hii !! i’m back! i finally finished school fully for the summer!
anyways, this one is a lil suggestive but you can write it with any tone , sitting on moon boys laps pls? <3
tysm , have an amazing day!
-🐞
Moon Knight Personalities x Reader | Sitting on Their Laps
fem!reader if you’d like, but kept neutral unless requested! Slightly suggestive,, SFW-ish with a wink
Steven Grant ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
Steven’s cheeks flush instantly when you settle yourself on his lap mid-reading session. One minute he’s softly mumbling facts about ancient Egyptian love poems, and the next, he’s holding the book mid-air with his brain buffering like a Windows 98 computer.
“U-uhm… did you, I mean—do you want more room? I can—”
You shush him with a smile, curling into his chest.
He melts.
His hands hover awkwardly before finally resting lightly on your hips. You swear he’s trembling just slightly, trying so hard to stay respectful while also completely losing it inside.
“Right, yes, lap is… available. Entirely yours. Always.”
You lean in close to whisper something teasing in his ear, and the poor man makes a noise. Something between a whimper and a gasp. He’s not going to recover.
Marc Spector⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
You straddle his lap after a sparring session—sweaty, smug, victorious (even though you technically lost). He’s still catching his breath, hands on your thighs like they belong there, giving you that signature “I know exactly what you’re doing” smirk.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty, eyes dark with heat. “You keep climbing into my lap like that, and you’re gonna get more than just a breather.”
You arch a brow, challenging him. “Promise?”
He grins—wolfish, cocky.
Big hands slide over your waist like he owns it, like he’s memorized you a hundred times before.
“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to cash in.”
And yeah. You might’ve been planning to tempt him all along.
Jake Lockley ⋆⭒˚.⋆
You don’t even ask, you just drop into his lap in the backseat of the cab after a long night, unbothered by the leather and the dim glow of city lights. His arms wrap around you before you even settle, possessive and easy, like this is second nature.
Jake leans in close, breath warm against your ear.
“Mi cielo… you know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
You hum innocently, letting your hips shift just enough to feel the sharp inhale he tries to hide.
His gloved hand slides up your back, slow, firm. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint. He could flip the script in a second, and you both know it.
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The One With The Weird Neighbors: You've realized now that you live in an odd neighborhood... with even odder neighbors. A ghost from depression era's past pays a visit, and you narrowly escape a kidnapping. Kind of.
Warnings/tags: nothing serious. Bucky being an insufferable ragebaiter. Bucky and reader snark off, who will win? The slow burn is slow burning. They're so insufferable together. Please ref do something.
Word count: 9.7K, not proofread (consider this an apology for not updating quicker)
You had an absurdly long fucking day.
After what felt like a thousand years trapped in your kindergarten classroom with twenty-five sugar-fueled five-year-olds, you finally stepped into the loft, looking like you’d just survived a war. Your hair was frizzy, your sweater had tiny handprints, and your sanity was loosely hanging by a thread.
“I love my job. I love children,” you chanted like a woman in denial, dropping your bag with a dramatic thud and tossing your keys into the key bowl. “Children are the future. Children are angels. I’m so happy to be a teacher.”
You beelined to the kitchen with the desperation of someone searching for the meaning of life… or carbs. From the dining table, Sam didn’t look up from his laptop. “Gremlins got you good, huh?”
You collapsed into the seat next to him with a groan, eyes already locked on Steve, who was at the stove stirring a pot of pasta. You stomach growled loudly in betrayal.
“Some genius parent handed out cupcakes during the honor roll assembly,” you grumbled. “Two for each kid. They were completely sugar-high and feral. One of them tried to bite me.”
Steve paused mid-stir, glancing over his shoulder. “Tried to bite you…?”
“I wish I was joking.”
A few seconds later, Bucky strolled in, took one look at you, and wrinkled his nose.
“Jesus. What happened to you?”
You didn’t even look up. “Good to see you too, Barnes.”
“No, seriously,” he said, grabbing a drink from the fridge. “You look like you were in the Crayola Factory trenches.”
“I was,” you replied without missing a beat. “Five-year-olds were the enemy. All sugar-crazed. There were no survivors.”
He leaned against the counter beside Steve, taking a sip while eyeing the smudge on your sweater.. “Is that… paint?”
“It’s a fashion statement.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, challenging you like the little shit that he was. “You sure you’re qualified to be shaping the youth of America?”
You shot him a tired glare and let out a heavy sigh. Sometimes you genuinely wondered if he picked arguments just for the fun of it. He always managed to slip in an annoyingly well-timed jab and he was so good at it that you couldn’t help but want to fight with him. At this point, the two of you had turned mutual antagonizing into some kind of sport. A strange, ongoing game of who could out-snark the other first.
“You committed war crimes,” you retorted dryly, raising a brow at him and anticipating his next move.
He lifted his drink in salute, a grin ghosted the corner in his lips before he smoothed it out into a nonchalant line. “Touché.”
Sam bursted into fits of laughter, closing his laptop shut. “Man down. I repeat, man down.”
Steve just chuckled and reached for the whiteboard marker on the fridge. The dry-erase scoreboard titled Verbal Assassinations now read:
You: 6 | Bucky: 4
“You’re falling behind, Buck.” Steve said lightly. “Might want to sharpen yourself up a bit.”
Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Your pasta’s boiling over, smartass.”
Steve spun around quickly. Behind him, his pasta was, indeed, boiling over and creating a mess on the stove.
“Ah, shit—!”
“Language!” Sam called out with mock horror, biting back a grin. Steve turned around briefly to glare at him, but it wasn’t threatening enough to stop the chorus of laughter that was about to erupt from both you and Sam.
The two of you burst into laughter and you finally felt some of the tension from your day begin to ease.
——
Later on in the evening, you padded out of your room for your usual loft closing ritual that included double-checking if the door was locked, starting the dishwasher, and doing a final sweep of the living room. You were humming to yourself as you drew the blinds, but then your eyes graced the sight of someone’s bare ass, followed by their very flaccid dick.
Needless to say, you screamed bloody murder.
“OH MY GOD!”
Your scream was gutteral, the type that came from your diaphragm while your soul left your body. You screamed again, louder and somehow more horrified.
Within seconds, Bucky burst into the living room shirtless, eyes wild, a throwing knife in each hand. “Where is he?!” He demanded as he frantically scanned the room.
From upstairs, doors slammed open. Sam practically flew down the stairs in plaid pajama pants with a gun, while Steve trailed behind him in a white tank top and American flag boxers, holding his shield like he was ready for combat. They looked like as if they were just called into a last minute mission with no prior preparation.
“Talk to me, what happened?!” Bucky barked, standing in front of you with his knives drawn.
“HE’S NAKED!” You shrieked, eyes squeezed shut and one hand flailing as you blindly pointed toward the window.
A beat of silence passed before Bucky blinked at you, slowly lowering his knives to his side as his worry morphed into confusion. “Wait, what…?”
“There’s a very naked man across the street in the next building,” you explained, nearly breathless. “He’s just standing there. Dick out. Watching Golden Girls while eating a sandwich. I saw everything. Everything.”
Sam immediately relaxed, lowering his gun with an easy grin. “Oh, that’s just Naked Norman.”
You turned to him like he’d grown a second head. “I’m sorry—just?!”
Steve dropped his shield on the carpet and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, he’s harmless. Usually starts around 9:30. He was out of town for a few weeks, but looks like he’s back.”
“He tends to watch either Golden Girls or House Hunters while completely nude,” Sam added like this was common knowledge. “Fridays are usually his boldest.”
Bucky grunted and headed back toward his room, tossing his knives onto the kitchen counter. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You’ll get used to it?!” you repeated, still stunned. “I just saw a stranger’s dick in high definition, and you want me to get used to it?”
Sam rolled his eyes playfully. “Please. Like you’ve never seen a dick before.”
You glared at him, unamused. “Not while I’m closing the damn blinds!”
Steve chuckled and gestured for you to sit on the couch. “Come on. You’re in shock. Sit.”
You plopped onto the couch with a thousand-yard stare. Steve followed, wrapping an arm around you and gently patting your shoulder like he was consoling a war survivor. “I’ll make you a note on the whiteboard every Friday. ‘Beware: Norman’s Golden Hour’.”
“I’m never opening the windows again,” you mumbled, resting your head against his shoulder.
Sam, now placing his gun on the coffee table as if it was just some remote, flopped down beside you. “This just the beginning. You’ll come to find that we have real weirdos living around us.”
Steve nodded toward the window. “Two windows to the left of Naked Norman is who we call 'Pilates assassin'. We’re about 82% sure she’s a retired black widow.”
“She moves just like Natasha,” Sam said. “She’s graceful and lethal. No one’s that bendy for no reason.”
“Oh, and then there’s the Murder Couple. They’re on the floor below Norman,” Sam continued casually. “They argue every Thursday. Like threats-to-kill-each-other level arguments.”
You blinked at them and shook your head in utter disbelief. “You people are insane. This is like… bordering on stalker behavior.”
“I need something to do on my day off,” Sam argued like being the head of Brooklyn’s unofficial neighborhood watch was a reasonable hobby. “This is perfectly normal.”
Steve nodded solemnly, shooting Sam a look of understanding. “I only join him because I’m a supportive friend.”
There was a short pause.
“And also,” he added with a reluctant shrug, speaking as if he hated himself a little bit for admitting. “It’s kind of wildly entertaining.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief. You could picture it now: Sam and Steve hunched by the window like nosy old ladies, sipping coffee and narrating neighborhood drama like it was a daytime soap opera.
“And I’m the one who gets shit on for taking up knitting,” you said dryly, eyeing Sam in particular. He was always the first one to tease you about things like a particularly annoying sibling. “At least I don’t spy on unsuspecting civilians.”
“You’re missing out,” Sam sing-songed while shrugging at you.
You push yourself up from the couch, still half-amused and half-horrified as you started walking back to your room. You wanted to escape before they dragged you into an unsolicited deep dive about everyone in a two-block radius.
“You should join us sometime!” Sam called after you. “Bring your knitting, maybe you can knit Naked Norman some clothes.”
You paused in the hallway, turned just enough to shake your head, and pointed a finger. “If I catch you two spying on the neighbors, I’m boarding off the windows. Permanently.”
“Little too late for that,” Steve grinned. “We have a file on each of them.”
You groaned, disappearing into your room. “I live with strange men.”
Behind you, their laughter echoed through the loft.
——
You were sprawled on your bed, phone on speaker beside you as Sébastien’s voice filled the room. What started as a lighthearted decision to entertain a rebound had slowly evolved into… something. Something a little more complicated than what it was supposed to be. At first, you chalked your attraction up to the French accent. He had this smooth, lilting kind of voice that made even mundane things sound poetic and you were simply… just a girl. Now, weeks in, you were starting to admit it wasn’t just the accent.
You still hadn’t met in person. S.H.I.E.L.D had him tied up with a mountain of assignments and missions that always seemed just urgent enough to delay a date, but despite it all, he never missed a call, a morning check-in, and even mid-day texts that made you smile in the middle of kindergarten insanity. It was new, unfamiliar territory, but strangely comforting. It was nice just to have someone outside the chaos of the loft and Natasha’s relentless scheming.
“Okay, so tell me,” Sébastien said, his all too familiar French lilt oozing through the speaker. “How was your day? Tell me everything.”
You shifted on the bed, one hand propped behind your head. “Today was literally crazy, I can’t make this up,” you said, launching into a rundown of the day: the honor roll assembly from hell, the cupcake sugar craze, and the finger-painting disaster.
Through it all, he listened intently. He laughed at the right moments, asked follow-up questions, and even gasped dramatically when you told him one of your students bit a crayon in half out of pure emotion. It wasn’t lost to you how rare that was. He made you feel like your life, your work, and your stories mattered. Natasha insisted that was just basic decency, the bare minimum, but even Adam couldn’t manage to give you that.
“So yeah,” you finished, smiling at the ceiling, “long story short, five year olds are a danger to society.”
Sébastien chuckled through the phone, warm and infectious. “It sounds like you survived a war.”
You grinned, letting Sébastien’s laughter fill in the quiet momentarily. “I know, I know,” you said, flopping your head dramatically onto your pillow. “Honestly, I deserve a medal.”
“And… what are your plans this weekend, mon ange?” he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flutter.
You smiled at the ceiling, your cheeks slightly hurting at how much you’ve been grinning. “Nonexistent. I’m free all weekend.”
“Perfect,” Sébastien replied, his accent curling around the word smoothly. “Because I’ll be in town and I’d very much like to take you on a proper date.”
You practically lit up. “Oh really?” you teased, already kicking your legs like a pathetic teenager. “You sure Nick Fury won’t drop out of a helicopter mid-dinner to assign you another top secret mission?”
“Non,” Sébastien chuckled. “This time, I made sure I’m off-duty. I even told Fury I had diplomatic obligations.”
You were just about to respond with something appropriately flirty when—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three sharp, thoroughly annoyed knocks echoed through your wall.
“What was that?” Sébastien asked.
“Nothing important,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Hold on one sec.”
You muted your phone and glared at the drywall that bordered your room and Bucky’s. When he tapped the wall again, you got up with a dramatic sigh and stomped toward the shared wall.
You knocked back equally as hard. “What do you want, Barnes?” you hissed through the wall. “I’m not even being loud.”
His muffled voice came through immediately. “Yes, you are. It’s giving me second hand embarrassment. I’m trying to watch The Godfather in peace.”
You rolled your eyes so hard that you were surprised they didn’t detach from your head. “I didn’t realize your 87th rewatch of moody mob men took priority over me just living my life.”
“Phone-flirting with French James Bond is what you call living your life?” He called back, his tone smug and perfectly annoying, like he took amusement in making fun of you. “That’s… depressing.”
“Sorry you’ve never experienced joy and whimsy in your life, grandpa,” you scoffed, grabbing a random sock on the floor and chucking it at the wall like it would go through and hit him.
“I’ve experienced plenty of joy,” he replied, as if he were deeply offended. You could practically see his smirk stretching across his stupid face through the wall. “I just don’t count flirting with discount Napoleon Bonaparte as one of them.”
You scoffed so loudly that you were sure Sam and Steve would ask about it tomorrow. “Napoleon Bonaparte? Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Dig deeper, Barnes.”
There was a brief pause before he fired back with renewed confidence. “Alright then. Quasimodo? Remy from Ratatouille? Lumière, if he smoked a pack of Marlboros a day?”
You let out an offended gasp, your jaw dropping. “Go. To. Hell.”
“I’m already there,” he replied with a dramatic sigh, far too pleased with himself. “Saved you a seat, too. Thought we could make it a double feature.”
You groaned and flopped dramatically onto your bed. “You stay in your cave with your broody mobsters and leave Sébastien and I alone.”
“As you wish,” he called back. “But when Frenchy breaks your heart with a tragic monologue and a cigarette flick, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
You rolled onto your side, glaring at the wall. “I hope The Godfather dies.”
“He already did,” Bucky shot back without missing a beat. “You’d know that if you appreciated cinema.”
“Ugh!”
“Say ‘bonjour’ to your rebound for me!”
You yanked your pillow over your face and and let out a muffled scream before unmuting your phone.
“Sorry,” you said sweetly to Sébastien, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have a rat problem.”
You made sure to emphasize the word loud and clear. On cue, from the other side, you heard Bucky scoff followed by something that might’ve been a laugh if he was capable of expressing joy like a normal person.
“Do you want me to call an exterminator for you tomorrow morning?” Sébastien asked, his tone completely sincere, like he genuinely wanted to help you.
“No, it’s alright,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll just exterminate him in his sleep.”
A soft thud hit the wall, like Bucky had thrown something in protest, but he didn’t say a word.
You considered it a win.
——
The sunlight seeping through your window dragged you reluctantly out of sleep. Groaning, you reached for your phone on the nightstand to check the time, only to spot three unread messages from Sam and Steve in the loft group chat as well as the usual morning message from Sébastien.
You tossed your phone onto the bed, groaning into your pillow like it particularly pained you to ask anything from Bucky Barnes.
Do I really need water? You thought miserably. Maybe you didn’t, maybe you could stay in bed and let dehydration take you out. Your tombstone could read:
Here lies [Your Full Name]. Died because Bucky Barnes is an insufferable shopping partner.
Reluctantly, you tugged yourself out of bed and rummaged through your closet, pulling together the first thing you deemed acceptable to wear for a quick Whole Foods run. After brushing your hair and making yourself look a little more awake, you found yourself standing outside Bucky’s door, psyching yourself up like you were about to face a firing squad.
You paced the hallway about two times, grimacing at the thought of waking him up. He usually didn’t rise from the dead till about 11:00 am and he wasn’t particularly a morning person.
Just knock. It’s not that hard, you told yourself as you raised a fist toward the door. Unfortunately, it swung open before you even touched it.
Bucky stood there like he’d been waiting to catch you in the act. He leaned against the doorframe wearing that scowl of his while he crossed his arms. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone flat but somehow still managing to sound accusatory.
You paused for a moment, momentarily caught off-guard. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to go to Whole Foods—”
“I know. Saw the texts.” His voice was annoyingly casual, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stared at him incredulously. “Then why are you asking me what I’m doing?”
“I wanted to see if you’d actually come over here and ask me,” he said with a faint smirk, brushing past you like he hadn’t just admitted to being the world’s most irritating man alive.
“You’re fucking kidding.” You responded, jaw dropping slightly at how he managed to already be annoying at nine-thirty in the morning. He was already halfway to the bathroom when you spun around, hands on your hips. “Okay, so will you go or not?”
“Say please,” he tossed over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin.
Your eye twitched, and you let out an indignant scoff. “You’re being a child.”
“I’m just tryin’ to teach you some manners,” he said as he disappeared into the bathroom but you could practically feel the smugness dripping from his tone.
You groaned in irritation, the sound echoing through the near-empty loft. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” he asked smoothly, the sound of running water turning on as he brushed his teeth. “I’m not being anything,” he added, his words muffled by toothpaste bubbles.
“Yes, you are,” you shot back, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with your arms crossed, patience wearing thinner by the second. “You’re being insufferable.”
A low laugh rumbled from him, bouncing off the bathroom tiles. “Just put your shoes on.”
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips, though you were grateful he wasn’t there to see it. “...Wait, so that’s a yes?”
“Put your shoes on,” he repeated, opening the bathroom door with a raised eyebrow. “Before I change my mind.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, slipping into your sneakers as he trailed behind you.
Fine.
He could be smug all he wanted like the little shit that he was. As long as he was the one hauling two 24-packs of water up four flights of stairs, you could deal with it.
——
The car ride to Whole Foods was mostly quiet.
Well, quiet as it could be with you and Bucky in the same space… until the inevitable battle over the car’s sound system began. He was insistent on playing his Kings of Leon CD (because of course he still uses CDs. It was like he took his time to catch up with the present) while you lobbied to plug your phone into the aux cord.
“It’s my car,” he said flatly, hand hovering over the stereo trying to block you from doing anything.
“And I want to keep my sanity,” you countered. “I don’t want to listen to Sex on Fire for the umpteenth time. You need to broaden your musical horizons.”
“My car, my rules,” he said with a shrug, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. “Also, it’s a classic and it’s better than whatever whiny pop crap you’ve got queued up on that phone.”
You glared at him, clutching your phone to your chest like he had insulted your entire bloodline. “Excuse me?! Phoebe Bridgers is not whiny.”
After a few rounds of mutual verbal attacks over each other’s music taste, you finally relented. It was his car, after all. Still you couldn’t help the surprise you felt about Bucky Barnes being a Kings of Leon guy. You had pegged him as the type to brood exclusively to 1940s war time jazz or Frank Sinatra, but imagining him staring moodily out a window while Use Somebody played in the background felt… weirdly fitting.
When he finally found street parking (parallel parking like a cocky asshole, of course), you both hopped out of the car. The two of you split up almost immediately after entering Whole Foods, which was something you thanked the universe for. Spending time with Bucky alone, without Sam and Steve as buffers, was like willingly choosing to torture yourself. To be frank, Bucky was about ten times more insufferable when left unchecked and If you had to spend another ten minutes with him without a break, you were going to probably commit grocery store homicide.
But of course, your moment of peace didn’t last. He had found you while you were in the pasta aisle.
“Homemade pasta is better than this boxed garbage, you know,” a voice drawled at your side, making you jump so hard you almost dropped the box of rigatoni you were holding.
You clutched the box tightly in your hand and glared at him. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? You can’t sneak up on people like that.”
He observed the boxed pasta options without sparing you a glance though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Force of habit.”
“Un-force it,” you snapped, turning your attention back to the shelves.
He picked up a box of rigatoni and half-heartedly read through the ingredients with an unimpressed look. “I’m just saying, real pasta’s better.”
“You weren’t complaining when Steve made pasta last night.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t prefer homemade.”
“You don’t even cook,” you argued, throwing him a skeptical look.
“I can cook,” he countered easily with a casual shrug.
“Can you now?” you said, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him. “Why don’t you ever make food for everyone then?”
“Don’t have time,” He replied simply, like that was a perfectly reasonable excuse.
You let out a short, unbelieving laugh. “You don’t have time? Oh, really?” You arched your brow at him. “You literally do nothing all day besides when you decide to help the Avengers. Which is rare, by the way. Other than that, you live off years of military backpay and brood around the loft like a sad ghoul.”
He fully smirked as if it was amusing that he knew something you didn’t. “Wow. You pay attention, huh?” He replied, his tone laced with heavy sarcasm.
You scoffed, flinging a box of rigatoni into your cart. “Please. You’re hard to ignore. Like a really itchy rash.”
He shook his head and picked up the boxes of pasta in your cart to put it back on the shelf. “I’m doing you a favor, you’re welcome.”
You snatched the box from his hand. “Oh my god, are you seriously going to put those back? These are mine—”
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The voice made your blood run cold. You froze, your heart plummeting straight into your ass as you turned around and saw Adam standing there. He looked exactly the same as you remembered, he still carried that infuriating look of superiority that made your skin crawl.
“A-Adam…?” you croaked, the name tasting bitter in your tongue. In your shock, the box of pasta slipped from your hand. Bucky caught it immediately without missing a beat, his gaze immediately cutting to the man in front of you. You didn’t have to look at him to know that Bucky’s scowl was firmly locked as if he’d just identified a new target. You’ve never mentioned Adam much around him, but you were pretty sure Sam and Steve had painted him a vivid enough picture.
“Oh wow…” Adam’s eyes dragged over you as if he was surprised you hadn’t dissolved into dust without him. “You look… you look good. How are you?”
The condescension dripped from his voice and something ugly started bubbling in your chest. Only he would have the audacity to talk to you like he hadn’t broken a heart and treated you like something disposable. It was especially infuriating how he spoke as if you two were just old friends bumping into each other after some time.
“Thanks,” you said flatly, turning back to the pasta shelves and pretending to read the labels just to avoid wanting to throw a box of pasta at his head. You silently prayed to every higher power that he’d take the hint and vanish. But of course, Adam wasn’t the sharpest. He wasn’t exactly known for his intelligence… or subtlety.
Before you could gesture at Bucky to leave, another voice chimed in.
“Babe? Who’s this?”
You looked up, startled, as a tall woman appeared at Adam’s side. She was effortlessly beautiful in that e-commerce model type of way, with her perfectly straightened hair and bright smile. You didn’t miss the diamond ring in her hand that practically blinded you as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“This is Chloe, my fiancée,” Adam said, puffing up his chest just enough to make you want to commit arson. “Chloe, this is Y/N. We used to—”
“—Be neighbors,” you blurted out before he could finish, your fake smile tightening to the point of physical pain. Internally, your brain was turning in on itself—Fiancée?! He’s engaged?! That no good piece of shit bastard is engaged and we’ve only been broken up for a few months?! What fucking spell did he put on her to agree to this load of shit?—but on the outside, you were perfectly composed, except for the fact that your cheeks were starting to hurt by how hard you were smiling.
“Congrats on the… you know… engagement thing… That’s cool,” You said, voice dangerously calm as your tight smile remained.
“Awww, thanks! We’re so happy,” Chloe said sweetly, beaming at you. “Oh, and I remember you now. Adam’s mentioned you a couple of times. You’re the teacher right? That’s admirable!”
Admirable. You resisted the urge to ball up your fists. You weren’t sure if she was being condescending or if she was genuinely complimenting you. You felt Bucky shift beside you, and before you could stop yourself, the panic and pride in your brain collided, and the words tumbled out:
“Thanks,” you muttered before gesturing at Bucky without looking at him and praying he’d play along. “This is my boyfriend, Bucky.”
There was a pause. A long, agonizing beat of silence as you braced for him to throw you under the bus. To your utter surprise, Bucky slipped into the role with ease. His arm slid around your waist like that wasn’t the first time he’d done that, and his expression was equally bored and smug as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to mess with you.
“Boyfriend,” Bucky repeated smoothly, with a faint, too-casual smile. “James. You can call me James.” He stuck his hand out to Adam, his metal fingers glinting under the bright fluorescent lights.
Adam hesitated, clearly unnerved, before reaching out and shaking his hand. Bucky didn’t let up, gripping just tight enough to make Adam wince. “Good to meet you, Buck—uh, James,” Adam muttered, voice cracking halfway through as his confidence shrunk by the second.
Bucky didn’t even bother acknowledging Chloe.
“He’s very handsome,” Chloe said cheerfully, giving you a conspiratorial wink that made you want to throw up. Then something seemed to click in her head. She paused, her gaze narrowing on Bucky’s face. “Wait…aren’t you—”
“—a mechanic,” Bucky cut her off smoothly, squeezing your hip just a little. “I fix cars and motorcycles… mostly motorcycles. It’s what I do.”
You choked on a laugh and disguised it as a cough, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral. Adam’s face, however, twitched like he’d bitten into something sour.
“So…” Adam cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you like he was trying to make sense of this new information. “You two, uh… seem close.”
“Yup,” Bucky said, popping the ‘p’ just to be extra insufferable. “I would hope so, we’ve been together for about two months now.” He shot you a sideways glance that said, you’re lucky I’m good at lying.
You shot back a stiff, panicked smile that screamed, I’ll buy whatever crap you want if you keep this up.
Chloe, blissfully unaware of the tension, clasped her hands together and beamed. “You guys are such a cute couple!”
You forced a laugh and, in a panic, you leaned into him enough to make your act look convincing. “We get that a lot,” you said, your voice a pitch too high to believable.
Bucky’s lips twitched like he was two seconds away from openly laughing at you, but to his credit, he kept his face in that perfectly stoic Winter Soldier mode. You could practically feel his amusement radiating off him, especially when Adam tried to mimic Bucky by draping an awkward arm around Chloe’s waist, like he was competing in a boyfriend-off with him.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Adam said, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing his own discomfort. “I’ll… uh… see you guys around.”
Over my dead fucking body.
“Definitely,” you gritted out with the fakest smile known to man, your cheek muscles straining from the force.
When Adam and Chloe finally disappeared down the aisle, you instantly shoved yourself out of Bucky’s grip like you’d been holding a live wire. He did the same, rotating his shoulder as if shaking off the contact.
“I should start charging for my acting skills,” Bucky said, wiping his hand down the sleek metal of his arm like touching you somehow dirtied it. The smirk on his face, though, gave him away.
You narrowed your eyes, pointing an accusatory box of rigatoni at his chest. “Oh fuck off, Barnes. I panicked, okay? It was either fake a boyfriend or cry and set this entire store on fire with Adam inside it.”
“Hmmm.” He tilted his head, studying you with irritating smugness. “You really sold it, though. Might wanna keep me around for when we run into him again. Maybe I’ll start calling you sweetheart just for consistency, you know?
Your face heated so fast you could’ve sworn it was visible. “Barnes,” you warned, tightening your grip on the box of pasta. “I will throw this rigatoni at your head.”
“Go ahead,” he said with a lazy grin, taking the box from your hand and placing it into your cart. “I’ll just catch it like I catch everything.”
——
Back at the loft, you and Bucky unpacked the groceries you’ve bought in silence. The car ride back home had been the same, quiet and heavy like the air was thick enough to choke on. It was as if Bucky had noticed the shift in your mood long before you’d even fully processed it yourself.
You had spent the entire drive with your phone in hand, thumbs working furiously as you did a quick, shameful deep dive on Chloe. Of course, because life was a cruel asshole, you found her. She was the woman, the one Adam cheated with. The one he apparently deemed worthy enough to propose to while your six years together got swept under the rug like it never meant anything. What stung wasn’t just that he moved on, it was that he didn’t even wince when he saw you. There was no shame, no discomfort. Just smug happiness, standing there with his perfect fiancée like he hadn’t obliterated your life and made you start all over.
“You’re quiet,” Bucky muttered finally, breaking the silence as he shoved a jug of milk into the fridge. His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked toward your briefly, sharp as ever. “Thought you’d be on a rampage by now, shit talking him like there was no tomorrow.”
You let out a humorless laugh, more a huff than anything. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” you said, tossing a bag of chips onto the counter with a little too much force.
Bucky stiffened like someone just handed him a live grenade and told him to ‘just relax’. Comforting people wasn’t his thing, usually Sam and Steve would’ve swooped in by now, saying all the right words while he got to stay quiet in the background. This time though, he was alone, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was way out of his depth.
“Are you… okay…?” he asked, voice cautious like he was testing whether that was the right question to ask someone who was clearly upset. His brow furrowed, his face caught somewhere between discomfort and mild panic. If you weren’t so busy being emotional, you probably would’ve laughed at how awkward he was being.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you said quickly, sparing him from whatever painful attempt at empathy he was about to make. You forced a light tone, though your voice wobbled slightly. “Besides, I’ve got a date with Sébastien tonight, so technically I’m winning here.”
Bucky’s lip twitched, and he visibly relaxed as soon as the conversation shifted into safer, verbal sparring territory. “Ah, Gaston’s finally taking you on a real date, huh?” he teased. “What happened, did he finally realize that face-calling someone doesn’t count as a date?”
“It’s FaceTime you idiot,” you corrected with an exaggerated eye roll. “You really are a thousand years old.”
“I’m actually a hundred and seven years old, thank you very much,” Bucky said smugly, crossing his arms like he’d just won an argument.
You rolled your eyes again, exasperated at his attempt to irritate you. “And yet you still can’t figure out FaceTime.”
Before Bucky could come up with a snarky comeback, the loft’s rarely used doorbell chimed. The sound was so foreign that you both froze, exchanging confused looks.
“I’ll get it,” you volunteered, already heading toward the entryway. Curiously, you looked through the peephole and were met with the sight of a sweet-looking old man who looked like he stepped straight out of a classic BBC period drama.
You cracked the door open with a friendly smile. “Hello, how can I help you sir?”
“Oh! Hello, dear,” the old man replied, his posh English accent cutting crisply through the hallway air. He looked utterly stunned, blinking at you like he’d stumbled into the wrong dimension. “Well, this is unexpected. I see one of the lads in this flat finally brought a lady home. Tell me, which one is yours? Is it the blond one? He’s polite, I like him. I’m not too keen on the other two—one’s far too loud, and the other one looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life.”
You stood there, blinking in absolute shock as his words sank in.
Which one is yours?
“Um… what?” you said, eloquently, because your brain had clearly decided to stop functioning.
Before you could figure out what to say, you felt a presence behind you. “Welcome back, Mr. Hall,” Bucky said flatly, like he’d just bitten into a lemon. His tone wasn’t rude exactly, but it wasn’t warm either. “How was London?”
“Oh, still standing, thank you for asking,” Mr. Hall replied, leaning on his cane and giving Bucky a shrewd once-over. “Still scowling, I see. What’s it going to take to turn that face into something less terrifying? A lottery win? A hug? Perhaps a girlfriend?”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh that immediately bubbled up. The way Bucky’s head snapped toward you, icy glare and all, was enough to make your shoulders shake with silent laughter. You grabbed his forearm to steady yourself, biting down hard on your lip because you were seconds away from losing it.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hall registered that gesture very differently. His eyes flicked to your hand on Bucky’s arm, and his entire face lit up like he’d just uncovered the greatest neighborhood gossip of the century.
“Oh I see,” Mr. Hall said with a wide, knowing grin. “This one’s yours, isn’t he?” he asked, his voice practically bubbling with delight.
You stumbled over your words, immediately pulling your hand back like his arm had electrocuted you. “What? No he’s—”
“This is splendid news,” Mr. Hall interrupted, waving his hand dismissively like your visible discomfort only confirmed his theory. “Oh, don’t be shy! Broody types like him are always the best ones. Bit of patience and they’ll follow you around like an old loyal dog.”
Your mouth fell open, completely stunned, while Bucky’s jaw tightened beside you like he was five seconds away from slamming the door in the man’s face.
“Mr. Hall, I think you’ve got the wrong idea—” you tried, visibly flushed now.
“It’s Harold, love. Do call me Harold,” he cut in with a wink, completely ignoring your protest.
Bucky cleared his throat, stepping forward before you could malfunction further. “Something you need, Mr. Hall, or did you just come here to interrogate us?” Bucky asked dryly, clearly trying to shut the conversation down before it spiraled further into derangement.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Hall said, thumping his cane against the floor like he’d just remembered his purpose. “Would you be a dear and fetch my luggage from downstairs? I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, you know.”
He gave you a warm smile, then turned on his heel with the expectation that Bucky would follow like a valet. Somehow, to your complete surprise, Bucky actually did, but not without throwing a deeply annoyed glance your way first.
You stood by the doorway, still stunned from the whole exchange. That had to be the strangest and somehow most entertaining conversation you’d had all day. As you closed the door to the loft, you began to realize just how true Sam and Steve’s warnings were about the people in your neighborhood. When Bucky returned several minutes later, he immediately locked the door behind him like he was sealing a bunker from the outside world.
“Who was that?” you asked, still wide-eyed in disbelief. “And why did you just let him assume that we’re…?” you winced, unable to say the word.
“Harold Hall. He lives across from us,” Bucky muttered, kicking off his boots and dropping them into the rack with a loud thud. “Once he makes up his mind about something, that’s it. Doesn’t matter what you say. I’ve been the neighborhood felon, a KGB spy, and now, apparently, your boyfriend.”
You burst out laughing, unable to contain the giggles you’ve been suppressing since Mr. Hall opened his mouth to start the Bucky hate train. “Doesn’t sound like he likes you very much,” you teased.
“He hates Sam too, but he really hates me,” Bucky replied, shooting a look toward the door like he was expecting Harold to reappear. “He loves Steve and now you. Congratulations on your new British grandfather.”
“Nice,” you grinned. “I’ve always wanted a judgemental old man with a cane and unsolicited opinions.”
WIthout a word, Bucky pulled something from his jacket pocket and casually tossed it your way. You barely caught it and blinked in surprise. It was a small tin of tea, pale blue with Princess Diana’s face plastered on the front and framed by soft floral patterns. It was a type of souvenir you would find in a small gift shop in London, regal and deeply British.
“He said it’s a ‘welcome gift for being one of the only tolerable people in this entire building,’” Bucky deadpanned, already heading toward the kitchen.
You stared at the tin, beaming at how unexpectedly sweet it was. “This is the fanciest gift I’ve ever received,” you muttered fondly, inspecting the tin before following Bucky to the kitchen to place it in the mug cabinet like it was fine china. “I’m saving this for a special occasion.”
“Like what?” Bucky said as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. “Your knighting ceremony?”
“No,” you replied sweetly, closing the cabinet. “The day I push you down the stairs and get away with it.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “Just make sure you give Harold a heads up. He’ll want front row seats and a cup of tea.”
With that, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and your murderous thoughts in the kitchen.
——
Toward the evening, the loft was peaceful in a way that felt unsettling. Saturdays were never this quiet. By now, Sam would’ve been sprawled on your bed offering unsolicited advice and outfit critiques. Steve would’ve been perched in the armchair by the window, rattling off safety tips like he was sending you off to prom instead of a dinner date. The silence, once a comfort, now felt unfamiliar.
After pinning your hair up, you smoothed down the dress you’ve picked for the night. It was a simple navy blue dress that was mid-length and fit you just right. You had steamed it twice, but you still found yourself fussing with invisible wrinkles. With one last check in the mirror, you stepped out of your room, the soft click of your heels echoing against the hardwood floor.
Bucky was slouched on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, lazily flipping through your worn copy of Moby Dick like he had nothing better to do. He had mocked your choices in literature numerous times, yet you’ve caught him reading from your collection on the shared bookshelf more times than you could count. You never said anything, just filed it away with quiet satisfaction.
He looked completely relaxed until you walked in.
“What do you think?” you asked, doing a quick twirl, though your face betrayed your nerves. “We’re going to a seafood place in Williamsburg. Is it too much?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately, he blinked once, slowly, and then lowered the book onto his lap. His eyes swept over you, going up, down, and back again. His expression was unreadable and for the briefest flicker of a moment, something in his face shifted… but then it was gone.
He leaned back lazily against the couch, grabbing the book again with exaggerated disinterest. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he replied, voice flat, like you’d just asked him to comment on nail polish. “I wear the same five Henleys on rotation.”
You let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s true, but you’re a man, which means you know what other men like. Just help me—I’m freaking out and Natasha’s off the grid with Sam and Steve.”
He didn’t even flinch at your plea. He simply flipped the page and muttered. “Why do you even care what Le Chiffre thinks anyway?”
“You lost me there,” you countered, raising a brow.
“French Bond villain,” he replied as if you should already know what he was talking about. “You know…slick hair, smug grin. The works.”
“Are you ever going to run out of French characters to call him other than his actual name?” You asked, fussing with your dress again in the mirror by the entryway.
“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ as he folded the corner of the page and sat up with a sigh that said fine, I’ll help. Kind of.
“Look, it’s dinner, not a coronation. You’ll be fine.” He added flatly before cracking the book open again, eyes scanning lazily on the page without focus. It was subtle, but he glanced at you every few seconds.
“You’re so helpful,” you muttered, scooping up your clutch off the coffee table and grabbing Steve’s jacket from the hook by the door. Everyone had worn it at some point, it was practically communal.
“Is he picking you up?” Bucky asked, tone carefully casual, his eyes locked on the book now like he hadn’t just spoken.
“No. I’m meeting him there.” You smoothed down your dress one last time, inspecting a nonexistent wrinkle before grabbing your keys.
Bucky hummed in response, a noncommittal noise that sat somewhere between I figured and I don’t care. The worst part was, you couldn’t tell which one.
You clenched your jaw and resisted the urge to start something. Picking a fight with Bucky right now would only make him smug, and worse, he might actually win.
“Bye, I’m going,” you called as you reached for the door. “Don’t wait up. If I’m lucky I might be sleeping at his place tonight.” You threw in a wink for good measure, channeling your annoyance into fake confidence to make your nerves less intense.
“Don’t care. Wasn’t going to,” he called back, barely lifting a hand in your direction like he was swatting a fly.
You were halfway down the hall when you heard your name. Bucky said it loud enough that it made you jump, glancing over your shoulder with dread and half expecting Mr. Hall to come shuffling out to weigh in with unsolicited commentary.
“What?” you asked, spinning around. “Did I forget something?”
Bucky jogged up to you, something clutched tightly in his hand. He looked… unsure, like he wasn’t used to doing this part. Still, he held it out without a word.
It was a small switchblade.
“Just in case,” he mumbled, shoving it into your palm before you could even open your mouth to protest.
“Oh…”
You stared at the blade, then up at him. Your nerves softened into something unspoken. “Thanks but… I don’t really—“
“The neck is the quickest way,” he interrupted, tapping his jugular with two fingers, giving you an impromptu lesson in murdering someone in cold blood. His expression didn’t change, it was deadpan as always. You didn’t know if it was endearing or terrifying.
“Good to know,” you said, half-laughing and half-concerned as you slipped the blade into the inside pocket of Steve’s jacket. You then turned away, walking with a strange flutter in your chest and a switchblade in your pocket courtesy of the grump who definitely didn’t care.
—-
You sat in the restaurant for about thirty-five minutes before finally deciding to call it. There was only so long you could pretend to be cool about it before your ego took a nosedive. You’d call his phone a few times, each one met with the same soulless, robotic voice:
I’m sorry, but the person you’re trying to reach is not available. At the tone, please leave a message or hang up.
You left two voicemails and a few carefully worded texts, trying your best not to sound desperate or disappointed. You kept it breezy, but every word felt like you were swallowing glass. Now that you were thinking about it, it was weird. He hadn’t texted since his usual good morning message. You hadn’t thought about it much earlier and just assumed he was busy. Now, you were starting to realize that you should’ve questioned it. You should’ve seen the silence coming.
You paid the bill for your single, lonely glass of Pinot Noir and left the restaurant before the waitress could hit you with that well-meaning but soul-crushing ‘are you okay?’ look.
When you walked into the loft, the lights were slightly dim, and everything was quiet. Bucky was sitting on the couch in his usual position, slouched up in the corner with his legs kicked up. He was still reading Moby Dick and was now almost halfway through the book when you came back.
“That was fast,” he muttered without looking up. “Either you got bored and ditched him or—“
“He ditched me,” you cut in, sharper than intended.
You were trying to sound unaffected, but your voice cracked just enough to betray you. You kicked off your heels with a little more force than necessary and sank down onto the other end of the couch. A deep frown tugged at your face, and you didn’t bother hiding it. You braced for the teasing, for his smug, sarcastic comment about some obscure French character or some rendition of I told you so.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky didn’t say a word, didn’t even smirk or gloat. He just flipped another page, slower this time, like he was giving you space to mope without making a show of it.
“It’s so annoying,” you grumbled, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “He was supposed to be a stupid rebound and then I went and started caring like an idiot.”
You let out a bitter laugh, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Now I’m out thirty bucks for a glass of overpriced wine, humiliated, and on top of that—I’m fucking starving.”
Bucky glanced up from the book, studying you for a beat like he was mentally calculating the damage.
“Wanna get pizza?” he asked, voice low and nonchalant like what he offered wasn’t a peace treaty dressed up as a suggestion. His expression was unreadable, but his tone softened ever so slightly. “Pretty sure there’s a place still open that won’t charge you thirty bucks to be disappointed.”
You tilted your head toward him, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself.
“Only if I get to pick the toppings.”
He closed the book and rolled his eyes. “No olives.”
You fully grinned. “Deal.”
Hanging out with Bucky willingly wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it’d be. Sure, he wasn’t as animated as Sam or as chatty as Steve, but there was something oddly comforting about the way he was just… there. He let you talk without cutting in for once with some snarky remark or a half-baked solution. He just listened and stayed quiet while you dumped every tangled thought and frustration onto the pavement between bites of greasy pizza.
“I think Adam cursed me or something,” you muttered through a mouthful of crust, your voice thick with exhaustion and cheese. “Like… I don’t know…? Hexed my dating life out of pure spite and assholery. This is all his fault and honestly? I wish him nothing but the worst. Like, tire popping out in the middle of the freeway level of worst. Is that bitter?”
Next to you, Bucky gave a noncommittal shrug, chewing on his slice like he didn’t particularly care either way but knew he had to say something.
“Kind of,” he replied, dry as ever. “But you’re… allowed to be bitter. And pissed. And annoyed.”
You stared at him for a beat, surprised by the quiet validation. Then you nodded slowly, taking another bite. “Yeah. Damn right,” you said, mouth full again. “I am allowed to feel all those things. Thank you for your profound emotional insight. I see that government-mandated therapy is working.”
He shook his head, smirking faintly without looking at you. “You’re the only one benefiting. I still think it’s full of shit.”
You chuckled. “Seriously though,” you added, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’re not the worst to hang out with.”
“Yeah? Don’t forget to leave a five-star review on Yelp,” he replied, deadpan as always. You could swear his shoulder stayed just a little closer to yours after that.
You were about to throw out another jab when you caught the way his eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
“Huh,” Bucky muttered, setting his paper plate aside and sipping his soda. “Norman actually has clothes on.”
You followed his line of sight and squinted. Sure enough, across the street, your infamous naked neighbor was fully dressed. And not just that.
“He’s got a girl with him,” you said blinking like your brain was short-circuiting. “Great,” you grumbled, bitterly chomping on a bite of pizza like it was the one that wronged you. “Even Naked Norman has a fucking date. I’m losing to a man whose ass has been showcased to the whole neighborhood.”
Bucky hummed in vague agreement, eyes still on the scene. “That’s his neighbor. Lives two windows to the left.”
You turned to him slowly. “Wait. No way.”
“Huh?”
“No fucking way. Is that Pilates Assassin?”
“You know about Pilates Assassin?” he asked, squinting at you in disbelief. “You stalk people with Sam and Steve too?”
“No. I’m not a stalker,” you defended though your excitement was already bubbling. “They’re the stalkers. I just listen to their findings.”
You both leaned forward on the bench a the same time, shamelessly observing the neighborhood’s newest scandal-in-the-making.
“Ohmygod,” you whispered with a grin. “I cannot believe Naked Norman is dating Pilates Assassin. This is monumental news. I have to tell Sam and Steve immediately.” You pulled out your phone to snap a quick photo, ignoring the part of your brain that told you this was morally questionable.
Bucky gave you a look of amused disapproval. “You’re so weird.”
You shrugged, eyes still locked on the spectacle. “And yet here you are hanging out with me.”
He didn’t argue, he simply leaned back and finished his slice without a peep.
——
When you and Bucky got back to the loft, you barely had the door open before you were greeted by a very intense and very disheveled trio: Sam, Steve, and Natasha, still fully suited up in Stark gear. They looked like they’d just leapt out of the Quinjet and ran straight home without stopping to change.
You gawked at them, blinking slowly to make sure you weren’t seeing things. You’d never seen them in full Avengers mode up close, only on TV or in newspapers by the Daily Bugle. It was like watching superheroes step out of a magazine cover… except they were covered in grime and blood.
“You guys could’ve at least changed before coming home,” you started to say. “You’re dripping blood and—”
Before you could finish, all three of them rushed forward and wrapped you in the tightest, most suffocating group hug you’d ever been subjected to. You made a startled sound as Sam and Steve’s biceps crushed both of your shoulders and Natasha’s tactical harness jabbed at your ribs.
“Guys—air,” you wheezed, squirming to escape. “I. Can’t. Breathe. Just. A. Civilian—”
“You were gonna die,” Sam blurted dramatically.
“Sébastien’s an arms dealer,” Steve added in a rush.
“With ties to the French mafia,” Natasha chimed in, equally breathless. “He was planning to use you as leverage. We intercepted him and then we—uh—took care of it.”
“Waitwaitwait, what?” You gawked at them, still half-pinned in their aggressively apologetic group hug. “Took care of it how?”
Natasha was the first to break away, waving a glove hand like the details were irrelevant. “He’s not your problem anymore.”
You broke away from Sam and Steve and settled on the couch. Natasha dropped onto the couch beside you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, guilt bleeding into her voice as she rested her head against yours with a sigh.
You didn’t say anything. You just leaned into her, your cheek brushing against her hair, and let out a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It wasn’t like she could’ve known. Sébastien had been slick enough to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D., no one would’ve known.
You wanted to open your mouth to speak, but your brain had short-circuited somewhere between arms dealer and French mafia. So instead, you turned your head to the side and saw Bucky standing in the corner with the most ‘I fucking knew it’ expression on his face
“Wasn’t even that far off when I called him Le Chiffre,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms with far too much satisfaction.
You turned away and blink at the dirt-speckled rug, your body slowly realizing that you had narrowly avoided being kidnapped by a knock-off Bond villain. “I… I need to process this.”
“Yeah, you do,” Bucky replied flatly, already moving past the trio and into the kitchen like this was just another normal night. “I’ll get the tea. The British kind saved for special occasions.” He said smugly and you had to fight the urge to chuck the copy of Moby Dick at him that he left on the coffee table.
Sam was pacing now, and Steve looked like he wanted to file a full incident report. Natasha was now leaning toward the coffee table, rummaging through your clutch for evidence like she was still on the clock.
“I almost met up with a guy who sells rocket launchers,” you said numbly, brain melting at the realization.
“And launders money,” Natasha added as she stood up and held out Sébastien’s burner phone like a prize.
“Awesome,” you breathed. “That’s awesome for me.”
You stared blankly ahead, trying to process the absolute spiral your night had taken. Honestly, it could’ve been worse. He could’ve shown up to the date and whisked you off to a villa in the French countryside before selling you to one of his clients.
Small victories.
Bucky walked over and joined the group in the living room, wordless as ever. He handed you the promised cup of tea without ceremony, and you took a long sip. It was so hot that you were sure it burned your tongue, but you were too far numb to care.
With a sigh that came from the very pit of your tired soul, you slumped back against the couch. “I’m never dating again,” you declared, utterly defeated.
Bucky settled onto the far end of the couch next to Sam, who was giving you that sad, pitiful look like you were a wounded animal he wasn’t sure how to help.
“Twenty bucks says you find another questionable character within the month,” Bucky said, sipping his own tea, face smug as ever.
You didn’t even hesitate. You picked up Moby Dick from the coffee table and hurled it at him with all the strength of someone teetering on the edge.
And of course.
Of course.
He caught it.
——————————————————————————————————
End notes:
Literally Bucky throughout this whole chapter
guys I’m sorry for not updating fast enough and for the long wait!!! I finally broke free from my writer’s block so let’s see how long this lasts.
I'm editing this AGAIN on tumblr so im sorry for the rebloggers... yall probably have different versions my bad
TAGLIST (lmk if I skipped you or if you want to be added): @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @lasnych @alagalaska @ifilwtmfc @whaaaaaaaaat111 @bitters-n-sweets @404rogers @lazael @bel-llama @dahehow @greatenthusiasttidalwave @sillyolebear
| Summary — Anon Request — When your friend asked you out for a drink, you didn't think much about it. Yet, maybe you should've, because that night ruined your life. It may have been two years since the events, but you still can't stop think about what you've lost. Your job, your friends, your lover, and even your mind was left in that motel room.
“I am a hero,” you whispered in your breath, “and that’s what heroes do,” you added, repeating the sentence once more. You were trying to find a little bravery in this mantra, the one you needed to push your limits a little further.
Yet, all you find in these words is deep despair, because a part of you knows that they are not true — and you are not a hero. Not anymore. You tried to believe Fury’s lies. You wanted to believe them, and deceive yourself because it gave you a bit of hope, a reason to carry on, but the illusion couldn’t last for eternity.
What’s a hero when they are hated by the whole world? A villain.
| Tags & warnings — Avenger!Natasha Romanoff x Avenger!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Reader (platonic), Other Avengers x R.
Angst with comfort, mental health issues, suicidal ideations, self depreciation, mentions of SA&SH, manipulation, severe injuries, no happy ending.
| Author's notes — This is the last part of the "Devious Lies" serie, and I really hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it <3
| MOODBOARD — ✧ — MASTERLIST — ✧ — TO SAY SOMETHING
| Part one. Part two. Part three.
the scars in our hearts (bonus part).
Many people would say that you are not a hero, not anymore. You have lost this title years ago, the day you revealed your true face to the world by cheating on Natasha —; how could they trust someone with their lives when that person can’t even remain loyal to their girlfriend? A hero is not a human, it is a perfect being that exists for the sole purpose of saving the world, and making children dream. You exist only to give hope to the population, but there is none once they discover that you are just like any of them, someone full of flaws, and failures, just a mess —; just human.
Who knows the horrible things you might have done in the past, or the numerous lies you could have said to twist the reality? Not them, because they know nothing of the truth behind your departure, but they were still convinced that you were a monster who had been lying to them all this time, and it was too late to undo their hatred. A few days had been enough for rumours to spread, suddenly everyone had a story to share that proves how wicked you were. These stories have slowly replaced those of your greatest achievements, the many times you saved the world now forgotten in favor of all the little things you did wrong.
And you know these stories by heart because you have read about them in newspapers, heard them on television and in cafés. Wherever you go, these rumors follow you, they stick to your skin like an obsessive ex that won’t let you go, even after several years. The people never forget, nor they forgive.
Yet, none of them had the courage to hate you to your face. No, it was always behind your back, a bunch of glances they thought were discreet and whispers as soon as you turned around. You might not be their hero anymore, but you haven’t lost your abilities, and they are aware that you could easily kill any of them in less than a minute. But, instead of letting the anger consumes you, you pretended to not see the fear in their eyes, mixed with hatred. Except that, the longer this situation lasted, the more difficult it became for you to ignore their hostility. You would lie if you said it didn’t bother you to see these emotions replace the admiration that used to sparkle in their eyes.
If you are being honest, you have thought about it, about killing some of them. These thoughts come to your mind more times that you care to admit —; it would be so easy to snap their necks so you will never hear their hateful whispers again.
What do you have to lose anyway?
Nothing you haven’t already. At worst, they will send you in prison, but to your exhausted mind the idea sounded more tempting than repellent. Sometimes, you think about it as a sweet dream, and it brings you some peace —; if you were in prison, you would be blessed with ignorance. If you were in prison, they would have a real reason to use these slurs. If you were in prison, you would eventually be where you deserve to be. But, no matter how many times you thought about it, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it and so, instead, you shut yourself away in your crappy apartment, where you could no longer harm anyone.
— — —
“But you are still a hero,” the man told you. It was months ago, almost a year, and it was the first time you had seen Fury since the events that led you to take a break.
A break that was coming to an end, and that you were desperately trying to prolong. Unfortunately, the man is as stubborn as you are, and he is determined to convince you to return to the field. He needs you, and that is obvious, even though those words haven’t crossed his lips. You can feel his desperation.
You disagree with him.
You are not a hero, and he definitely doesn’t need you. There are dozens of agents more talented than you are, dozens of promising, and less controversial, souls who deserve a chance. He should better abandon you now, and let you rot in your apartment, because he will be disappointed sooner or later. But you didn’t tell him that. Instead, you stayed quiet, because the words were stuck in your throat.
“Don’t tell me that you are that kind of agent?” he asked, to fill the silence. The tone of his voice had changed slightly. There was something petty about it, something that is crawling under your skin —; it is the disappointment that his words carry. Yet, you have no idea what he is talking about —; “that kind of agent”? The worlds held no meaning to you, but you could still feel that they didn’t bode well, and that you didn’t want to be that kind of agent. You can see his eyebrows rise in anticipation of an answer you can’t give him.
“What kind?” you asked back, without any conviction, just because you know that is what he expects. You accompany these words with a sigh.
You are not in the mood for this kind of game. You only want one thing, and it is to go back to your apartment, to slip back into the comfort of your sheets and stay there for days to come. In fact, you may never leave them ever again. That is the only place where you can ignore the world, where all your worries disappear along with the rest. The only place where you do not need to be human, or pretend to be strong, where you can be a mess, and no one would be here to judge.
You were really not comfortable at the idea of coming here, to Fury’s office, at the S.H.I.E.L.D. 's headquarters, and being there makes the feeling even worse. He promised you that no one would know, but how could he be sure? The mere thought that one of them could see you there makes you nervous, and prevents you from concentrating.
What if it happens?
What if, despite Fury’s promises, you run into one of them?
You have no idea what you might tell them if it happens. Is it better to beg for their forgiveness, or would it be too much? You bet they wouldn’t even listen to you, anyway —; they haven’t in the past, why would it be different a year later?
Maybe they won’t even acknowledge you, and you should probably do the same —; but wouldn’t it be worse? You are not sure that you could handle this possibility, that you could walk by the people that once were your family as if they were complete strangers.
Maybe it is better if they decide to scream —; that is what a part of you is craving for, no matter how twisted it can be. Because, if they scream, if they still hate you, it means that they care, right? No one would take some of their time and energy to yell at someone they don’t care about, right? Because it wouldn’t make sense.
“The kind that does it for fame,” he replied, and you could feel the weight of his gaze. It was so intense that it made you want to disappear. You hate it, the way he looks at you, as if he knows all the secrets of your soul, and so you are fidgeting in your seat, unable to stay still because of your nerves.
“No, I am not,” you sighed the words that you knew the man was expecting you to say, falling right into his trap. You are conscious of it, but you are too exhausted to fight, and it is way much easier to give the man what he wants.
Yet, your voice is full of uncertainty —; does it make you a bad person to want to stop helping people? At least, that is what he seems to be suggesting, and maybe he is not wrong. Maybe the only reason you want to stop is because you are selfish —; anyone with your skills wouldn’t hesitate to save the world. But not you, not anymore. Why? When did you become one of the bad guys, one of those who don’t care about others?
You want to tell him — to yell at him — that it is not about lost celebrity, that it was about being hated by almost every soul living on earth, but the words get stuck in your throat —; what’s the difference, after all? Are you really gonna let people die because they do not like you, is that the kind of person you became? No, it is not, and it will never be.
“Does that mean I can count on you?” he asked, and you answered with a murmured yes, because that is what he wants to hear, and because you only want this conversation to end. From the very moment you sat on this chair, you have been eyeing the exit, and you are more than willing to give the man what he wants in exchange for the right to leave.
— — —
“I am a hero,” you whispered in your breath, “and that’s what heroes do,” you added, repeating the sentence once more. You were trying to find a little bravery in this mantra, the one you needed to push your limits a little further.
Yet, all you find in these words is deep despair, because a part of you knows that they are not true — and you are not a hero. Not anymore. You tried to believe Fury’s lies. You wanted to believe them, and deceive yourself because it gave you a bit of hope, a reason to carry on, but the illusion couldn’t last for eternity.
What’s a hero when they are hated by the whole world? A villain. It has been several years since you lost the title of hero. It is not about your great successes anymore, it is about all the mistakes you have ever made, the ones that make you detestable in the public’s eyes. Now, you are just an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., and a controversial one at that. You are the rotten apple that the direction doesn’t really know what to do with. They might desperately need you — or, more accurately, your skills — but they do not want the world to discover that they didn’t fire you despite what they had announced to ease the minds.
Nevertheless, you had agreed to pretend, and to play Fury’s little games, because you didn’t know what else to do. You have been a little lost since you left the team, and the missions you were regularly sent on were a good distraction, but it has been months now, and you do not have the energy to pretend anymore.
Once this mission is over, the first thing you are going to do is to tell the man that it is over, you are quitting — yeah, you are going to leave the agency, and start a new life. The idea sounds appealing, and warms you heart with an emotion you thought you had forgotten; a will to live. You have waited long enough. You are not sure what you are going to do yet, but you know that it will be better — anything would be better than your current life. It will be a second chance, and a real one this time. Maybe you will change your name, and your face, and so you could be anyone you want to be — someone that no one hates.
But, for now, the only thing you want is some rest. Slowly, your limbs become numb and, soon enough, you are not able to walk anymore, the ground disappears beneath your feet and you collapse into the snow, your legs unable to support the weight of your body.
Maybe that is your second chance, you thought. Maybe the afterlife will be gentle.
It is so tempting to just close your eyes, to let the cold soothe your pain, and take all your worries away. You don’t know how long you have been walking, wandering around, waiting for help that may never come — probably for days. Days that seemed like an eternity. You were trapped in a landscape that you would surely have found magnificent, had the circumstances of your presence here been different.
The snow falling from the sky covers everything, and not an ounce of greenery escapes it. Yet, the sight wasn’t comforting — it was threatening, and scary. It was so cold that you couldn’t feel your fingertips. Everything was white, and all looked the same, turning the forest into a maze with no way out. The trees rose up, mocking and oppressive, as if they were only waiting for the moment you would give up.
Be patient. It will be soon, you thought, as your body hit the ground in silence.
You hardly notice you’ve fallen. You don’t even have the strength to try and get up, but maybe you don’t want to. The snow forms a gentle embrace, and you feel it begin to cover you in white too. Soon, you are going to disappear, and you’ll become a part of the landscape — How is it going to take, for nature to hide your body, to make it seem like you have never been here? A few hours? And how long would it take for them to find you? Probably more time. Who is “them”, anyway? You are not sure someone is coming from you, and despite your hopes, it is more likely that they won’t come. Did you forget that you have no one? If people do not care enough to show up at your funerals, do you really think that they would go to the trouble of looking for you in the middle of nowhere? What an idiot you are, you should know, by now, that there is no hope.
No one is coming.
Even though the idea might sound sad, it brings a small smile to your face, as well as a weird sense of comfort — The peace you’ve been looking for is eventually within your reach. Soon, the world is going to forget your name, and your story. Maybe they won’t even know that you died here, alone in the woods, where no one can find your body.
You have tried to warn them about the situation. A last desperate plea for help to be sent, but you never found out if they got your message because your broken radio had died before they could confirm. Despite being an experienced agent, you have been caught out of guard by the situation — Should you wait for them here, or should you try to find a way back home on your own? The decision was made for you when the enemies started looking for you, there was no way you could escape them by staying in their base. Outside, you could hide more easily, and maybe even find a way out of here.
Yet, the days went by, and all you have done is get lost in the forest, a labyrinth made deadly by the snow and very low temperatures. There is no room for life in this place, and the fact that you survived for a few days is a miracle in itself.
You were perfectly aware of the risks when you accepted the mission. There are always high risks in this profession, and you were prepared to take them all, even the most irrational ones because nothing scared you — That’s your strength, you’ve never shied away from a mission. You knew that it wouldn’t go on forever, and that the risks you were taking would eventually lead to your demise — But who cares? Not you, nor Fury. Maybe it was exactly what you were both looking for-; the man wanted a soldier, and you wanted a way to die with dignity, which is exactly what he offered you.
And so, you accepted every mission he presented to you, worked on every file that was put on your desk without thinking twice about it. There was always a good reason to accept, many lives to save, and countless threats to the world, and for that, you were willing to take the risks that nobody else wanted to take. That’s what heroes do, right? They put their lives in line, for the sake of the population.
So far, you have done surprisingly well, successfully returning from each of your missions. Yet, you knew it was only a matter of time before you ran out of luck. Maybe your current situation is solely your fault, for thinking that you could keep pushing your limits indefinitely — For forgetting that you are not a hero, only human. The blood between your fingers is there to remind you of that. It is red, as the one of all the people who live on this planet, and you can pretend all you like that you are a hero, but you’ll never be able to escape your condition, that of being human.
Yet, there is something oddly comforting in watching your blood staining the snow. Something that cradles you until your eyes close, something that helps you accept your destiny. These bloodstains are the silent promise that peace will soon arrive, the peace you have waited patiently for for years.
— — —
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” the woman screamed, her voice echoing throughout the room. No one dared looking at her, everyone avoiding her gaze. The team had just returned from yet another search mission, one of their last hopes of finding you, only to inform her that they had lost track of you — Again.
The woman knows that she should not have listened to Clint when he told her that she’d better stay in the Quinjet and rest, something she has clearly been lacking in recent days. He even promised her that he would do his best. They all promised, but it was just lies.
Natasha has waited for them for hours, obviously unable to rest because she was so consumed with anxiety. She had walked the whole length of the Quinjet more times than she can count, waiting for their return. When they came back empty-handed, she was furious. Not only they didn’t find you, but above all they had lost the only hint of your presence that they had managed to find since the search began, almost a week ago.
If she had been with them, things would have been different. She would have found you, she is sure of it — because she would have refused to come back before that happened.
Everything now seemed hopeless, and everyone was aware of this. That probably explains why they are abiding her gaze, not to escape her anger, but because they do not want to witness the pain they could read in her eyes. The spy had always been good at hiding her emotions, and no one had ever been able to read her — even after you left, two years ago, she remained composed — but her mask had started to crack in the last few days, and everyone could now see her worries.
Natasha was the one who insisted for the Avengers to come for you, and although she insists that this decision is only motivated by her duty, everyone knows there is more to it than that — Feelings that the years had not erased, strong ones that she had buried, but which were resurfacing since she learned that you were in danger. You are her weakness, you are the only one that can make her lose her temper that easily, it is as if she was suddenly a child again — One with emotions too big for his understanding. It is like two years ago, when she saw the pictures and felt her heart being shattered.
“It is okay, I am sure that we are going to find her,” a voice raised, and it was Fury’s. The man was the only one to be brave enough to do such a thing, the only one who didn’t fear the redhead, even though he was the one who should be most wary. The man is standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, his arms crossed — They could have been talking about their next meal, and he would have had the same fucking attitude, she thought. “She is strong, and smart. I am sure she will find a way to survive, do not underestimate her, Romanoff,” he calmly added, but his disastrous attempt to calm the atmosphere has the opposite effect — All she wanted to do was to violently rip the expression on his face, she couldn’t stand the overconfidence she could read on it, and the calmness that didn’t fit with the seriousness of the situation.
“You know nothing,” she replied through gritted teeth, the only way she had found to not scream at him, “you are just trying to make yourself feel better about what’s happening because it is your fault. One of your agents is going to die, and it is all your fault!” she yelled the last sentence, unable to keep her voice low as she felt the rage building inside her. The man didn’t even care, he sees you as an asset, not as a human.
“She is an agent, Romanoff, and one of the best. It is her job to take risks, and she knew them before accepting the mission. This regrettable accident is no one’s fault,” he said, unimpressed by the redhead’s outburst.
“Oh, please!” she exclaimed with a bitter laugh, “this mission wasn’t risky, it was suicidal, and you are perfectly aware of that. No one in their right mind would have accepted it, but she was vulnerable, and you knew it, and took advantage of her state to get what you wanted!” she had moved closer, until she was almost spitting in his face, until the accusing finger she was pointing at him almost touched his chest. She knows the man and his tricks, she knows that he always finds a way to get what he wants. “I hope it was worth it because, if we don’t find her alive, I’ll make sure to bury you next to her grave,” she spitted, not even trying to hide her threat — No, not a threat. It was more than that, it was a promise.
Those are the last words she said before leaving the Quinjet.
They have been looking for you for days, and everyone is painfully aware that the chances of finding you are diminishing with every passing minute. Yet, the woman is not ready to stop, not until she has hugged you one last time, dead or alive. Looking for you was no easy task, and every clue they have found eventually led to a dead end — You are too skilled for your own good, she thought, and it was almost frustrating. If it wasn’t for your skills, and your ability to disappear without leaving a trace, they would have found you days ago. If it wasn’t for your skills, Fury would have never sent you on this mission alone, and he definitely wouldn’t have waited for so long before sending a rescue team.
The woman had to beg him, to scream, for him to accept to give in some pieces of information about how you were doing. He said that you were fine. He said that you were fine, but it was just a lie. He looked at her, promising that nothing would happen to you, but he only said that to get her out of his office. As she later learned, the man had no idea of how you were doing because it was a no-contact mission, and if you gave them news, it would only be to share bad ones.
She heard the message you sent, a plea for help playing on a loop in her mind. Despite the poor quality of the transmission, and the cut words that prevented them from understanding your situation clearly, she could feel your fear, one that made her blood run cold — The woman has never heard you being so scared before.
Fury has waited two days before sharing the message with her. He said that he was positive you would find a way out on your own, and it would be too risky to send a team there when they had no idea how the situation was, but she hadn’t listened to him. All the woman could see was how he almost ruined every chance to rescue you for some ego problems, and foolish confidence — Everyone knows that after two days the chances of finding a missing person alive are slim.
She hates him for that. She hates him for allowing you to die.
Or maybe it is herself that she hates, for letting you down years ago, when you needed her the most — If she hadn't, none of that would have happened, you wouldn’t have taken such risks in the hope of achieving some kind of redemption.
“What do you want?” she asked curtly to the person that was following her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was — Steve. In recent years, the man had developed the bad habit of following her wherever she went, convinced that she needed him.
“You forgot that,” he said, and she looked over her shoulder at the jacket in his hands. A wry smile appeared on her lips at the sight of the garment.
“Because I don’t need it,” she sighed, her tone as cold as the forest because of how exasperated she was by the way the man was trying to play hero. Maybe he was one for the rest of the world, but the woman definitely didn’t need to be saved, and especially not by a man that is convinced he knows everything better than everyone else.
“And, how exactly, do you expect to be able to help her if you are freezing to death?” He asked, trying to coax her into taking the jacket — But only someone who doesn’t know her well could imagine having any chance of convincing the woman.
“Did you forget where I am from, Roger?” She asked back, stopping in her tracks to face him, the sudden act surprising the man who almost ran into her, “If you are cold, then you can go back to the jet. No one asked you to follow me. So now, shut up or leave me alone,” she warned him before resuming her journey, the man at her heels. Natasha wasn’t walking in the forest for pleasure, and she couldn’t afford any distraction.
The woman has to concentrate to make sure she doesn’t miss any traces of your presence. These are rare, almost imperceptible, and easily hidden by the snow. She needs to be sure that she won’t miss anything, and that is something she can’t do if the centenarian doesn’t stop rambling in her ears.
Fortunately, the message seems to have got through because not a word was spoken for the next hours, and the two Avengers just walked in silence. Only the snow crunching under their feet broke the heavy silence. It had been hours, and the landscape didn’t seem to change, giving the impression that they were walking in place, or that they were going in circles. No matter where her eyes landed, all she could see were snow-covered trees, but that was until she spotted it. It was almost invisible, but there was no way she was going to miss the only thing that wasn’t white in the landscape — A red stop. A spot of blood, probably caused by a few drops, but that was leading to a trail staining the forest’s perfect white coat.
“Wait! Where are you going?” the man exclaimed when he noticed that his partner had run off, but he got no answer. His eyes weren’t as sharp as hers, and so he didn’t notice the stains straight away.
When he finally catches up with the woman, he was so taken aback by the scene that he was unable to move, or speak. It was so unexpected that he felt like he was daydreaming, and wondered if it wasn’t the cold that was causing him to hallucinate.
There, a few meters away from him, the redhead was kneeling in the snow. She was close to a body whose identity was in no doubt — You. Suddenly, all he can see is the rigidity of your body, the bluish tint of your lips, the snow that is covering your face, but above all the scarlet puddle that is staining the snow, so big that no one could miss it.
“Give me the jacket,” she asked him, her tone firm despite the obvious tremor in her voice. Her eyes never leave you, even for a moment, perhaps because she was afraid that you would disappear, and that she would lose you, again. “Steve. The jacket,” she asked again, but more urgently this time, “give me the fucking jacket, and go get the others!” she repeated, and the shout seems to shake the man out of his torpor because he eventually hands her the jacket before running off, in the direction of the jet.
Natasha didn’t look back, but she heard his footsteps in the snow as he walked away. Now alone, she gently lifts your body, wrapping you in the jacket, and even pulling the hood down your face to protect you from the snow and wind. She can’t help but let her hands linger on your visage, her thumb gently tracing your features, then brushing past your now blue lips to eventually follow the wound on your cheek.
For a few seconds, she allows herself to get lost in the familiarity of your face, but the blood that is left on her thumb after she ran it over your cheek brings her back to reality — You are dying. Maybe you already are, dead. Yet, there is not much she can do before the arrival of the rest of the team, except praying to all the gods whose names she knows, even though she has never believed in them — Please, if you exist, it is the moment to do something good, she thought, and the woman was so deep in her thoughts, trying to keep the last shred of sanity she had, because the last thing you need is for her to lose her temper, that she missed it at first, those words that came out of your mouth.
“What?” she asked, a little abruptly, as her eyes fell on your face. Your expression hadn’t changed, your eyes were still closed, and so were your lips, giving the impression that she had imagined the whisper. “Did you say something?” She nevertheless asked, and several seconds passed in silence. She felt the hope that had made her heart beat being replaced by despair, until she notices the trembling of your lips as they try to come to life. At first, no sound escapes, only a whimper that breaks her heart. “Shh, it is okay, take your time, baby. You can do it,” she quietly encouraged you as she noticed your struggles.
Her hands cup your face, and the warmth of the contact, accompanied by the circles her thumbs are tracing on your cheeks, is comforting. It helps you to ignore the pain for a moment. The gesture even gave you the strength to talk.
“You..,” you started, but this simple word requires so much effort that you need to catch your breath before continuing. “ ..came..,” you eventually added, the second word coming out as a broken whisper, and the woman has to be close if she wants to understand what you are saying.
“Yes!” She exclaimed, “yes, I did. W- We are all here, baby,” she softly replied, her voice trembling slightly because of emotion, just like her hands as she continued cradling your face.
They are here? All of them? You thought, and the realization brings tears to your eyes. The woman can also feel tears welling up in her eyes, and you can see them. Yet, she should not cry. She has no right to cry when you need her to be strong and calm your fears. The woman knows it and yet, she can’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. For so long, she had hoped to see you again, prayed for a second chance even though she knew she didn’t deserve it, but she hadn’t imagined that life could be cruel enough to offer her what she most wanted under the worst circumstances — Once again, she was about to lose the most important person in her life.
“Is.. that.. end.. ?” You painfully asked the woman.
You have once heard a belief saying that the Angel in charge of helping a soul to travel to the other side always takes the appearance of the person the deceased loved the most during their life. You wouldn’t have expected anyone but the redhead to be yours. You may have tried to hate her for years, but the truth is that you have been unable to stop loving the woman.
“Because..,” you continued, but were stopped by a violent coughing fit. “Am.. ready.. now..,” you eventually managed to say. You want nothing more than to touch her face one last time, but your body refuses to listen to your desire and, as you try to move your hand, all you manage to do is to wiggle your fingertips — But it is okay, you thought. You are content enough with being able to see her one last time, and knowing that her comforting touch is the last thing you would feel before Death wraps its arms around your body, taking you somewhere where pain does not exist.
“The.. end?” The woman repeated after you, a bit confused at your words, and you can tell because of how her eyebrows are knitted together. “Oh no, honey, it is not,” she whispered, trying to bring you a bit of comfort. “You are going to be fine, I promise,” she said, repeating those words a few times, unsure if they are really meant for you.
“I.. know.., I.. believe.. you..,” you whispered back.
“Then stay with me, baby, okay? Keep your eyes open for me, please. Just a few more minutes, and then everything will be fine, I promise. Do you think you can do that for me?” She started rambling when she noticed that you were struggling to keep your eyes open. Yet, it doesn’t seem to work as she watches you slowly slip into unconsciousness. “Tell me, love, where does it hurt? Could you do that for me?” She attempted, hoping that the question would be enough to ground you, to keep you here, with her, until the others arrive.
“Everywhere..,” you whispered, and it was the last thing you said. You were in so much pain that your whole body was numb, and you could barely feel something, unable to tell the difference between your arms and legs.
You are not sure what happened next, or how long it was before the rest of the team arrived, because despite Natasha’s attempts to encourage you to stay awake, you ended up losing consciousness. The last thing you were aware of was the sound of a vehicle, along with a few words that were yelled, and even if you couldn’t understand what they were saying, you were able to grasp the urgency in their tones. The last thing you remember was being lifted. That is when you knew you could do, before the arms that were carrying you were comforting, they were the promise that everything would be fine now.
After all, she promised. Didn’t she?
— — —
It was all a lie, when she promised that things would be okay now.
Since the very moment you have opened your eyes, after a few days spent in a coma, the world has been nothing but pain. She had promised you a world where suffering doesn’t exist, but had given you the exact opposite, every day being worse than the one that preceded it. Your wounds won’t heal, and despite the weeks that had passed, you were unable to walk properly, or anything without help. Every step you make, every breath you take, are the reminders of what was taken from you.
You had wished for Death. You had waited for the moment you could leave this world almost impatiently, but when the time eventually came, you were brutally ripped from Its arms. When the woman wrapped her arms around you, wrapping you in a comforting embrace, whispering the promise that everything would be fine now, you naively believed her. It is not before it was too late that you realized your mistake. You have thought that the woman you saw was your angel, but it has only been Natasha, a human, with her flaws and mysteries.
Why did she even decide to come?
The question has not left your mind since you opened your eyes. It raises a feeling of confusion, and anger, because there is no explanation you could think of that would make a bit of sense.
You have not talked since they brought you there, at the compound. It is a place that you’ve never thought you would ever see again, but mostly a place you never wanted to return to. At first, they thought that you just needed a bit of time to adapt, but the days soon became weeks, and you remained locked in your silence despite their many attempts to encourage you to say a few words. The only sounds they have heard coming from you are the whimpers of pain that sometimes fall past your lips.
Natasha has tried to speak to you, but you would always ignore her questions and ramblings. Yet, it has never stopped her from trying. Even though she is not sure that you can hear her, even though whenever she enters your room, she finds you looking out of the window, staring blankly. The woman had stopped closing the shutters a while ago, so you would always have something to look at, but you probably didn’t even notice the difference. It seems that your mind is somewhere else, somewhere she can’t reach.
You are far from here, from this room you hate with your whole heart but that you can’t leave despite your desires. A room that is not yours, and certainly not home despite what they may say, and you would rather be anywhere else, even if it means locking yourself in your thoughts.
It is something they would have known if they had asked you, but apparently they didn’t think to ask for your opinion when deciding your future. The Avengers Tower is quiet, and comfortable. Somewhere you are familiar with, and where you would be able to get the care you need — The perfect place. The only place. You have no family, no friends, that could have agreed to take care of you until you are back on your feet. The Avengers may not be your family anymore, but they are the only ones who have agreed to bear this responsibility — Or most likely they felt like they had to. You probably want to be here as much as they want you to be there, and you know that they are silently praying that you will go away soon. You are the constant reminder of what they want to forget.
And so, you have slowly found comfort in your own mind. The only place where they can’t bother you, where suffering and time does not exist. Except that, as the days go by, it gets harder to ignore the woman. She is the only one who has never given up, always trying to talk to you when she comes to your room, even though you have never replied once. Whenever she comes to bring your meal, or your medicine, or help you to change, she would stay a bit longer, rambling about anything that comes to her mind — And you hate it. You don’t care about her last mission, nor do you care about the last movie she has seen.
When she is here, time seems to flow slowly, minutes becoming a painful eternity. You wish the woman would understand your silence as the sign that you don’t want to talk, but it is apparently not a sufficient clue because she has never stopped talking.
The last thing you want is to get out of your caparace, because you don’t want to see what is outside, but it becomes almost impossible to ignore the world when the woman keeps invading your bubble. Her voice, her soft touches,.. they held a new promise — Everything will be fine, she continues saying, but now you know it is not true. You have fallen for her lies one time, and promised to yourself that you wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. These touches didn’t bring you any comfort, only frustration which then turned into anger. You have felt it boiling inside you for days now — Until you couldn’t bear it any more.
“Why?” You whispered. The woman was helping you to put on clean pyjamas, and you think she was rambling about her day when you cut her off with your question.
You are not sure why you have decided to talk that day. You are not even sure that it was your decision, the broken whisper falling past your lips before you could realize what was happening. You wish you could take back your word, but it was too late. The woman was as surprised as you were, judging by the expression on her face. Her lips are moving, but it is her turn to be at a loss of words.
Somehow, the hesitation you could read on her face made yours disappear instantaneously. Suddenly, you didn’t want to stay silent anymore. You wanted to be heard, to get the anger out of your body because you couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore.
“Why?!” You repeated, but this time you yelled the question. At least, it was the intention, but after so much time without talking, the word was nothing like a scream, only a strangled cry. Yet, despite your voice being weak, you realized that you didn’t want to stay quiet anymore — Not now, when you just got it back. Not when there are so many things you want to say, to scream in their faces.
“Why what?” She softly asked, stopping what she was doing for a second. Her hands were resting on your knees as she was talking. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, and had to lower your head a little to meet her eyes. Yet, she doesn’t dare to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds.
You scoff when she looks away, doing the same thing as you can feel tears coming in your eyes. She must not see them. “Playing games, are we?” You said back. Your tone is venomous, your words rude, and meant to hurt the woman, even though she took care of you the past few weeks.
It may sound unfair to treat the woman after all she has done for you — After she saved your life. Yet, she is still the one who dumped you years ago, the one who broke your heart, ruined your life, and made promises she couldn’t keep. The truth is that, if you can’t handle her presence, it is because you know that you don’t want her to be really gone — You shouldn’t, but you want more of it, more of her and her reassuring presence. Her sudden gentleness, after she pushed you away so violently, is building your hopes back up. A feeling that is painful when you know that they would never become a reality.
“Listen,.. I-,” she sighed, but before she could find the right words to answer your questions, you cut her, again. You already had enough, wanting this conversation to end, and now.
“If you can’t give me an honest answer, then I don’t want to listen to you,” you abruptly said, warning the woman that she should carefully choose her next words.
The woman may want to say something, but when she opens her lips, no sound comes out — Because she has no idea what to say. The truth is that Natasha is as confused as you are, the same unanswered questions occupying her mind. She doesn’t know why she went after you, and the lack of response keeps her awake at night.
The woman simply knew that she needed to be there, that her place was by your side, and no word was strong enough to describe how worried she had been about you all this time, a feeling that has lingered inside her since you left. She pretended not to care, tried to bury these feelings as she had been raised to do, but it never really left.
You had poisoned her soul, her heart.
But you know. You already know the answers to your questions, you only asked because you wanted to hear them from her mouth. You want her to admit that her actions were only guided by her guilt, not by the love she pretends to bear for you, because that is the only way you would be able to get rid of the painful hope that, maybe, things could go back to the way they used to be.
But obviously she wouldn’t say that.
The great Natasha Romanoff would never admit that she is selfish, and imperfect.
That she is far from the hero everyone thinks she is.
“Get. out,” you eventually asked the woman. She has hesitated, and missed her chance to say something. “GET OUT,” you yelled when you noticed she was about to protest, “LEAVE ME ALONE,” you added, pushing the woman who was kneeling in front of you with all your strength. When she didn’t budge, it only added to your distress.
For once, she listened to you, and left the room. The door closed behind her with a soft thud, and just like that you found yourself plunged into the silence you’ve been longing for — Yet, it didn’t feel as comforting as you expected it to be.
Somehow, since that day, you have only felt worse. Since you have found your voice again, you only used it to express your anger, yelling at anyone trying to get into your room. It has been several days now, that your cries have been echoing in the tower, making it clear that you wanted to be left alone. If the past few weeks you have been bearing Natasha’s presence, it wasn’t the case anymore, and now the woman couldn’t even do something as simple as knocking at your door without you screaming. You do not want to see, hear, or feel her — Even the mere thought of the redhead was too much.
All of them had tried to step in your room, convinced they would be the one able to calm you down, but everything they achieved was to worsen the situation. Eventually, they stopped coming, giving you the loneliness you thought you wanted — Then why are not feeling better, now that you have what you asked for?
You are torn apart by contradictory feelings and needs, unable to quite understand what is going on in your mind — It is obvious that you don’t want to see Natasha. And yet, everytime someone other than the woman opened this door, you felt disappointment filling your heart. Maybe that is why you yelled, why you were so angry.
When they eventually stopped knocking at your door, you caught yourself hoping for them to come back. Your days are now an endless succession of hopes, built up at every sound of footsteps in the corridor, and disappointments, when you eventually hear them going away. She has proven you right, you thought. She has proven to you that she doesn’t care, and you have used up all your tears crying over this idea, days and nights.
You wish you hadn’t said those things, that you hadn’t screamed at the woman, because you were now missing her presence. Her gentleness may have been annoying, but it has been so long since the last time someone has been this gentle with you, that now it was gone, you were craving to get it back. She gave you a second chance, and you have thrown it away for what? Nothing.
It took a few days before you eventually decided to leave your room. It was not by choice, obviously, and you only agreed to leave the comfort of your bed because of the hunger that was slowly gnawing at your insides. The last meal you got was the same day as the last time you saw Natasha, and you knew you couldn’t go much longer without eating. At first, you told yourself you would endure the pain, that you deserved it for what you did to the woman, but it didn’t make it more bearable, and you eventually gave in.
The plan you made in your mind was easy — Waiting for the night to come, make sure that no one is awake, and then quickly getting down to the kitchen. Only a few minutes, only time to grab some snacks before making it back to the comfort of your room. Yet, you should have known that things never go as they are meant to.
The journey to the kitchen was everything but easy. You have probably been a bit too optimistic about your ability to walk when you thought about your plan. The pain in your leg was so intense that you were only able to take a few steps before collapsing, and had to almost drag yourself down there. Every step felt like running miles, leaving you short of breath. And yet, despite all your efforts, despite your strong will, you were eventually forced to give up when your legs have once again shifted under your weight, leaving you on the ground, unable to get up despite your attempts.
When even crawling felt too demanding, you were left with no choices but to wait for someone to rescue you. Suddenly, you were submerged by an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, and shame, that only worsened when you heard footsteps. You didn’t say anything, and only closed your eyes, hiding your tears behind your eyelids. You were softly praying that whoever is here would ignore your limp figure, scattered on the living-room’s floor, and do whatever they came here for as if you weren’t here.
“Oh sweetie, no.. I won’t do that,” a feminine voice softly said, and you immediately recognize it as Wanda’s. It holds a gentleness that is unique.
Your suspicions are confirmed a moment later, when the woman kneels beside you. For a second, you thought about pushing her away, especially when her hand brushes your hair out of your face. The witch is aware of that, but she also knows that, deep down, behind the walls that you’ve built to protect yourself, you were craving for her attention. That’s why the woman didn’t remove her hand right away, a sad smile stretching her lips when she realized how you were leaning into her touch.
“Are you hungry?” She eventually asked, and you opened your eyes, a bit surprised by the sudden question. You blink, twice, unable to give the woman a verbal answer — But she doesn’t need one. She is perfectly aware of why you came downstairs, and she doesn’t need to use her mind-reading abilities to know that, already aware of how you have been refusing to eat anything for the past few days. “Good,” she whispered, careful with her words. She couldn’t risk you shutting down, again. “Because I was cooking, but did way too much for one person,” she explained, smiling.
It is a lie, and you both are aware of that.
It is past midnight, and the woman was probably just looking for some water. She definitely wasn’t cooking, and is probably not even hungry, but she knows that this innocent lie would help you to feel less guilty. The woman knows how stubborn you can be, and how you would probably have refused if she had proposed to cook you a meal, scared of wasting her time. Yet, she couldn’t let you go back to your room with only a snack. You need energy, if you want to get back on your feet as soon as possible.
“Come here,” she said when you hesitantly nodded, “let me help you,” she added, and you didn’t protest when the woman wrapped her arms around you — Her embrace was soft, and comforting.
“I got you,” she whispered in your mind, “everything will be fine now,” and, this time, the words felt true. It has been a long time since you felt as safe as you did in the Witch’s arms, the woman being the only one who has never treated you differently, or hated you for what happened years ago. She was the hope that things could work out.
THE END. —
| MOODBOARD — ✧ — MASTERLIST — ✧ — TO SAY SOMETHING
| Part one. Part two. Part three.
the scars in our hearts (bonus part).
Just watch this for the capitalist/ronald reagan commentary if you want, but i am definietely talking about Transformers (1986)
ppl bring up that movie on here a lot.
This guy worked as a media critic since the early days of the internet, and he has always been on the left.
This is really great commentary on the transformers.
Highly recommend
Xoxoxoxo
Moviebob, "really that good" (transformers 1986)
Despite being so influential on internet media criticism he is financially struggling.
Just watching these videos would help his algorithm. And yeah, he is an old white guy (actually he is only 4 months older than me, but he aged way worse)
This whole lead in about capitalism, and ronald reagan, and Wall Street is impeccable!
Please watch it. I have watched it a dozen times.
Of course this is about the movie i have watched the most times in my life so of course i would think that.
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I am currently bored out of my mind at work, so naturally, I started playing around in Canva instead of being productive. 😌
Then I thought, You know what? I bet I could make my own dividers for my fics instead of always relying on ones made by other creators. Not that there’s anything wrong with using those, of course, but I wanted to try making a few of my own.
So I did! I made one for my Thunderbolts masterlist, plus some thin little heart dividers that I thought were really cute. 🤭
I might start making more whenever inspiration decides to strike. Apparently, workplace boredom has unlocked a tiny graphic-design side quest.
I find it laughable how the same stock of people who hate Tom King adore Gail Simone. They are two sides of the same coin. They write exactly the same and are mediocre at best. The difference is for every white guy Tom has for a massive rabid fanboy, Gail has white fangirls.
And if you dare point out the fact that Gail is no better than her male counterparts, her agenda only serves to help those who look like her, you're labeled a misogynist who just can't handle super strong women with opinions!
