dylan

⟡ 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐒 🕷️

Since Sebastian can’t hold himself accountable and show up to Quidditch practice, Imelda takes matters into her own hands and bans him from being around you until the upcoming game is finished. It’s something easier said than done.

⟡ 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀 🕷️

Following the summer leading up to your seventh year, you return to Hogwarts to discover that Sebastian has undergone changes that greatly appeal to the eye. Your eye, to be specific. There’s no easy way to tell the man you’ve been dating for two years that your attention has been fixed on a part of him otherwise deemed normal, but after a while, you’re forced to face the truth of the matter

⟡ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐈 🕷️

Sebastian had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he rarely gave up before accomplishing whatever it was he set his mind to. His goal of impregnating you was one he was hell-bent on succeeding at, and who were you to deny him?

⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🔍 | @arthenaa

The girls and you have a talk on who they'll date amongst the students in Hogwarts. No one mentions Sebastian despite being deemed the most handsome in your year. You wonder why?

⟡ 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 🔍

Sebastian, more often than not, annoys the fuck out of you to get your attention. Your friends think it's disgustingly adorable.

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 🕷️ | @authorellasallow

Sebastian Sallow sneaks into your dormitory and finds a list hidden in your bed, one filled with names of girls who want him. All except yours.

⟡ 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐀 🔍 | @awkwardauthorwrites

Two years have passed since the events in Hogwarts Legacy, in which Y/N has drifted away from Sebastian. What happens when she has to spend some time in the hospital wing and he comes to visit?

⟡ 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 🔍

Ten years have passed since the events of Hogwarts Legacy and Y/N is invited back as part of a reunion to celebrate. 

⟡ 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 🔍

Y/N comes to a startling revelation when brewing Amortentia in potions class

⟡ 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 🔍🥽 | @barnabyjr

sebastian muses on his relationship with mc, ultimately believing that they are just too good for someone like him

⟡ 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐘𝐉𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🔍

when mc's feelings become too much to handle, and curiosity gets the better of her, she resorts to polyjuice potion to find out what her best friend thinks about her

⟡ 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐓 🔍

sebastian, unlike his usual jealous self, is strangely calm despite the numerous love letters being delivered to mc...

⟡ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 🔍 | @blu-blubs

⟡ 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 🕷️ | @cuffmeinblack

Sebastian watches her when she sleeps, safe in his arms as she seeks comfort from her nightmares. Beautiful, perfect, and utterly irresistible; who could blame him for indulging?

⟡ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄 🕷️

Whilst attempting to find Sebastian, instead you stumble upon his memories. Events take an unexpected turn when he finds you

⟡ 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋, 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 🕷️ | @euphorisun

Sebastian goes home to you after a late night shift as an Auror in the Ministry of Magic. After a busy week, he truly missed you... And he just can't wait until you wake up.

⟡ 14 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒: 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 🔍 | @harry-potter-reader-inserts

Sebastian brewed Amortentia to study the difference between obsession and love but the real thing was the one thing even he couldn't control.

⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🔍

⟡ 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 🕷️ | @heavenlybodies333

You should have known better by now. Should’ve known that getting your feelings hurt was just part of the deal when it came to Sebastian Sallow. Because he never promised you anything, did he?

⟡ 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 🕷️

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 🕷️

There was an art to it, you know. The first time Sebastian Sallow killed, it had been for revenge. Blood soaked the floorboards of a dusty old crypt, pooling at his feet, and something in him had changed. He hadn’t meant to savor it, but he did.

⟡ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 🔍🕷️ | @jackalope-patronus

very very soft smut of virgin Sebastian and MC reader. With plot! With feelings!

⟡ 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐈 🔍🕷️ | @legacygirlingreen

What happens when MC's friends drag her into a packed night club to see a band she hates purely on principle? She meets a cute guy and in the midst of a miscommunication Sebastian goes far to get the attention of the girl who caught his eye

⟡ 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 🔍

what happens when MC and Sebastian are running for their lives and he can’t stop flirting even for a second? Even worse what happens when a major mess leads to them needing to clean up in a small pool in the moonlight?

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 🔍

What happens when a mixup involving amortentia leads to MC accidentally revealing her crush?

⟡ 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 🕷️ | @matchavellichor

Watching his long-time rival and dueling partner kiss someone else ignites feelings in Sebastian that has him questioning just how similar hate is to desire.

⟡ 𝐅𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 🕷️ | @morelikeravenbore

⟡ 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐒𝐘 🔍🕷️ | @myokk

sebastian is clumsy

⟡ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄-𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 🔍

mc loves flustering sebastian with her notes during class

⟡ 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 🔍 | @pasukiyo

much to sebastian's dismay, you agree to watch the krindle children while their mother is away. while telling the old muggle fairytale of sleeping beauty, you get an idea to hopefully lift sebastian’s spirits…

⟡ 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🔍

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄'𝐒 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🔍 | @ppomumgranatum

When a potion meant to repel backfired, it became a mishap that turned your world upside down.

⟡ 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 🔍

Truths emerged and friendships were tested as you found yourself confronting two years' worth of suppressed feelings towards Sebastian. Drunk.

⟡ 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 🕷️ | @rambling-tam

Separated by duty but bound by magic, you and Sebastian use an enchanted mirror to close the distance between you - baring bodies, secrets, and the ache of wanting too much, too far away.

⟡ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 🔍 | @ravenelyx

Sebastian has different ways of dealing with being hurt. One of them is burying his face in your chest while you cuddle him

⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🕷️ | @resarayne

⟡ 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 🔍 | @sage-pages

⟡ 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐄 🕷️ | @sallowskeeper

⟡ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 🔍 | @scriptumsempra

She counted steps to the stars. Until one day, she started counting freckles instead. A quiet night, a library glance, and a realisation that not all constellations live in the sky.

⟡ 𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 🔍

Ignorance was the first draft. He only needed one. He used six. An insult, a silence, and the beginning of everything he didn’t know how to say. One chocolate bribe. Two mental breakdowns. Five owls. A guide to losing a witch, one step at a time — and maybe winning her back on the sixth.

⟡ 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 🔍

He was Hogwarts’ best duellist. Until she arrived—with borrowed magic, steady hands, and silence sharper than spells. She stole his title, his attention, and maybe—without meaning to—his heart.

⟡ 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 🔍 | @shadowtriovibes

Eric Northcott is relentlessly pursuing you, so Sebastian offers to act as your heroic boyfriend to get him off your back.

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 🔍

⟡ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑? 🔍

⟡ 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐈 | 🔍📰

Rivals-to-lovers Sebastian and MC use a Time-Turner to travel to the future with Ominis in search for a cure for Anne. Instead they find a girl who's the spitting image of MC trying to sneak into the Restricted Section in the 1910s, only she has freckles like Sebastian...

⟡ 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 (𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍) 🔍📰

⟡ 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 (𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 🕷️🔍

⟡ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐀 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐕 🕷️🔍

sebastian makes the house quidditch team after training all summer. before his first match, you let him talk you into a bet over its outcome that will in all likelihood ruin your friendship. (merlin, you sure hope it does.)

⟡ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 🔍 | @shallowsallow

In your sixth year at Hogwarts, you have a secret valentine - and everyone is in on it.

⟡ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 🕷️ | @slytherizz

Sebastian never really knew what his friend saw in Isaac Cooper but he never questioned it - he made his friend happy. That is until a Quidditch match goes quickly awry and he realises his feelings for her may go far deeper than simple friendship.

⟡ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐕! 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐈 🕷️

⟡ 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 🔍🥽📰 | spaceyaceface *epub link

Y/N is sick of Leander Prewett trying to court her. Luckily, she has a best friend named Sebastian Sallow who would love to help put an end to it. They devise a plan to pretend to court up until the Yule Ball. Should be simple, right? If only. 

⟡ 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐘 🔍 | @theealbatross

After a tumultuous year, Sebastian’s life was finally okay – passable, up-to-scratch, satisfactory. And he had just almost reached peace – when his brilliant, painfully observant, carelessly crude genius of a friend, Garreth Weasley, started pointing out unnecessary facts that could rip all that harmony to shreds.

⟡ 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 🔍📰

Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.

⟡ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘, 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐎𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄? 𝐩𝐭 𝐈 𝐩𝐭 𝐈𝐈 🔍 [2/3]

It's just a game, but really.

⟡ 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄? 🔍

Sebastian is being bullied (false), you can't possibly be falling in love with him (false), and he might have already, possibly, maybe, fallen in love with you too (true).

⟡ 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 🔍📰

Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him

⟡ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍: 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 🔍

⟡ 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐘? 🕷️ | @thewrldx

⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🔍 | @underscroft

⟡ 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 🕷️ | @whizzing-fizzbee

You and your husband, Sebastian Sallow, are both Aurors for the Ministry of Magic. When the new hire fails to realize you're married, he shows interest in you, drawing jealousy from your husband

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 🕷️

You're going absolutely, utterly mental. Your boyfriend, Andrew Larson, hasn't touched you in weeks and you're growing desperate. When he's unwilling to help relieve your sexual tension, your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, always has your back.

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐈 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐕 𝐕 🔍🕷️🥽🕯️ | @writing-intheundercroft

Scenes from a life with the auror, Sebastian Sallow.

⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 🔍 | @writingsoftarnishedsilver

⟡ 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 🔍

⟡ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 🔍

⟡ 𝐌𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐇𝐄 🔍📰

⟡ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 🔍

⟡ 𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 🕷️

⟡ 𝐁𝐄𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐓 🕷️📰

⟡ 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 🕷️

⟡ 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 🕷️

⟡ 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 (𝐖𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄) 🕷️ | @wttcsms

sebastian sallow is a good friend. so good, in fact, that when you find yourself under the ungodly influence of a lust potion, he's willing to help give you some relief.

.𖥔 MARVEL .𖥔

𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑹𝑬𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑺

ꨄ︎ loving you is easy two II @blank-potato II A + F

You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.

ꨄ︎ fooled around and fell in love II @flowersforbucky II S + A + F

you've never been one for commitment, and your teammates know it. when you and bob start seeing each other, it takes them by surprise and makes them worry about how he'll react to the heartbreak that they expect to follow. what they don't understand - you've never felt like this about anyone.

ꨄ︎ soft currents next to you II @nghtwngs II S + A + F

there is falling in love. there is also falling into another universe. there is also falling in love again.

ꨄ︎ home is where the heart is II @ilovemilestellersmoustache II A + F

Wanting to feel more included Bob decides to help on a mission but in efforts to protect you he injures himself leaving him with amnesia. Your boyfriend not remembering isn’t the biggest problem because he’s always going to find you again, even in a hundred lifetimes.

ꨄ︎ soulmate II @geminiwritten II A + C

you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé

ꨄ︎ we can’t be friends part two II @tfatwsbarnes II A

bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

ꨄ︎ cowboy like me II @goldenlikedayl1ght II A + F

you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits.

ꨄ︎ xerox two three II @ichori II A + SB + C

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

𝑩𝑼𝑪𝑲𝒀 𝑩𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑺

ꨄ︎ bad boys don’t buy flowers II @espinosaurusrexex II S + A + F

Bucky would have never thought, he’d be chasing after a girl. Not when all of them usually fell at his feet. But when he finds himself entangled in a deal born out of a desperate argument with his assistant, he realizes there is nothing he wouldn't do for you: The independent florist who is adamantly dragging him to the homeless shelter every chance she gets. There is just one problem: Bucky doesn't know how to tell you. And the teasing from his friends is certainly not making things easier for him...

ꨄ︎ come back to you II @buckyalpine II F

What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform.

ꨄ︎ curiosity killed the cat II @queers-gambit II A + C

after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become.

ꨄ︎ you’re my desire part two II @marvelouslizzie and @notafunkiller II S + F

Your best friend drags you out on a double date. You were supposed to be Steve Rogers' date, but plans change pretty quickly and you end up in Bucky Barnes' arms.

ꨄ︎ graveyard part two II @wkemeup II A + C

As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too. 

ꨄ︎ dreamscape II @/wkemeup II A + C

When Bucky falls under the spell of a Djinn, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. In order to survive, he must fight his way back to the real world - even if it costs him everything he's ever wanted.

ꨄ︎ blurred lines part two II @ellemj II S + A + F

When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.

ꨄ︎ love language II @/flowersforbucky II S + F

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

ꨄ︎ flashing lights part two II @pellucid-constellations II A + C

Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance?

ꨄ︎ stay still part two II @buckysknifecollection II A + C

What if your soulmate was the one person you had hurt the most?

ꨄ︎ saturn II @shurisneakers II A

you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

ꨄ︎ bleeding heart II mournthebird II A + C

You're his assigned nurse.

ꨄ︎ 40s!bucky II @helaintoloki II A + F

after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ under my skin II @/flowersforbucky II F

what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.

ꨄ︎ moral of the story II @starktonyx II A

You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑻 𝑴𝑼𝑹𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑲

ꨄ︎ without you part 2 II @foli-vora II A

You return after the 'blip'. Five years is a long time, and a lot of things can happen in that time.

𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 𝑲𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻

ꨄ︎ for science II @projectionistwrites II S + A + C

In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...

ꨄ︎ red flags II @astroboots and @thirstworldproblemss II S + A + F

Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. 

ꨄ︎ the jake problem pt2 II @bensolosbluesaber II S + A + C

Jake hates you. Like really hates you, which wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t dating Steven and Marc. But maybe, just maybe, Jake doesn’t hate you.

𝑷𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ sunset lovers II @duskholland II F

you’ve never met your soulmate, but you know his handwriting like the back of your hand—literally. every word your soulmate writes on his skin appears on yours, and vice versa. you’re desperate to meet him, but until the universe decides to introduce you, you’re stuck with scribbled smiley faces and chemistry formulae.

ꨄ︎ one more to see you II @waitimcomingtoo II A

in an effort to see Peter again, you Dream Walk and learn it’s consequences

𝑷𝑰𝑬𝑻𝑹𝑶 𝑴𝑨𝑿𝑰𝑴𝑶𝑭𝑭

ꨄ︎ silent treatment II @floral-and-fine II A + C

where the words their soulmate speaks first are tattooed on their arm.

𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑽𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑮𝑬𝑹𝑺

ꨄ︎ watchful eyes II @/espinosaurusrexex II S + A + F

When your best friend gets you a new job, cleaning the apartment of the most successful man in New York City, you don't hesitate to accept. The pay is more than good, and the man himself is better than any eye candy you have ever seen. Unbeknownst to you, you've caught his attention just as much. Steve can't keep his mind off you, so much so, that he drives everyone around him insane with his grumpiness when you aren't around. It seems like he has to take matters into his own hands when he realizes, you're too shy to take things further yourself.

ꨄ︎ out of time pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 II @after-avenging-hours II S + A + F

When Steve is poisoned on a mission, his only hope is a pure Super Soldier Serum. You travel to 1943 to find it—but without the infinity stones, your actions could change the future. Can you save him before time runs out?

.𖥔 TOP GUN .𖥔

𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑭𝑳𝑶𝒀𝑫

ꨄ︎ the plan II @/geminiwritten II A + F

the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

ꨄ︎ the kind of girl i could love II @roosterforme II F

Bob has a secret admirer, but he's convinced it's actually Jake and Nat messing with him. 

𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑳𝑬𝒀 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑾

ꨄ︎ love to lie pt2 pt3 pt4 II @/ddejavvu II A + F

Your worst fear is recognized when Bradley’s jet goes down with him in it. You’re not sure why you’re still his emergency contact, you’d broken up two weeks ago, but when you rush into the hospital room, you discover that you have a chance to fix the mistake you’d been cursing yourself for. The only problem is, you have to lie to Bradley, and you discover that you love doing it if it means you get to be with him again.

ꨄ︎ things unseen and heard II @bloatedandalone04 II S + A + F

the one where you overhear bradley talk about you to jake and decide to give him the space he apparently wanted.

ꨄ︎ playing games II @/geminiwritten II A + F

you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

ꨄ︎ wrong number II @roosterforme II F

Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

ꨄ︎ between friends II @sometimesanalice II S + F

Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.

ꨄ︎ trouble in paradise II @/sunlightmurdock II S + A

After the most painful break-up of his life, Rooster is stationed in Hawaii for the next six months. Alone, away from home and hurting, he finds comfort in the arms of a stranger.

ꨄ︎ i’ll show you good, restore your faith II @/se7entyrell II A + F

Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives.

ꨄ︎ terms of endearment II @ohtobeleah II A + C (heavy themes)

They always say when you aren’t looking for love it tends to find you. So when you and your daughter turn up in Fighter Town, Bradley Bradshaw is instantly infatuated. With reluctance to trust and harbouring a bad past, you don’t make it easy for the fighter pilot to love you.

𝑱𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑵

ꨄ︎ domestic fantasy II @/geminiwritten II F

your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

ꨄ︎ dirty laundry part two II @/geminiwritten II S + A + F

after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

ꨄ︎ medical emergency II @marvelwitchergilmore II F

When Jake gets a call asking to pick you up from the hospital, it's safe to say he's confused. Especially considering neither of you were known for getting along with the other.

ꨄ︎ sign of the times pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 II @se7entyrell II S + A

You're destined to die in Jake Seresin's arms. In every life, in every iteration, it's inescapable. Whether you loathe, or love each other, each ending stays the same. But what if it doesn't have to?

ꨄ︎ spring fling pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 II @ddejavvu II F (in progress)

You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

.𖥔 MISCELLANEOUS .𖥔

𝑹𝑯𝑬𝑻𝑻 𝑨𝑩𝑩𝑶𝑻𝑻

ꨄ︎ odds are stacked II @sunlightmurdock II S

In which Rhett loses a bet and you lose your virginity.

𝑻𝒀𝑳𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑵𝑺

ꨄ︎ all yours II @/geminiwritten II A + F

after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids

ꨄ︎ orange juice II @ahsokaismyqueen II S + F

When it's time to interview a group of storm chasers for your new book, you get sent back to your hometown. You never would have guessed one of the people you'd be interviewing would be your ex boyfriend. And you might still be a little in love with him.

ꨄ︎ no hesitation II @briefinquiries II S + F

Tyler would be the type of guy that if a girl came up to him and said ‘this guy is creepy, pls pretend to be my bf’ he would be like ‘hell yay’ and scare the guy away

𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺 𝑩𝑬𝑪𝑲

ꨄ︎ all the stars are closer II @kashimos-hajime II A + F

mark watney wasn’t the only one left behind on mars, and as you struggle to survive on the desert planet, hidden feelings come to light between you and your best friend, dr. chris beck.

𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

ꨄ︎ all american boy II @scribes-of-valar II A + C

Your friend has been distant for months, all of a sudden he's a brand new man. He's practically a puppy dog following after you and you're not sure how to feel. What's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself looking at not one, but two Clark Kent's?

ꨄ︎ no.1 party anthem II @sunsburns II F

what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳 𝑹𝑶𝑩𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑻𝑪𝑯

ꨄ︎ an itch you can’t scratch pt2 II @theonewiththefanfics II S + A + F

After taking a bad fall, Y/N gets rushed to the ED of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital only to come face to face with a man she had a one-night stand with, and who ghosted her that same morning without a word - Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. As if her bad day couldn't get any worse than it was...

Mini-series

🔞 He Feels Everything ✮ | Mirror Me

🔞 Tied in Trust ✮ | Held, Not Bound

🔞 Woven in the Dark ʚɞ Where The Threads Meet ʚɞ Stitched Into Forever

🥀 Five Seconds, Five Years Part I ʚɞ Part II ʚɞ Part III

One-shot

🔞 Pulled Tight Around Him✮ | He Still Smelled Like Home✮ | Filed Under: Inappropriate✮ | Every Time We Almost | Crimson and Craving | Vaulted✮ | Every Inch, Every Corner✮ | eighteen hours.✮ | knife's edge.✮ | suffocate me sweetly | on command.✮ | until we remember | bad desire | wrapped in love ᢉ𐭩 | all mine, baby

🌸 More Than Enough | Second Place | can't help. | like saying yes to home

🥀 Autopilot | Night of Fireworks | Fade Into Me, Not Away | The Long Conversation | A Beautiful Way to D*e | Love Me or Leave Me

🖤 Code Red✮

Drabbles

❓Questionable workout machine

🌸 A Very Bucky Father's Day

Misc

“Was already up,” he’d shrugged, and you’d known that was a lie. You’d kissed his cheek before you’d gotten out of bed, and all you’d gotten in return was an incoherent grumble. You’d been able to trick him with a pillow instead of your body. He’d been—for once—dead to the world. 

But he’d still gotten up. For you.

And that had gotten you through a lot of the morning. It had barely been 5am, but Bucky had still been up, just for you. And he’d grinned at you as he’d watched you eat breakfast, then looped his arm around your waist as you’d walked back to the Watchtower, keeping you pressed right to his side.

But the day had just kept getting worse. You’d pulled into the parking lot at work only to find some dipshit had taken your spot. The coffee pot had been broken, and you’d had to run to the corner store on your lunch to get an energy drink. The whole building was full of incompetent idiots, and you’d had to solve problems a put out three metaphorical—and one literal—fires all day. Finally, the heater had been broken, and by the end of the day your fingers had been a shade off, shaking from the cold. 

Bucky had made it better.

Again.

He always made it better, even when his job was ten times as difficult. He’d kissed your knuckles and let you sit behind him on the couch, your face pressed between his shoulder blades and your hands curled on his stomach.

Better. Just for a second, better.

If the day had stopped there, it would have just been better. 

But it hadn’t. 

And you’re so fucking tired. 

The team often had to do these stupid galas. A media circus cloaked as a fundraiser, for Valentina to parade them around and show them off. Everyone hates them.

But at best, it sometimes provides entertainment, to get through the night. Once, security tried to make Yelena get rid of her weapons for safety, and she’d made five grown men cry. Ava gets asked to show off a lot, and you’ve seen her blatantly steal things off of whoever requested a demonstration with a sweet smile—you’ve been practicing that with her, it’s getting better—and the dumbass none the wiser. There’s a running competition to see who can get John on the longest, most pointless speech. Last month, Alexei fit fifty shrimp in his mouth. 

You still hate them, but they’re good team building opportunities. And all you usually have to do is cling to Bucky’s side and pretend you want to be there, or hide with Bob in a shadowy corner when Bucky has to go do New Avengers things. 

But today was a shit fucking day. And you hadn’t even wanted to go, but if you told Bucky that he’d have to go alone, or he’d not go at all and get in trouble. So you’d put on a dress, sucked it up, and pushed through. Ignoring to odd looks people gave you on Bucky’s arm, smiling politely and making small talk with whatever rich people decided you were worth speaking to, and just trying to get to the end of night.

“I have to go pee,” you’d whispered in Bucky’s ear, and he’d shot you an amused look. 

“You askin’ my permission, doll?”

“No, I’m just telling you, buttface.”

“Buttface?” He’d tugged you a little closer, and you’d squirmed.

“I need to pee, Buck, please-“

He’d hummed, giving you a deep, firm kiss that turned all your words into a moan. 

“Y’know, you’re pretty when you say please,” he’d whispered against your lips, and you’d glared at him, shoving his chest.

“I’m gonna kick your ass-“

“And I’m excited to see you try.” He’d grinned, and it was the grin only you ever got. Soft eyes and toothy smile, followed by a kiss the top of your head and a squeeze of your waist. You’d wanted to go home there. To drag him somewhere quieter where you could get on your knees, climb into his arms and never let go, or crawl over him in the dark until he’d exhausted you both, and you could pass out peacefully. 

But you’d had to pee. 

“Be fast.” Bucky had let you go, nodding in the direction of the bathrooms. “I’ll wait here.”

You’d nodded, given his jaw a quick kiss, and all but run away to the bathroom. 

And he had been waiting for you.

But he hadn’t been alone. 

This has happened before. Bucky doesn’t hide that he’s dating you, but there are no official posts on social media, or pieces in the news about it. You’d asked for their not to be, for your own sanity and privacy. But the cost that comes with is people throwing themselves at him.

You don’t blame them. He’s beautiful and kind and perfect, and you love him more than anything in the world. You just got lucky that he somehow noticed you, of all people, and somehow earned him loving you back. 

It’s what you tell yourself, over and over, when this happens. Bucky chose you. He asked you out, you live with him, he loves you. And you trust him, with a little more than your life. He’d never, ever do that to you. Fuck, you’d been doing laundry a few weeks ago and found his little paper list of ring shit, with your sizing, favorite colors, and locations that might be good for a proposal. Bucky loves you.

But this woman had been beautiful. Perfect hair, and body, and makeup. No bags of exhaustion barely hidden under her makeup. No crooked teeth in her blinding smile. Even her posture had been flawless. And she’d been a lot more forward than the others. A hand on Bucky’s chest that had made him stiffen, and a honeyed smile that had looked designed to get someone into bed.

It had boiled, right under your skin. You’d never be that put together. That sweet and easy, that beautiful, that anything. Then it had spread to rot in the cavity of your chest, and bubbled in your heart. 

Bucky loves you.

But he hasn’t made her leave yet. Usually he makes them leave right away, but you’re also usually on his arm. 

You don’t want to think about it. If you think about it too hard, your eyes are going to sting, and you’ll choke on the air around you. You’re so tired, and all you ever do is ask things of Bucky. All you do is shuffle back to the nobody wants us here corner with Bob, and lose a game of solitaire on your phone. Maybe the woman is finally opening his eyes to the fact that he deserves more than a broke, needy civilian that can’t even make herself breakfast. And he’s going to find you and tell you that, and you’re going to have to go to work tomorrow without him tucking your hair behind your ear and whispering that he loves you against your lips-

He wouldn’t do that. You know he wouldn’t. He’s probably just having a harder time giving her a reason to leave, without you there. 

But it doesn’t stop that sore, bitter feeling. And it’s been such a shit day.

You just want to go home.

But Bucky has to stay here, with all the people made of the same diamonds and stars that he is. So, until you’re no longer the one he keeps at his side, you do too. 

“Hey.” 

You blink up—you lost again, people aren’t supposed to be able to lose solitaire a such a high rate—and a man that isn’t Bucky is standing over you. He’s got slicked back hair and cold, almost dead looking eyes. 

“Hi,” you frown at him, and you shouldn’t have told Bob you wanted some water and food too. He would’ve been back by now, and you wouldn’t be alone. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” the man’s voice is almost a purr, and it’s crawling over your skin. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here, all alone?”

“I- I’m not alone-“

The man laughs, and shoots you a wink. “Well, course not. You’re with me now.”

You blink at him for a second, and it’s been too long a day to properly filter yourself, and you can see Bucky and the woman, whenever you close your eyes. You shouldn’t say anything. You’re supposed to be on your best behavior. 

But you’re not.

“Is that supposed to work on me?” You ask bluntly, and the man blinks. “Am I supposed to spread my legs and let you fuck me, now?”

“Wow.” He laughs again, and he’s not backing down. “You’re a mouthy one, sweetheart. I think that fucking thing you mentioned sounds like a plan-“

“No, it doesn’t.” A smooth, black and gold hand appears on the man’s shoulder, and he’s yanked away for you with an undignified squawk. 

Bucky’s glare is more violent than you usually see it. That’s the glower that villains, politicians, Valentina, and sometimes John gets. All the warmth he saves for you, gone. Just a cold, firm reminder that he could kill anyone in this room, if he wanted. 

You’re not sure why it’s here now. 

“Mr. Barnes.” The man throws on a winning smile, and Bucky’s glare doesn’t waver. “It’s- I’m a fan-“

“That’s good for you, buddy. Take a walk.”

The man glances back to you. “We were just having a conversation, man, I’m not going to do anything without her permission-“

“You’re not doin’ anything at all.” Bucky side-steps, blocking you from the man’s view, and you might be too tired to track what’s happening. “Get away from my girl. Now.”

“Your- Sorry, I didn’t know-“

“I don’t care. Go.”

You don’t see the man leaving. You don’t need to. All you can see is Bucky turning around to frown at you, almost pinning you between his body and the wall.

“You alright, doll?”

“I’m fine,” you scan over his face, and it’s tight. Angry. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be sorry,” he grunts. “Not your fault assholes don’t listen ‘less you’re with me.” Bucky pauses, something heavy crossing over his features. “What’re you doing over here?”

You blink at him. “I- I was waiting for you-“

“I was waiting for you. Where I said I’d be.” The heavy thing seems to be sinking deeper. “But you didn’t come back.”

You take a long, deep breath, dropping your brow to his chest. You don’t want to look at him, when you say it. 

Bucky mutters your name, his hand tangling in your hair, and you shake your head. 

“You were with someone.” You mumble. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Didn’t want to-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and tugs lightly on your hair. “Can you look at me? Please?”

You tip your head back, biting on your lower lip to keep it from wobbling—it’s not working, but this can’t be the thing today that makes you cry—and Bucky’s gaze soft on yours. Demanding, his eyes almost trapping yours to his, a little narrowed as his free hand grabs your chin, but soft. 

“Were you jealous, babydoll?”

The sore feeling flares, but now there’s a bigger, needier heat with it. He’s so close to you, and you can feel all the heat from his body, and maybe if you lean up and kiss him until you’re dizzy it will lean a stain of lipstick, that tells everyone he’s yours-

“Answer me.” He leans a little further down, his voice dropping slightly, and you nod weakly.

“I- I’m just tired,” you grab his hand on his chin, just in case he’s going to try and let go. “I trust you, Buck, I promise, I just- I’ve had a bad day-“

“Hey. I know.” Bucky shushes you gently, pressing a kiss to the space between your eyes, and you melt toward into him. “I’m not mad, sweetheart, it’s-“ He shakes his head with a dry chuckle, giving you an amused look. “Hell, what do you think I was just doin’, with the guy all over you?”

You shrug, your eyes wide on his. “I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He keeps his brow against yours, moving his hands to cup your face as he speaks. “I know you’re tired, baby, but you’ve got a big brain. Use it.”

You frown at him. You know what he’s saying, but it’s insane. “But you don’t need to be- You know-“

“Neither do you.” He counters quickly, giving you a pointed look. “I’ve told you, there’s no one else for me. Just you, sweet girl. My girl.” He leans down to leave a sloppy kiss on your cheek, and a softish giggle bubbles in your throat. “No one else is gettin’ close, long as you’re here. Got it?”

“Got it.” You whisper, your arms wrapping around his chest. “I- I love you, Bucky.”

He flushes a little. He always does, whenever you say that. Flushes and tenses for half a second, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with himself after. 

“Love you too,” he mutters, pressing anther kiss to your cheek. “Let’s go home, doll.”

You blink at him. “Buck, you still have to-“

“Nah.” Bucky takes your hand his, tugging you away from the corner. “Valentina can yell at me later, we’re leaving.”

“But-“

“You’re tired.” His voice is firm as he moves you both through the crowd. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

You shake your head. “I’ll be okay, you don’t have to- I can get through the rest of the night-“

He freezes, grabbing your face again, right in the middle of the room. People might be staring, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. No matter what, all you can see is Bucky. 

“You want to get through the rest of the night?” He asks, and you swallow.

“I want to support you-“

“You do support me.” He grunts, his thumb running over your lower lip. “You’re real good to me, doll. Do all my laundry, put up with my nightmares, let me sit with you while you read-“

“You read too.” You mumble weakly, and he shrugs.

“Nah. Mostly stare at you while you read. You get cute.” His eyes narrow again, before you can even fully process his words. “Tell me if you want to stay here.”

You’re not good at lying to him. He’s already had enough of that, and you love him. “I wanna go home,” you whisper. “But-“

“No but.” Bucky takes your hand back into his, giving it one squeeze. “Let’s go”

Maybe you should fight it harder. It’s his job, and you’re supposed to be supportive, not drag him away from work. 

But he hates being here too. And he loves you. 

So it’s not the worst thing in the world, to let Bucky pull you into a taxi—half sat on his lap, your head pressed into his neck as you try to stay awake—and bring you home. 

And right now, Bucky is a man on a mission. 

You’re not nearly dumb enough to try and get in the way of that. 

Bucky herds you right to the shower, with hands on your hips and soft kisses on your neck. Helps you out of your dress and shoes, but keeps on his suit.

“Are you-“

“I’m gonna change the sheets.” He says, running his hand under the water. “It’s almost warm. Take your time, doll. And call me if you need anything.”

You roll your eyes, shuffling forward to press your face into his chest. 

His arm shoots around you in a second, and you sigh against his chest. 

“It’s just a shower, Buck.” You reach up to play with the collar of his shirt, giving him your best, pleading eyes. “What if I want you to shower with me?”

“Then I will in the morning.” 

You pout, and he just chuckles. There’s the grin again. Just for you. Always just for you. 

“C’mon,” he drawls your name, guiding you into the warm steam. “I’ll be back soon.”

You hum, and relax into the water. The tension slowly drifts and falls from your body, and the exhaustion is getting hard to fight. Your eyes are drooping, and your body is just warm, and it would be nice to have Bucky here with you, but he’s not gone for long.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He says, having crept back into the bathroom without you hearing, and you only sigh.

“James, what did we say about sneaking-“

“Wasn’t sneaking.” He grumbles. “Shower is loud.”

You turn it off, and poke your head out to see his arms crossed, a towel slung over his shoulder and a glower on his face. He’s made himself busy. His pants and shirt are ones you know were dirty this morning, and he’d lit a candle to help you relax. He keeps glaring between it and you, like he’s trying to make sure it’s working. 

He looks adorable. 

You can’t stop the dumb, adoring smile on your face. 

“You were sneaking.” You step out of the shower, and try not to take too much pride in the way Bucky’s jaw clenches. “I know you try not to, but one day you’re gonna freak someone out-“

“Don’t care.” He mutters, passing you the towel as you stop right in front of him. “Not freaking you out.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Right. But-“

“You’re all that matters.” He says, his tone firm, and your smile somehow grows. 

“You’re going to get shot or something, if you do that to Yelena.”

Bucky snorts. “I can’t sneak up on Yelena, sweetheart.”

That’s probably true. “Well, I still don’t want you to get shot-“

“Not gonna get shot.” He kisses the top of your head, and—the moment the towel is wrapped around your body—scoops you up into his arms. 

“James-“

“Got you some chocolate and Chinese food, when you’re hungry.” He carries you out of the bathroom, holding you tight to his chest, as if the walls might try to jump down and take you away. “And tomorrow’s Saturday, so you’re sleepin’ in. Then we can watch a movie.”

You nod, watching the low light shift over his face, every shadow making him even more impossibly handsome. “What movie?”

“We’re still on the Pixar catchup. Next is, uh-“ He frowns at the air for a second. “Cars. The second one.”

You giggle, dropping your face back into his neck. “Oh, you’re going to hate that one.”

“Why’d you think that?”

“Cause it’s a spy movie. Last time we tried to watch a spy movie, I had to turn it off before you gave yourself a heart attack.”

Bucky frowns, lowering you down onto your bed. “It’s a movie about cars.”

“Spy cars.”

“Why the hell are there spy cars-“

“Don’t know, but-“ Your words are cut off with a wide, long yawn, and Bucky grins.

“Feelin’ tired?”

You shake your head, your fingers curling in his shirt, and he chuckles, slowly laying you down onto the mattress. 

He did change the sheets. They’re clean and warm and nice, but-

“Don’t smell like you.” You mumble, and Bucky frowns.

“What?”

“Sheets.” You give a pathetic tug of his shirt, trying to get him to lay down with you. “Don’t smell like you.”

Bucky raises his brows. “What do I smell like?”

You let out another yawn before you answer. “Good.”

“Good?” Bucky laughs softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “You’re exhausted, baby. Go to bed, I’ll be back-“

“No-“ You wrap your arms around his neck, and Bucky could pry you off easy, but he doesn’t. “Stay.”

He says your name with a soft voice. “I have to clean and get your chocolate for the mornin’-“

“Don’t want it.” Just for extra precautions, you wrap your legs around his waist, until you’re all but hanging off his body. “Want you.”

Bucky mutters your name—his arm still moving to hold you against him—and you shake your head.

“You need to rest too, Buck-“

“I’ll rest soon-“

“Hypocrite.”

Bucky pauses, then chuckles right in your ear. “Maybe, yeah. But I can go longer without rest than you, doll. Super Soldier.”

His arm is rubbing slow circles on your back, and you’re so tired, but he’s taking such good care of you. The day is finally getting better, as Bucky shift and flexes above you. And he looks handsome all the time, but this is different. His hair is messy and soft, and he’s wearing sweatpants that let you feel his bulge—pressed too close to where you’re starting to ache for him—and he’s all yours. He smells good, and feels good, and when your eyes blink open, he’s staring down at you so softly. Like you’re the only star in the entire sky, and you’ve fallen right into his hands. 

“Bucky.” You whisper, grinding up into him, and his arm tenses. “Please stay.”

“You- Jesus.” He groans, but lowers himself back down. “You need sleep-“

“Can need two things.” You mumble, and he hums, angling his head to kiss right under your jaw, pulling a breathy moan from your lips. 

“You gonna rest if I give you what you need?”

You nod, another soft sound escaping your lips, and Bucky lowers you back onto the bed gently. One hand gently cradles your face as he kisses you, long and deep and into the mattress, until you’re writhing below him and your fingers are tugging at his hair. 

He grunts, biting your lower lip, and you moan again.

“That’s right,” he mutters, kissing and sucking a tortuously slow line down your neck. “Relax, doll, lemme take care of you.”

You let out a soft, needy sigh, and Bucky shifts above you. Rolling you both onto your sides, and keeping you pinned to his chest as the metal hand palms at your breasts, and the other glides down your stomach with teasing, feather-light brushes. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, tipping your head back to meet his gaze as his thumb finds your clit, dragging long, firm circles around it. “Please. Need you.”

His eyes are hooded and blown out, and you’re sure it’s a mirror of your own, desperate expression. “Need me, doll? Just me?”

You nod a little stupidly. “Just you, Buck, always just you- Oh-“

One, broad finger pushes into you, right as his thumb presses right onto your clit and metal fingers brush over your nipples. Then he starts to move, pumping slowly and out of your pussy, and you’re floating. He’s barely even touching you and you’re high on him, almost putty in his arms, the heat pooling in your stomach growing into a small, hungry fire. 

“James,” you moan, grinding against his hand, and he hums, picking up the pace. “Fuck, feels so good, I- God-“

Bucky shifts you slightly, pushing in a second finger and a capturing your mouth in a deep, almost bruising kiss. You whine into his mouth, his thumb starting to rub harsh, frenzied little circles on your clit, and you’re going to explode into a stardust and light and Bucky-

“So wet for me,” he mutters, his lips never leaving yours. “Love you so much, love how pretty you look when I touch you-“

“I-“ You whimper, his fingers crooking deep inside you, starting to rub as his thumb hits an almost inhuman place. “James-“

“Gonna cum already, babydoll?” He nips on your lower lip, hissing as you try to grind your ass onto his boner, pressing right into you. “Shit- So needy for me, make the best fuckin’ sounds-“

“Please,” you squirm in his arms, danglingly right on the edge of release. “Bucky, please-“

“I got you,” he mutters your name against your lips, and his metal hand vanishes from your nipples, only to drag down to your already swollen clit, and- “Cum for me, sweet girl.”

Your release washes through you like a wave, and Bucky’s fingers don’t let up on your clit until you’re a shaking, whining mess in his arms. You can’t really hear what he’s saying, likely some low praise about how you feel or look, but you can hear to tone in his voice. Deep and hungry and possessive. Reminding you that you’re his, and he’s yours. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, still floating a little. “You- You’re-“

You grind back onto him and he grunts, pinning you a little tighter against him. 

“Shit, doll- Sleep.” He sighs, kissing right under your ear and pulling one last soft gasp from your lips. “Said you’d sleep for me.”

“But-“

“You can touch me in the morning. Promise.” He sighs your name, rubbing slow circle on your hips. “Please sleep for me, baby.”

Please.

You can’t deny him if he’s saying please. 

And it’s been a shit day, but the night has been perfect. And tomorrow will be better. Maybe even just good.

Bucky’s going to be here, with you, so tomorrow will be good.

End Note: I wanna eat Chinese food with Bucky and watch Cars 2. I think it might be the most entertaining thing one could ever see, also, he's hot.

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That was it. No drama. No interruptions. Definitely no unexpected pets.

But fate, and a suspiciously open cardboard box near the alley dumpsters behind your usual deli—had other plans.

That’s where you found her.

Or rather, that’s where she found you.

You hadn’t even noticed the box at first. You were halfway through texting Yelena about her ridiculous idea for matching leather jackets when a faint sound stopped you cold.

A mewl, soft, reedy, desperate. You turned, heart already twisting, and there she was.

Soaked. Shivering. All fluff and no fight.

Her white fur was a grimy, matted mess, stained gray from the rain and dirt. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old—tiny and fragile, huddled against the crumpled side of the box like it might still protect her.

When your shadow fell over her, she didn’t flinch. She just blinked up at you with those huge, too-wise eyes, let out one pitiful little cry, and tucked her nose into her paw like she was already giving up.

And that was it. You were done for.

You crouched without thinking, hands already moving before logic caught up. She was cold, so cold you swore you could feel it through your fingertips when you scooped her up and tucked her against your chest.

Your jacket came off next, hastily unzipped and wrapped around her as you stood, shielding her from the steady drizzle like instinct had overridden every ounce of your common sense.

She didn’t struggle. Didn’t even try to claw or hiss. Just curled tighter against your chest, her body trembling as a soft, tentative purr vibrated against your sternum.

You looked down. She looked up.

That was the moment.

You didn’t have a name for her yet. You didn’t have a plan. Hell, you didn’t even know if pets were allowed at the compound.

But none of that mattered.

You walked the rest of the way with one arm wrapped around your jacket, cradling a soggy, wide-eyed ball of fur like she was the most precious thing in the world.

You didn’t even make it two steps into the building before Bob spotted you and said, flatly, “You’re keeping it.”

You didn’t argue. Because he was right.

You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat. But it turns out, she’d already adopted you.

"Your name is Alpine," you whispered as you tiptoed into your shared bedroom with Bucky, cradling the tiny fluff ball like a state secret.

She was warm in your arms, damp fur already drying against the softness of your shirt, her little body nestled in like she belonged there. "And you, my girl, are a secret agent."

Alpine blinked up at you with slow, sleepy eyes. Then she let out the tiniest sneeze, her whole body jolting with the force of it.

You smiled, tucking her closer. “We’ll work on stealth.”

Operation Hide-The-Cat was officially underway.

You were surgical in your efforts. Strategic. Diligent. The litter box went in the back of your closet, camouflaged behind a wall of boots and a perfectly draped robe. Her food and water bowls were slipped into a lower drawer you’d emptied and converted into a makeshift dining nook, lined with a towel and everything.

You bought a ridiculous amount of pet wipes and dry shampoo to keep her from smelling too obviously like cat. Her toys were buried between pillows and blankets, and her treats were stashed behind rows of books on your shelves, labeled as "protein bars" in case anyone peeked.

Alpine had more square footage and amenities than some junior agents in the compound.

You even rigged the air vents with dryer sheets to mask the scent, knowing full well Ava liked to crawl through them when she was bored—or looking to scare the shit out of someone. If she found out about Alpine, it would be game over.

Not because Ava would snitch. But because she’d absolutely try to recruit her into the team.

The first few days were a breeze. Alpine slept for hours, nestled in the crook of your arm or burrowed into the soft blankets you arranged like a throne.

She ate delicately, gave you tiny headbutts whenever you reached for your phone, and purred like a small engine when you read aloud at night. It was like living with a warm, sleepy marshmallow who occasionally attacked your socks.

Then she discovered Bucky’s jacket.

It was just hanging there—carelessly draped over the back of your chair, like he always left it when he stayed over in your room.

Dark blue, soft with wear, the kind of thing he grumbled about losing but never actually took back. It smelled like him—pine and clean soap and just a trace of that cologne he insisted he didn’t wear.

The same jacket he’d left behind after that quiet night in, when the two of you had curled up on your bed with takeout and old black-and-white movies. You’d fallen asleep on his chest halfway through Casablanca, and he hadn’t moved a muscle until morning.

You never gave it back.

Apparently, neither could Alpine.

You caught her the first time while brushing your teeth, half-asleep, groggy, and wondering what the soft thump-thump-thump was behind you.

There she was, in all her tiny glory, rolling back and forth on the jacket like she’d claimed it in the name of the feline empire.

You watched in disbelief as she kneaded her little paws into it—making biscuits like it was hers, purring so loud it echoed off the tiles.

From that point on, it was a losing battle.

Every time you turned around, there she was—wrapped in it like a burrito, dragging it off the chair like a victorious hunter, or burrowed into its folds with her head poking out like royalty in a four-poster bed.

You tried to relocate it. Hang it up. Even hide it. Somehow, she always found it.

You started picking fur off it obsessively, lint rolling like your life depended on it—every sleeve, every seam, every goddamn inch of it.

But it was too late.

Because when Bucky walked in three nights later, gaze sharp and mouth already forming some sarcastic comment about your tendency to “hog all the blankets,” he paused mid-step. His eyes dropped to the chair. His brows furrowed.

Then he picked up the jacket.

Held it at arm’s length.

And pulled one long white hair off the collar.

You froze.

Alpine, traitor that she was, chose that exact moment to sneeze again—from under your bed.

Day Seven.

You were in the kitchen reheating leftovers, Alpine nestled warm and content inside Bucky's jacket like a smug little stowaway.

She’d made herself a nest just under the zip, her tiny head poking out beneath your chin, her soft purr vibrating gently against your sternum.

Her paws were tucked against your chest, and her tail flicked lazily beneath the fabric, occasionally brushing your ribs like a mischievous secret waiting to be exposed.

You stirred the pasta one-handed, trying not to disturb her. She’d been sleepy and clingy all morning, refusing to be left alone in the pile of blankets you’d made for her on the bed.

You’d tried sneaking away twice, once for the bathroom, once for food, and both times she’d meowed like you’d abandoned her forever.

So here you were, cooking one-handed with a clingy fur baby zipped into your jacket like the world’s neediest hot water bottle.

That’s when your boyfriend walked in.

Fresh from training. His shirt clinging to him like a second skin, damp with sweat in all the distracting places.

He had that casual, unbothered look about him—like he didn’t even realise how effortlessly distracting he was.

He paused the second he saw you.

His brows drew together, subtle but sharp. “Hey,” he said, voice low as he crossed to the cabinet for a mug.

“Hey,” you echoed, far too casually, heart skipping when Alpine’s tail twitched right as he passed behind you. You subtly shifted your stance to hide the movement.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, frowning faintly. “...You purring?”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, mug in hand, a smirk just barely beginning to tug at his mouth. “I swear I just heard purring.”

“No you didn’t.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly, “Are you purring?”

“Why would I purr?” you asked. "That’s not even something people do.”

“Not usually, no,” he said slowly, taking another step forward, eyes dropping briefly to the suspicious lump in your hoodie.

You held your ground. “I’m cold.”

“In June?”

You cursed the climate-controlled compound. Couldn’t they have made it slightly more believable?

And then—of course—Alpine chose that exact moment to stretch.

A soft meow slipped out of her as she extended one paw toward your zipper like she was participating in the worst game of peekaboo. Her little white head pushed through next, blinking sleepily at the sudden light.

There was a long beat of silence.

Bucky just stared.

Alpine blinked up at him, completely unbothered, tail flicking like she was proud of herself.

And Bucky—

He smiled.

Not a smirk. Not one of his usual crooked, knowing grins. A real smile. Slow and soft and a little stunned, like it had crept up on him without warning. Like he hadn’t expected it. Like he hadn’t expected you.

“You adopted a cat,” he said quietly.

“Rescued a cat,” you corrected quickly, your hand already stroking her head out of pure guilt. “I didn’t mean to. She was just... there. In a box. In the rain. She looked at me. And sneezed. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Bucky stepped closer, something unreadable in his eyes. “She yours?”

You nodded. “Technically, she’s off the books. Like… extremely off the books.”

He crouched slightly, careful and deliberate as he reached out and scratched behind Alpine’s ear.

She melted instantly. Eyes fluttering shut. Purr ramping up like a motor.

You watched, heart thudding.

“Well,” he murmured, not looking away from her, “she’s got good taste.”

“In jackets?” you teased, a little breathless.

“In people,” he said, finally meeting your eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Alpine let out a pleased little chirp, completely oblivious to the tension she’d just wandered into.

You exhaled slowly. “Guess the secret’s out.”

Bucky chuckled. “Wasn’t much of a secret. Pretty sure Yelena saw her yesterday licking marinara off the kitchen counter.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the fridge. “Of course she did.”

“She took a video,” Bucky added, laughing now.

You covered your face with your hand. “She’s never letting this go.”

“Relax,” he said, voice warm. “No one’s kicking her out. She’s... kind of perfect. A little menace. Like you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His expression was open, easier than you’d seen it in days. Like Alpine’s very presence had cracked something in him.

“You mean that?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. She can stay.”

You grinned. “But she has to share the jacket?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean my jacket that you permanently borrowed?”

“You left it here, technically.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Semantics, sweetheart.”

Later that night, when you wandered into the living room with a book in one hand and Alpine’s new toy in the other, you stopped in the doorway.

There they were.

Bucky was stretched out on the couch, hair still damp from his post-shower rinse. One arm tucked behind his head, mouth parted slightly in sleep. And curled right on top of him, nestled into the center of his chest like she’d been born to be there—Alpine. Her tiny paws rose and fell with his breathing, purring so loud you could hear it across the room.

Neither stirred. You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, smiling softly, heart full and warm in a way you hadn’t expected when this week started.

please take care while reading.

if you need to stop or skip parts, that’s okay. your safety and comfort matter more than anything. this story is here to offer softness, not pain.

you are not alone. you are worthy of love and support.

resources:

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network)

www.rainn.org | 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

24/7 confidential support for survivors of sexual violence.

• Crisis Text Line

text HOME to 741741

free 24/7 support for anyone in crisis, available in the U.S., U.K., and Canada.

• The Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ Youth Support)

www.thetrevorproject.org | 1-866-488-7386

24/7 support via phone, chat, or text.

• National Domestic Violence Hotline

www.thehotline.org | 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

confidential support for anyone affected by abuse.

The room is quiet but not peaceful.

Haymitch's chest rises steady behind you, one arm slung lazily over your waist, calloused fingers resting against the soft curve of your stomach like they belong there. Like he knows how to hold you without making a big deal about it. The sheets are warm. His breathing is warm. But your mind feels cold.

You're not sure how long you've been staring at the wall. Long enough that the clock shifted from late night to early morning. Long enough for your thoughts to go from fuzzy static to something sharper. The math creeps in without your permission. Ten years since the night you saw your dad with someone who wasn't your mom.

Ten years since everything shifted in your house.

Eight years since they separated. Two years since he disappeared entirely.

Two years since he didn’t even have the dignity to tell you goodbye, just quietly stepped out of your life little by little.

Two years since he got remarried and stopped speaking to you like you were something he could outgrow.

You suck in a breath, but it snags somewhere in your throat. You try to be quiet about it. You're always quiet about it.

But then his fingers twitch against your stomach.

"Alright," Haymitch mumbles, voice rough with sleep and something like irritation, but not at you. Never at you. "You've been thinkin' so loud I could hear it echoing off the damn walls."

You don't say anything. You can't.

A beat of silence. Then his arm tightens around you, dragging you back a little more snugly against him.

"Sugar," he says, softer now, low and graveled and there, "don't make me play guessing games. I'm too old and too sober for that."

You swallow, hard. "It's nothing."

"Yeah," he snorts, nuzzling his nose against the back of your neck, "and I'm Miss Effie Trinket in heels and lipstick."

You huff out a weak laugh before your throat tightens again. "It's just... a dumb anniversary," you say finally, so quiet you're not even sure he hears.

But he does. Of course he does.

"You wanna tell me, or you want me to keep holdin' you like this and pretend I don't already know what kind of bastard he was?"

Your breath catches.

You don't answer right away.

Because he does know. Maybe not every twisted word your father ever threw at you. Maybe not the way it still echoes when you brush your teeth or try to pick out clothes or reach for love like it's something you're not sure you're allowed to have.

But Haymitch knows enough. Knows the look you get when the past sneaks up on you and digs its nails in. Knows how to read silence like it's a second language.

Still, you speak. Because part of you wants him to hold it with you, even if it's ugly.

"I was ten," you murmur. "When I caught him. With her. She was my mom's friend. It was mother's day. I told my mom and he made me feel like... like I ruined everything. Like I broke something that was fine before I opened my stupid mouth."

Haymitch's fingers curl just slightly against your skin. You can feel the tension roll through him, a quiet sort of fury he doesn't unleash-not at you.

"And then she stayed," you go on, voice smaller now, "but he hated me for it. I could feel it every day. Like I was the reason he was stuck in a marriage that only existed for their kids. And then my mom left him anyway. Two years later. He got remarried like we never existed six years later. I didn't even get a phone call, his friend’s kid told me."

Silence again, but heavier this time. He lets it sit for a moment, the way he always does when you say something that hurts to hear. Doesn't fill it with empty words. Doesn't rush to fix it. Just holds it.

Then his voice comes low, near your ear. "Takes a real special kind of asshole to blame a kid for tellin' the truth."

Your throat tightens. "He said it was my fault because I couldn't keep my fucking mouth shut. And I—" You suck in a shaky breath. "I believed him. I still... I still think maybe if l'd just shut up, maybe he would've stayed in my life. Maybe he wouldn't have stopped loving me."

"Hey." Haymitch's voice cuts through like gravel over glass. Not sharp, but firm. Real. "He didn't stop lovin' you, sugar. He never started."

That stings. But not in the way you expect. It stings because it feels like the truth.

You twist a little, not all the way to face him, but enough that your voice can tremble into the space between you. "Doesn't that make it worse?"

"Yeah," he says simply. "It does."

You blink, surprised.

"But it also makes it not your goddamn fault," he adds, voice lowering, softening again. "You were a kid. You were his kid. And he looked at that and chose himself. That ain't love, sugar. That's cowardice in a button-down shirt."

Your chest aches with something raw, something too big to name.

He shifts behind you, just enough to press his lips to the back of your shoulder. Not a kiss so much as a quiet anchor.

"He left 'cause he's broken. Not 'cause you are," Haymitch mutters. "And if he could walk away after eighteen years and not look back? Then the only damn thing you lost was a man who didn't deserve to be called your father in the first place."

You let out a breath that feels like it's been stuck in your lungs for years.

And he holds you tighter.

But the ache doesn’t leave. Not with his arm around you, not with the warmth of his breath against your skin. It presses harder now, blooming in your chest like something rotten finally splitting open.

Because he’s right.

Your father didn’t love you.

Not really. Not the way a father should love a daughter—not unconditionally, not protectively, not at all. And somehow, somehow, that makes it worse. Because you spent years blaming yourself. Years trying to earn it back. As if love was a prize you lost for misbehaving. For opening your mouth. For existing too loudly.

Even with your name inked above his damn hand, permanently etched in pretty cursive—he forgot you like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.

A sob catches in your throat before you can stop it.

Haymitch’s arm jerks slightly, tightening again like instinct, like he felt it break in you before you did.

You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late. The first tear slips out hot and traitorous. And then another. You try to be quiet, still, invisible the way you learned to be back then—but grief doesn’t care about silence. It rolls out of you in waves, gasping and ugly and helpless.

“Shit,” Haymitch murmurs, like the sound hurts him more than he’s ready to admit. He shifts behind you, curling around you more fully, pulling your body against his like he can shield you from the inside out.

His hand slips over yours, tugging it gently away from your mouth. “Don’t do that,” he says, just above a whisper. “Don’t hide from me.”

You don’t speak.

Can’t.

Because even now, the thought digs in with claws: If he could forget me, erase me, walk away so easily… then how can anyone stay? How can anyone love me long enough to not get tired of me?

Haymitch presses a kiss into your hair, just behind your ear, and keeps his lips there when he speaks. “You hear me, sugar? You don’t have to earn shit here. Not love. Not space. Not this bed. Not me.”

That only makes you cry harder.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just shifts you gently until you’re on your back and he’s propped up on one elbow, leaning over you with that gruff concern carved into every line of his face. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and clumsy, like he’s not used to this but is doing it anyway. For you.

“I’m not him,” he says, voice low and steady, even when your tears soak into the pillow. “And you’re not some broken thing someone forgot to put back together. You hear me?”

You nod, barely.

He leans in and rests his forehead against yours, breathing like it’s the only thing keeping both of you grounded.

“Good,” he mutters. “Now quit cryin’. You’re gettin’ snot on my pillow.”

You let out a strangled little laugh-sob, and he finally smiles. Barely there. But real.

“Better,” he says. “Still messy, but better.”

He doesn’t make you talk. Doesn’t make you explain any more. Just lays on his back and pulls you to him again, your head on his chest this time, his hand moving in slow, absent-minded circles against your back. He hums something tuneless and low under his breath like it’ll chase away the ghosts.

You don’t fall asleep. Even with his hand drawing warm circles on your back, even with his chest rising beneath your cheek like the world isn’t falling apart—you stay wide awake. The tears slow, but the ache doesn’t.

And the words start tumbling out again before you can stop them.

“He didn’t just leave me,” you whisper, voice scratchy from crying. “He left my little brother, too.”

Haymitch makes a quiet sound in his throat. Not surprised. Just listening.

“But not my oldest brother,” you go on, bitterness thick in your voice now. “He’s the good one. The golden child. Always did what he was told. Always said the right things, always threw insults at my mom like she was the one who did something wrong. So when my dad got remarried, guess who he still lets live at his house?”

You don’t wait for a response. You’re unraveling now, and it feels too late to stop.

“And my baby brother—he’s only fifteen. He still gets picked up every other Sunday. My dad comes to the house, makes polite small talk with my mom like they’re just neighbors, like he didn’t ruin everything. And he would just walk past me. Wouldn’t even look at me. Wouldn’t ask how I’m doing. Wouldn’t even say hi.”

You suck in a breath that burns.

“It’s like I’m not real,” you say. “Like I’m not even a person anymore. Just this… this reminder of something he wants to pretend never happened. He kept two kids and threw the rest away, like we were leftovers from a meal he didn’t like.”

Haymitch is quiet for a long time, his hand never stopping its path along your spine.

Then, carefully, he says, “And you still had to see him? Every other damn Sunday?”

You nod against his chest, “Until I moved in with you.”

“Christ,” he mutters, and there’s real venom behind it now. “Man must be built outta ice to look his own daughter in the eye and walk the hell away.”

You press your face tighter into his shirt. “He doesn’t look me in the eye anytime he sees me. Not anymore.”

You feel him tense again, like he wants to fight something but there’s nothing around but you, and he’s not about to let go of you to go start swinging.

“He made it look so easy,” you say after a moment, voice breaking again. “To just… stop being a dad. He picked who was worth keeping. And I wasn’t.”

The quiet hum beneath your ear changes. A deeper inhale. A long, slow exhale.

Then Haymitch says, low and hoarse, “He didn’t keep them because they were better than you, sugar. He kept ‘em ‘cause they were easier. Because they didn’t call him on his bullshit. Didn’t make him look in the mirror and see the kind of man he really is.”

You blink, stunned for a moment by the sharpness in his tone.

“He chose what made him feel good,” he adds. “Not what made him a father.”

And then he pulls you up, shifts you without asking until you’re eye-level with him, close enough that your nose nearly bumps his.

“You hear me?” he says, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. You weren’t unlovable. You were inconvenient to a man who only ever cared about himself.”

You blink again, and another tear falls. You hate how many you have in you tonight.

Haymitch sighs like he can see it happening all over again behind your eyes. “He abandoned you because he’s a coward. Not ‘cause you’re forgettable. Not ‘cause you’re hard to love.”

His gaze softens, brow furrowing. “Far as I’m concerned, sugar, he gave up the best damn thing that ever came out of his sorry bloodline.”

That breaks you a little more. Not because it hurts—but because for the first time in a long time, someone is saying what you always wanted to believe might be true. And meaning it.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just another small, choked sound and a breath that flattens against his collarbone.

He pulls you back into his chest, tighter this time, like he’s anchoring you to the here and now.

“Let it out,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

And you do.

You’re not even sure when you started crying again.

Somewhere between his thumb on your jaw and the way he said you were the best damn thing, it cracked something deeper open. And now it’s all pouring out again—years of grief and rage and shame that never had anywhere to go.

You can’t look at him. You bury your face against his chest again, hiding, because it’s too much. You feel like too much. But his hand doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t flinch away from the way your body shakes against his.

“I hate that it still hurts,” you whisper eventually, voice raw. “I hate that I still care what he thinks. That some part of me still wants him to call and say he made a mistake. That he wants me back.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything. Just makes a soft, almost pained sound in his throat.

“I know he won’t,” you say quickly, bitterly. “I know he won’t. But I want it anyway. Even after everything he’s done. After the names he called me. After the way he—”

Your voice catches. Your heart’s beating too fast.

“He used to say I ruined his life,” you manage. “That I made my mom hate him. That I turned my brothers against him. He said I was cold. Manipulative. That I was just like her.”

You don’t have to explain who her is. You can feel Haymitch tense again—just enough to show he gets it. He’s probably known men like your father. Hell, maybe he’s been afraid of being one.

“I was ten,” you say. “I was ten, and he made me feel like I’d burned our house down just by telling the truth.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “And the worst part is, I believed him. For so long, I believed him. I thought maybe I was broken. Too loud. Too angry. Too much.”

You press your palms to your eyes, trying to shut it all out, but it just keeps coming.

“And now it’s been ten years,” you whisper. “Ten years since everything changed. And every time I get close to someone, I can feel it all over again. That need to shrink down. To make myself easier to love. To not be a burden. I feel like if I say one wrong thing, they’ll just leave too.”

Haymitch’s hand has stilled on your back, but only so he can wrap both arms around you now, anchoring you fully against him. No space left. No escape routes. You’re just held.

“I’m tired,” you admit, the words hitching in your throat. “I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine. Of carrying around this feeling that I was never enough. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

The silence stretches.

Then, quietly, Haymitch says, “You were enough. You are enough. He just wasn’t the kind of man who could see it. And that’s not on you, sugar. That’s never been on you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep crying, shaking silently in his arms like the grief is shaking through you.

He shifts a little, pressing his forehead to the top of your head.

“You’ve been holding all this by yourself too long,” he murmurs. “No wonder it’s heavy.”

Another tear slips free, and you nod against his chest.

His voice drops again, rough and quiet. “You ain’t too much for me. You’re never gonna be. You come with history, yeah—but so do I. And I’ll take every piece of yours if it means I get to keep holdin’ you like this.”

You let out a sound between a sob and a laugh.

“You’re safe here,” he adds. “You’re safe, sugar.”

You don’t even realize you’ve gone quiet until the silence feels too loud again.

Haymitch is still holding you—arms locked firm around your body like he knows damn well you might fall apart if he lets go. His breathing is steady against the top of your head, grounding you. But your own breath is uneven. Shaky.

And then the words come again, hoarse and trembling, tumbling out like they’ve been waiting years for someone to catch them.

“Things got worse after I told her,” you whisper. “After I told my mom about the cheating.”

Haymitch doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“I’d only ever seen him hurt her once before that,” you say. “I was a little kid. My earliest memory is waking up in the middle of the night to her crying. Crawling into my bed. And then he showed up in the doorway and screamed at her to get the fuck out of his house. They were in the hallway and he—” You stop, the breath catching painfully in your chest. “He grabbed her by the throat. Slammed her into the wall. Choked her.”

You expect Haymitch to tense, to curse, to move. But he doesn’t. He just holds you closer, his hand tightening against your back.

“Nothing like that happened again. Not until after I caught him. I was ten, and it was right before we got evicted from my childhood home. Everything just… exploded. We moved to a smaller house, and they started fighting all the time. Screaming in the hallway. Hitting each other. My room was tiny—I had my dresser pressed against the foot of my bed, and there was this little space between the dresser and the wall. Just enough to curl up in. I’d take my pillow and blanket and lay there while they fought. Like hiding could make it stop.”

You pause, swallowing hard. His hand moves again—slow, steady strokes up and down your spine.

“There was one night after a fight,” you continue, quieter now, “my mom came in and said ‘Never be like your dad.’ And then later, he came in and said ‘Never be like your mom.’ Like I was supposed to choose between them. Like I had to pick which kind of damage I wanted to become.”

Haymitch makes a noise—soft, guttural. Like something inside him’s breaking for you.

“There was this night at my grandparents’ house,” you say, breath hitching. “They were drunk and fighting outside. He shoved her into the gravel. I was the one who ran out there. I stood above her, just stared him down, and waited for him to come closer. I thought he might hit me. I knew he might. But my grandparents came out and stopped him.”

You’re crying again. You don’t try to stop it now.

“She wasn’t wearing pants,” you whisper. “I didn’t understand it then. I do now. She told me later that he… he would rape her. And if she fought back, he’d threaten to take us.”

You feel Haymitch go still. Deadly still.

“He woke us up that night. Made all of us get in the car. We didn’t know why. Just listened. And when she came outside, that’s when the fight started. That’s when I ran. Threw the door open and ran to her. Stood there before he could get close.”

You wipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming.

“And I still fell for it,” you say, voice cracking. “I still let him manipulate me. Make me believe he never cheated. That my mom was the one who cheated. That the abuse never happened. Even though I saw it with my own eyes.”

Haymitch’s arm moves to cradle your head, pulling it against his neck.

“He made me hate her,” you sob. “He used me to stalk her. He broke into her house and left a flower on her pillow. One Mother’s Day, he locked the door and wouldn’t let her see us. I had to listen to her begging on the other side of the door. And I still loved him. I still tried.”

You shake your head against him.

“I was twelve when they separated. Fourteen when he started dating my stepmom. I’d been living with him a year by then. And that’s when I started seeing it—how he only cared when I was under his spell. When I started fighting back, started calling him out, suddenly I was the problem. I was a fuck up. Just like my mom.”

Haymitch is still silent, but you can feel the fury in the tension of his body. The kind that wants to protect. The kind that wants to undo what can’t be undone.

“My stepmom hated me,” you go on. “She’d stand in my doorway and scream at me. And when I moved out at fifteen, that’s when it started. The slow abandonment. By sixteen, they were still technically around, but barely. Every time he talked to me, he used that fake voice. Like I was a stranger. Like he didn’t know me. Like I didn’t carry his damn DNA.”

Your voice cracks. “He didn’t even divorce my mom until he wanted to marry her. Made it this big custody battle. Said he wanted custody of me. But when I told my mom’s lawyer about the abuse, suddenly he didn’t want me at all. And then he was just… gone.”

You go quiet. The room’s only sound is your breathing—your grief. The weight of it suffocating and sharp.

“I still tried,” you whisper. “Even after all of it. I still loved him. And he just… shut me out. Completely. Like I didn’t matter.”

Haymitch’s lips brush your temple. You barely hear him breathe your name.

“I gave up by eighteen,” you say. “But I didn’t cut him off completely until this February. A month after I turned twenty.”

The silence that follows is endless.

Then—Haymitch shifts, one hand framing your cheek as he tilts your face toward his. His voice, when he finally speaks, is soft and jagged all at once.

“You didn’t fall for anything, sugar. You were groomed. Gaslit. Lied to. You were just a kid—scared, desperate for love, trying to survive in a warzone you never signed up for.”

You blink up at him, eyes burning.

“And you did survive,” he says. “You made it out. You saw the truth and you fought back. You did the bravest goddamn thing a person can do—you walked away. You cut him off. You saved yourself.”

You swallow, the tears still spilling.

“You are not the damage he did to you,” Haymitch murmurs. “You’re the fight that came after.”

You’re not even sure how long it’s been. The sky outside the window is beginning to gray at the edges, that in-between hour when the world still pretends it’s night but something softer is trying to crawl in. You’re lying curled into Haymitch’s chest like your bones wouldn’t know how to hold you up otherwise, your voice hoarse and raw from hours of truth spilling out of you.

But one more still clings to your ribs.

“I never understood why my mom stayed with him for so long,” you whisper, barely audible. “Even when I was little, I knew he was awful. And now that I’m older, now that she tells me more… it wasn’t just the cheating. He was bad for years.”

Haymitch doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just runs his hand down your back again, the rhythm grounding.

“I didn’t get it,” you say. “Not until I was sixteen. When I started dating this girl. She was never physical, but… she didn’t have to be.”

Your voice breaks a little, but you keep going. “She’d scream at me over the smallest things. Insult me. Pull her love away like it was something I was supposed to earn. And I tried. I tried so hard to earn it. One second she loved me, and the next—if I wasn’t who she wanted me to be—it was like I was nothing.”

Your breath shudders in and out.

“I wasn’t allowed to talk about my feelings. Everything I said was a problem. I remember once, she got a press-on nail stuck in her hair, and I asked if she was okay, and she just screamed at me. Told me to shut up and leave her alone. Like I was bothering her just by being there.”

You feel Haymitch’s jaw tighten against your temple.

“She broke up with me because I didn’t want to be intimate. I was still recovering from…” you trail off, just for a second, but he doesn’t press. “So I made myself do it anyway. Because I would’ve done anything for her. I loved her with every piece of me, even when she used that love like a knife.”

You sniff, wiping at your face again.

“I let her pick me apart. I changed everything about myself to make her happy. I got quieter. Smaller. I stopped being me. And it was still never enough.”

You’re trembling again now, like saying it makes the pain rise back up.

“She made me feel crazy,” you whisper. “Like I was the abuser. Like I was the problem. She’d push and push until I snapped, and then she’d point and say, See? She’s the toxic one. Not me. That’s what they call reactive abuse, right?”

Haymitch’s hand pauses for a moment. Then it presses firm against your back, steady.

“I stayed until I was eighteen,” you say, brokenly. “Even though I knew she was awful. Even though she made me cry constantly. She’d break up with me every other month just to come back crying and apologizing—and I always let her. Every time.”

Your voice is nearly gone now. Just air and hurt.

“I think it’s ‘cause it felt familiar. Like what I saw growing up. I thought… I thought maybe that was just what love was. That I was meant to love people who tore me apart. That it was all I’d ever be worth.”

And then—quiet, so quiet it almost doesn’t come out—you whisper:

“But then I met you.”

Haymitch exhales like he’s been punched. He sits up.

His arms wrap around you in full, pulling you up until you’re sitting in his lap, until your face is buried in the crook of his neck and his arms are wrapped tightly around you.

“Goddamn it, sugar,” he says, voice thick and shaking. “You shouldn’t’ve had to survive any of that.”

You don’t say anything. You just let yourself be held.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke the world played, makin’ someone like you believe you were meant for scraps,” he goes on, voice rasping low in your ear. “But they were all wrong. Every last one of ‘em. You hear me?”

You nod into his nice, but he pulls you back just enough to frame your face in his rough palms.

“I mean it,” he says, eyes burning with something fierce and unshakable. “You’re not too much. You’re not broken. You’re not hard to love.”

Your chin quivers, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there.

“You didn’t stay with her because you’re weak. You stayed because you were taught love looks like that. But it doesn’t. Not with me.”

His thumbs swipe at the wetness on your cheeks.

“You don’t ever have to make yourself smaller here. You don’t ever have to beg for affection or walk on eggshells or wonder if I’m gonna stop loving you the second you speak your mind.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t want a quiet, easy version of you. I want you. Loud or soft. Messy or calm. Cryin’ in my arms or makin’ me laugh so hard I nearly fall over. You don’t need to shape yourself into something else to be worthy of love, sugar. You already are.”

Your breath hitches.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “All of you. Every damn scar, every story. You are not hard to love. You just haven’t been loved right.”

And in his arms, something in you finally starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be.

You’re still in his lap but you’ve shifted so your legs are on either side of him, your forehead against the warmth of his shoulder , tears soaking quietly into his shirt. And Haymitch doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to hush you. He just holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like your weight belongs there. Like he’s done this a thousand times in another life, and every time, it’s been you.

“C’mere,” he murmurs again, even though you’re already there. His hand runs down your back, then up into your hair, slow and careful. “You don’t have to say anything else. I got you.”

And he does.

He’s not always good with words—not when it comes to feelings—but he tries. He always tries for you.

“You’re somethin’ special, you know that?” he says, voice low and a little rough, but full of certainty. “Not ‘cause you’ve been through hell. Not ‘cause you clawed your way out. But because somehow, after all of it, you still got that soft heart beatin’ in your chest.”

His fingers slide gently down your arm, wrapping around your hand like it’s something precious.

“You still love big. Still trust. Still give people chances they didn’t earn, even after they’ve hurt you. That ain’t weakness, sugar. That’s strength I don’t know if I’ve ever seen before.”

You sniff, quietly, and he presses a kiss to your hair.

“And don’t think for a second that you’re hard to be around,” he adds. “You don’t exhaust me. You don’t scare me off. I’ve seen real monsters. You? You’re the brightest damn thing I’ve had in my life in years. You’re warmth. You’re light. You’re the reason I bother makin’ coffee in the morning instead of drinkin’ straight from the bottle.”

A tear slips out again, but it’s softer now. Less pain, more release.

“You’re allowed to be messy. Allowed to fall apart,” he says. “Doesn’t make me wanna leave. Makes me wanna hold you tighter. Makes me want to be here.”

He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up, to make sure you’re looking at him when he says it.

“I want you, sugar. Not in spite of everything you’ve lived through. With it. All of it.”

Your lip trembles.

“You could scream at me, cry on me, tell me the same story ten times because it still hurts, and I’ll still show up. I’ll still pull you into bed with me and keep you safe. I’ll still be right here in the morning.”

His thumb traces the edge of your cheekbone.

“I don’t need perfect,” he says. “I just need you. Exactly as you are.”

And when you let out a shaky breath and finally lean back into him again, he wraps his arms around you so tight it feels like maybe the shattered parts of your heart could actually start to mend there.

“Rest, sugar,” he murmurs against your temple. “Let me carry it for a while. You’ve done enough.”

You lose track of time like that. Pressed against him. Surrounded by the beat of his heart and the rough scratch of his voice when he says your name, like it means something sacred.

Eventually, he shifts just enough to lie back fully, taking you with him, your cheek resting on his chest. One of his hands cradles your head, fingers buried gently in your hair. The other runs slow and absent down your spine, like tracing you is the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “I used to think I wasn’t good at this.”

You blink up at him, confused.

“Comfort. Love. Bein’ soft with someone,” he says. “Didn’t think I had it in me. Thought I was too wrecked to be good for anybody.”

His hand stills against your back for a second, then starts moving again.

“And then there you were. With all your damn light. All your pain, sure, but all your fight, too. You didn’t need someone to fix you. Just someone to see you.”

He tilts your chin up and looks at you with those storm-colored eyes—sharp and tired and so unbelievably tender when they’re on you.

“I see you, sugar,” he whispers. “Every piece. And I love the whole damn thing.”

You let out a little breath—half-sob, half-laugh—and he smiles.

“There’s my girl,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours.

“I look a mess,” you mumble, voice still thick with emotion.

“Yeah,” he says, smug. “A gorgeous, brave, heart-full-of-love kinda mess. My favorite kind.”

You huff, and he catches the sound of it like it’s a gift, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You make this old man want to be soft,” he says. “That’s how I know it’s real.”

You smile into his chest, a little fragile still, but it’s there. Real and blooming.

And when he pulls the blanket over the both of you and mumbles, “Go on, sleep now. I’ll be here in the morning. And the next morning. And the next,” you believe him.

Because he’s Haymitch.

Because he stayed.

Because he loves you.

You don’t fall asleep right away.

Even after everything you’ve spilled, even after the steady rhythm of Haymitch’s hand on your back and the sound of his heartbeat under your ear, your mind is still too full. But this time, it’s not just the ache. It’s something gentler, something truer.

You lift your head slowly, eyes searching for his in the dim light. “Can I say something?”

Haymitch cracks one eye open. “‘S’pose I’d be a hypocrite if I said no.”

You give a soft, breathy laugh, and he tightens his arm around you just a little. Not teasing. Not joking. Just wanting to feel you close.

You shift so you’re sitting up, basically straddling him now. Your hands press against his waist. He’s quiet, waiting, his face tired but open.

“I know I said a lot tonight,” you whisper, “but there’s more I need to say. About you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not all cried out?”

You nod. “This isn’t the kind of crying that hurts.”

He doesn’t say anything—just looks at you, his thumb brushing lightly along your wrist, like he’s bracing for what’s coming.

You take a breath.

“You saved me,” you say softly. “Not with big gestures or some grand rescue. But with things that matter more. You’ve listened. You’ve stayed. You never flinch away when I fall apart.”

His expression flickers—something caught between awe and disbelief—but you don’t let him argue. You keep going.

“You’re the first place I’ve ever felt safe without having to hide myself to be safe. You don’t ask me to make my pain prettier. You don’t try to fix me. You just… see me. And that means more than I know how to explain.”

Haymitch doesn’t speak, but you feel his stomach rise with a quiet, sharp inhale.

“I know you’ve been through hell too,” you murmur. “I know people let you down. Broke things in you that never should’ve cracked in the first place. But I need you to know this: you are not broken to me.”

He blinks, slowly.

“You are the safest thing I’ve ever known,” you whisper. “Even when you grumble. Even when you call me a brat or roll your eyes. You’re home to me.”

His breath catches—just a little.

“And I love you,” you say, so softly it barely crosses the space between you. “Not just because you stayed. Not just because you held me when I couldn’t hold myself. I love you, Haymitch. All of you. The sharp edges. The softness you pretend you don’t have. The way you say my name like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like you just knocked the wind out of him.

You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Gentle. Steady. “You make the world less scary,” you whisper against his skin. “You make me feel like I might be worth loving. But I hope you know… you’re worth it, too. You’ve always been.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hands come up and grip your waist, he pulls you down like he’s afraid if he doesn’t hold you, he might fall apart.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“You do,” you say without hesitation, arms slipping under him and around his waist. “You always have.”

He doesn’t argue. Not this time.

Instead, he presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there like he’s breathing you in.

“Love you too, sugar,” he says softly. “More than I thought I could love anything again.”

You smile into the crook of his neck.

------

You and Bucky had never said the ‘L’ word.

Love.

I love you.

Your relationship had always been strong, a quiet constant in your life. It had started slowly, lingering glances, late-night walks back from missions, casual coffee runs to the place Bucky swore had the best muffins in the city. ‘friend dates’, he’d call them. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment things shifted. Maybe it was the night the two of you stayed up watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reruns until dawn, only to wake up tangled together on the couch, too comfortable to move. Or maybe it started when you found yourself spending more nights at Bucky’s place than your own, helping him fumble through whatever mysterious recipe he’d picked from the new cookbook you gave him, only to end up dusted in flour, his handprints stamped like soft proof on your hips and waist. Or perhaps it was the moment he went dark on a mission, no comms, no updates, just a sinking feeling in your gut, and when he finally returned, stepping off a bullet-riddled quinjet, you kissed him in front of everyone. You didn’t care about the smug looks from the others. You were just relieved he was alive.

And now, sitting on the floor of your bathroom, knees hugged to your chest, contemplating the mess you’d made of yourself, of your career, of everything in the past twenty-four hours, you wondered if he ever could truly love you. 

You didn’t feel lovable. You felt like a failure, well and truly a fuck up of a human being. 

You knew Tony hadn’t meant the things he’d shouted at you during the debrief, not really, but that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t quiet the echo of his words still reverberating through your bones. You knew the team was exhausted. Defeated. Grieving in the wake of a catastrophic mission. In your few short years as an Avenger, you’d already learned that for every victory, there were just as many failures, some more devastating than others. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t entirely your fault. You’d all been doomed from the start, ambushed, outnumbered, overwhelmed. It was a miracle any of you made it out alive.

Still, twelve didn’t.

Twelve agents, gone forever.

Twelve sets of eyes you had slowly watched fade, twelve bodies you watched grow blue and cold, twelve families who would never see their loved ones, twelve families who were likely receiving the news now. It hadn’t been enough.

You hadn’t been enough. 

You ran through it in your head endless times on the Quinjet back. You’d done everything you could. Pushed yourself to the brink until your magic sputtered and died, until your limbs trembled and your vision turned to stars. Until all you could do was fall to your knees and watch it happen. Watch them go.

You had tried desperately to explain in the debrief, practically pleading with Tony as the room turned into a warzone of insults and frustration. 

‘I can only be in so many places at once! There were too many. I did what I could, I tried, but my magic has limits. I have limits!’

Tony had stared you down with a look of disgust. He was still in his suit, dirt and blood smeared on his face, dust and grit gathered in his brows and beard. 

‘Yeah, well, if you can’t handle it, if you can’t keep up, maybe you shouldn’t be an Avenger at all.’ 

The air had vanished from the room in an instant. And in that silence, a part of you decided they all agreed with him, that they all hated you. The eight surviving agents sat motionless, watching the argument unfold with haunted thousand-yard stares. Even Natasha and Sam couldn’t quite meet your eye. 

‘Maybe we need another healer.’ Tony had spat, and your face had crumpled. ‘One who can handle what we’re asking of them.’

You barely registered Natasha’s voice, ‘You’re being too harsh, Tony’, as you fled the room, shame burning hotter than the tears you refused to let fall.

Now here you were, still stained with blood and filth, unable to breathe under the weight of it all.

You stared at the bathroom tiles, blinking through tears, chest aching like something was caving in from the inside. Every breath felt like a struggle, like your body didn’t want to keep going if your mind wouldn’t fight for it. You weren’t even sure when the small paring knife from the kitchen ended up in your hand. You’d taken it with you without thinking, without planning, like your body was moving on some quiet, desperate instinct.

You turned it over in your palm, watching how the metal caught the light.

It was a bad habit, you knew that. One you thought you’d buried years ago.

One of the first times you and Bucky had been intimate, he’d noticed the faint scars that lined your thighs and hips. The marks were in places no one was meant to see. You hadn’t expected to be seen. He had asked about them only once. 

‘What are these?’

You had answered honestly. ‘I was in pain. And I didn’t know how else to make it stop. Hurting myself was the only thing that made sense.’

He hadn’t judged you, hadn’t pulled away. His brow had furrowed, and in all his frustrating kindness and understanding, he had simply kissed them.

You wondered where Bucky was now. He hadn’t been on the mission, he was off helping Steve train the agents. You wondered how he’d react when he heard the news. When he learned that so many of the agents he’d personally trained were gone because you hadn’t been enough. Would he hate you for it? Pity you? Look at you with that same flicker of disgust Tony hadn’t bothered to hide?

Your hand shook as you raised the knife, but there was no hesitation. You pressed the blade to your wrist. A sob slipped out, trembling and thin, as the edge bit deeper, pain flared through your nerves, burning like fire. You squeezed your fingers into a fist, muscles twitching beneath the metal as if it were trying to shy away. You dragged the blade up your forearm vertically, watching how the blood welled up and spilt across your skin in a crimson rush.

You stopped only when you reached the crook of your elbow, breath hitching as you watched the blood drip onto the cold white tiles, pooling in the grout like spilt wine. The pain in your chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, it throbbed harder, your breathing ragged and shallow.

Your magic spluttered to life, hesitant and fragile after hours of overuse. You felt it in the searing coil deep in your gut, in the ache threading through your shoulders. You were moments away from collapse. A thin sweat clung to your brow, the salty sting mixing with tears as you pressed your thumb into the fresh wound you’d carved.

A sharp hiss escaped your lips as the flesh began to knit under your touch. Healing had never been painless. The manipulation of blood and bone was something unnatural, meant to be a weapon just as much as it was a remedy. Muscle pulled tight beneath your skin, twitching and resisting, as your magic forced the edges closed. By the time you reached the tender crook of your elbow, you were sobbing again, jaw clenched hard against the searing pain. But after one final pass, it was done. All that remained was a thin, raised scar tracing your forearm and the evidence of your lapse in the form of blood smeared across the tiles.

Your brow furrowed, and you struck again. You needed to feel it. You needed to understand. What was the point of surviving if you couldn’t prove your worth? If you couldn’t push past fear and failure? If you couldn’t protect the people who counted on you?

Your teeth ached from the pressure of your clenching jaw. Your head pounded, vision blurring at the edges. Still, you raised the knife again. Your skin was a patchwork now—angry, raw, blistered red with that fresh, pink scar where your magic had forced healing. You wanted to open it again. Just to feel. Just to remind yourself.

Your hands trembled. Your magic flickered weakly at your fingertips, barely more than a dying spark. Your body screamed for you to stop, muscles sluggish and mind thick with exhaustion, but you couldn’t hear it through the noise in your head.

You pressed the blade’s tip to your wrist.

And that’s when the apartment door slammed open.

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice called out, panicked. “Are you okay? I heard what happened—”

You froze.

Blood still warm, still trailing from your fingertips. The bathroom reeked of iron. You were crouched on the tiles, surrounded by red.

“Where are you?” he called again. “I know you’re home, your shoes are here—”

You scrambled to your feet, reaching blindly for a towel, anything to hide the mess. The knife clattered to the floor, the sound ringing like a gunshot in the stillness.

“Fuck—” you whispered.

Panic flared. Without thinking, you stumbled over your own feet, crashing to your knees as you tried to swing the bathroom door shut and lock it. But you were too late.

Bucky caught the door with ease, too fast for you to react. His eyes found you instantly, pale, shivering, feverish, crouched in a pool of blood. His expression shattered into alarm.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, breath catching in his throat.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Sweetheart.”

You let out a sob and folded forward, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing left in the world. His arms came around you without hesitation, cradling you against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—” you gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh. I know,” he whispered, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

Your face buried into his shirt, the warmth of his body soothing your fraying nerves as sobs tore out of you, raw and helpless. Shame burned beneath your skin like acid. You couldn’t hide, not from him, not like this.

“I’m here,” he whispered again into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t want this. I’m a mess, Buck. I’m broken—”

“You’re not broken,” he said fiercely. “You’re hurting. There’s a difference.”

Bucky didn’t move for a moment. Just stared down at you, breath caught somewhere between panic and heartbreak. His hands hovered, unsure of where to touch, not wanting to hurt you more than you already had. But then you looked up at him, shoulders trembling, and his instinct kicked in. 

“Let me see,” he begged, voice rough. “Please, just let me help.”

Shame curled through your stomach as you drew your arm from behind your back, presenting the angry scar like a guilty confession. He didn’t flinch at the sight of the scar, nor the raw magic still flickering faintly beneath your skin like dying embers. His touch was impossibly gentle as he took your wrist in both hands, his thumb brushing the raised edge. You watched his expression twist, not in disgust, but in something quieter. Sadder.

“You healed it yourself?” he asked hoarsely. “Shit, sweetheart… You’re burning yourself out doing this. You already feel like you’ve got a fever, your magic’s drained, you’re shaking—”

“I have to,” you interrupted, voice brittle. “I need to push further. I need to suffer like they did. I need to feel it. Otherwise, how do I understand how I failed? How do I carry their pain if I don't take some of it into myself?”

He froze, as if your words physically struck him.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” his voice cracked. “Driving yourself into the ground just to prove you're useful? That you care? Everyone knows that you do your best, that you care more than any of us.”

You looked away. This was different. This wasn’t just exhaustion from overcasting. You cut this time. You bled. You fused your magic with an act you couldn’t explain, not even to yourself.

And now, even the scar throbbed with shame.

“You’ve always done this,” he went on, softer now. “Pushing your limits. Refusing to rest. Like every ounce of pain you feel somehow makes up for what you think you did wrong. But this…” He looked down at the mark again, his jaw tightening. “This is different. This isn’t just burning yourself out. You hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you choked, the words scraping up your throat. “It just…”

“You think suffering will make you worthy,” he said, quietly but firmly. “But you’re already worthy. And pain isn’t proof. It’s not some punishment you earn for failing.”

Your lip trembled. “It feels like it is.”

He gently reached up and cupped your cheek with a scarred hand, tilting your face toward him.

“I know that feeling,” he said. “Trust me, I know it better than anyone. But this isn’t the way. You don’t have to destroy yourself to prove something we all already know, that deep down you are a kind and caring person who works so incredibly hard to make sure we all return home safe.”

Your tears returned with fresh force, hot and relentless. You leaned into his palm when he cupped your cheek.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you choked out.

“I needed to,” he whispered. “So I could be here. So I could help.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just made a soft, broken sound and let yourself fall into his arms again.

“C’mon,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

He helped you up gently, arms steady as your legs threatened to give out. You were still shivering and pale. Feverish from the overuse of magic. He turned on the bath and tested the temperature.

“Let’s get you out of these,” he said gently, voice barely above a whisper.

You let him undress you with careful hands, peeling the soiled clothes from your skin one piece at a time. The fabric clung stubbornly in places, stiff with blood. Your own, and that of the agents you couldn’t save. You tried not to think about that, tried not to see their faces. Bucky said nothing as he kicked the clothes aside, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of pain in his eyes. You swallowed hard against the lump rising in your throat.

The bath burned as you sank into it, but beneath the sting was something else, relief. The kind that reached deep into your bones, unravelling the numbness that had wrapped around your limbs like ice. You exhaled shakily, sinking lower into the water as the steam curled around your face.

Bucky knelt behind you on a folded towel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He reached for your shampoo without asking, your favourite one, the expensive kind you only used on special occasions. You glanced back, surprised.

He caught your eye and offered a soft, crooked smile. “The one you wear to parties,” he murmured. “Smells like heaven. Drives me crazy every time.”

“You remember that?” you asked, blinking at him.

He gave a soft laugh. “I’ve watched you do this a hundred times.”

It was true, you always took longer than him to get ready. He never minded. He’d lean in the doorway, smirking or pretending to sigh dramatically like some love-struck puppy while you did your makeup. You’d catch his gaze through the mirror as you smoothed on your lipstick, always choosing the brightest shade so that it would leave a mark on his cheek when you kissed him. And he would linger too close under the guise of helping, fingertips grazing up your arms as you asked him to zip your dress, his calloused hands pausing a moment too long at the nape of your neck when he swept your hair aside to clasp a necklace. He touched you like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to, like every moment near you was something he didn’t want to end.

His fingers worked the shampoo through your hair in slow, soothing circles, like he had all the time in the world. The scent of lavender bloomed in the steamy air, wrapping around your frayed nerves like a balm. He rinsed, then repeated with conditioner, combing gently through each tangle with care.

The rhythmic motion lulled you. Your head dipped forward, eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion tugged at you like a tide. You forced your hand to move, dragging a washcloth over your limbs just to stay conscious, present. Bucky didn’t speak, not really, just soft hums under his breath, the occasional brush of his knuckles down your spine to let you know he was still there.

By the time the water had cooled and your skin was no longer flushed with fever, he helped you stand. Your legs trembled beneath you like a newborn deer, unsteady and aching, and you sagged into the towel he wrapped around your shoulders. 

“I’ll find you something comfortable,” he said as he helped guide you back to your room.

You dressed slowly, your skin prickling with fresh warmth. When you stepped into the kitchen, wearing one of his old sweatshirts that reached mid-thigh and a pair of fluffy socks.

But it was the sight that greeted you in the kitchen that nearly undid you.

Bucky was standing at the counter, flipping through one of your old cookbooks, the one you’d dog-eared and tabbed over the years with sticky notes and scribbles. He was studying every note you'd left in the margins.

The lump returned to your throat.

“I figured we’d eat in bed,” he said casually, glancing up when he sensed you hovering near the island. “Watch something dumb. That sound good?”

You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah. That sounds… good.”

He turned to look at you, really look at you. Something in his expression shifted, softened. Without a word, he crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You melted into him. Arms wrapped tightly around his waist like he was the only thing tethering you to the world.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you had the sense to stop yourself. You didn’t look up, couldn’t.

For a heartbeat, you braced for the silence. For the stillness he sometimes slipped into when feelings got too loud.

But it never came.

Instead, he held you closer, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he voiced a low murmur against your damp hair.