What are some insults that Soldier Boy would throw at Dean? đ
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What are some insults that Soldier Boy would throw at Dean? đ

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Bucky who is obsessed with chubby reader who has a visible belly and uses it as a pillow and what not :)
Bucky has always loved soft things.
Soft sweaters. Soft blankets. The quiet softness of early mornings before the rest of the compound wakes up.
And you.
You, with your plush hips and thick thighs and the gentle curve of your belly that peeks through every fitted shirt you own like itâs proud to exist. You, who huff and roll your eyes when he stares too long, who pretend not to notice the way his hands wander, always, always settling at your waist.
He is obsessed.
It starts small, the first time he rests his head against your stomach. Youâre both on the couch after a long mission, exhausted and half-limp with it. Youâre sitting upright, back pressed into the armrest, scrolling through something on your phone while he stretches out along the length of the couch. He shifts closer without asking, metal hand warm and steady as it hooks around your thigh and tugs you in.
âBuck,â you murmur, distracted.
âShh.â
And then he just⌠folds.
He slides down until his head is resting squarely in your lap, cheek pressed to the softness of your belly. Not flat against bone. Not sharp edges. Just warmth and give and comfort. He exhales like heâs found something sacred.
You freeze. âWhat are you doing?â
âUsing my pillow,â he answers simply, as if itâs the most obvious thing in the world.
Your stomach flips. âYou have like six actual pillows.â
âNone of them are this good.â
His flesh hand splays wide over your side, thumb brushing the slight dip where your waist curves inward before swelling out again. He gives a little squeezeâabsentminded, affectionateâand settles his full weight there.
Youâre hyperaware of it. The weight of his head. The scratch of his stubble through your shirt. The way his nose presses just slightly into you when he breathes.
âIâm squishy,â you mutter.
âExactly.â
He sounds downright pleased about it.
You expect him to move after a minute. To tease you and then roll away. But he doesnât. He stays. His shoulders loosen. His fingers trace lazy shapes along the underside of your belly, reverent and slow.
âYouâre so soft,â he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher. âDonât know how you walk around like this without me glued to you all the time.â
Heat floods your face. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâm serious.â
He turns his head slightly and presses a slow kiss right through your shirt, just below your navel. The sensation makes you jolt.
âBuck.â
âWhat?â he asks innocently, but thereâs a smile tugging at his mouth. âCanât appreciate my girl?â
Itâs the way he says itâmy girl. Like heâs claiming treasure.
You shift, suddenly self-conscious. âYou donât⌠wish I was smaller?â
The question slips out before you can stop it. You hate that it does. You hate that itâs even in your head.
He goes very still.
Slowly, he pushes himself up onto his elbows until heâs looking at you directly. His eyes are blue and sharp and entirely serious.
âSmaller?â he repeats, almost offended. âWhy would I want less of you?â
Your breath catches.
He sits up properly then, hands coming to frame your waist. He doesnât hesitate. Doesnât soften his grip. He squeezesâfirm, grounding.
âI love this,â he says, sliding his palm over your belly openly now. âLove how you feel. Love how you fit in my hands. Love how I can lay my head here and hear you laugh and feel it.â He presses his ear back against you demonstratively. âItâs my favorite sound system.â
A startled laugh bursts out of you.
âThere it is,â he says smugly. âSee? Worth it.â
You swat at him lightly, but he catches your wrist and brings your hand to his hair instead. Encouraging. Guiding. Like he wants you to get used to this.
âI like that youâre soft,â he continues, quieter now. âI spent decades surrounded by hard things. Cold things. I donât want that anymore.â
His cheek presses back into your belly, slower this time. Intentional. He rubs his face there shamelessly, like a cat claiming its spot.
âYouâre warm,â he murmurs. âYouâre comfortable. Youâre real.â
Your fingers slide through his hair without thinking, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He melts instantly, breath shuddering out of him.
âAnd I like that I can do this,â he adds.
He wraps both arms around you and tugs until youâre practically folded over him, his face buried fully against your stomach now. He nuzzles, exaggerated and greedy, and then presses a series of soft kisses along the curve.
You canât stop smiling.
âYouâre obsessed,â you accuse softly.
âYeah.â
No denial. Not even a pause.
âI am.â
His hand slides under your shirt this time, skin to skin. His palm spreads wide over the softness there, thumb tracing lazy circles. He watches your face carefully as he does it, gauging every reaction, like he wants to memorize the way you respond.
âI like that youâre soft enough for me to sink into,â he says, voice dropping slightly. âLike that when I grab you, I actually get to hold something.â
Your breath goes shallow.
His touch shifts from playful to deliberate. Fingers pressing deeper. Appreciative. His lips follow the path of his hand, kissing along your belly slowly, like heâs mapping it.
âYou know what my favorite part is?â he asks quietly.
âWhat?â
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark now, but still tender.
âThat you donât hide from me.â
Your chest tightens.
âYou let me love you like this,â he continues. âYou let me touch you. Lay on you. Hold you. And I wouldnât trade that for anything.â
He slides up your body then, kissing a path from your stomach to your sternum, to your collarbone, until heâs hovering over you on the couch. Big and solid and entirely devoted.
âAnd if you ever start thinking you need to be smaller,â he adds softly, brushing his nose against yours, âIâm gonna remind you that I need exactly this.â
His hand drifts back down, settling possessively over your belly again. Like it belongs there.
Like you belong there.
You pull him down into a kiss before you can overthink it, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He smiles against your mouth, satisfied, and then deliberately shifts so he can rest his head back where he started.
Pillow reclaimed.
You roll your eyes, but your hands find his hair automatically.
âComfortable?â you tease.
He sighs like a man who has found heaven.
âPerfect.â
hot take but i like x reader fics where the reader is basically an oc.
iâm not trying to imagine me in the story all the time. iâm trying to be someone else for a bit.
THISSS.
Kinktober day 7
Bucky Barnes x readerÂ
Kinktober masterlist
Day 7: Wax Play a/n: i wanted to play w the stoplight system and a more strict control (maybe not outright bdsm) dynamic with bucky for this one with a layer of more poetic style prose and less filth than some of the other days. Made me miss writing longer fics where we dive into his pretty head and navigate his struggles with his past ))): i love this man sm
You notice the quiet first.
Buckyâs apartment always hums with something, old radiator, distant city noise, the low murmur of a television someone in the building leaves on like a night-light. But tonight the place has a stillness that settles in your shoulders as soon as the door shuts behind you. It smells like clean cotton and something faintly herbal, like he cracked a window earlier to let the cool air roll through and took the time to wipe down the counters afterward. Thereâs a neatness to everything, shoes lined up by the mat, keys on the catch-all tray, a dish towel folded perfectly in thirds, like heâs made a perimeter and confirmed itâs safe.
âHey,â he says, voice low and warm as he takes your coat. âYou good?â
âYeah.â You watch him hang it on the hook, watch the way his flesh hand checks the hanger twice without thinking, like he canât help making sure itâs stable. âYou?â
He nods. Takes you in. âBeen looking forward to tonight.â
Thereâs a small table waiting in the living room, pulled close to the couch. On it, a line of candles from squat little tins to tapered pillars, ivory, blush, soft gray, each with a label carefully peeled or blacked out. Thereâs a ceramic tray. A mason jar full of ice water with a metal spoon inside. A bottle of unscented oil. A folded towel. A pair of shears.
Itâs not the carnival-bright show of a toy store; itâs a field kit laid out by a soldier who has learned how to plan for everything that can go wrong.
The contrast of it hits you in the sternum. You step closer, fingers hovering above the arrangement. âYou put a lot of thought into this.â
âAlways do.â He stops a pace away, giving you room. âWalk me through your head right now.â
You breathe. In. Out. You catch the way his eyes soften when you do. âExcited,â you say. âA little scared in the good way. MostlyâŚâ You roll your wrist, searching. âMostly I want to feel you take me through it instead of me trying to decide every second. I trust you.â
He closes his eyes for a heartbeat. Something in him loosens and braces at the same time. âSay that again.â
âI trust you, Bucky.â
His chest rises, falls. When he opens his eyes, the blue is steadier, quieter. âOkay.â The vibranium knuckles ghost your elbow, cold at first, but itâs the kind of cold that orients you. âLetâs get the talk out of the way so my head stays clean once we start.â
You nod, letting your shoulder rest into the couch. He stands like a sentry and then sits deliberately, turning to face you, one leg tucked on the cushion so heâs angled in. You mirror him until your knees touch.
âRules?â
ââRedâ to stop completely.â You tap his wrist; the plates whir soft as he lets you. âYellow means I need you to slow down or change something, not stop.â
âGood.â The metal fingers turn just enough to cradle your touch without catching. âWhat if I ask you for numbers?â
âZero is nothing. Ten is too much. Keep it between⌠six and eight while we build?â
He nods again. âNo surprises. First contact will be here.â He brushes two knuckles under your collarbone. âThen here.â He skims down the centerline of your chest, not touching your breast, just letting the promise of proximity sit there. âWe can go lower if you want it. And weâre avoidingâŚâ He waits.
âNeck and face,â you say. âAnd I want to keep my inner thighs for your hands.â Your cheeks heat. âBoth of them.â
The quickest ghost of a smile. âCopy that.â He glances at the table. âWax type is paraffin blends with a low melt point; I tested them already.â Thereâs a flash of old habit, mission brief cadence, fact then contingency. âWeâll build the heat slowly. You tell me if the scent is too strong. If you arch away, Iâll anchor you. If you flinch toward the flame, Iâll move it. I will not let you chase it with your hands. I will not let you come apart without me saying so. Clear?â
Youâre already floating, held together by the way he speaks. âClear.â
His jaw works once. He reaches for your hand, flesh this time, thumb pressing into the soft between your knuckles. âI need to hear you say you can answer me when I ask you how youâre doing.â
âI can answer you.â
âAnd you want this.â
âI want this.â
âGood girl.â It lands like the first warm spill. Your breath hiccups; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes like he promised himself not to push too fast.
He rises, presses a kiss to your temple, and then heâs in motion: strike of a lighter, the candle flames blooming one by one. He warms the oil between his palms, rolls your shoulders with sure strokes, works down the line of your spine with his flesh hand while the metal plates rest cool over your hip to remind your body of north. He moves slowly, deliberately, narrating what heâs doing without breaking the softness of it.
âOkay,â he murmurs as he eases your top over your head, the fabric rasping over your skin. âLie back for me.â He tucks the folded towel beneath you to catch the wax, the edges crisp against your sides. The apartment light is low enough to make the candle flames brighter; it paints gold along the curve of his jaw. âHands?â he asks.
You lift them, offering. He gathers your wrists and places them above your head on the pillow, not binding you, just arranging you there, his palm covering your hands for a second so you feel the weight. âIf you need them, you take them back,â he says. âOtherwise, keep them where I put them.â
âOkay.â
He kisses the center of your chest like a benediction and then the world narrows to his breathing and the soft sound of wax shifting inside tin as he tips it, testing the temperature against the back of his hand. Heâs meticulous: he waits, counts silently, blows once, and then tilts.
The first drop lands just below your collarbone. Itâs not a drop so much as a full note, the heat a small sting, the texture laying down like a seal against your skin. Your back arcs. Your mouth opens around a sound that feels like relief and shock braided together.
âThere she is,â he says, quiet pride threading through it. The vibranium plates slide in after, cool and sure, gliding over the new mark with a pressure that makes you shiver. The heat turns from sharp to singing. The cold takes the edge and clarifies the rest.
âColor?â he asks.
âGreen,â you manage, eyes hot and unfocused.
âNumber?â
âSix.â
He hums. âGood.â He tips again.
This time he paints a line from sternum to the point where your ribs divide, measured, steady. He follows it with the cool path of his metal hand, mapping the warmth up with the chill down, like heâs drawing coordinates only he can read. You feel yourself settle into the rhythm his body sets, pour, lift, soothe; inhale, hold, exhale. Your brain stops grabbing at the edges of things and slides into the structure he offers.
âCount with me,â he says softly. âThree breaths. Big ones.â
You do. You fill your lungs with air that smells faintly of the wax, cotton, cream, and him, which smells like old leather, a hint of clean steel, and the ghost of whatever soap he uses. On the second exhale he drags the back of his metal fingers lightly along the underside of your breast, not touching anything he promised to avoid, but flirting with the border so your whole body leans toward him.
âBucky,â you whisper.
âI know,â he says, a smile in the sound, and then he pours a small constellation across your left shoulder, peppering you with heat, and answers each star with the kiss of cold.
You lose the room for a while. The apartment recedes to candlelight and Buckyâs voice, to the cadence of âColor?â and the hum of his approval when your answer stays steady. Heâs not rushed. Heâs not trying to drag you somewhere. Heâs building a scaffolding underneath you, rung by rung, and settling you on it like you can climb higher if you want and heâll be right there if your foot slips.
When he finally asks, âLower?â your âyesâ is so immediate it makes him laugh, low and pleased.
He slides the towel down, exposes your stomach like itâs a revelation. âLook at me,â he says, and you do, and the urge to hide evaporates. He tilts the tin, and the first trail lands along the soft curve beside your navel, a heat that writes you open. The cold of his palm follows, smooth and sure, and then the metal, and then his mouth, warm again, just the faintest press of lips to skin thatâs almost dry. You tremble.
âYou take marks so pretty,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âLike you were made to be touched in lines and layers.â She trusts me, she trusts me, donât waste it. He hears the thought in his own skull, one of those clean, tinny sets of words that pop and vanish without echo. Heâs grateful for the simplicity. His whole nervous system loves the rules. He loves them because they let him love you.
âNumber?â he asks when you make a sound that sharpens.
âSeven. Seven and a half.â
He nods, tips less, aims higher. When he pours again, itâs on a breath, not a gasp. You find the difference between flinching and reaching, the small decision to meet it halfway. He sees it happen, that choice, and the pride that moves through him is a physical thing. He palms the metal spoon in the ice water without looking and lays the cool circle down in the center of your chest like a coin, watching the way you exhale around it as if your body was made to respond to a signal.
âHands still good?â he asks.
âGood.â You swallow. âI like that you tell me what youâre going to do.â
His smile is a crooked flicker, there and gone. âI like the way you listen.â I like the way you come back to me each time like the world makes sense here. He tests the next candle, a shade deeper in color, a fraction hotter. His voice softens. âThis oneâs warmer. Iâll lay it thinner, more distance. If I see you chase, Iâll ground you. If it pushes past eight, we go back down. Nod for me.â
You nod. He pours.
It does push, the heat is more insistent, a thin ribbon that lands and blooms into ache like a flower opening too fast, beautiful and nearly violent. Your breath hiccups. Your back arches, up, not away, and his metal palm is there, flattening gently just under your sternum, pressing you back into the cushion with a steady, anchoring weight.
âBreathe. With me.â
You do. He watches your ribs expand under his hand. He watches your face, not your body, the way a pilot watches instruments when the horizon blurs. He waits the exact number of seconds it takes for the heat to turn into sing, then glides the cold in to meet it, and you make a sound that is pure relief.
âColor?â he asks.
âGreen,â you say, breathless, softer. âSeven. Good seven.â
He eases his weight away but keeps his hand there like a ballast. âThatâs my girl.â
The words curl along your spine and settle there. You can feel the wax cooling on your skin, thin plates, smooth edges, the occasional drag where it caught a hair, but it doesnât feel messy or careless. It feels like a map of decisions the two of you made together. He breaks a small edge near your sternum and peels a strip free, slow enough that the tug registers as a separate sensation. He watches your eyes when he does it, sees the flash of sharp that turns quickly into warm.
âOkay?â
âOkay,â you say. âDo it again.â
He does. He alternates, heat, cold, peel, until the world resolves into rhythm again. Your thighs press together without you thinking about it; he sees it and his mouth tightens just the smallest fraction. He sets the tin down and moves between your knees, one hand, flesh, on the inside of your thigh, the barest pressure, the clearest boundary.
âThis area is for my hands,â he reminds you, voice low, like itâs a secret heâs telling you. His thumb draws a slow circle in the tender muscle there, a promise and a warning at once. âAnd I am very patient.â
You make a noise that would be a complaint if it didnât sound so much like gratitude.
He laughs once, breathy. I can be patient because youâre here. Because thereâs not a rifle in my peripheral, because I chose the candles and the angles and the way the light would hit your skin. The thought moves through him like a train through a station; he watches it pass and doesnât get on. He is here. He is here and you are here and the only thing he has to do is follow the plan he made to be kind to both of you.
âRoll for me,â he says, gentling you onto your side. He tucks the towel, palms your rib cage with the metal hand, and pours a small, steady line along the outer curve of your breast without crossing what he promised to keep for later. The heat lands, you hiss, he presses the cool in, and your body melts into the couch like the two sensations cancelled gravity.
âNumber?â
âSeven. Maybe a good eight if you kiss it.â
He huffs. âBrat.â He kisses the cooling line anyway, his mouth soft and reverent, and your whole body flares like a wire catching current. He holds your gaze when he lifts his head. âBeautiful.â
The word makes you blink, surprised, like you forgot there were adjectives that werenât just about what you could endure. You swallow. âYouâre good at this.â
He shrugs with one shoulder, as if the compliment slides off him easier when he makes a joke of it. âI like hobbies where I can be precise.â
He shifts you again, coaxing rather than repositioning. Your back hits the towel; the ceiling presses low, candlelight flickering in the small draft from the cracked window. He warms more oil between his palms and pours it into the valley between your collarbones, rubbing slowly until your skin shines, his hands a matched set, one warm and human, one cool and whirring, both yours. He keeps the oil light where the wax lies, gliding around the plates heâs made like he respects his own work.
âI want to try something,â he says. âYouâll like it if you listen.â
Your pulse trips. âYes.â
He takes a pillar candle, brings the flame closer to your skin without pouring, moves it in a slow circle so you feel the heat of proximity before the heat of contact. He watches you learn the difference, tracks the exact moment your breath changes when your body decides the promise is its own kind of sensation. Then he tips, just a few drops, off-center, and follows instantly with the flat of his metal palm, pressing the heat down as if he can fuse sensation to bone.
Your head falls to the side, a gasp pulled from somewhere deep. He does it again, a variation this time, heat to your sternum, cold to your left side, and again, heat in a scatter over your stomach followed by the spoon from the ice jar pressed like a coin to your navel. Your hands grip the pillow above your head just to hang onto something, but you donât pull away. Youâre inside the discipline with him now. You can feel his focus like a harness slipping over your ribs and settling there.
âYouâre taking it so good, baby,â he says, awed. âGood. Stay with me. Color?â
âGreen,â you breathe, a laugh in it because itâs true. âEight.â
âThen we hold here.â He sets the candle down, palms your hips with both hands, one warm, one cold. âWhat do you want?â
You look at him. Your body is a choir of signals: ache, hum, edge, need. He is the conductor. You hand him the baton. âI want you to tell me.â
He exhales, something like gratitude and something like hunger threaded through it. âIâm going to take some of this off you. Iâm going to make you feel it. And then, if you ask me nicely, Iâll give you my hand.â He squeezes your hip with the flesh palm, firm enough to tell your body where to put its attention. âWhich one?â
âBoth,â you say, reckless, sincere.
His smile is small and devastating. âGreedy baby. Weâll see how polite you are.â
He breaks the wax at your sternum again and peels it slow, the tug registering like a new note in the chord youâve been listening to. He follows the path his own hands laid down earlier, heat then cold then peel, until your breath is a steady climb toward a peak that he will not let you crest without permission. He watches your mouth, your throat, the way your eyes go glazed then snap back sharp when he says your name.
âEyes on me,â he murmurs.
You bring them to him. âYes.â
âThatâs it.â He strips another strip, hums when you shiver. âYou take pain like a prayer,â he says, almost wondering. âLike youâre not asking it to save you. Like youâre just talking to it.â
âIâm talking to you,â you say, and his breath starts to come faster, almost imperceptibly, the only giveaway in a man who could hold still under artillery. Talking to me. Sheâs talking to me. Keep the structure. Keep it clean.
He sets the candles aside, caps the tins one by one, orders the field back into its box. Itâs a small ritual and it matters. When he comes back to you, kneeling between your knees again, the room feels nearer. The quiet has weight.
âAsk,â he says.
You swallow. âPlease,â you say, already breathless, already gone pliant in the way he makes you. âPlease touch me. Please make me come.â
âHands stay where?â
You tip your chin at the pillow. âHere. Above my head.â
âGood.â He leans forward, mouth at your ear, voice a rough scrape of velvet. âYou donât move them. Iâll do the rest.â
He starts with the cold, because heâs a bastard and because he knows your body loves to be confused. The metal hand cups you through your underwear, he left them there on purpose and now he makes you wait, the fabric a boundary that exists because he says it does. The chill sinks in and you arch. He hums. Then his flesh hand slips beneath the waistband, palm hot, fingers sure, and the contrast makes your eyes flood with stars.
âOpen,â he says softly, and you do, thighs falling wider around him as his shoulders press your knees apart. He explores like a map heâs been given but wants to redraw with his own pencil, no rush, no fumbling. He finds slick and heat. He finds the angle that makes your hips lift even when youâre trying to be good. He finds your rhythm and puts a hand on it like a drummer catching a beat someone else started on a table.
âThere,â you whisper, and he answers with pressure that makes your spine bow. The metal hand slides lower, the cool plates pressing gently along the crease of your thigh, a second set of instructions.
âKeep breathing,â he says. âNumbers?â
âEight, eight point five, oh, my god.â
He smiles against your throat, lazy just for a second. âYouâre very precise when youâre begging.â
You laugh, helpless, sharp, then bite it off when he tightens his focus. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger in a motion so deliberate it feels like writing; he writes you into a corner and then back you out at the last second, refusing to let the pressure spike into something too steep. He slips two fingers inside you, slow and inexorable, and your body takes him like he belongs there, because at this point it would be stranger if you didnât. The metal hand brackets the outside of your thigh, grips hard enough to ground you.
âHands?â he asks.
âHere,â you gasp, wrists pressing into the pillow. âHere, I promise.â
âThatâs my girl.â
You shudder. Your nerves are a riot of wax-stung skin cooling, oil-slick warmth, the deep ache of being filled, the relentless tender focus of his attention. He fucks you with a rhythm that dovetails with your breath, slow, building, and patient, and each time your muscles flutter around him, his voice drops half a step lower, like heâs answering a call.
âColor?â
âGreen,â you say, on a tattered breath. âPlease, Bucky.â
âSay it.â
âPlease let me come. Please, I need you. Need to do it. Please.â
âLook at me.â You drag your eyes to his. The city hums faintly behind the walls, a reminder the world is still doing what it does, but in this room there is only him. He holds you there for one beat, two, the way a lifeguard might hold a swimmerâs cautious gaze before submerging together.
âCome for me,â he says, and you do.
It breaks like the clean snap of a branch, like the clean peel of wax off skin, sharp and then warm everywhere, heat rolling outward, your body fusing every line he drew into a single bright plane of sensation. Your hands stay where he put them. Your mouth opens around a sound you donât recognize as yours. He keeps you there, holds you through it, talks you down with soft vowels and the anchor-weight of his metal palm on your thigh.
âThatâs it. Thatâs it. Breathe, pretty girl. Come back to me. There you go.â
You sag. He slows his fingers, eases them out like he respects the work they did, and then heâs moving deliberately again, cap on the oil, towel up another inch to catch anything else, underwear down and off with the shears (you yelp, he grins, both of you breathless). He pours you a glass of water with the hand that still smells faintly of candle smoke and holds it for you while you drink.
When your vision steadies, heâs looking at you like the ceiling might lower itself to listen in. You reach for him without moving your hands, which is ridiculous and makes him laugh quietly before he leans in to meet your mouth.
The kiss is not a prize. It isnât something you had to earn. Itâs a check-in that turns hungry and then back into a check-in because he makes it be. He pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. âYou still with me?â
âYeah.â Your voice is wrecked in a way that feels like you got exactly what you asked for. âYes, James.â
The name shakes him a little, like you leaned into a place he forgot was soft. He exhales into your mouth. âGood.â He kisses your nose. âYou want another?â
You blink. âAnotherâŚ?â
He smiles, slow, sinful. âOrgasm. Or I can run you a bath and peel the rest of the wax off in the tub. Or I can lay you on your stomach and justâtouch the marks I made until you fall asleep.â
Your body answers before your brain does, a low, unambiguous ache. âCan IâŚâ You swallow. The words feel shy and enormous at once. âCan I have your mouth?â
He goes still. Then he nods, once, like heâs decided not to talk for a minute because his chest is full of a very quiet joy and if he breathes wrong it will get loud and he doesnât want to scare it. âHands stay where they are,â he says. âIâll make it worth your while.â
He does. He always does. He arranges you like art, slides down the couch, settles his shoulders beneath your thighs so you feel the breadth of him anchoring you to the world. The metal hand is a bracket on your hip again, the flesh one splayed gentle on your belly, the thumb tracing the edges of wax he hasnât peeled yet, reminding your nerves of every place they can light up. When he lowers his mouth, heâs reverent and greedy in equal measure. He opens you with his tongue like heâs reading, finds the line he wants to underline, then writes his name in careful cursive until youâre arching off the towel.
He doesnât rush. He gives you the same structure as before, creases and edges, pattern and breath, and he climbs with you, every muscle in his shoulders working under your legs. When you start to pull your hands down without meaning to, he lifts his head, breathless. âWhere do your hands go?â
You whine. He laughs softly. âUp, sweetheart.â When you obey, he gives you what you asked for, the cool of the metal plates pressing to the inside of your thigh just as his mouth seals over you, and the confusion, the wonderful, impossible confusion, throws you again.
You come softer this time, less break and more flood, and he hums against you like he knew it would be that way. He rides you through it and then rests his forehead briefly to the meat of your thigh, breath cooling the damp there, gratitude quiet in his posture.
After, he cleans you gently, wordlessly. He warms a washcloth and drags it along your skin. He breaks and peels the rest of the wax with the attention of someone removing glass from a wound, careful, patient, pausing when you make the small sounds that mean wait. He talks about nothing for a minute so you can feel the world return without having to fetch it: the Knicks lost by two, the neighborâs new dog barks at the elevator, he tried a new coffee place and the espresso was too bitter but the girl at the counter had a nice laugh.
You smile at him, loose and cockeyed. âYouâre good at this part too.â
âI like this part,â he says simply. âI like watching you come back.â
He carries you to the bathroom even though you could walk, sets you on the closed lid while the tub fills. The light in here is softer, blue around the edges. He nudges the fan on to move the steam. He tests the water with his flesh hand, then with his metal one, and adjusts the tap for a temperature that suits both, because he can do that. He spreads a towel on the floor where his knees will go.
âYouâre a sap,â you say, affectionate.
âYeah, yeah.â He tucks a curl behind your ear. âGet in.â
You sink into the heat with a sound that feels like sleep and waking at the same time. He joins you on the outside, kneeling, sleeves shoved up. He dips the washcloth and wrings it out and then runs it slowly over your chest where the wax drew its temporary constellations, tracing the places that are pinkest, pressing kisses in their wake. The tenderness is not a separate act; itâs the other side of the same coin.
âDo you everâŚâ You trail off. He looks up, patient. âWhen youâre doing this, does it make the noise quieter?â
He knows what you mean without you explaining. He considers the ceiling for a second, then blows out a breath. âIt makes the noiseâŚpolite,â he says, surprising himself into a huff of laughter. âLike it knocks before it comes in.â
You laugh, a small bright thing. âThatâs very Midwestern of your trauma.â
He grins, head dropping. âOh my God.â He kisses your knee to hide his smile, then sobers. âIt helps that youâre loud in here.â He touches your sternum, the center of you. âThat you tell me when itâs good and when itâs too much. That you donât make me guess.â That you donât punish me for wanting rules. The thought sits in the room like a friend who doesnât overshare. Itâs easy to be in the same space with it.
âI like your rules,â you say, quiet. âI like the way they hold me.â
He swallows. âMe too.â
When the water cools, he stands and wraps you in a towel, tucks you against his chest while you drip on his floor and he doesnât care. He gets you into one of his soft shirts and a pair of shorts you can fold the waistband on twice. He steers you back to the couch, still warm, still smelling faintly of wax and oil, and tugs you into his lap like gravity is a suggestion he ignores.
You tuck your face into his neck. He rubs your back with the flat of his metal hand in slow, sure sweeps, the cold plates now just cool, comforting, the whir a lullaby. His flesh hand finds your hair and cards through it until your eyes slide heavy. The candles are out. The room is dim. The quiet is bigger and kinder than when you arrived.
âThank you,â you murmur, because gratitude feels like part of the ritual too.
He kisses your hairline. âYou donât have to thank me for taking care of you.â
âI know.â Your lips curve. âI like doing it anyway.â
He exhales, a sound that feels like setting something down heâs been carrying a long time. âYeah,â he says. âMe too.â
You drift. He holds. The radiator ticks once and then falls silent. The city keeps humming but itâs a distant thing. The marks on your skin will fade by morning; the memory of heat and cold and the voice that kept you in the middle will not. Bucky breathes you in like youâre the first fresh air after a long tunnel. He catalogues the small aches in his knees and the damp at the collar of his shirt where your hair soaked through and the quiet in his head.
She trusts me, he thinks, simple as a fact. I can be careful for her.
His arm tightens once with the force of it, not enough to wake you, just enough to tell his own body: this is the structure now. This is the ground.
When you shift in sleep and sigh his name into his throat, he closes his eyes and smiles into your hair and finally, finally lets himself rest.
Please read itâs so cute.

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Who Needs Both Arms Anyway?
Pairing | New Avenger!Bucky x Reader Summary | It's a soft, sleepy morning with your boyfriend and Alpine. You're too stubborn to move. Warnings/Tags | Fluff, fluff, and more fluff, established relationship, tender kisses, everyone's favorite kitty, Alpine (I love that white fur ball so much), pet name (baby), reader steals Bucky's arm (what?? It's comfy), Sam Wilson makes a small apperance, Sam and Bucky are on good terms because I said so, no use of y/n Word Count | 1.6k A/N | Got inspired by fan art that I saw on TikTok by @/max.imiliano_arts (see bottom for picture). It was too cute, I just had to write about it. Everyone knows I'm a whore for smut, but I'm also a whore for fluff. This is my first fanfic with just pure fluff, so I hope you enjoy:))
It was a lazy Saturday morning, wind whistling through the curtain that could almost be perceived as a melody to an unfamiliar song. The birds chirped, trees swayed, and the sun peeked through the branches as the air swirled. Cars zoomed past a floor below your apartment, and townsfolk strolled down the sidewalks like they had time to spare. The world around you was wide awake. But you? You were curled into Bucky, still softly breathing as if nothing could touch you.
His front was pressed to your back, metal arm under you to keep your head elevated, so your neck didnât cramp. He thought, How could that possibly be comfortable? But you insisted it was your favorite place to sleep (other than his chest). Where he felt that the metal plates might scratch your soft skin, you assured him it was like a firm pillow that was always cool to the touch.Â
Alpine seemed to like it too as she was curved into the opposite side of his bicep, nuzzling against the shiny, black plating. The white cat let out a low purr, head popping up at a sound only she could hear. Her ears twitched, eyes scanning the room as if something might jump out at her.Â
She eventually leveled her gaze at Bucky, icy blues locked on steel blue ones. She was seemingly expecting head pats. Not asking, expecting. Like she knew just how much leverage she had over the super soldier.
He rolled his eyes dramatically as if he was actually annoyed. His flesh hand reached up to scratch under her chin, surrendering to Alpineâs entitlement. She trilled, leaning into his touch. He gave a few more pats to her head, then she lowered it back to its original spot, as if to say, That's enough, human.
He focused his attention back on you, his metal fingers toyed with yours until he finally laced them together. He draped his arm over your waist while his mouth moved to your shoulder, placing lingering kisses on your sun-warmed skin. You squirmed slightly, then settled back into his arm like nothing happened.Â
These mornings were rare, and Bucky learned to treasure them. Soak them up like a sponge. Replay these tiny moments in his head on repeat, just in case his mind began to slip.Â
He was constantly working, always on tiring missions or media training that Val forced the team to attend. Heâd much rather have more days like this, snuggled up with his girls in the soft quiet of the morning.
But even now, he knew he couldnât stay for much longer. He had stupidly agreed to meet up with Sam today. Of all days, why did he choose this one? Not when you looked so peaceful, it was mesmerizing. Like a fluffy cloud, stretching out across a sunset at full vibrancy. Or a lone star twinkling brighter than all the rest.
Fuck, you were something special. Something sweet, caring, kindâkinder than he deserved. Like when you washed his uniform because he forgot to drop it off at the cleaners (your soap always smelled better, anyway), giving him a back massage because he âlooked tenseâ (he had to deal with his teammates, of course, he was), or dropping off his lunch at the Watchtower because he forgot to bring it (heâd do it on purpose just to see you).
And the moments when you gave him a run for his money; he lived for that. Like play-fighting over the last pancake (you always won), stealing the remote to watch some girly show he wasnât interested in (he totally was), or splashing water on him from the sink as you did dishes (they would usually be forgotten after that).
You were perfect, and he couldnât believe you were his. Heâd be damned if he didnât prove that he deserved you every day of his life because you were it for him. And maybe he never let himself think of a future, but now? It was there. Slight blurry? Yeah. But the one constant when he lets his brain run wild is you. And naturally, Alpine. The cat would likely kick the two of you to the curb before sheâd let anything be planned without her existence.
He snapped out of his thoughts, realizing he would be late if he didnât get out of his stupidly comfortable bed. He couldnât let Sam have the upper hand in this. If he showed up late, Wilson would tease him relentlessly, make fun of Buckyâs love life, or tell him that heâs gone soft. What was this, anyway? Breakfast? Again, why did he agree to this?
He let his eyes drift over you once more before he started to wiggle his metal arm under you. âBaby,â he whispered, hot breath fanning across your ear, âI gotta get going.âÂ
You didnât budge. As a matter of fact, did he even say anything at all? Because you were a dead weight on his arm, and you werenât going anywhere. He squeezed your waist with his warm hand, planting kisses on your neck and the shell of your earâstill, nothing.
âThereâs a cold pillow with your name on it, just let me move you,â he muttered, lifting your head leisurely, so as not to startle you awake.Â
You shifted, curling tighter into his metal arm, if thatâs even possible, murmuring a soft, âNo.â Your cheek smushed against the plates, and your fingers held tight to his like you werenât going to let him leave without a fight. Why does he even bother? Stubborn woman, he thought. He was a fucking super soldier, and he couldnât move you. It wasnât about his strength anymore; it was about not poking a very sleepy and potentially angry bear.
He decided to press his luck one more time before completely giving up and calling it a day. His flesh hand enveloped you, palm cradling your neck to move his arm out from under you. This time, it wasnât even you being difficult about him moving; it was Alpine. She raised her head, hissing at her owner as if he were the one causing problems.
âOkay, okay,â he grumbled, setting your head back down, and yielding in his attempts to steal his arm back. âYou two are going to be the death of me, I swear.â He shot a glare at his cat, who was, one hundred percent, giving him the stink eye. Alpine snuggled back into his arm, knowing she got her way. She always did.
He tried to be irritated, but he just couldnât. It was a losing battle. His mouth was quicker than his brain, moving on its own accord, as his frown turned to a gentle grin. He shook his head, sighing, âWhat am I going to do with you?â He leaned down to kiss a spot directly below your ear; he couldnât help it. You shivered in response, and he caught a small smile spreading across your lips, even with your face buried in his arm.
He reached up with his free hand, gripping his metal shoulder and giving it a sharp yank downward. The metal components clicked and whirred as the arm slid free from its socket. He laid it to rest on the mattress as he shifted to get up one-handed.
Bucky didnât mind functioning with one arm. He got used to it in Wakanda, so it wasnât a necessity. Clearly, you and Alpine needed it more than he did.Â
After he dressedâblack shirt, jeans, and his combat bootsâhe made his way back to the bed. Alpine had moved, wedged her way between the crook of your neck and the metalâs forearm. You continued to hold the metal hand as if it were still attached to him. He propped his knee on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you.
He placed one final kiss on the place between your brows, and one to his catâs nose. âBe back soon, my pretty girls,â he said softly, drinking in the sight of the pair on his bed.
Â
When he arrived at the small dinner off the highway, he spotted Sam immediately. He was leaning against his truck with his arms crossed, checking the watch on his wrist, his fingers tapping his bicep rhythmically as he waited. Bucky ducked out of the car, giving Wilson a wave that looked more like a half-hearted hand gesture.
âTook you long enough,â he bellyached, âI was starting to think you were standing me up, cyborg.â Bucky rolled his eyes at the nickname, gesturing to get inside and get this over with. Samâs brow furrowed as he followed after the super soldier. âForgetting something?â
âHuh?â he replied, barely glancing in his friend's direction.
Wilson waved his arms dramatically, indicating how obvious it was. âWhereâs your arm, dude? You lose a bet? Donât tell me that trash panda robbed you.â
âNo, no. I-â Bucky started, but cut himself off, a smirk etching onto his face as he thought of what awaited him at home. âItâsâŚoccupied.â
Samâs face contorted even further, confusion and disbelief rolled into one. âAre you smiling, Buck?â
He shook his head immediately, biting the inside of his cheek to clear the evidence of his delight. âOf course not.â
Wilson laughed, loud and booming. âNo way,â he knocked his shoulder into his buddyâs, âWho the hell got you to start doing that?â
âShut up,â he mumbled in response.Â
Sam knew better than to push it much farther than that, but he added, âLooks good on you, yâknow? You lookâŚhappy.âÂ
Bucky didnât answer, just let the thought of that bounce around in his skull, grow legs even. Yeah, maybe he was happy. And perhaps he secretly liked the jittery, warming feeling that spread in his chest.Â
Now his feet were moving faster, b-lining it to the diner's entrance. Not just to get away from Samâs scrutiny, but because he had to get home to his girls.
(The fan art in question) â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸
This was so cute
all we know of heaven, all we need of hell
winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader
word count: 18.7k
you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.
warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise
thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.
i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely donât have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes â¨đ¤
Circa 2013
âХОгниŃĐľ НОкŃи. ĐŻ но Ń ĐžŃŃ ĐżĐžĐ˛ŃĐžŃŃŃŃ ŃŃĐž ŃнОва.â
You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.
His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.
Whoever that may be.
Bend your elbows. I donât want to have to tell you again.
âMy elbows are bent,â you say flatly. Itâs a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.
âCome and get a closer look and see for yourself,â you taunt him.
He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, itâs a safe assumption.
You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.
It isn't a reaction born from fear. Itâs excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though itâs rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.
He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.
He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.
âNow,â he breathes in perfectly clear English, âif youâre finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.â
You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.
âSee,â he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. âYou've got great aim, when you arenât being childish.â
You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesnât move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you donât miss the way his Adamâs apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.
It's moments like this that youâd do anything to know his name. Youâve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?
None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, youâre met with a blank expression and loaded silence.
âAm I being childish?â You challenge. âOr do I just find all of these extra lessons a littleâŚunnecessary? I donât see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didnât know any better, Iâd say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.â
His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.
âIf these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.â
He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.
âĐŃйиŃŃ â нодОŃŃаŃĐžŃнО ŃиНŃнОо ŃНОвО.â
With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if youâd heard him correctly.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
ââââââ
A fortnight passes before you see him again.
Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, youâre more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.
It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.
You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you arenât going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.
You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that youâre alone when heâs making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.
Maybe then heâd open up and at least tell you his name.
But itâs just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesnât stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.
It's three in the morning and youâre staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. Thereâs only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but itâs enough to make your heart thud in your chest.
The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.
You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that heâs okay - that heâs alive.
All that youâre able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.
Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. Thereâs no use in even trying to sleep now. Thereâs no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that heâs alright.
Youâve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. Youâve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You donât have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.
Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.
The compound is eerily silent at night. You donât bother putting on shoes, as youâre able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.
Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where youâre relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.
From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.
âI know youâre out there. You arenât nearly as quiet as you think you are.â
You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize youâd been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and thereâs an unusually strained edge to it, but heâs alive, so you canât help but feel relieved.
âHowâd you know itâs me?â You murmur back.
Heâs silent for a few moments. You start to worry that youâre bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.
âI can smell you. I recognized your scent.â
Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.
The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. Thereâs dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.
Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - youâve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.
âWho did this to you?â You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when youâd overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.
He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesnât answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.
âPart of my latest assignment didnât go as intended. Itâs my own fault.â
You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks heâs deserving of the punishment. You donât care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.
You donât know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if heâs anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.
No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that heâs in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, youâd take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.
You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when youâre standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that heâd been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.
âTurn around,â you instruct him softly. You arenât sure why youâre surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isnât purely out of trust. Itâs out of habit of doing what heâs told.
You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isnât going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.
âYouâve been sending me mixed signals, you know,â you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. âA confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girlâs head.â
He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have said that.â
His answer stings. You donât know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.
âDid you mean it?â
âYes.â He pauses. You wait with bated breath. âI did mean it. But I still shouldnât have said it.â
The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You canât help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.
Youâve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.
Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe thereâs a real possibility that heâs an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.
Theyâre likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.
When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.
His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.
âYou shouldnât be here,â he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.
âRight,â you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. âIâm sorry. Iâll goâ"
âThatâs not what I mean,â he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. âIâm not referring to this bathroom. You shouldnât be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.â
Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.
âI could say the same about you,â you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. âSomething tells me you shouldnât be here, either.â
He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. âNo,â he whispers. âNo. The things Iâve done⌠this is where I should be.â
âI donât believe that.â
Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.
You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone elseâs. This kind of life doesnât allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.
Kissing.
Despite your inexperience, youâve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, youâre not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.
Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. Heâs hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldnât be doing this yet physically canât hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.
His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like heâs trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.
You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.
You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.
âSoldat,â a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when youâd heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. âYou are needed upstairs for a mission report.â
You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadnât locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.
âIâm almost finished cleaning up,â he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. âI will be there soon.â
âHurry up,â the guard snaps. âOr youâll have even more to clean up.â
By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.
âI should have heard him,â he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. âI was distracted.â
âWe both were,â you breathe. âI didnât hear him either. We justâŚhave to be careful.â
He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.
âI canât be careful enough when it comes to you. This canât happen again. Not here.â
He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesnât. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if youâre made of glass.
âIâm going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.â
He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.
You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
I did mean it. But I still shouldnât have said it. You shouldnât be here. I canât be careful enough when it comes to you.
Iâm going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.
You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though itâs small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.
When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. Thereâs no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.
When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.
Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.
You donât recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadnât written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.
Friday night - thatâs a whole five days away.
Heâs plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.
ââââââ
The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.
You donât see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that youâre missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?
And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever youâre going, will he be going with you?
The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.
Youâve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, youâve been so distracted that youâre covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You havenât been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.
âWhere have you been the last few days?â A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. âYour body is here but your mind has been miles away.â
You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, sheâll see right through you.
âIâm here,â you shrug. âI just havenât felt the best this week. Itâs uh - migraines.â The lie comes naturally to you, though you donât know if she believes it.
âIf you say so,â she snorts. âMust be pretty bad if youâre letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.â
Luckily, she doesnât press the subject any further.
Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldnât bring yourself to do so.
Maybe youâre sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but itâs the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you arenât going entirely crazy. Youâve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.
But they donât change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.
And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.
The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if itâs any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.
An internal battle wages inside you as nine oâclock draws near. Thereâs fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, thereâs anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.
Thereâs a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if youâre caught. You wouldnât be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.
It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.
But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.
To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. Itâs both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.
A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You canât exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where youâre going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.
And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.
Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight oâclock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine oâclock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If youâre careful, youâll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that youâre missing the next morning.
Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you wouldâve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but youâre relieved that you donât run into anyone on your way there.
With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, youâre able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.
Youâre still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note heâd left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.
You couldnât bring yourself to throw it away. You couldnât bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once youâve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.
You know youâre leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what youâve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.
Once youâve hoisted yourself through the opening, you canât bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.
Thereâs one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.
Or whatever else might await you at the end.
The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.
You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.
The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.
When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.
Thereâs no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.
After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.
If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.
You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.
You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.
You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.
The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.
But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? Youâll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.
Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.
For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesnât take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that youâre running as fast as you can.
Youâre thankful he chose the south watchtower. Youâre more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesnât change the fact that you donât have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that youâre so close to reaching him.
The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you donât see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.
Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you donât scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.
He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent youâd recognize anywhere. It isnât that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. Itâs natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.
âYou came,â he whispers. It isnât a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. âAre you okay?â
You nod. âI twisted my ankle, but Iâm okay.â
His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before heâs back to business.
âDid anyone see you leave?â
âNo.â You shake your head. âNo, I donât think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.â
âSmart girl,â he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. âWe still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.â
âWhatâs the plan?â You ask. Not that it really matters - you think youâd do just about anything he asks of you right now. Youâd follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.
He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once youâre inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, thereâs a first aid kit thatâs already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.
He doesnât need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.
âI have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasnât set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther southâŚâ
âI understand,â you murmur. âI trust you. Take it out.â
He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.
You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you arenât an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.
âIâll try to be quick,â he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.
âIâm sorry,â he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. âItâll be over soon.â You know he doesnât want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.
âOn the count of three?â
You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.
âOne. TwoâŚâ
He doesnât say three.
Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.
The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.
He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. âAre you okay?â He asks, voice tense.
âNever been better.â You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, thereâs a level of truth to your words. âWhat about you?â
âIâll be better once I get you away from here.â
You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. Heâs gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.
Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely werenât even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if theyâre too rough or lack bedside manner.
But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like youâre precious to him.
Maybe itâs the fact that you havenât had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe itâs the fact that youâre experiencing an adrenaline crash and arenât thinking clearly, but you canât help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. Itâs not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - heâs inhumanly beautiful.
âI can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,â he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. âWe need to go. Howâs your ankle? Can you walk?â
He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.
Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.
âIt hurts a little, but Iâll be okayââ
Before you can finish your sentence, heâs scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.
Youâre sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you arenât about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.
âThis works, too,â you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. Youâve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.
âLetâs get you out of here,â he murmurs.
You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.
Iâll be better once I get you away from here. Letâs get you out of here.
You. Not us. You.
He says it like a promise, but you canât help but feel like itâs going to lead to a goodbye.
ââââââ
You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.
The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.
He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You donât mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.
The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that itâs still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where youâre at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.
âWhat is this place?â You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.
âItâs an old safe house,â he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. âItâs been inactive for years. Weâll be okay here for the night,â he assures you.
Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, itâs obvious that youâre the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place youâre running from.
At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.
He catches the look on your face. âI dropped all of that off a few days ago,â he says. âThereâs some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.â He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.
Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - thereâs a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.
You donât know how he did it. You donât know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.
You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. âYou did all of this for me?â Your voice is barely a whisper.
He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. âI tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.â His gaze flickers back to you. âThereâs one more thing.â
He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroomâs small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.
âThis should be everything you need to start a new life.â You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. Thereâs a picture of your face and a name you donât recognize. Your new name.
Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.
âHoly shit,â you breathe. He really thought ofâŚeverything. âWhere did you get this? All of this?â You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.
He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. âThatâs not for you to worry about. I have my ways.â
âClearly,â you mumble. Itâs a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but thereâs one thing that has become abundantly clear - you wonât be leaving this safe house together.
One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.
A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.
âYouâre going back. Arenât you?â You murmur.
His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. âYes. Iâm going back.â
You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when heâs obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You arenât about to tarnish it.
How are you supposed to ask someone for more when theyâve already risked everything for you?
You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes youâve ever seen. âWill you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?â
He grimaces, shaking his head. âI donât know my name,â he admits, voice low. âI only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I donât remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my nameâŚI would have told you long ago.â
You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadnât considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.
âIâll leave you to shower. You need to rest,â he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what youâre about to say is a risk, but considering that heâll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.
âWould you join me?â
Thereâs a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. âAre you sure you want that?â
âYes,â you hum, squeezing his hand. âIâm sure.â
Thatâs all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.
The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperatureâs barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isnât quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.
âYou can touch me,â you say softly.
He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.
Heâs barely touched you yet, and you already canât stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you canât bring yourself to stop. Not when heâs standing bare before you, looking at you like heâs trying to memorize every minute detail.
When he kisses you, heâs hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like heâs waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.
You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until youâre breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.
Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.
âIs this okay?â You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.
âYes,â he grunts next to your ear. âYes, please.â
You wrap a firm hand around him. Youâre both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.
Itâs clear to you that itâs been a long time since heâs been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like itâs all brand new to him.
Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.
His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.
He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Heâs careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesnât take long before he finds a rhythm. Itâs slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.
Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that youâd do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.
At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isnât completely new to you, though itâs the first time youâve experienced it at the hands of another person.
The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.
He reaches for the towel hanging over the showerâs curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.
He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. Youâre both still damp, but youâre far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facilityâs ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he wonât be beside you anymore.
So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.
âI need you to promise me something,â he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.
Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that youâve been dreading all night.
âYou canât look for me,â he continues when you donât say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. âNot ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you canât look for me.â
Youâre silent. You donât trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.
âI know,â you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. Itâs brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you canât find the words to say. âThank you,â you add when you pull away. âFor saving my life. For everything.â
He doesnât say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.
âIâll find you one day. One day, when itâs safe, Iâll find you.â
When morning comes, you donât know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.
All you know is that the space beside you is cold.
ââââââ
3 years later. Circa 2016.
âIâm missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?â
You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say youâre interrupting my nap, human.
Youâre not convinced that sheâs innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldnât surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.
She canât be blamed, you suppose. Itâs your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but youâve done very little other than work and sleep lately.
Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you donât have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.
Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.
âYouâre right,â you sigh. âI do need to get a life.â
Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you arenât really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes sheâs calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.
Itâs not like you have any other plans tonight.
âHey,â you greet her. âWhatâsââ
âOh my god,â she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. âRemember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?â
Thereâs an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.
âThereâs an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,â Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. Youâre in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you donât bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy sheâs talking about.
âI highly doubt heâs looking at me,â you snort.
âOh, he definitely is,â she insists. âIf he wasnât so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.â
Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shopâs entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. Thereâs no lone, attractive man to be found.
Hannah follows your gaze. âHuh,â she shrugs. âGuess he left. What a shame.â
You shake your head at her. âWhat did he look like, anyway?â
âShoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though itâs like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot wayââ
You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannahâs shoes.
It feels as if the room is spinning around you. Itâs been three years. It canât be him.
âShit,â you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if heâs going to magically reappear. âShit. Iâm sorry, Hannah. Iâll clean this up, just give me a momentââ
You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannahâs startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. Youâre downtown, and itâs rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.
You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. Youâve only been outside for a few seconds and youâre already sweating - and you donât think it has anything to do with todayâs high temperature.
Heâs nowhere to be seen. Youâd recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - heâd stand out in any crowd.
You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didnât. And now heâs a ghost once more.
You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You donât know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him â
Hannahâs voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.
âHello? Are you there? Earth toââ
âUh,â you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. âUh - yeah. I remember.â
âI swear to God, heâs on the news right now.â
âWhat?â Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. âAre you - are you sure itâs him?â
âPositive. Turn on your TV right now.â
You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didnât cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.
âWhat channel?â You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.
âUhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.â
Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.
The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But itâs him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.
The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRAâS WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.
Youâre vaguely aware that Hannahâs voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you arenât paying attention to a word sheâs saying. Thereâs a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.
âJames âBuckyâ Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King TâChaka and twelve othersâŚâ
â⌠conducting a manhunt all over southeastern EuropeâŚâ
âBarnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a centuryâŚâ
You press the end call button on your phoneâs screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.
James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.
Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.
Thereâs still so much thatâs unknown - so many questions that you donât know if youâll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldnât work for Hydra of his own volition. You donât know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but thereâs no doubt in your mind that thereâs more to this story than meets the eye.
The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldnât do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.
ââââââ
2 years later. May 2018.
You wish you could say that you kept your promise.
For three years, you did exactly what heâd asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didnât completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydraâs radar. You laid low and didnât search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.
Then you saw him on the fucking news.
All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that heâd left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannahâs - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.
Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.
From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.
At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steveâs successful escape from the airport.
After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.
That was two years ago. Since then, youâve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You donât even know if heâs alive, but you have to believe that he is.
Currently, youâre in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead youâd been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.
Youâre finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, youâll come back. When youâve found him, or heâs found you.
Youâre about to signal to a server that youâd like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.
Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.
âMommy? Mommy, where did you go?â
The childâs mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be⌠Soot? Ash?
A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.
Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when youâre overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.
You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.
Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I havenât found him yet.
Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.
Itâs true what they say. When youâre dying, your life flashes before your eyes.
You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that heâll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.
Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, itâs the same place as him.
ââââââ
Post blip. Circa 2024.
Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, youâve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.
The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.
If your babysitter hadnât taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.
If you hadnât been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.
And if you hadnât met him, your eyes wouldnât still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.
You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.
Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if heâs okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that youâd spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.
No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.
You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.
And yes, heâd received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. Heâs officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.
Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that heâll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.
You arenât angry with him. How could you be? Heâs the entire reason that youâre free. Itâs unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesnât even remember who you are.
So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.
By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.
Itâs a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. Youâre in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.
âWelcome!â You yell out from the back office. Itâs a small store, so youâre sure theyâre able to hear you. âIâll be out in just a moment.â
âTake your time,â a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that youâre able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. âIâll just entertain myself with thisâŚdark romance smut novel until you come out.â
You almost donât believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You donât even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.
If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, itâs to question everything and trust no one. You donât think sheâd hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why sheâs here, you arenât taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.
When you exit the back room, sheâs turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.
âWhat brings you here, Yelena?â
She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. âI wasnât sure if youâd remember me.â
You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her youâre about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, thereâs good.
She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesnât reach her eyes. She looksâŚtired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good nightâs sleep.
âYou look good,â she chirps. âDifferent. Domestic.â She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. âWhat are you now? A librarian?â
âBookstore manager,â you correct softly. âItâs peaceful.â
She hums, amused. âMust be nice.â
You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. âIs there something I can help you with, Yelena?â
The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. âI was sent,â she says finally. âMy boss wants to talk to you. Sheâs looking for more people withâŚbackgrounds similar to ours.â
You already know where this is going. âValentina.â
Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. âYouâve heard of her?â
You nod. âPeople talk. They donât say anything nice, but they talk.â
âShe has resources. Protection. Mission stability.â
Yelena recites the benefits as if sheâs reading a script. But thereâs a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesnât fully buy it herself. âAnd Iâm sure it pays better thanâŚthis.â She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.
âWhy me?â
âShe says you have skills. And a brain. Sheâs impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.â
You snort. âToo bad Iâm retired.â
âNo one ever really retires,â she says, shrugging. âWe both know that.â
âSpeak for yourself.â
You pause, watching her more closely. Thereâs something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. Itâs subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.
âAre you okay?â you ask gently.
She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. âYouâre asking me that?â
You donât push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, âTell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.â
Yelena blinks. âJust like that?â
âI was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I donât think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.â
Yelenaâs eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. âSo itâs true, then.â
You raise a brow. âWhatâs true?â
She tilts her head. âThe Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?â
Your breath catches slightly. Youâve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose thereâs no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.
âHe did,â you say softly. âHe got me out.â
Yelena doesnât speak for a while. When she finally does, itâs almost a whisper.
âGood.â
You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You canât help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadnât been for him.
You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.
âIf you ever want to get coffee,â you shrug. âOr if you ever need anythingâŚreach out.â
Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.
The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.
ââââââ
Present Day.
Funny enough, itâs one of the rare days that he hasnât even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.
You canât describe it, but thereâs a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasnât just another spam call. Normally, you wouldnât even bother answering a number that isnât already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.
Instead, you swipe to answer. âHello?â
The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.
New York. Valentina. Bob..?
âYelena?â You ask in disbelief. Itâs been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first youâve heard from her. âWhatâs going on?â
Youâre in your apartment, catching up on some chores that youâve been procrastinating all week. Youâre in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize itâs her.
âAre you still in New York?â She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.
âUh - yes,â you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.
âWe need help,â she says. âI donât have time to explain everything, so youâre just going to have to trust me. I wouldnât ask if it wasnât important.â
âWho is we? And what kind of help, exactly?â
She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you havenât had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.
Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.
âWho are you talking to?â You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.
As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you donât hear it in your dreams still to this day.
âYelena, whose voice is that?â You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you arenât imagining things. That you arenât crazy.
Yelena doesnât answer your question or his. You canât help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.
âMeet us at the old Avengerâs Tower,â she says instead. âGet there as quickly as you can.â
âYelenaââ
âPlease. Just hurry.â
The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that youâve worked so hard to create.
But you donât. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you havenât worn in years and pray that it still fits.
The truth is, you donât need to call her back. Though youâre freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what youâre walking into, it doesnât really make a difference.
No matter what it is, youâre going. If thereâs something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, youâre going to do whatever you can.
Especially if heâs there.
The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.
ââââââ
Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if thereâs heavy traffic.
Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.
You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. Youâre just oddly attached to the old thing.
Itâs been with you since the very first day of your new life, and itâs one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.
You tell yourself that youâre just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.
When the old Avengerâs Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.
âWhat the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?â
Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.
You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that itâs been over a decade since youâve carried more than a single handgun, this doesnât feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.
You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. Thereâs random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.
Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.
Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, youâre nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.
But more than that, itâs him. Bucky.
You donât know what youâll say to him - or if youâll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesnât recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesnât care that youâre there?
The elevator ride feels eternal.
You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if youâre on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
Heâs the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.
His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.
His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesnât say anything, but thereâs recognition in his eyes. He doesnât appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.
You wonder if heâs putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.
All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man youâve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.
Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. Youâve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, thereâs a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.
They all look like shit. Like theyâve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.
âWell, well, look who finally decided to show up,â Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. âEveryone else managed to get here on time.â She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.
Except for Bucky. Heâs looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like heâs holding himself back from saying or doing something.
âSorry,â you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. âI had to parallel park.â
âAnd she has a sense of humor,â Valentina retorts. âYou know, youâre one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?â She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.
âSomething about someone helping you get a second chance?â She asks rhetorically. âI wonder who that couldâve been.â
You know sheâs just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and donât respond.
âThatâs enough, Valentina,â Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You donât let yourself look at him. âLeave her alone. Itâs not her fault that she has been dragged into this.â
Valentina doesnât take her eyes off of you. âHeâs still protective. Isnât that cute?â
âCan someone tell me why Iâm here?â You canât help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. âI wasnât exactly given the run down.â You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.
âLucky for you, you got here just in time,â Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. âI was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.â
âHey, guys,â the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if heâs greeting old friends.
âYou see, the press is on their way here now,â Valentina continues. âAnd theyâre going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agentsââ
Rogue agents? Ruthless?
âSentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.â
âI donât wanna hurt you guys. Why donât you justâŚturn yourselves in?â
Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.
Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. âYou donât wanna do this, Bobby.â
Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelenaâs phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, theyâd said.
As youâre piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, thereâs a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.
âYou can call me The Sentry,â he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.
âPlease, donât do this. You do not need to listen to her,â Yelena pleads with him.
âRobert, they donât think youâre good enough,â Valentina interrupts.
âThatâs not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.â
Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guyâs name is - shakes his head. âI donât think that you do.â
âENOUGH TALKING,â the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyoneâs attention. âNo one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!â
At this moment, youâre every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.
âThunderbolts?â You echo.
The room erupts before you can process whatâs about to happen.
The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.
Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.
Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.
You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.
âStay close to me,â he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.
Yelenaâs scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.
The two of you fall back into rhythm like itâs muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. Itâs almost too easy to pretend this isnât the first time youâve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.
From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as sheâs forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.
âGet down!â Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.
A blast of Sentryâs energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.
Sentry closes in on the both of you.
He grabs Buckyâs metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.
âDonâtââ you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.
But youâre far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Buckyâs vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.
âNo!â You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.
Your hands cradle his face. Heâs out cold.
Around you, the others seem to accept that thereâs no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.
Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Buckyâs arm before running in the direction of the elevator.
âWalker! Alexei!â Yelena shouts. âGet Bucky!â
The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.
Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.
âHey, hey,â you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You donât care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. âCome on, Bucky. Look at meâŚâ
Thereâs a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like heâs hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.
Thereâs a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.
âAm I concussed,â he grunts, âor are you actually here right now?â
Youâre unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. Itâs half relief, half disbelief. âIâm actually here. Though I wouldnât completely rule a concussion out yet.â
Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Buckyâs metal arm out to him. âI take it you two know each other, then?â
You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. âYeah. Something like that.â
You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.
When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. Youâre vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you arenât paying attention to a word they say.
The relief youâd felt when you realized that heâs okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.
Youâre here, heâs here, and youâre both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if youâd ever see him again, but didnât even consider what youâd say to him if that day ever came.
Now that itâs finally here, youâre at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming onâŚ
Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. Itâs all too much.
You turn and walk. You donât know where youâre going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.
You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.
Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.
âHey.â
You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. Heâs standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.
âIâm sorry. I didnât mean toâŚâ you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. âI just need a minute.â
âI know.â
He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesnât want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because youâre cold, but because youâre trying to hold yourself together.
Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, youâll crumble - and thereâs still so much on the line right now thatâs bigger than just you and him.
Still, itâs hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that youâve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.
âYou never came back for me. Why?â
Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.
âI wanted to,â he says. âI wanted to every day.â
You wait for him to continue.
âWhen I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw howâŚstable and peaceful your life is. I couldnât bring myself to disrupt that. Thatâs all I ever wanted for you.â
Thereâs a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.
âAll I wanted for me was you.â
Thereâs a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.
âI thought of you every day,â he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that heâs telling the truth. âEvery single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things Iâve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you thanâŚthis.â
He doesnât elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. Youâre not sure - you canât think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.
The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walkerâs voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.
âI shouldâve come back,â he says quietly, shaking his head. âAnd when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.â
You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. âAre you sure?â
He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.
âIf youâll still let me.â
Without thinking, you press your lips to his.
It feels like being transported back in time. Youâre no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, youâre kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. Youâre kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. Youâre kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.
It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.
âWhen this is over, Iâll be waiting.â
ââââââ
If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that youâd get a call from Yelena asking for help, that youâd be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that youâd be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.
Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
You had all been offered rooms at the old Avengerâs Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isnât up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.
Therefore, youâre back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.
Yelena didnât look surprised when she found out that you werenât staying.
The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that youâre all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.
âLeaving already?â Sheâd asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.
You shrugged. âThis wholeâŚsuperhero thing wasnât exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.â
Her expression softened. âWhat about Bucky?â
You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. âBucky knows where to find me.â
You hadnât meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isnât about pushing him away. It isnât about making him work for it.
Itâs simply about believing that heâd meant what he said. That he really would come for you.
But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldnât have if it werenât for him.
And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.
ââââââ
Three hours.
Thatâs how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycleâs engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.
Youâve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.
None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the windowâs blinds.
It could be anyone. But you know that it isnât just anyone.
Youâre opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.
His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that youâve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.
âThat was quick,â you hum.
âNo.â He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesnât falter. âIt wasnât. That took me entirely too long. I shouldâve been here years ago.â
Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but itâs enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.
âWell,â you breathe. âYouâre here now. What are you gonna do?â
He stares at you for a moment. Like heâs scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.
Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if heâs done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.
âYou look exactly the same,â he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. âStill as beautiful as ever.â
You grin. âWell, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.â
He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.
âWe donât have to rush this,â he says in a low voice. âWe have time now. All the time.â
Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.
âI know,â you whisper. âBut we arenât rushing. Iâve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.â
His mouth is back on yours in an instant. Itâs hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.
âYou have no idea,â he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, âhow many times Iâve thought about this since I last saw you.â
âOh, yeah?â You smile against his mouth. âWhat took you so long?â
âDonât,â he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. âDonât start with me. Iâll take you right here.â
Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but thereâs promise in his words.
âI wouldnât stop you.â
He chuckles lowly. âTempting. But Iâm doing this right.â
Then heâs lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.
Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID heâd given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.
Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.
Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.
âGod, baby,â he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. âYou are so fucking sweet.â
âBucky,â you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. âFuck, Bucky.â Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.
âEasy,â he murmurs against you. âIâve got you.â
You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.
He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.
He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.
âCome here,â you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.
âBucky,â you whine at this teasing. âPlease. Waited long enough.â
âI know, sweetheart,â he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. âIâm gonna take care of you.â
And he does. Itâs not rough or rushed - itâs full of reverence. Like heâs making up for all of the years that he couldnât have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, Iâm here and Iâm not going anywhere.
âSo perfect,â he grunts beside your ear. âI love you. Loved you for as long as I can rememberââ
His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.
For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.
âBucky?â You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.
âI love you, too. For as long as Iâve known you. I never stopped loving you.â
He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way thatâs brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.
You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.
The city outside is still recovering. You donât know what tomorrow will bring. You havenât decided if youâll take Valentinaâs offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.
Only one thing matters to you right now, and heâs laying beside you, holding you close.
Youâre both home.
if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated đŤśđťđ
yn lookin ass đ
fanfiction is getting boring. I need to try heroine.
YâKNOW WHAT? HELL YEAH.
I KNOW RIGHT?!!
fanfiction is getting boring. I need to try heroine.

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wish tumblr had the option to like save some posts so i can see them later, i keep liking fics to go back to later but then i forget if i already read it or not
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you đđđ
HII could you write something with younger/S1 Sam where him and reader are about to share their first kiss, and it ends up being so so awkward because Sam's too tall? đâ¤ď¸
âËęŠď˝Ą inches between us,
pairing. teen!sam winchester x teen!reader ( gn )
wordcount. 600 genre. fluff
warnings. mutual nervousness / awkward sweetness, innocent physical affection only, extreme softness, proceed with caution
<đ .á consider supporting my work on ko-fi đЎ
Sam has never been very aware of his height.
Not really. Itâs just⌠there. Something people comment on. Something that makes doorframes a problem and motel beds too short. Something Dean teases him about when he hits another growth spurt like itâs a personal offense.
But standing in front of you, in the weak yellow light of the motel parking lot, he is painfully aware of it.
Because youâre close. Closer than you usually are.
And youâre smiling at him like youâre about to say something importantâor maybe you already did and his brain short-circuited somewhere around the way your hand brushed his arm.
Sam swallows.
He wants to kiss you.
The realization lands all at once, heavy and bright and terrifying. Heâs wanted to for weeks, maybe longer, but wanting something in theory is very different from standing here, actually facing it.
Thereâs a problem, though.
Youâre shorter. Not by a little. Enough that if he just leaned in, heâd probably bonk foreheads or miss entirely and somehow make this worse. Dean would never let him live it down.
You tilt your head up, eyes searching his face. âYou okay?â you ask softly.
âYeah,â he says too fast. Then, more honestly, âI justâuh.â
Smooth. Real smooth.
You wait. You always do.
Sam rubs the back of his neck, ears burning. âIâve⌠never done this before,â he admits. His voice drops, like the words might shatter if he says them too loud.
Your expression softens instantly. No teasing. No pressure. Just warmth.
âOh,â you say. âMe neither.â
That helps. A little.
He exhales, shaky but relieved. âOkay. Good. So. Um.â
You step closer, close enough that he can smell your shampooâsomething clean and comforting that reminds him of home even though heâs not sure what that word means. Not really.
âI think,â you say gently, âyou might have to bend.â
Right. Yes. That makes sense. He knew that. In theory.
Sam nods, then bends too much, then straightens again, mortified. âSorry. Sorry. Iâm bad atâdistances.â
You laugh. Not unkind. Just fond. You reach up, fingers curling lightly around the front of his flannel, grounding him. âHey. Itâs okay. We can figure it out.â
We.
That word does something to him.
Sam bends again, slower this time, careful, like heâs approaching something fragile. You tip your face up, standing on your toes just a little, meeting him halfway.
Your noses almost bump. Almost.
He freezes.
âToo close?â you whisper.
âNo,â he breathes. âJustâperfect.â
His heart is pounding so loud heâs sure you can hear it. Heâs hyper-aware of everything: the way your hand tightens on his shirt, the way his own hands hover uselessly at your sides because heâs not sure where theyâre allowed to go.
âCan I?â he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips and back up again.
âYes.â
So he does.
The kiss is soft. Almost shy. His lips brush yours, barely there, like heâs testing whether the moment will disappear if he presses too hard.
It doesnât.
You lean into him, just a little, and Samâs hands finally settle at your waist, warm and steady. The second kiss is betterâstill gentle, but surer. He sighs without meaning to, the sound vibrating against your mouth.
When you pull back, heâs dizzy. Smiling like an idiot.
âThat was,â he starts, then stops, laughs under his breath. âWow.â
You grin up at him. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he says, glowing. âI think I liked it.â
He bends down again, this time without hesitation.
Turns out the height difference isnât a problem after all.
Itâs just something he learns how to lean into.
ę. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule ââ .⌠requests are currently closed.
Merry Christmas Bucky! We know everything will be a-okay after Doomsdsay. đâ¤ď¸
I say as they drag me back to my padded cell.
Dean Winchester is so Nickelback coded from
NEVER MADE IT AS A WISE MAN
I COULDNâT CUT IT AS A POOR MAN STEALLIN-
đŁď¸đŁď¸đŁď¸

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ANUTHUH ONE since you guys like the tiktok inspired ones (female user sorry if anyone wanted a male one i could do it its just it was a girl in the video and its kinda hard to make this one gn)
you and dean just got married an hour ago
y/n: no no we need to practice it
dean, wholeheartedly agreeing: of course- RightâŚuh⌠*in character* Excuse me, have you seen⌠my wife?
y/n: *also in character* umm, i was looking for my husband, has he been around here?
dean: yeah i gotta talk it over with the wife.
y/n: Oh yeah, my husband and i were just there last week!
dean: i have a pick up order, my wife sent it inâŚshould be under⌠Y/n Winchester.
y/n: đŽ
dean: đŽ
y/n: âŚy/n winchesterâŚ
dean: youâre y/n winchesterâŚ
y/n: Mrs. WinchesterâŚ
dean: đŽ
y/n: đŽ
dean: holy fuck thats you
This is so cute idc what anybody says.
WET DREAMZ
pathetic sammy wet dream boo. surprise! warnings: doggy, praise from sam, size kink, finger stuff, idk fluff at the end. i love him. also tjis is straight up porn. this is a surprise for @sweeterthancandy i love you !!
ŕźşâŕźť
after a long day of smoke-thick motels, coffee that tasted like burnt air, and another grave dug somewhere off the highway, sam winchester didnât know how he found himself here.
âyouâreâfuck, being too loud, baby,â he murmured, voice soft against your ear. even with your face muffled in the pillow, the sounds you were making were way too loud for him to brush off as just him taking care of a hangover. if the people outside the motel paid enough attention, they would know exactly what was happening in here. âgotta⌠gotta keep it down a little.â
âmâmâtrying,â you slurred into the pillow again, clamping your teeth into the fabric of the pillow, trying to bite back a soft cry at the sensation of him sitting idle inside you. he was stretching you out, due to his big size of 8 inches, and for a girl who was shorter than 6â4 and wasnât 200 pounds of pure muscle? that was a lot to take.
samâs hand came down to gently trace the arch of your back, pushing you further into the mattress for a better angle. âsâgotta be really... really hard for you,â he was blabbering now, still rocking into you. he was trying desperately not to let out any sounds of his own, which was very difficult when you were being so, good for him. âdoing so... so good, baby.â he reminded.
slowly, his fingers that were curled around your hips tightened to an almost bruising grip, and he pushed himselfâall eight inches inside. the sensation had you seeing stars, a loud gasp leaving your throat, eyes squeezing shut.
one of samâs big hands quickly came to cover your mouth, desperate to keep you quiet now. his hips leaned back then thrusted forward, burying himself completely inside you as a soft, strained gasp left him. his fingers pressed against your lips, trying to contain the sounds that you tried to let out. âyou... youâre gonna wake up the wholeâfuck.â samâs fingers pressed down more firmly, keeping you silent as he continued to move inside your tight heat.
âyou gotta be... be so quiet,â he slurred, letting out a low groan at the feeling of you clenching around him. he started to speed up, just barely, still trying to keep you from being completely loud. you gasped as he sped up, biting his finger gently to keep yourself quietâa sharp whine leaving him at the sensation.
âsuch a ⌠fuck.. a good girl,â sam whispered, his fingers loosening a bit as your whimpers got higher. his hands moved to grab your ass, holding you to him as he began to thrust harder into you. his voice was becoming more strained. âtakinâ it so well, yeah, thatâs right, thatâsââ
sam woke with a sharp hiss at the sound of your voice, startled out of an uneasy sleep that clung to him like sweat. his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and squinting against the dim motel light, and when he realized where he wasâand that you were standing right thereâhe groaned softly and turned his face away, suddenly very invested in the peeling wallpaper beside the bed.
his fingers moved automatically to his chin, brushing over the tacky warmth that confirmed his embarrassment. a thin trail of drool. perfect.
âugh, god,â he muttered, swiping it off quickly with the sleeve of his flannel. âiâI wasnât even that tired.â
you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. âyou were snoring.â
âwas not,â he mumbled, still avoiding your eyes.
âyou drooled, sam.â
âyeah, okay, i mightâve drooled,â he admitted, cheeks already starting to turn a light, bashful pink. âdonât act like itâs a crime.â
âitâs not,â you teased, fighting a grin. âitâs just gross. and weirdly⌠vulnerable of you.â
âglad to know my most humiliating moment brings you joy.â
he finally risked a glance at you, only to find you staring with that irritating mix of amusement and affection that made him want to both roll his eyes and hide under the covers.
âyou were mumbling in your sleep, too,â you added. âsounded like a mix between an insane injury and a porno.â
sam groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. âplease stop talking.â
âwhat were you dreaming about?â
âyou. shutting up,â he deadpanned.
youâd never know.


