his tongue.

When Steve finally pulled away, you were too dazed by the kiss to pay much attention to him standing up and pacing away from the sofa where you and Bucky sat, pulling a cellphone from his pants pocket and pressing it to his ear. He spoke in low tones you couldn’t make out, not that you would’ve been able to understand whatever orders he was issuing when you were still stunned by his kiss.

Bucky leaned back into the sofa, drawing you deeper into his lap and turning you slightly. His eyes roamed freely over your features as he tipped your face toward him so he could look into your eyes. The mob boss chuckled lightly at the surprised expression still on your face, tracing his thumb idly along your plump lower lip.

“Seems you’ve won over my best enforcer, doll,” Bucky murmured, his tone lightly teasing as he gently coaxed you back down to earth. “I guess I have no choice but to keep you now.” Bucky ducked down until his mouth hovered a mere fraction of an inch from yours. “Steve has been telling me it’s past time to find a wife—and I like you far more than I should, little thief.”

With that pronouncement, Bucky closed the gap between your lips, claiming your mouth in a searing kiss. In contrast to Steve’s gentleness, Bucky was demanding, licking into your mouth and stroking his tongue against yours, making your mind melt and your body go suddenly hot with renewed desire. 

You turned more on Bucky’s lap, grabbing onto his shoulders so that you could kiss him back. Despite how small you’d made yourself a moment ago, you weren’t some wilting flower who needed to be handled like you were breakable. You were the best damn thief in the world, and you wanted Bucky just as much as he clearly wanted you.

The kiss turned hotter and heavier when you pressed your body into Bucky’s, your tits crushed against his chest and your ass wiggling against his hard bulge. Liquid lust pooled low in you belly, and you gasped in delight when Bucky’s rough hand slid up your thigh. 

He’d almost reached your pussy when a polite cough interrupted your moment. Bucky ended the kiss with a groan, and turned his attention to his enforcer, whose blue eyes sharpened on your kiss-swollen lips for a moment before he shook his head and focused back on his boss.

“We’ve located your father,” Steve said, meeting your eyes with his calm gaze. “He’ll be at one of our safe houses within the hour. I’ve also doubled security here and the partygoers are being sent home. You’ll be safe in the mansion while we figure out how to deal with Stark.”

“Good,” Bucky answered before you could thank Steve. Your head was still spinning from both their kisses and it was taking more effort than usual to follow the conversation. “And you called in the underbosses?”

Steve gave a quick nod. “They’re all coming in,” the enforcer confirmed. “They’ll be assembled here by tomorrow afternoon.”

The two men continued to talk about specifics, but you were distracted by the revived desire thrumming through your body. Your gaze traveled lazily down Steve’s body, finding that he’d pulled up his pants and boxer briefs, but hadn’t zipped himself up, so his cock was tenting the navy blue cotton in a particularly enticing manner. 

“Then there’s just the matter of dealing with our little thief,” Bucky was saying, and at the mention of you, you tuned back into the conversation, glancing first at the mafia boss and then his enforcer. Both were watching you closely, lust and a feral kind of possessiveness in their eyes, though Bucky wore a charming smirk while Steve’s expression was more like a glower.

“What, me?” you asked as innocently as you could manage—which wasn’t innocent at all, the breathless excitement in your tone making you sound like an eager slut. You tossed your head and sat up primly on Bucky’s lap, giving each man a haughty look before continuing. “You could deal with me by finally making me cum, if you boys are up to the task, of course.”

Steve growled at the obvious challenge in your words while Bucky just chuckled. The mob boss manhandled you on his lap until you were facing away from him again, your legs thrown over his thighs as you perched on his knees. He gently pushed your upper body toward Steve, and you didn’t need any more encouragement than that to tug down the enforcer’s briefs so you could pick up where you’d left off.

In the time it had taken Steve to make his calls, his cock had softened slightly, so you pressed suckling kisses up and down his shaft, delighting in the feel of him hardening against your mouth. Behind you, you felt Bucky working his pants open, and you moaned when you felt his cock spring free, slapping your ass with its thick, heavy length.

“Ready to take both our cocks, little thief?” Bucky murmured, tugging your panties to the side and sliding the tip of his cock along the seam of your pussy. You were already wet for him, but you felt even more desire leak from your hole at the teasing slide of his tip between your folds. “You gonna be a good girl for us, doll?”

“Ye-es,” you moaned brokenly against the crown of Steve’s dick, licking greedily at the precum dripping onto your lips. “Want your cock, boss,” you murmured dreamily, your eyes flicking up to find Steve’s expression twisted into something feral as he watched you. “Want you to fuck me, sir—use my holes, make me your slut, make me cum, please.”

When Bucky chuckled, the sound was strained, and your heart warmed with pride at how much you were affecting the mafia boss. You rolled your hips, pressing your pussy against the tip of Bucky’s dick, making him suck in a sharp breath as your warm, wet hole teased his sensitive cock. 

“You heard our girl, Stevie,” Bucky rumbled, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you up. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his thick length to guide him into your pussy. At the same time, you opened your mouth wide, letting Steve feed his cock into your mouth. “Don’t hold back—fuck her like the filthy slut she is.”

“You got it, boss,” Steve ground out through clenched teeth, his hips stuttering and his cock twitching as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his thick cock. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice roughly tender as he grabbed your head in a firm grip. 

Then both men were thrusting deep into your body, Steve’s cock hitting the back of your throat while Bucky bottomed out in your cunt. They groaned loudly, pausing for only a second to revel in the heat and wetness of your holes before they began moving, pounding into you from both ends.

“Take it, fucking take my cock like a good fucktoy, sweetheart,” Steve growled, driving deeper and deeper into your mouth while you tried not to gag, but that only seemed to make him go rougher. “Wanna see you cry while you choke on my cock, little thief. Let me see those pretty tears, crybaby, c’mon.”

Something cracked open inside you, and you let go, giving in to Steve completely. You sobbed around his cock, drool dripping messily from your lips as you choked on his pounding girth. Tears streamed from your eyes and Steve let out an indecently hot moan, his cock throbbing against your tongue while he fucked your mouth harder, bullying deeper into your throat with each thrust.

“You feel so fucking good, pretty girl,” Bucky rumbled from behind you, pressing his clothed chest flush against your back, the heat of him surrounding you as he wrapped you up in his arms. The mob boss rocked his hips against your ass, fucking you hard and deep with his cock while his hands played with your tits. “You’re taking us both so well, like you were made for us—our perfect, precious girl.”

Bucky’s praise had you crying out around Steve’s cock, pleasure swirling through your body until you were overwhelmed with the thrilling sensation. Then one of Bucky’s hands slipped down between your thighs, his fingers strumming your clit in rough strokes that had your thighs shaking in seconds, your pussy fluttering around his dick as you surged closer to the edge of your release. 

“You gonna cum on our cocks, pretty doll?” the mob boss murmured entreatingly in your ear, pressing kisses to the heated skin of your neck. “Gonna be a good girl for us and cum all over our cocks while we use your body like our own personal toy, huh?”

“Our good girl,” Steve growled, holding your head and using your mouth like it was a fleshlight. “Ours—all fucking ours.” 

It was too much. Their thick cocks, their possessive words, their greedy hands on your body—you were lost to the overwhelming pleasure of it all, and you came harder than you ever had in your entire life. A strangled scream spilled from your lips, every muscle in your body pulling taut as you broke apart into a million stars of ecstasy, pleasure crashing through your body in devastating waves.

Your release spurred on both Bucky and Steve, who fucked you harder, rutting into your holes like men possessed. They followed you over the edge a few moments later, Bucky sinking his teeth into the tender flesh at the base of your neck, where it met your shoulder, and groaning against your skin while he emptied his balls in your cunt.

At the same time, Steve pulled free from your mouth, his fist pumping his cock until his cum erupted. With a loud, feral groan, he coated your face and tits with his cum, ropes of his release falling onto your skin in heated evidence of his possessiveness. 

The big enforcer moaned lewdly, his eyes dark as a stormy night while he watched his thick cream cover your tear-stained face. Your lips curved into a blissed out smile as you felt the warmth of Steve’s cum on your skin, waiting patiently while he pumped his shaft and painted your mouth with the last drops of his seed.

When he was spent, Steve cupped your cheek in his big hand, rubbing his sticky cum into your skin while you licked it from your lips, moaning softly at the musky taste of him. You’d never felt so degraded and exalted at the same time, and you thought, distractedly, that you could get used to this.

“Pretty as a picture, baby,” Steve murmured, staring at you like he’d never get tired of the sight of you covered in his cum. Your heart thumped happily in your chest and you grinned sweetly up at him, your pussy pulsing around Bucky’s cock, making him groan lightly. 

The mob boss was busy kissing the spot on your shoulder where he’d bitten you, soothing the slight sting with his lips and tongue. Your hips twitched, feeling Bucky’s cum leaking out around his softening cock, and you luxuriated in the filthiness of the moment, being full and coated with both men’s cum. 

“So, how about it, little thief, are you going to let us keep you?” Bucky asked in a ragged voice, his arms holding you tight while Steve retrieved a handkerchief from his suit jacket and began to clean your face. 

Closing your eyes, you gave a soft sigh and let Steve and Bucky take care of you while you thought about the question. 

In the life of a thief, it was important to recognize a precious opportunity when it presented itself—and Bucky’s offer was exactly that. 

You’d known from the moment you met Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes that they were different than any other marks you’d stolen from. They were men you could see yourself falling for, which was why you’d been so off your game on this job. They were men you could see yourself spending your life with, if only you agreed to stay with them.

It didn’t take much thinking to realize you’d be a fool to pass up the life and the safety Bucky and Steve were offering. They clearly cared about you, and you cared about them. So you followed your instincts and nodded your head, opening your eyes to meet first Steve’s gaze, then Bucky’s. 

“Yes,” you said simply, answering the mafia boss’s question. And then, because you were you, you couldn’t help but add primly, “And I expect my men to take good care of me.” 

Bucky huffed a laugh into your neck, and even Steve cracked a smirk, sinking down onto the sofa beside his boss so the two of them could hold you. The mafia boss captured your lips in a kiss, responding to your bratty comment with a promise, before he pulled back and allowed his enforcer to seal your agreement with a kiss of his own. 

When the three of you had recovered enough, Bucky helped you to stand and Steve draped his suit jacket around your shoulders. They led you up to the mansion’s master suite, where they continued to have their way with you for the rest of the evening.

It wasn’t until the sun began to peak out over the horizon that you finally fell asleep, entwined in the arms of the mafia boss and his most trusted enforcer. You were safe, content, and fully satisfied with how your night had turned out, even if it hadn’t gone to plan. 

After that evening, Bucky and Steve made good on their promise to protect you, moving against Tony Stark and ensuring the leader of the Manhattan mafia knew you belonged to Brooklyn’s crime boss. They also ensured your father was taken care of, and wouldn’t get himself into trouble again.

With your men seeing to your every whim, you were able to retire from being a thief. But you still used your skills for fun sometimes. 

Every once in a while, you played the part of their little thief, attempting to steal from Steve and/or Bucky and letting yourself get caught so that they could punish you how they saw fit. Occasionally, Steve would let you convince him to betray his boss, until Bucky caught the two of you and punished you both. 

But no matter what, you always ended up entwined with both the mafia boss Bucky Barnes and his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, happy and loved in their arms. All told, it was a much better existence than the life of a thief. 

the life of a thief part 1

The sun hadn't even risen when Lloyd got out of bed. You grumbled but stayed where you were as he got ready. Only when you knew he was just about to leave did you get up, putting on the first thing you could find, which just happened to be his shirt from the night before.

He was drinking his coffee standing, and you wrapped your arms around him from behind, breathing him in, feeling his warmth, already missing him.

"Stay," you spoke into his back, knowing he couldn't but hoping he would anyway. With a chuckle, he put his cup down before turning around and hugging you close.

"Don't tempt me."

The two of you stood there for some time until Lloyd said, "I'm going to be late."

"Don't care," you whined.

"How about next time I have to leave the country, I take you with me. Then we don't have to be apart."

You released him and frowned, "But what about my job?"

"Darling, you know you don't have to work. But if it makes you feel any better, I can hire you as my personal stress relief," he said and wiggled his eyebrows.

"Lloyd!" you attempted to sound exasperated, but it was weak. And then you murmured, "I wanna go with you next time."

"I'll make it happen, pumpkin, don't you worry about it. But now I have to go.