#mfls masterlist

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You had known Scott Summers your whole life. He was the boy with the shy smile and the kind heart, the one who’d held your hand when your mutation first manifested and you were terrified of yourself. The one who made you feel less like a monster and more like someone who belonged. When you both arrived at Charles Xavier’s school, it was only natural that friendship became something more. An easy love that grew in the shadow of danger, steady and safe.

But lately… things had changed.

You noticed it first in the way Scott lingered around Jean Grey. The way their conversations stretched long after training, his hand brushing her arm as he laughed at something she said. They looked good together — too good. Perfect. Jean with her fiery confidence, Scott with his quiet strength. And you, watching from a distance, felt the ugly curl of jealousy knotting in your stomach.

It wasn’t just jealousy, though. It was fear. Fear that he’d realize he belonged with her, that he’d see what everyone else saw: Jean was powerful, graceful, beautiful. And you… your mutation was dangerous. Your emotions rippled out like waves, influencing the people around you. When you were happy, people felt at ease, lighthearted, almost euphoric. But when you sank into darker moods, that heaviness bled out too. You didn’t need Charles to tell you — you saw it in the way students grew tense around you lately, snapping at one another for no reason. How Hank paused more often when you entered the room, concern flickering in his eyes.

And Logan… Logan called it before anyone else. “Kid, you’re broadcasting your feelings like a damn radio tower. Fix it before someone gets fried.”

But you couldn’t. Not when Scott kept smiling at Jean like that. Not when the thought of him slipping away from you dug claws into your heart.

It only got worse, and eventually Charles asked Scott to his office. No one knows what they said, but when Scott knocked softly on your door later that evening, you felt it — his presence, his worry — before he even stepped inside.

You turned your face away, curled up on the edge of your bed, trying to hide the tear tracks staining your cheeks.

“Hey,” Scott said gently, closing the door behind him. His visor gleamed dimly in the soft light of your lamp. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t answer, just pulled your knees tighter to your chest. The air in your room felt thick, heavy — your power leaking with your emotions, filling the space with tension.

Scott crossed the room anyway, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, body facing away. “Charles, Hank, even Logan… they noticed, you know. What your powers are doing when you’re upset.”

“I can’t control it,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Not when I feel like this.”

“Like what?” He turns to look at your body, concerned filling his eyes.

The words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Like I’m losing you!”

Silence crashed between you. You buried your face in your hands, tears streaming down your face again. “I see the way you look at Jean. I’m not blind, Scott. You don’t laugh with me like that anymore. You… you touch her arm, you stay up talking with her—” Your voice cracked, breaking on the words. “And I’m not her. I never will be. So why would you even—”

“Stop.”

The command was soft but firm, pulling your gaze to him. Scott’s jaw was tight, his expression torn between hurt and tenderness. He reached for your hands, prying them gently from your face so you had no choice but to meet the deep, unshakable steadiness behind that visor.

“Oh, honey,” he murmured after seeing the fresh tears and the stained tears, his thumb brushing your trembling fingers. “You think I’d ever look at Jean like that? I was trying to plan something for you. A surprise. And Jean was helping me, because… well, let’s be honest, I’m not exactly subtle.” A small, wry smile curved his mouth.

You blinked through your tears. “A… a surprise?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I wanted it to be perfect for you. She was just helping me figure it out.” Then his smile softened into something more serious, more certain. “Besides… I’m pretty sure she and Logan have something going on. Trust me, Jean’s not where my heart is.”

Your chest tightened, tears slowly stopping. “Really?”

Scott leaned closer, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice low and unshakable. “Yeah, really. Honey, you know my heart is yours. Forever.”

The words broke something open in you — not pain this time, but relief. You threw your arms around him, clinging tight, as the oppressive heaviness in the room lifted. The air lightened, warmth radiating instead of despair, your powers feeding off the love anchoring you back into place.

Scott held you just as tightly, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back, as if he could shield you from every doubt clawing at your chest. “You don’t ever have to question that,” he whispered against your hair. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, and nothing’s going to change that. Not Jean, not anyone. Just you.”

You pulled back only enough to look at him, a shaky laugh slipping past your lips. “I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not,” he said instantly. “You’re human. And I should’ve told you sooner instead of making you wonder.” He brushed a kiss against your temple, lingering there. “But now you know honey. My heart is yours. Always.”

And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

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Main Masterlist

You hadn’t seen Luke in months—not since he left Michigan for Jersey. Phone calls and FaceTimes could only do so much, and while you were beyond proud of him, there was still an ache in your chest every time you went home to empty rinks and quiet streets that used to hold your memories together.

So when he surprised you with tickets and insisted you come see him (and Jack he guesses) play, you packed a bag and hopped on a plane.

The arena was buzzing that night, fans screaming, jerseys everywhere. You sat in the stands, nerves tangled in excitement. Watching him play was surreal—this was Luke, the kid who used to sneak candy into study sessions with you, who walked you home after school, who swore he’d always look out for you.

Now? He wasn’t just Luke. He was Luke Hughes, flying across the ice with speed and grace that made the crowd roar. And when he scored his first goal of the night, you couldn’t stop yourself from jumping up, screaming louder than anyone around you.

By the time he had two goals and an assist under his belt, the Devils secured the win. And when the game ended, he found you in the stands almost instantly, skating by with a grin so wide it made your heart flutter.

⸻

Later, back in the quiet of your hotel room, it felt almost unreal. He’d insisted on coming over after the game—said he needed to see you properly, not just waving from the ice.

You were sitting cross-legged on the bed when he walked in, hair damp from his shower, wearing a hoodie you recognized from home. His cheeks were still flushed, eyes sparkling in that way they always did when he was buzzing with adrenaline.

“You were amazing tonight,” you said softly, smiling up at him.

He dropped onto the bed beside you, still grinning. “I kept looking up to make sure you were watching.”

“As if I’d ever look away,” you teased.

He laughed, leaning back against the headboard. For a moment, it was easy—like nothing had changed. Just Luke, just you, just the comfort of being together.

But then his expression softened. His hand brushed against yours, fingers twitching like he wanted to take it but didn’t know if he should.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “More than I thought I would.”

Your chest tightened. “I missed you too.”

His jaw shifted like he was working up the courage, and then finally, his hand slipped into yours, warm and steady.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes finding yours, “everyone talks about how Jersey feels different, how I’ll get used to it. But I don’t think I will. Because Michigan…” He paused, squeezing your hand. “Michigan feels like home. You feel like home.”

Your breath caught, your heart leaping so fast you swore he could hear it. “Luke…”

“I mean it,” he pressed, voice shaking just a little. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. It’s always been you. Even before I left. I think it’s always been you.”

For a second, all you could do was stare at him, emotions swirling—years of friendship, laughter, little moments that suddenly clicked together into something bigger. Something that had always been there, waiting.

So you leaned in, closing the distance, pressing your forehead against his. “I think it’s always been you too.”

His smile was shaky, relieved, and when he kissed you—soft and unsure at first, then steadier when you melted into him—it felt exactly the way he said.

Like home.

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Main Masterlist

Quinn’s breathing was uneven. Shallow. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, chest tight as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, trembling hands pressed against his face.

You slipped into the room quietly, heart breaking at the sight. You’d seen this before—the panic, the spiral that pulled him away from the present.

“Quinn,” you whispered softly, kneeling down in front of him. You gently pulled his hands from his face, lacing your fingers with his. His knuckles were cold, clammy, but you held on tight. “Hey… breathe with me, okay? Just you and me. Right here.”

His yes were glassy when he looked at you, panic swimming behind them. You knew the doubts he carried—the pressure, the fear of not being enough, the weight of the world balanced on his shoulders.

So you leaned closer, grounding him the way you always did—with words that were just for him.

“You know you’ve got me in your pocket,” you said softly, your thumbs rubbing slow circles over his. A small smile tugged at your lips, even through the worry. “Literally. You’ve got that picture of me in your wallet, one in your hockey bag… and don’t think I don’t know about the secret one tucked in your gear.”

The faintest flicker of a smile passed over his lips, a tremor breaking in the storm. His breathing stuttered, but it slowed just a little.

“And you know what?” You reached for the locket resting against your chest, the one he had given you on your three-year anniversary. You clicked it open with gentle fingers, showing him the two tiny photos inside—one of just him, and the other of the two of you tangled together in laughter.

“You know I keep you in my locket,” you murmured, voice steady even as his eyes shimmered with tears. “Always with me. No matter what.”

His hands shook when he reached out, brushing the tiny photo with his fingertips. His throat worked as if words were caught there, but none came.

So you leaned in, closing the gap, pressing your forehead to his. Your breath mingled with his shaky exhales, warm and patient.

“You and me,” you whispered, letting the promise wrap around both of you, “always forever.”

Quinn let out a shuddering breath, his chest loosening as he finally clung to you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him like you were the only anchor he had. You held him close, stroking his hair, your heartbeat steady against his cheek.

Minutes passed like that, the storm quieting as you held him together with soft words and the weight of your love.

And when Quinn finally whispered, voice raw but steady, “Always forever,” you knew he believed it.

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Main Masterlist

The mission had gone sideways fast.

The intel was wrong. Too many armed men, too many corners to cover. You and John had been paired off, as usual, and everyone else swore it was because you worked “better” together. You told yourself it was just coincidence.

But then the shot rang out.

The searing burn in your side ripped the air from your lungs. You stumbled, hand clamping over the spreading warmth.

“Y/N!”

John’s voice cracked like thunder. Something inside him snapped—rage bleeding into violence. You watched through blurred vision as he tore through the enemies with an unrelenting brutality, his shield smashing bone and metal until silence filled the air.

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands already working fast.

“Stay with me, don’t—don’t you dare close your eyes,” he muttered, voice tight, trembling with panic. He ripped fabric from his own uniform and wound it tightly around your waist, creating a makeshift tourniquet.

Your fingers clutched his wrist. “Walker—”

“John. Call me John.” His jaw flexed as he tied off the bandage. “I’m not losing you. Not you.

⸻

The safe house was dim, smelling faintly of dust and woodsmoke, as if no one had stepped inside for months. John shouldered the door open with a grunt, refusing to let you walk, even though you insisted you could. He carried you across the creaking floorboards and laid you carefully on the battered couch, like you might break if he let go too fast.

“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low and sharp—not at you, but at the situation, at the fear clawing up his throat.

His gear hit the floor with a heavy thud as he ripped open a med kit from the wall unit. His big hands, so steady in combat, trembled as he tore away what was left of your torn uniform around the wound.

“Shit, shit—” he muttered, eyes darting to the blood seeping through the makeshift tourniquet he’d tied in the field. He pressed down with gauze, his jaw clenching hard enough you could see the muscles twitch in his cheek. “Why the hell didn’t you duck? You always duck—”

You hissed at the sting, but you didn’t have the heart to point out that he was the one rambling, not you. The sound of rain hitting the cracked window filled the silence between his curses and your ragged breathing.

“John…” you whispered, but he wouldn’t look at you. He wrapped fresh bandages tighter, too tight, then loosened them when you flinched. His breath came fast, uneven, like he was trying to hold the world together with his bare hands and it was slipping through anyway.

The thud of your heartbeat against your ribs was louder than the storm outside. Too loud. You needed to fill the silence with something—anything.

And then you remembered.

A night weeks ago, when the mission was done and the others were asleep. You’d gone looking for water, and caught him half-drunk, sitting alone. He hadn’t known you were listening, or maybe he had, but his voice had been raw, unguarded, like a confession to the dark.

“You said…” your voice came out shaky, weak, but steady enough to make him freeze.

His hands stilled over your side, eyes snapping up to yours. “What did I say?”

“You said, ‘Usually I’m fucked up. Anxious. Too much. But I’ll love you like you need me to. Imperfect for you.’”

His head lifted slowly, as if the words physically weighed him down. The raw panic in his features cracked open into something else—something far more fragile. “You—You remember that?”

“How could I forget?” Your throat tightened, the air heavy in your chest, and the words spilled before you could stop them. “I’m messy. Completely distressed. But… I’m not like that since I met you.”

The confession hung in the room like a live wire. You half-expected him to retreat, to mask it all with anger or denial like he always did when things got too close.

But instead, John’s hand found yours, rough and warm, pressing into your palm like he needed the contact to breathe. His thumb traced your knuckles once, trembling.

“You don’t even get it,” he said, voice low, breaking. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not… a monster.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. He leaned closer, the smell of sweat and smoke still clinging to him, his eyes burning with something you hadn’t seen before. And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was desperate at first, all heat and fear and the relief of still being alive. But then it softened, slowed, his lips moving against yours like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was terrified you’d disappear if he let go.

You clutched his collar, dragging him closer until his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard. For the first time in a long time, neither of you were fighting against yourselves.

⸻

When you finally made it back to Avengers Tower, bandaged but walking, the room went dead quiet.

Bucky raised a brow, leaning back in his chair. “Finally.”

Yelena smirked into her drink. “I was starting to think you two would die before admitting it.”

Ava just laughed, while Bob gave you a sly smile.

Your cheeks burned as John’s arm slid instinctively around your waist, protective but proud. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but his grin gave him away. “Shut up.”

And when you looked up at him, you couldn’t help but smile back—because for once, John Walker wasn’t too much. He was exactly what you needed.

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Main Masterlist

People whispered it in hushed tones when they thought Lex couldn’t hear.

“She’s always there.” “She follows him like a puppy.”

And Lex loved it.

Because the truth was simple: he didn’t just allow you to follow him everywhere—he expected it. He demanded it without saying a word. When he left a room, your heels were only seconds behind. When he sat down at a meeting, your hand brushed his shoulder before you took the seat just behind him. When he told you to stay home, you stayed—restless, miserable—until he called, and only then would you breathe again.

It was a leash without a chain, and he reveled in the control.

One night, in the quiet of his penthouse, he finally asked.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching the city burn in lights below while Lex poured himself a drink. His voice cut through the silence, sharp and smooth.

“Why do you follow me so much?”

You turned, caught off guard by the question. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, gaze pinning you like a predator to prey.

“Everywhere I go, you’re there. Every step. Every shadow. My men call you a lost puppy. I’m beginning to think they’re right.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, but you didn’t look away. “Because wherever you go…” Your voice cracked just slightly before firming with quiet conviction. “…that’s where I’ll follow.”

Lex stilled, the words hanging heavy in the air. His lips curved slowly into a smirk, dangerous and amused. He stalked towards you, and bent downward.

“You’d follow me to the edge of the world?” he asked, his breath ghosting your ear as his hand slid along your jaw, gripping it tightly. “Even if it meant your ruin? Your death?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “Even then.”

A low chuckle vibrated from his chest. “My God. You’re either the most foolish woman alive…” His fingers squeezed lightly under your chin, tilting your face up. “…or the most perfect.”

His smirk deepened, sharp enough to cut. “My little lost puppy follower.”

He sat on the space next you and guides you onto his lap. He kissed you then, hard and claiming, his hand gripping your chin like he was reminding you who you belonged to. And when he pulled back, green eyes glinting with power and possession, he whispered:

“You’re mine. Always. Even if it kills you.”

And you, breathless, could only whisper back: “Always.”

Lex let the silence linger, smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back just slightly. His hand slipped from the back of your neck to your thighs, fingers brushing over the softness.

He glances down to where your left hand rested over his right. His wedding ring on your finger. His claim. His proof.

His eyes lingered there, dark and satisfied, before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, before pressing a final kiss to your lips.

It wasn’t just a vow anymore. It was a cage dressed as a promise—and you had chosen to lock yourself inside it.

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Main Masterlist

The ball hit the wooded fence surrounding your yard with another dull thud, bouncing off before rolling back to his feet. He barely stopped to catch his breath before kicking again, his focus sharp, unrelenting.

You watched from the kitchen window, arms folded, the glow of the stove light catching the worried lines on your face. He’d been out there since mid afternoon, and the sun had long dipped below the horizon. Even now, under the soft lights of the backyard, his movements were relentless, almost desperate.

You chewed on your lip. Pedri wasn’t usually like this at home—training, yes for two hours, but never this long, with this… obsession. Something in your chest tugged.

Grabbing your phone, you typed quickly, thumb hovering over a contact. Finally, you tapped Gavi’s name.

You

Hey, is Pedri okay?

He’s been outside for hours?

The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly.

gavs

yeah… míster’s been hard on him lately. he’s stressed.

he feels like he’s not giving enough to the team.

You

okay. thank you gavs.

i’ll take care of him.

gavs

you’re the best for him, you know.

You sighed, leaning against the counter. It wasn’t surprising, but still—seeing it up close made your heart ache.

You pocketed your phone, already pulling plates from the cupboard. If he wouldn’t come in, you’d bring the inside to him.

Within minutes, you had his favorite dinner that his mom had thought you when he was injured, two glasses of water, all balanced on the tray, and a soft blanket draped over your arm. You pushed the back door open, the crisp night air carrying the sound of his steady kicks.

“Pedri,” you called gently, walking onto the grass. He didn’t look up, but you had received a “hmm?” , he continued chasing the ball, weaving it through imaginary defenders.

“Amor, please,” you tried again, this time with more weight in your tone.

He finally glanced at you, chest heaving, his shirt clinging with sweat. His eyes softened for a second—then hardened again as he turned back to the ball. “I need to keep going, cariño. Solo un poco mas.”

You shook your head, setting the tray down firmly on the grass. “No. What you need is to eat. To rest. To breathe. Look at you—you’re running yourself into the ground.”

Pedri paused, his jaw tightening. “If I stop, I’ll fall behind. They need me, el equipo me necesito.”

“They need you healthy, Pedri. They need you whole. Yo te necesita más.”

That finally made him look at you, really look. His expression cracked, just a little, as if he hadn’t realized how much his silence was hurting you.

You knelt on the blanket, patting the spot beside you. “Come. Sit. Eat. For me.”

He lingered there, torn between the ball at his feet and the warmth in your voice. Then with a defeated sigh, he kicked the ball aside and trudged over, lowering himself beside you.

“Está bien,” he muttered.

You handed him a plate, watching as he reluctantly took a bite. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the rustle of leaves. Slowly, the rigid tension in his shoulders began to soften.

“You don’t have to carry all of this alone,” you whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead.

He swallowed hard, setting the fork down. “Sometimes it feels like I do. Everyone expects me to be perfect. And when I’m not…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “No quiero fallarlos.”

Your heart broke at the vulnerability in his voice. You reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “You won’t fail. You’re human, amor, not a machine. And when you push yourself like this, you only break yourself faster.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you set the plate aside and lay back on the blanket, gazing up at the sky. The stars winked faintly above Barcelona, scattered across the dark canvas.

Pedri blinked at you, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Come here,” you said softly.

He hesitated—then, with a quiet laugh, stretched out beside you, one arm brushing yours.

The two of you lay there in silence, the night wrapping around you like a cocoon. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint sound of the city. You turned your head toward him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Pedri inhaled sharply, your words sinking deep. His eyes softened, his hand finding yours against the blanket.

“Olvidar el mundo?” he murmured, his accent rich with emotion. He squeezed your fingers, lifting them to his lips. “Contigo, siempre.”

The ball sat forgotten in the grass, and for once, Pedri let it stay there. He didn’t move, didn’t plan, didn’t worry. He simply lay beside you, the weight on his chest lightening under the stars, breathing in sync with yours.

And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to rest—because with you, he could.

Translations:

Spanish English

Amor Love

Cariño Honey

Solo un poco mas Just a little more

El equipo me necesito The team needs me

Yo te necesita más I need you more

Está Bien Okay

No quiero fallarlos I don't want to fail them.

Olvidar el mundo? Forget the world?

Contigo, siempre With you, always

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Main Masterlist

Logan had lost everything once already. His world had gone up in flames while he drowned himself at the bottom of a glass. The night the X-Men were slaughtered, he wasn’t there. He should’ve been. He should’ve been at your side, claws out, tearing through anything that dared to touch you. Instead, he’d been slouched over a bar counter, whiskey burning his throat while his family died without him. While you died without him.

That guilt gnawed at him every single day. So when Wade dragged him into another universe, into another mess of variants and chaos, Logan didn’t care much. He had no reason to. Not until his eyes landed on you.

Alive.

Your power crackled in the air, bending the storm around you, and you froze when you saw him. “Logan…?” you whispered, as if you weren’t sure he was real.

He wanted to turn away, to pretend he hadn’t seen you, but he couldn’t. Not when you looked at him with recognition, with something raw and aching in your eyes.

The days after were unbearable. You both pretended to focus on Wade’s ridiculous plans, but your gazes kept colliding like magnets you couldn’t fight. Finally, in the rare quiet of night, sitting around a bonfire while Wade recruited the “resistance group”.

Your staring in the fire was interrupted by Logan’s voice was gravel, his words heavy as he finally forced them out. “You died in my world.”

Your breath hitched, eyes burning as you searched his face. “And in this one… you died.”

He froze. “What?”

Your throat tightened as you said it, like pulling the memory from a wound. “Here, in this universe, you didn’t make it out. You didn’t come back to us. To me. Do you have any idea what that did to me?” Your voice cracked, tears threatening. “I buried you. I… I carried your dog tags every day just to remember you weren’t some dream I made up.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, guilt storming his features. “I wasn’t there for you either. When my world burned… I wasn’t at your side. I should’ve been. And now I’m standing here, looking at you alive, and all I can think is how badly I failed.”

“You didn’t fail me,” you snapped, anger flashing through your grief. “You weren’t the reason I died, Logan. Just like you weren’t the reason the others did.”

His eyes softened, pain still etched deep. “Doesn’t change that I wasn’t there. Doesn’t change that I’ll always carry that weight.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “And doesn’t change that I already lost you once.” You stepped closer, trembling but unyielding. “I can’t do it again.”

The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. Finally, Logan’s hand twitched at his side, then reached for yours. His grip was rough, desperate, like he was anchoring himself in the proof that you were real. His voice was low, raw.

“Just know… I’ll die for you.”

The words slammed into you, pulling the air from your lungs. You couldn’t even speak — you just gripped his hand back like you’d never let go.

When the battle finally came, you fought side by side, storm and steel, tearing through Deadpool variants in a rhythm that felt like instinct. And when him and Wade ran to destroy Time Ripper, you had stayed back, trying to get throught to Cassandra. One moment you were talking the next you were were thrown across the ground, your body aching as you screamed his name into the chaos.

“Logan!”

Silence. No footsteps ascending the steps.

Tears blurred your vision, your chest aching as the storm faltered around you. You fell to your knees, voice breaking. “You promised,” you sobbed, shaking. “You promised you’d die for me, but not like this—”

Mr, Paradox started ranting to Hunter B-15, “the fact that we are all still standing here is a testament to their heroism. Anyway there is nothing you or I can do to bring them back now.”

And then Wade’s voice pierced the air, smug and infuriating.

“He has risen, baby girl.”

You hear Paradox yell “Fuck!” But you didn’t care hat he was pissed, you had whipped around, hardly daring to believe it, and through the smoke you saw them, saw him. Broken, bloodied, missing his shirt for some reason?— but alive. Logan.

Your body moved before your mind could. You ran, launching yourself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist as your hands clasping behind his neck. Your tears spilled into his shoulder.

“I thought I lost you,” you choked, your voice shaking.

“I know,” he rasped, clutching you against him, his voice raw with a promise. “But I’m here. I’m not letting go this time.”

-

Later, Wade’s apartment was chaos — Blind Al cracking crude jokes, Dopinder nervously passing snacks, Wade dramatically demanding all attention back on himself. You barely heard any of it. Logan sat beside you on the battered couch, his hand in yours, thumb tracing circles over your skin like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real.

Wade suddenly pointed at the two of you, eyes wide. “Hold up. Wait. WAIT. Are you two seriously, like… dating? The grumpy murder hobo and the weather goddess?”

“Shut it, Wade,” Logan growled, pressing a rough kiss to your temple as you curled closer into his side.

And for the first time in years — in either universe — you felt whole again.

for the first time in days, you let yourself believe him.

♡──♡──♡──♡──♡──♡── ♡──♡

Main Masterlist

The Smithsonian was quiet that morning. Most of the tourists hadn’t arrived yet, leaving the Captain America exhibit wrapped in stillness, glass cases glowing faintly under soft lighting.

Bucky Barnes found himself wandering there more often than he liked to admit. It was grounding, in some strange way, to see Steve’s face smiling back at him in sepia photos, old uniforms, propaganda posters. It reminded him that the war had been real, that his best friend had been real. That he had been real, once.

He turned a corner, his boots clicking faintly against the marble, when he froze.

Because there you were.

You stood in front of one of the glass displays—Steve’s compass, the one with Peggy’s picture inside. But your face was what caught him.

You hadn’t aged. Not a single line. Not a single silver strand. Walking with no help.

Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest, the decades folding in on themselves. He blinked once, twice, as if his mind was playing tricks on him.

And then your eyes met his.

You inhaled softly, lips parting. That same smile—gentle, radiant, exactly as he remembered it—pulled at your mouth.

“Bucky…”

He stumbled forward, his voice rough. “Angel?”

You let out a shaky laugh, a hand rising to your chest. Angel, the name felt foreign as you hadn’t heard it in so long. For a moment, neither of you moved. It felt impossible. After all the years, the blood, the frozen decades—he had thought you were gone. Everyone was gone.

But you weren’t.

“I—how?” His voice cracked, the metal of his left hand glinting under the lights as he ran it through his hair. “I thought… I thought I lost you. I thought I forgot you but—God, I never did. Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

You shook your head quickly, tears brimming at the edges of your eyes. “I know you didn’t. I never forgot you either, James.”

The way you said his name, like it was sacred, unraveled him.

Bucky closed the distance in three long strides. His hand cupped your cheek—hesitant at first, afraid you’d vanish like smoke—but you leaned into his touch, warm and real. His breath hitched, and before he could think better of it, he pulled you into his chest.

You melted against him instantly, arms wrapping around his torso as if you belonged there. And you did. You always had.

The world spun around him, years of loss and war and cold metal chambers falling away. Here, in the quiet corner of the Smithsonian, he was just a boy from Brooklyn again, holding the girl he thought he’d never see.

“I moved,” you whispered against his coat, “from city to city, never staying too long. People would notice if I didn’t age, and I couldn’t just tell people I was a witch. I had to keep going. But Bucky… I always carried you with me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. His voice was soft, filled with awe. “A witch?”

You laughed lightly, nodding. “Guess I never told you that part.”

He huffed a broken laugh, forehead leaning against yours. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here. You’re really here.”

For the first time in decades, Bucky smiled—a small, trembling thing, but true.

“Guess the universe wasn’t done with us after all, angel.”

And as the museum lights glowed around you, as history stared from behind glass, you kissed him like time had never passed.

♡──♡──♡──♡──♡──♡── ♡──♡

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