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divineecelestial · 1 year

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Bloodied Hands — Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Summary — Frank Castle shouldn't like you. He has a mission to complete and his hands are far too bloodstained for someone like you, but, God, he can't help himself.

Word Count — 24k (yeah, you read that right. Sorry.)

Warnings — Graphic depictions of violence and death, use of female pronouns, and [Y/N] but is written in third-point-of-view. Slow-burn.

Author's Note — This might be a series depending on if you guys like it and that will eventually contain smut and slow-burn. And this was originally written as OC and not as a reader insert but I edited it but if you still see an OC name or description, please let me know! :)

Greed was the underlying cause of everyone’s misdeeds. Some stalked the shadows for an opportunity to yank on someone’s polished pearls, and some bloodied their calloused fists for stacks of green. The people who [Y/N] had found herself growing exhausted with were the ones who placed themselves on thrones of manipulation and terror and ruled from the darkness of the city. She was tired of smelling the morning breeze and finding it still tainted with greed and illusion.

[Y/N] released a steady breath as she brought the handle of her flashlight between her teeth, pulling a hairpin from her scalp and kneeling on the carpeted floor. Breaking inside the District Attorney’s office was much easier than she initially thought it would’ve been. She managed to stealthily take a badge from one of the office employees as she was escorted from the premises earlier that morning. Truthfully, she was completely aware that she wasn’t going to speak with Samantha Reyes regarding Frank Castle. She predicted their dismissal and wasn’t shocked when Reyes had someone pull her from the building by her arm. She had counted on it. Escorted inside and outside provided two chances to memorize the design of the office space.

She knew any information worth some importance wasn’t going to be openly placed in some unguarded filing cabinet beside a water cooler. The discrepancies of Frank Castle were going to be concealed from the public eye, locked and placed in a dark corner. This narrowed her options to the DA’s office and her personal assistant’s office.

Her hairpin was thicker than she needed, but she managed to unlock the office door. There were orange and tan files strewn across the wooden desk, multi-colored notes taped around the computer screen, and crime scene photos neatly piled. [Y/N] raised the flashlight above her head, carefully flipping through the stacks of scribbled papers. There was nothing of importance and she pushed the chair to the side, kneeling on the floor. She smiled as she saw the shiny lock on the bottom drawer. Predictable.

With nimble fingers, she used the hairpin and struggled for a brief minute. She cursed at herself for not bringing her pick-locking kit with her. The subtle sound of the interlockings of the padlock shift was barely loud enough for her to hear, but she practically yanked the drawer open. She shuffled through the contents, a self-satisfied smirk rising as she found the bright orange file with black ink scribbled on the corner; ‘Frank Castle’.

There wasn’t much within the file. There were mostly crime scene photographs of his doings against the three gangs. She slowly examined each photograph, eyes memorizing every bloodied wound. She couldn’t believe one man was managing these crimes. At the bottom of the file was a large x-ray of Castle’s skull and brain with a bullet lodged inside. She could hear her father’s voice in the depths of her mind.

[Y/N], this wasn’t a suicide attempt. He would’ve been dead. Someone else did this and wasn’t very good at it.

She brought her camera and snapped photographs of the papers and pictures.

[Y/N] thought of the chilled breeze as she drove through the thoroughfares of New York City. She thought of the multi-colored lights that illuminated the night sky and she thought of the dull musings of each person that remained awake that night. She wondered if someone could feel the emotions she was plagued with every night, the loneliness and the violent rage that burned through her veins. She glanced at the empty passenger as the strangers of the night crossed the street. There was no one there and there wasn’t going to be another person there. The music quietly filled the car, some old song her father used to listen to and she forced herself to memorize the words. She must have listened to the song a thousand times, writing the words down with black ink over and over again until her hand ached.

The song repeated and she tapped her manicured hand on the leather of her steering wheel as she disappeared from the bright lights and drove through the suburban neighborhoods. She occasionally glanced down at a scrap of paper, reading the address over again each time. She should have chosen a less conspicuous car, she realized. She parked the car at the end of the street and the music ended and she was left alone in the darkness again. She smelled the fragrance of her perfume as she observed the steadiness of the neighborhood. She knew the Castle house was deserted, empty, and forgotten, but she found herself thinking someone was going to walk outside; Frank walking outside with a white and heavy trash bag or his children rushing to the lawn with a dog. But there was no one and nothing coming outside.

[Y/N] glanced around, smelling the wilted flowers on the sidewalk as she neared the porch of Frank Castle’s house. There was an American flag swaying gently with the wind and an empty mailbox that wasn’t going to be filled again. She wondered if anyone remembered them anymore or if anyone in this neighborhood glanced outside their windows for a second just to think about the slaughtered family. With light footsteps, she walked to the side door with a lock pick placed between her gloved fingers. Seconds passed and the door unlocked with ease. She hurried inside, closing the door lightly behind her. The house was still furnished and smelled like laundry detergent and forgotten memories. Everything remained the same and nothing was moved. The Castle family left their house never knowing they weren’t ever coming back. There were still toys scattered across the floor, dishes placed on the table, and couch pillows disarrayed. This house was empty but still filled with remnants of the dead.

She dragged a gloved finger across the kitchen countertop, wiping away the layer of gray dust. Across the foyer, [Y/N] caught the yellow beam of a flashlight before the beacon disappeared into nothingness. She tensed, the only sound she could hear was her breath calming. She wasn’t alone. Hushed, she pulled the handle of her sharpened blade from her holster. Her footsteps were light and air-like as she moved across the house, following the person who didn’t know they were being entirely visible in the depths of the shadows. With her back pressed against the wall, she peered over the wall of the foyer, eyebrows furrowing together as she noticed this was some woman. An ordinary woman dressed as if she was going to her office. The woman brought her heeled shoe to the first wooden step of the staircase, a bright light shining in her grasp. “What are you doing here,” [Y/N]’s voice was low, smooth like florid wine. The blonde woman reeled, pressing a pale hand to her mouth. The flashlight fell from her hand, inches from smashing onto the dusted floor before [Y/N] caught the device in one fluid movement. “Are you trying to let everyone in this neighborhood know we’re here?”

Karen thought for a second. If this woman were going to harm her, she would’ve brought that polished blade to the vein of her neck. She wouldn’t have taken away her upper hand and alerted Karen of her presence. “Who are you?” The question, although simple, was stupid. The yellow beam of light illuminated the high points of the woman’s face. For a moment, a fluttering moment, Karen was taken aback. The darkness of her eyes resembled pools of midnight, harsh and unforgiving as she glared through the shadows. Her hair was like looking at glistening ink and her skin was smooth.

[Y/N]’s eyes narrowed as she inched forward. “I don’t suppose you’ll answer first,” There was silence as they continued to watch each other, mindful of every subtle movement. Karen watched the reflective blade clutched in her hand until Karen assumed her knuckles were white, and [Y/N] watched her shaky hands squeeze the straps of her leather purse, aware of them inching closer and closer to the zipper. [Y/N] released a steady breath, those dark eyes unwavering. She didn’t want to use her knife, she didn’t want to go home and scrub the crimson stains from beneath her fingernails and clothes, she didn’t want to do any of this. She wanted to go home and sleep beneath her baby pink silk sheets and have her only concern be that her straightener wasn’t heating properly. “If you reach for that, you’re going to make this unnecessarily difficult.” [Y/N] brought her toned arms over her head, displaying the blade before she tucked it into her holster. Karen exhaled shakily and moved her hands away from her purse. “Appears that I’m not the only one looking for Frank Castle.”

Karen swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “I guess not,” She muttered, blinking the frustrated tears away. She wasn’t going to cry, especially in front of this woman who she didn’t even know wasn’t going to kill when she got the chance. [Y/N] extended an arm, offering the large flashlight. An olive branch or a white flag. Karen hesitated, thinking over the possibilities. If she were to accept the light, was she accepting her death? Or was this woman going to search this house with her and would they both walk away from each other with what they both needed? With an apprehensive expression, Karen latched her hand onto the flashlight. “What are you doing here?”

[Y/N] glanced around, noticing the disarray of children’s shoes and toys. “Same reason you are,” She said, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow as Karen wiped the handle of the flashlight with a wipe. “Looking for something, anything, about Frank Castle that will make sense.” [Y/N] pushed past Karen’s shoulder, ascending the staircase lithely. She stepped over the shoes and carefully pushed open a door. Her stomach sunk as she smelled the crayons and dried paint. The room was littered with children’s clothes and toys; a girl was brimming with colorful images that were screaming to be drawn. There were vivid drawings on display, taped and framed around the room. She sighed. Her nimble fingers flipped through the book tossed onto the small desk. One Batch, Two Batch, Penny and Dime. As she stepped on a few wooden paint brushes, [Y/N] was overcome with this gnawing feeling of guilt. She shouldn’t be here, she was quite literally the darkness of this room. This was wrong.

Pliant, [Y/N] closed the book, glancing at the edges to see if she smudged the corners, and descended the staircase. Her hands felt dirty even though they were beneath layers of leather. She shouldn’t have touched any of their belongings, tainting them and their memory. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight as she walked to the banister, resting her forehead on her forearms. She stared at the laces of her boots, the way they looped over each other. She needed something to concentrate on as she breathed the torment away. [Y/N] thought of the anger she would feel if someone stepped inside the emptiness of her home, and touched her father’s clothes and her mother’s files. She would’ve seen blazing red and snapped, but here she was, doing the same thing. Nauseous, she gripped the banister tightly as she stepped down.

Across the fireplace, the blonde woman scanned over the array of framed photographs of Frank smiling with his unit, covered with dirt and camo, but he looked happy. There were his medals, hanging beneath a layer of dusty glass. [Y/N] turned away, a rush of despair coursing through her as she saw the vases filled with withering flowers and small cards offering their condolences. On the nightstand beside the window was a photograph of Frank with his family, smiling and radiating adoration as they stood beside the carousel. She tried to think of this man as the one who was hanging cartel members on meat hooks, storming the hospital corridors with his weapons. He didn’t seem like him, but she also didn’t seem like a woman who bloodied her fists either.

The sound of gravel being crunched brought her attention to the neighborhood outside the window and beneath the sheer curtains. A large van slowed to the driveway and the door slid open, revealing a group of suited individuals. [Y/N] turned, unsurprised that the woman was already staring at the window. Bringing her finger to her mouth, [Y/N] jerked her chin to the back door. They twisted the door handle slowly, preventing any creaking hinges. They slipped through, nodding once as a sign of acknowledgment before departing.

[Y/N] thought of the polished shine of Frank Castle’s medal; a Navy Cross he was awarded for his service in Afghanistan. Her cluttered mind thought of the photograph of him accepting this medal, the way his eyes gleamed though his face remained stoic. Frank Castle was a war hero, someone who had a ceremony and was admired. Something damaged this man and altered him when his family was murdered.

She brought the strands of hair around her face, framing the delicateness of her expression. She stared at the lovely reflection and tried to blink away the tiredness swirling deep within those eyes. She could sleep for hours, never see the sun disappear into the night for days, and she would still feel this overwhelming exhaustion. She readjusted the turtleneck to her black dress, smoothing over the wrinkles that ended where her thighs were exposed. She thought this was something a lawyer would wear. She didn’t know any lawyers that could offer an opinion so this would have to suffice. She grabbed her long coat and the badge she had spent hours working on. She could only hope the fraudulent credentials and her pretty words would work.

The Metro-General Hospital was brimming with cameras, and flashing lights as each reporter swarmed the waiting area, desperate for some information on The Punisher. [Y/N] didn’t think he was going to be arrested this soon, having his bruised face plastered on every news source. He was caught, handcuffed, and sedated as he was clumsily thrown to the back of a police car. People pushed past her, the room filling with dozens of voices. She walked ahead, dodging the incoming nudges from people’s elbows as she neared the double doors. “Are you press,” A nurse questioned as two men attempted to walk inside.

[Y/N] smiled dazzlingly. “Attorney, actually.” With one hand, she flipped open the badge. The police officer’s eyes roamed over her figure, his fingers on his belt tightening and she gritted her teeth together as she forced herself to remain unbothered. The police officer grabbed the badge, his eyes flickering over the typed words. She could feel her palms dampening as he examined her credentials and the tall man beside her glanced down at her, his eyebrows furrowed. His glasses were a deep shade of red, his hand encircled around a white cane. He was blind, and couldn’t see her, but she felt his gaze go through her facade. She turned away.

“[Y/N] [L/N],” The sound of her name cutting through the clamor of the crowd wasn’t something she was expecting. With a cool casualness, she whirled on her heel and feigned an expression of enthusiasm. She didn’t need to search through much of the media to discover the name of the woman rummaging inside Frank Castle’s home. Her innocent face and those big blue eyes were plastered on every newspaper and news outlet months ago when she was involved with Union Allied. Karen paused her assured stride beside her co-workers. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Karen’s gaze bore into her and [Y/N] needed a moment to compose herself. If she were to slice the pale skin of her neck, she would be restrained before the blood could even splash onto the marble floor. She wasn’t going to stain her freshly painted nails for this woman. [Y/N] blinked then her expression lightened, her plump lips stretching into a lovely smile. “Karen Page,” She said, the softness of her voice brought the other man’s attention to her. “How unexpected.” The sound of her name falling from those rosy lips startled her. Karen’s knowing smile faltered. She felt stupid for thinking she could have the upper hand with this interaction.

With an uncomfortable chuckle, Foggy inched forward, extending a sweaty hand to her. [Y/N]’s gaze remained fixated on Karen and, although magnetizing, was also unsettling. “Foggy Nelson,” He introduced with a kind smile. “And this is my partner Matt Murdock and seems like you already know Karen.” [Y/N] was suave, her eyes and lips welcoming and intriguing, but Matt was staring at her like he could see the lies engraved on her bones.

Disregarding his intrusive gaze, [Y/N] stepped inside the unlocked double doors, motioning for the three of them to follow her. “Lovely to meet you,” Foggy was open-mouthed and blinking as if she was a mirage, a breathing example of women on the cover of magazines. With an amused smirk, Matt nudged his partner’s side. Foggy cleared his throat.

[Y/N] didn’t listen as Foggy spoke endlessly with his hands shaking and the beads of sweat lining his hairline. He was nervous, quite obviously, and was sputtering every thought that formed inside his head. [Y/N] stood across the elevator’s doors, centralizing her focus on the dark reflection on the metal. From the corner of her eye, she could see Karen watching her, almost expecting her to jam her knife into Foggy’s throat. The elevator dinged and she didn’t waste a moment stepping outside.

The corridor was overwhelmed with officers covered with tactical gear, hands clutched on the metal of their weapons. An officer raised a palm, having the four of them pause in their tracks. “What the hell are you three doing here?” The only man wearing a tailored suit exclaimed, exasperation evident on his face.

“Brett,” Foggy replied, “You’re wearing a tie and it’s not a clip-on.”

The officer, Brett, stopped across from them, releasing a heavy sigh. “It’s not a good time, Foggy.”

Unbothered, Foggy continued. “How’d you get babysitting duty, Sergeant?”

Brett pointed at the badge dangling from his neck. “A detective sergeant now.” Despite himself, he smiled. “Top dogs like the press of a good collar.”

“And the cops that get them.”

[Y/N] peeked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but the area is restricted beyond this point. You can’t be here.” Brett said, shifting on his heels.

The path of LED lights and scuffed marble was blocked and she groaned inwardly. She tore her gaze from the guarded door and plastered on a swoon-worthy smile. “And if we have possible business with Frank Castle?” She could feel the frustration consuming every fiber of her. She was only a few steps away from the door, could pull the handle of the sergeant’s holster and unleash a wave of blood, and could open the door and see him.

Brett furrowed his eyebrows together, resting his hands on his hips. “Business?” He asked, “The guy’s barely conscious.”

Matt cocked his head to the side as he smelled the adrenaline spike. “Our firm wants to represent him,” He didn’t acknowledge the woman beside him. He would ask Karen later.

“The man’s already got a lawyer.”

[Y/N] sighed. “As Karen and I discussed, we both feel the Nelson and Murdock firm is far more equipped to represent Mr. Castle. The district attorney wants the death penalty, and will do just about anything to have him dead,” She removed her coat, offering the high-priced cloth to the officer beside her. Without a word, he accepted her briefcase. “I suspect he’ll cooperate when we explain we’re trying to keep him alive.”

Their belongings were thoroughly searched, every crevice was ransacked and anything deemed a possible weapon was removed from them. “Do not give Castle anything. Do not take anything from him,” The sergeant stopped across from the door, his hand around the doorknob. “Everything’s been removed from inside the room. He’s tied down, but keep your distance and mind the tape. Do not step past it or I get to make my dream come true and arrest you.”

The doorknob rattled as he shoved the key inside. [Y/N] remained behind the three of them, narrowing her eyes as she watched Karen interlace her hand with Matt’s, her eyes soothing as she stared down at their hands. The door opened and the burning smell of alcohol rammed through her. The EKG beeped steadily and Karen muttered something under her breath as she stepped inside. The room was barren, glass windows were covered with sheets of metal drilled into the wall. Surrounding the bed was bright red tape on the marble floor. “Frank Castle,” Matt said, his voice low and collected. His eyes fluttered open. “My name is Matthew Murdock. These are my associates Franklin Nelson and Karen Page.”

Frank Castle's harsh gaze hardened as he breathed heavily. “I know who you are,” His voice was brusque, rough, and coated with fiery anger. “You protect shitbags.” His light brown eyes glared into the redness of Matt’s glasses. [Y/N] remained beside the door, hidden from view as she calmed her breathing. She wasn’t worried or concerned he was going to tear through the restraints. She was terrified she was going to stand right in front of him and stare into those eyes just as her father did and she didn’t want to know what was going to stare right back at her.

“We came here to make an offer,” Matt said, “We don’t want money for our services, we’re not interested in fame or free advertising. We weren’t even assigned to your case. We don’t have to be here. But if you take a quick look around, you’ll notice we’re the only ones who are. As you may well know, your list of enemies extends well beyond the gangs you’ve killed,” Matt inhaled deeply. “You’re very good at making powerful enemies. And the day you were admitted to Metro-General for the round you took to the head, a do-not-resuscitate order was placed on you.”

Foggy stood far from Frank Castle, nearly across the room. “And a shoot-to-kill just a few days ago.”

“These orders were issued by the District Attorney and the fact that she’s had it in for us ever since we started asking questions tells us we’re on the right track. Someone in the DA’s office wants you dead, Mr. Castle and we’d like to know why. You let us take your case, we can soften your sentence, and give you a shot. Maybe even find out who’s responsible for what happened to you. We’re talking about life, Mr. Castle. We can help you keep what’s left of it.”

[Y/N] listened to the words as he spoke, repeating them over and over inside the confines of her thoughts. Frank chuckled humorlessly and the sound reverberated through her and there was something about the casualness of the sound that unsettled her. The smell of fresh linen and the coldness of the room reminded her of her father, the way she would gnaw on her lower lip until she could taste blood as she focused on steadying her shaking hand as she pressed the needle into the skin, pulling the stitches through. She couldn’t remain hidden behind the light blue curtain. She rummaged through her boot, yanking the folded photograph pressed between her calf. His eyes flickered from the blood-red glasses to her.

Frank Castle was sedated, restrained beneath thick straps, and could barely see through the blurred haze from his right eye, but he saw her with ease. Her eyes gleamed with lovely wrath and for a delirious moment, he thought he could stare into those raging eyes for decades.

[Y/N] was a darkness within the illuminated room, a shadow with swaying hips and manicured nails. She marched toward him with authority as her heeled shoes clicked against the floor. She stepped over the bright red tape and he couldn’t remove his gaze from her, transfixed with the woman who didn’t even care she was stepping over the boundary. Matt latched his hand on her forearm, pulling her back. Lithely, she pulled his hand from her and pushed him aside as if he were nothing but an inconvenience. She raised the photograph and her eyes burned with conviction. “You need answers, so do I.” Her voice was the sound poets wrote about. It took him a second to remove his eyes from the rosiness of her lips. They widened as he examined the photo. “We aren’t going to get these answers if you’re dead.” She leaned over the side of the bed, her smooth face dangerously close to his. He could smell her florid perfume and she could smell the dried blood encrusted on his skin.

“Where did you get that?” His voice was gruff and his eyes watered. Her facade of a cold exterior wavered and there was nothing but shame filling her. She had done several things she wasn’t proud of, but this was desperation she didn't think she would ever come to.

She lowered the photograph and blinked. “From your home.”

There was silence as soon as the words fell from her full lips. Frank swallowed the lump lodged in his throat as his breathing hitched. “You were in my home,” The question was barely a whisper. “Why were you in my house?”

The grievous sound of the District Attorney's muffled voice echoed through the corridor and [Y/N] stepped away, outside the tape, and folded the picture. “Someone is lying about what happened to your family,” His eyes burned into her as the doorknob rattled. “And I am going to find out who and why.” The way the words scorched through him, he knew she wouldn’t let anything stop her.

Samantha Reyes stormed inside the room with fury radiating from her. “All of you out now!” As the door slammed against the wall, [Y/N]’s facade was back and the change had been instant, so subtle that Frank almost missed it.

[Y/N] could barely hear the condescending conversation exchanged between Mrs. Reyes and the firm as she apprehensively stepped outside the room. She was deafened by the blood rushing through her and she could bring herself to focus on their mushed words. She stared into the eyes of the Punisher and he stared right back at her and all she could see was herself. He was tormented with his own memories, the guilt of remaining alive as his family was buried beneath the dirt. “Castle doesn’t want the public defender,” Brett said, and her composure rattled through her. “Says Nelson and Murdock are his lawyers now.”

The three of them gathered their files and paperwork, disappearing into an empty room with hushed whispers. [Y/N] stumbled to the restroom door, releasing a strangled sigh as the door closed behind her. Her hands squeezed the white porcelain of the sink and she blinked the dwelling tears away. She couldn’t look at the reflection, refused to see her eyes redden and lip quiver. She was a coward. She forced him to look at his slain family and she was shaking at the memory of hers.

There was a gentle knock at the door and she straightened. From the reflection of the mirror, Karen appeared in the doorway, the bright lights circling her. She appeared uncomfortable with both being alone with [Y/N] and having interrupted an intimate moment. She shifted on her heels. “Frank Castle wants to speak with you alone.” She emphasized the last word and [Y/N] wondered if she was trying to frighten her from walking inside that room. If she hadn’t seen and experienced the horrors she had, [Y/N] might’ve cowered away and pretended this was nothing but a night terror.

With a firm nod, she pushed herself away from the mirror and didn’t bother looking at the reflection as she closed the bathroom door behind her. The hallway suddenly transformed into an uneasy silence as she sauntered back to the locked door. She dismissed the inquisitive glances and glares and hurried through the opened door. Frank Castle stared at her with an uncertainness that almost uneased her. “My family,” He said as soon as the door was locked, “What do you know?”

[Y/N] stared back and he was somewhat shocked that her gaze didn’t falter. She opened her briefcase and plucked one of the papers, raising it for him to see. “Have you seen this,” She asked, “It’s a police report, complaint number 211974. It says, ‘Victims were stopped at a traffic light northbound on Buellton Ave when an unidentified male suspect began firing a 9mm handgun at their vehicle. A juvenile male, a juvenile female, and an adult woman were found dead at the scene. The adult male driver was critically wounded and taken to Metro-General.’”

She stopped reading the passage, looking at him through her thick-rimmed lashes. Frank appeared shocked. He shook his head softly. “That’s horseshit.”

[Y/N] loomed forward, the end of the bed pressing into her lower abdomen as she placed the stack of paper on the blankets. “Obviously,” She said, “It took a lot of reading of old articles, but I know you and your family were at the carousel. With the three gangs involved, I’m assuming there was some firefight and there were unreported casualties.” She didn’t hesitate to pull the small black chair to his bedside. She leaned forward and there was a delicate softness in her eyes, something he didn’t even realize he missed seeing when someone looked at him. “Is there anything you can remember?”

He glanced away. “This ain’t about what I remember.”

She nodded reassuringly and there was something comforting with how she looked at him like she was seeing him as Frank Castle and not as The Punisher. “I know this isn’t easy and I know even trying to remember what happened hurts, but this will help us put these scattered pieces together.”

Frank’s eyes fluttered around the room as he scoured through his mind as he muttered incoherently. “It goes in and out. The fact that it fades…” He trailed off. [Y/N] didn’t speak and he appreciated that she hadn’t rushed him. “We took our blanket to our spot. She was by the carousel on the lawn and then I heard her shout. Scream. It was a grown man.” His eyebrows furrowed together and his voice was wrapped with grief. “I didn’t see anyone, but I found out later. The cartel. Irish. Bikers.” His words trailed into softness. “I should have seen it coming.”

[Y/N] shook her head. “There was no way you could have known.”

“I heard it,” Frank said, “I heard it and I didn’t do anything. My job was to keep them safe and I didn’t.”

There was nothing said and [Y/N] looked down at the faux leather of her knee-high platforms. “I am going to tell you what I wish someone would’ve told me when my family was murdered,” She hesitantly reached forward, grabbing his bruised and scabbing hand. “This pain is never going away. This is permanent and that is never going to change. There are a million things we could have done to change or prevent their deaths, but we didn’t. And the sooner we accept this, the sooner we can heal. Do not kill yourself over the ‘what-ifs’. And you do what you need to do to take that step and if it’s brutally murdering everyone involved, do it. Don’t listen to anyone that says revenge won’t change anything or make you feel better. It’s bullshit, it will make you feel better. So, fuck them, Frank Castle, and heal.”

His eyes softened and his rambling thoughts were struggling to reach his mouth. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. He thought about muttering a small ‘thank you’ for telling him what he needed to hear, not some pitied apology. He straightened, hesitantly removing their interwoven hands, and pushed himself from the softness of the blankets. “I only hurt people that deserve it,” He said, his eyes were covered in different shades of purple, his lips were sliced open and scabbing, and his cheekbone was yellowed with larger bruises. “I wanted you to know that.”

She smiled and the gentleness coloring her expression was enough to almost knock the wind from his lungs. His eyes roamed over her and there wasn’t a single flicker of anything indecent within his gaze. He analyzed her as if she were a riddle, a puzzle adorned with everything grandeur to disguise she was a puzzle to begin with. It might have been the sedatives muddling his mind, but she was almost too pretty to look at. He turned away. “You’re not a lawyer, are you?” He asked, somewhat amused.

The warmth of her expression didn’t dwindle as she crossed her leg over her knee and loosened, resting against the cushioned chair. “What gave me away?” She asked lightly.

Frank glimpsed at the small and smooth hand visible on her knee. “Your knuckles are bruised and you tried covering them with makeup,” She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Of course, he would see through her mask. She covered her knuckles with a corrector before blotting a skin-tone colored concealer on the lilacs and light reds scattered across her skin. “You don’t act like how a lawyer is supposed to act and I’ve never seen a lawyer wear high heels like that to try and sweet-talk a client.” Her smile widened and she chuckled breathlessly. “And when I look at you, it’s like looking at myself. You’re angry, aren’t you?”

Her expression flickered and there was a second where the despair and wrath were brightly visible, flashing with neon lights deep within the void of her eyes. He could see himself inside the depths of her shattered gaze and he knew she could see herself inside his. He wondered if this petrified her as it did for him. She frowned as she glanced at the EKG machine beside his bed, desperate for something to distract her. “They’re pumps.” She murmured. His eyebrows pinched together with confusion. “They’re not high heels, they’re pumps.” She didn’t care about the difference, not really. She thought of admitting the truth, telling him that she wasn’t always angry. She always found a temporary release when she was smashing her knuckles into the bones of vile men.

He refrained from rolling his eyes. “Same shit,” Now, she rolled her eyes. He might’ve been a bloodthirsty man, but still a man nonetheless. “Why are you here playing dress-up?”

“You knew my father and now he’s dead,” She replied, tearing her gaze from the fluctuating lines on the machine. Those eyes glistened with salty tears as they pierced into him, flooding with overwhelming despair he could feel tremble through his bones.

A moment of silence. “You gonna try and kill me, lady?”

She sighed heavily. “Quite the opposite.” Her honeyed voice was thick with admittance. “I’m here to keep you alive.”

“Why would—”

She raised her palm, dismissing his words. “You didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking. Someone else did, just like your family. As I said, I’m going to find out who.” She couldn’t guarantee a variety of things; she couldn’t guarantee she wasn’t growing fond of the taste of blood splashing across her tongue and she couldn’t guarantee a simple and bland death, but this was something she promised the stars. Her eyes flashed as she sunk within the crashing waves of her memories. “You knew him, he talked about you sometimes. He said you were a pain in his ass, almost as bad as me.” She laughed and Frank Castle swore the melody coursed through him like warm sunshine. “Stitched you up more times than he could count.”

He thought and there he was—young and hot-headed within the sands and dirt of warfare across the ocean and wincing through trembling teeth as the needle pierced his skin. Dr. [Y/L/N] was a man who wouldn’t flinch at the grisly sights dragged into his station. He would narrow his eyes and scrub his hands with vodka if he didn’t have enough time. [Y/L/N]’s hands drowned in pools of blood every day and he would still reassure every injured soldier and speak until the soldier was certain he was going to damage their eardrums. He only rambled when he knew they needed something to think of, something to distract them from blistering pain. Dr. [Y/L/N] mentioned his daughter several times and would mutter something along the lines of, ‘She’s too pretty for her own good, Frank. Breaks too many hearts.’ His breathing hitched. “You’re [Y/N],” The realization rippled across his nerves and he couldn’t believe Dr. [Y/L/N]’s daughter was across from him, mourning him all over again. He blinked and his breath disappeared. The loss was nearly crippling as he laid his head on the pillow. Another person he cared for was murdered, taken from him and their family.

She stood, smoothing the wrinkles of the black fabric. She could recognize mourning as if it were scarred on the back of her hand and Frank Castle was mourning the loss of a man he didn’t know was dead until that unfortunate moment. “We can talk some other time—”

Frank snapped from his thoughts. “Stay. Please.” As soon as the plea escaped from the confines of his bloodied mouth, he felt pathetic. There was something almost comforting about having someone beside him feeling the numbing sorrow he was suffering in. She was inside his house, breathing the air of the place he couldn’t step inside. “I guess I worry that the memories are just gonna go away. You were in my house and—” He stopped and there was rushing shame inside him.

[Y/N] closed her eyes and sighed. “You never went back.” Her words weren’t a question, merely an acknowledgment of the unsaid admission. She understood the grief that overcame someone when they think about returning to the home where your family was slaughtered. How was she supposed to unlock the door and place her keys aside and not have anyone to greet? She couldn’t pretend the house wasn’t swallowing every moment she breathed in there.

“Can I just ask you—” He swallowed the jumbled words. “Were you in the kitchen?” [Y/N] nodded and didn’t utter a word. “Were the plates on the table or did they get to the sink?”

She opened her mouth before closing it, furrowing her eyebrows together as she tried to remember the blurred details of that night. “Some were on the table and some were washed and on the rack.”

“Did you go into the next room? Did you see that piano that was there,” She nodded wordlessly. “My son Frank Jr. used to grab a handful of cookies and take ‘em and hide ‘em in that bench. He’d play soldier. Guard it, protect it. Then he’d fall asleep down there.” Frank didn’t even resemble the man featured in every media outlet. This man who remembered the flavor of his son’s cookie crumbs wasn’t the Punisher. He was Frank Castle, a marine and loving husband and father. She couldn’t contain the laughter bubbling and leaned forward, eyes bright as she listened. “We’d find him sleeping on a pile of cookie crumbs.”

Those full lips of hers rose. “When I was younger, I used to take my dad’s medical supplies and stitch a bunch of horrible stitches on my stuffed animals, pretending I was a doctor saving lives.” Her voice was light and air-like as she reminisced over the simple times of being young and brimming with hope. Frank smiled and he chuckled. “And in those moments, I wasn’t seven-year-old Ellie. I was Dr. [Y/N] [Y/L/N] with hundreds of Ph.D.'s and every certification you could think of.”

She shook her head, dismissing the memories as if they were a pesky fly. “Your children’s rooms were covered with colorful drawings and dozens of sports trophies.”

The words stung. “I was gone a lot, so I missed all that.”

“And there were toys everywhere. Almost had me tripping up those stairs with all those plastic dinosaurs.”

He chuckled and the unfamiliar sound rang through the room. “Those were my little girls’. Those were Lisa’s. When she was little, she used to make these little noises when she played with them.”

The corners of her mouth curved into a simper. “That little remote-controlled jeep reminded me of those old dinosaur movies.”

Frank grinned as the memories resurfaced. “Yeah, that was Frank Jr.'s. I got that for him for his seventh birthday. He drove me crazy with that thing.”

[Y/N] glanced at the darkness of her shoes and unfolded the photograph. “I know they loved you, Frank.” She whispered, placing the paper between his restrained hand. Her hand rested there for a moment, squeezing reassuringly. “That’s something you can’t ever forget.” He hesitated as if the picture burned him, but his grasp tightened eventually.

“Thank you, [Y/N].” Her name dancing across his tongue was barely familiar, merely a distant memory.

She peered at him through her thick lashes. “And thank you.” She motioned over her shoulder. “They’re going to ask you a million questions, do everything they can to get you off the death penalty, and it’s going to be your decision if you choose to accept that or fight it. You do what you need to do to heal, Frank Castle.” She stood and gathered her papers, closing her briefcase. “But I’m hoping you choose to fight for the truth.”

The smell of nail polish burned through her nose as she meticulously brushed over her fingernails. As she steadied her hand, she glanced at the fading bruises scattered across her knuckles and remembered her conversation with Frank and how easily he saw through her. She thought of the softness on his face as he remembered the blurring memories of his children. The sudden blare of her ringtone shook her from her thoughts and the polish stained her cuticle. She groaned and pressed the speaker button. “Hello,” She said aloud, wiping the surrounding area of her nail with a remover.

The person didn’t speak and she opened her mouth to repeat the greeting but Karen’s voice cut through the silence. “[Y/N],” She paused and lowered the brush. A surge of seething annoyance flared through her veins as Karen’s voice rattled her speaker again.

Closing her polish, she blew a gentle breath on her nails. “Karen Page, you are certainly testing my patience.” The night at Frank Castle’s home she had made a decision to keep her hands blood-free that night and she was growing to regret that unfortunate decision as soon as Karen revealed her name to an entire room filled with media outlets. Now, pesky as ever, she was calling her.

“I didn’t want to call you, but I had to. We tried talking to Frank Castle and he refused to talk. I’m sure you know he plead ‘not guilty’ because of whatever you told him.” The exasperation and crippling frustration wavered in Karen’s voice and she couldn’t refrain from releasing an amused chuckle. “The only way he’ll talk is if it’s with you.” She didn’t utter a word as she continued to casually blow her nails. “[Y/N]?” She repeated impatiently.

With a final blow, [Y/N] extended her hand outward, examining her work. “I heard you, just giving you some time to process that you’re asking me for a favor, therefore, you will owe me.”

Karen exhaled a shaky, yet annoyed, sigh. “I am aware of that, yes.” Her voice was hushed, but [Y/N] could hear the faint voices of Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson.

[Y/N] hummed, an acknowledging sound, and took her time forming a response. “Lovely,” She stood from the cushions of her couch, her bare feet flinching against the coldness of her marble floor. “See you in fifteen minutes, sweetheart.”

The air was thick as [Y/N] entered the facility with a beckoning gaze, a pleased expression enlightening her as the Nelson and Murdock firm gritted their teeth. She was their thwarting personified and she considered the bitterness they must’ve been feeling as they grasped the notion that she was their only solution. She removed her belongings, placed them inside the gray tub, and extended her arms from her frame. The metal detector quietly whirred and she was given her briefcase back. Stepping through the door, Matt darted in front of her. “What are you doing?” He sneered. He was close, voice barely above a harsh whisper and she could smell his cheap cologne.

He couldn’t see her, but he could smell the light fragrance of her luxurious perfume and the fabric he was certain was only imported from Italy. There was something almost sinister buried beneath her words. “I’m here to speak with Frank Castle,” [Y/N] spoke smoothly, unbothered by the abrasiveness of his question. Matt listened and there wasn’t even a flutter in her heartbeat.

Matt gritted his teeth. “He pleaded not guilty.”

With a taunting tilt of her head, she quirked an eyebrow. “How unfortunate for you, I assume?”

He was struggling to remain composed. “He initially agreed to plead guilty. This is going to trial because of whatever it was you told him.”

She rolled her eyes and sashayed onward. “God forbid the lawyers actually do their job.”

His hand wrapped around her arm, preventing her from taking another step. Her heartbeat increased, an erratic sound within her chest. When her adrenaline spiked, he knew she was displeased. “I looked you up,” He whispered, leaning close to her ear. “There aren’t any [Y/N] [Y/L/N]’s working with any attorneys or prosecutors in New York.”

Disinterested, she jerked her arm, and Matt was taken aback by her spike in strength. “I could’ve spared you some time and told you that myself.” She said, “But I’ve been informed he’s refusing to speak to anyone so unless you want to show up to court tomorrow with nothing, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and let me help you, Mr. Murdok.” Her voice was acrid poison cloaked with honey, unbearably sweet.

His knuckles were blanched as he stepped back, offering the file he and Nelson forged together. Pleased, she grabbed the file and loudly apologized to the escorting officer for the inconvenience. There were alarms and buzzing sounds every few seconds as they ambled further inside and she would’ve lost her mind being forced to stay in a place like this. The gated entrance swung open and she safely assumed the corridor suffused with dozens of officers was where Frank was restrained. She disregarded the questioning and suggestive looks she received as she neared the opened door. The array of voices and clanging of metal dimmed as she reached inside. Across the room, handcuffed and dressed in bright orange, was Frank Castle. Some of his bruises were lighter and most of his scabs were gone.

Frank convinced himself the sedatives blended with a possible concussion mustered this image of a woman forged in a lab; someone couldn’t be that pretty, but here she was. “I would lose my mind if I was stuck wearing an orange jumpsuit.” The heavy-duty door closed with a bang and she sauntered to the metal table like they were old friends having lunch together.

The metal chair scratched against the concrete. He watched her intently. “Something tells me you would make it work.”

She chuckled and opened the organized file. “Of course, I would,” Her eyes moved quickly as she scanned over the highlighted and underlined questions as she clicked open her black pen. The writing was messy, practically scribbles in different colored ink, but she managed to discern the passages. “They’ve been going over similar cases and they think it would benefit you if they bring forth someone from your past. The Nelson and Murdock firm is suggesting you bring someone from your military unit to speak to the nature of your service.” She read from the paper and fiddled with the pen, twisting and swirling it around her fingers.

Frank brought his eyebrows together in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?

She peered at him through her lashes. “How should I know, I’m not a lawyer,” His mouth twitched. “Oh, it’s circled and underlined here saying it’s a character witness. They want to put someone on the stand who knows you well and can speak about what you’ve been through.” She chuckled, which sounded more like a huff from her nose, and flipped through the pages. “They really dumbed it down for me, huh?”

There was a flash of anger in his eyes. “They’re going for PTSD, aren’t they?”

She scanned the columns of words, arrows that showed definitions, and simpler terms. “Seems so since that’s also circled and underlined.”

Frank shook his head assertively. “You write down that they’re not gonna do that. It’s an insult,” He rubbed his finger and thumb together. “It’s an insult to them, people actually going through it. I know what they want to do. They want you to sit there and ask me questions that will label me just another case of some crazy-ass combat vet who lost his mind. Maybe that’ll appeal to some shitbag jury in some shitbag court.” Frank was nearly fuming at the accusation, the idea of sitting in a courthouse and hearing them disrespectfully throw around the word ‘PTSD’. “It wasn’t on a battlefield. That’s not when my life went to shit.” [Y/N] neatly wrote every word, making sure to circle and underline every curse word that Frank sneered. “Now, doll, I believe that you told me that you were going to find me answers. That’s what you said to me. Do you have anything for me or not?”

Her hand froze and she narrowed her eyes. Lifting her gaze from the cursive on the paper, she straightened her back. “Oh, I’m sorry, let me pull some answers right out of my asshole for you, Frank.” She didn’t have much information, probably because nearly nothing was documented. She was searching and forging aliases daily for a smidge of information, but whoever was the leader of this operation had instilled terror. “It’s not that easy—”

“That what you want? You want things to be easy?”

She rolled her eyes, something she found herself doing basically every minute of every day now. “Get over yourself. I’m doing everything I can with little-to-no information and limited resources. I am losing sleep making fake IDs and credentials to find something. Breaking into places I have no business being in and you wanna sit there and act like I’ve been doing nothing but twirling my hair?” Frank didn’t think unfiltered anger could be so mesmerizing. “So, do us both a favor and give me a goddamn character witness and cooperate so you don’t rot in a prison cell.”

He didn’t speak but watched the way her eyes burned with raging embers and the way her hair gleamed in the interrogation room lighting.

For that moment, he was done for.

“Colonel Ray Schoonover. My old CO.” She nodded and took a breath, writing the name down. “Forget the PTSD defense, but if they want a character witness, the Colonel, he will do.” Her hand moved quickly and Frank wondered how someone could write so many loops so quickly. “Now, do you have anything for me or not? Or should I go back to rotting in my prison cell?” His voice softened and there was even amusement laced in his words. She chuckled lightly and shook her head, barely noticeable.

“So dramatic,” She muttered beneath her breath. “I did find something.” She pulled a stack of papers from her briefcase.

“I’ve already been over all those a hundred times.” He said once he caught a clear glimpse of the words.

She smirked. “Not with me, you haven’t.” Frank didn’t know how to respond to that. “The medical examiner’s report was done by Dr. Gregory Tepper. As I’m sure you know, he is the Chief Medical Examiner and he’s testifying for Reyes in two days. His report says your family was killed by a single gunshot wound, and correct me if I’m wrong, a gang war doesn’t kill a family caught in the crossfire with just a single gunshot.”

Frank’s eyes glazed as recounted the vivid details of that night. He spoke about the different angles of exit wounds, the different bullet calibers, and the way their flesh dangled from their corpses. He spoke the faltering sentences with a numbness she could feel rush through her like a chilling wave. There wasn’t a detail disregarded. It occurred to her that he must have seen these images every night he tried closing his eyes. He had no other option but to remember every horrific detail.

The black ink of her pen swirled and looped into an intricate cursive and each curve resembled strands of hair around her shoulders. “Do you think it’s going to get easier,” She muttered under her breath. Her hand continued moving across the legal pad, but he could see her thoughts were scattered across the room. “The grieving and the nightmares and the anger?”

The brightness behind her smile often made Frank forget she was suffering from loss, too. There was no sugared lie he could tell her, he wouldn’t do that to her. He didn’t think this wretched agony was ever going to fade and there wasn’t a single moment he thought it was. This was etched into every crevice of his damaged soul. “No, I don’t think it does.” The harsh admission made her pause and she raised her chin. “But I think we’ll learn to adapt and live with it.”

Wistfulness colored her expression and she nodded, hardly perceptible. “It’s the only thing we can do.”

The courtroom was overflowing with journalists and the bright lights of their cameras. [Y/N] glared at the emptiness of the bench and she couldn’t think of anything other than screaming until her throat scabbed and the blood-stained her teeth. She wanted to clutch the lapels of Judge Cynthia Batzer’s black gown and tell her everything wrong with what she and Frank Castle were forced to endure. Her narrowed eyes traveled across the room and there wasn’t anything she wanted to do more than smash Samantha Reyes' pointy nose onto the polished wooden table until the wood splintered.

Across the courtroom, the door squeaked open. “All rise,” A man declared and [Y/N] forced herself to stand, “Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Cynthia Batzer presiding indictment number 1986-4447, The People v. Frank Castle.” An unwavering silence filled the room and she swore she could’ve heard a needle drop.

Batzer perched herself on her cushioned chair. “Be seated,” In unison, everyone plopped back down on their seats. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant has been indicted for several serious crimes. But I’m instructing you, as a point of law, that the defendant is innocent until proven guilty. Ms. Reyes, are the People ready to begin opening statements?”

Samantha Reyes stood with assurance. “More than ready, Your Honor.” She moved around the desk, exposing her self-asurred expression to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Frank Castle brutally tortured and murdered 30 people,” She peered over her shoulder, glaring daggers at the handcuffed Frank. “30 that we know of. He took the law into his own hands. Acted as judge, jury, and most violent executioner. And you will hear that the defendant’s victims were criminals, but the victims are not on trial here today, and justice does not belong in the hands of a man like Frank Castle. This isn’t the Wild West. Justice is served here in a court of law. And it is up to each of you to take back the city from lawless vigilantes like Frank Castle.” With a sneer, she analyzed him with such fuming hatred. “This man is no hero. He’s a serial killer. And he is guilty.” She thanked the judge and returned to her desk.

From where [Y/N] was, she could see the bruises across his skin were fading. He didn’t appear fazed by the blatant disrespect spat at him. “Mr. Nelson, are you prepared to make your opening statement?” She could see his hands trembling as he shifted through his index cards. “Mr. Nelson, are you reserving the right to make your statement at a later time?” He didn’t answer, merely glanced over at the murmuring crowd of witnesses and juries.

Distressed, his chair squeaked as he stood. “No, Your Honor, the defense is ready to proceed.” [Y/N] sighed as she ultimately came to the conclusion Frank Castle was monumentally screwed as Foggy flipped through his cards. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant, Frank Castle, is not—Sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and sunk further into her chair. “Mr. Castle is as much a victim…” He trailed off before tossing his cards onto the table. “Okay, you’re 19, standing in hot sand, sun burning down, there’s noise, yelling, gunfire. The only thing you know for sure is that you’re surrounded by an enemy that wants you dead. But you do it. You endure it. Why? Because you have orders and you have a duty. And also because your life doesn’t end here. You have people you love waiting at home. Because aside from being a decorated marine, the man before you is a good husband and an excellent father. Frank Castle returned from the hell of war wanting nothing more than to pick up his life. But his wife, young son, and daughter were brutally murdered by criminals and no one, not the police and certainly not the District Attorney stepped up to make it right. Frank Castle never came home. He just traded in one war zone for another. This trial isn’t about vigilantes. It’s about the failure of the justice system and how one man is being used as a pawn to cover up that system’s mistakes. The prosecution wants blood. But as the judge just said, to get it, they have to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. So all I’m asking of you today is to keep an open mind. That’s all, Your Honor.”

“Colonel Ray Schoonover, United States Marine Corps.” The Colonel pressed his palm on the leather of the Bible, his other was raised as he swore to tell nothing but the truth. He nodded firmly, sitting down with an unshakable look.

Foggy Nelson pushed back the wooden chair, flattening his tie as he stood. [Y/N] could see there was a sureness emitting from him, something that wasn’t there yesterday. The acceptance brought from the people of the courtroom brought a newfound confidence to him. “Colonel, how long have you known the defendant?”

Colonel Schoonover was a frighteningly grave man. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in those empty eyes. “I’d say, the better part of a decade. Most of his career in the Marine Corps.”

“So you’re familiar with his service in the Middle East?” Foggy asked, “Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran?”

Schoonover nodded only once. “Yes, very familiar.”

“I wonder if you could tell us how Lieutenant Frank Castle won the Navy Cross?” Frank's eyes glossed over at the mention of the medal as if the polished metal wasn’t of any importance to him anymore.

Schoonover took a slow breath. “Due to the nature of that mission, you’ll have to understand that precise circumstances are classified.” He recited the words as if he had said them a million times.

Foggy paused. “How about the parts that are not?”

“Lieutenant Frank Castle was part of a small team. He was conducting a close target reconnaissance in the vicinity of the Hindu Kush. The mission became compromised, taking enemy contact on three sides. Lieutenant Castle wanted to abort. Said the mission was a bust, pulling the plug would save lives. Officer in charge said ‘no’.” He said, “Maybe he wanted more medals on his chest. Doesn’t matter. Either way, Frank was right. They were cut off, boxed into a canyon. Within the first hour, the officer in charge of that mission got his arm blown off. So Lieutenant Castle assumed command. His only goal was to get his men out alive. The enemy had set up an ambush at the only LZ that would accommodate one of our birds. LZ is a landing zone that can accommodate a helicopter. So the enemy blocked this landing zone, knowing it was the only shot the team had to get out alive. All they had to do was wait. They knew Frank’s team had to come to them. Frank went to the LZ all by himself to draw the bastards away.”

“Why didn’t he order one of his men to do it,” Foggy asked, “Certainly could have.”

Colonel Schoonover shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Wasn’t his style,” He said and [Y/N] chanced a glance over where he was restrained. He tore his gaze from his hands and looked directly where the Colonel was. There was an unsaid conversation exchanged between their silent gaze. “So the men hear the firefight break out. All hell breaks loose. Frank against God knows how many. And then there was silence. The team thinks, ‘That’s it. Frank’s dead. We’re next.’ The next sound they hear is the helos, the helicopters. They get to the landing zone, you know what they see? Frank Castle, standing there, grinning. Thirty-two muj surrounding him, all dead. Son of a gun cleared that entire LZ all by himself.”

“How?”

The Colonel shrugged as if the answer were blatantly obvious, which it was. “By being Frank Castle.” Her colorless eyes flickered from the golden shine of The Colonel’s medals to the fading bruises on Frank’s cheek, listening to the narration keenly. . She tried seeing Frank with a beaming smile as his fellow recruits' hopeless eyes teared with relief.

“And his men survived?”

“All of ‘em. Including the idiot officer that got ‘em trapped in the first place.”

Frank didn’t seem pleased by the sudden positive reaction he was receiving from the jury. “If you had to sum up Frank Castle, how would you do it?”

“I would say Frank Castle is a man who would gladly give his life to keep others safe.”

“And the crimes he’s accused of today?” Frank could feel everyone’s eyes burning into him, but he could easily distinguish hers. He refrained from meeting her gaze. “Could the man you knew have committed them?”

The Colonel didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.” He said firmly. “Lieutenant Frank Castle that I know is a hero. A man who deserves our respect and our gratitude.” And as Schoonover glanced at him from across the courtroom, there was a flash of grief. “Not the same man.”

Foggy returned to his side of the courtroom as Samantha Reyes was called to stand. As she stood, flattening her skirt, she scanned over the spread documents. “I’d like to personally thank you for your service to this country, Colonel. My father served in Vietnam. Do you know what he told me about medals?” There was nothing sincere about the way she spoke. “He said the only people who truly know what happened are the ones that were there. You told a nice story, Colonel. But how can we know that it happened the way you described it?” And just like that, any form of false gratitude she was pretending to have was entirely gone.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Ray Schoonover said, “I was there, ma’am. That officer that didn’t listen to Frank, got his men trapped, you’re looking at him.” [Y/N] tried to muffle the sounds of her threatening laughter by covering her mouth, but the sounds slipped. Reyes’ assistant glared from his chair. “And believe me when I tell you, I thank God every day that I only lost my arm. That man saved my life and the lives of his entire team. If it was up to me, he’d have a Medal of Honor hanging around his neck.”

There was something so incredibly satisfying to watch Samantha Reyes’ hand clench by her sides until her knuckles blanched. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

Sunset had arrived and the yellow and orange sunbeams poured into the courtroom when Andrew Lee was brought to the stand with an enlarged x-ray of Frank Castle’s skull. “The bullet penetrated Mr. Castle’s skull in the lower right quadrant, or more specifically, the sphenofrontal suture, which is the cranial suture between the sphenoid bone and frontal bones, both here and here.” [Y/N] watched the projector and followed the red laser. She didn’t have to be a licensed doctor to see the bullet stuck between the folds of his brain.

Foggy gestured to the projector. “I believe what my expert witness is trying to convey is that my client, Frank Castle, was shot, point-blank, execution-style, in the head.” Reyes fiddled with her pen as the words echoed through the room. “Could you please describe the damage Mr. Castle sustained from the bullet?”

“It fragmented on impact, causing damage in both the right frontal lobe and temporal lobe of his brain.” Dr. Lee explained, “Mr. Castle is suffering from what we call a ‘Sympathetic Storming’. It’s a heightened and ongoing state of fight or flight in which the sympathetic nervous system is hyperactive. As if he is reliving the incident of trauma over and over again. It can plunge a seemingly peaceful individual into mental and emotional chaos.”

“Can you define it for the jury, please?”

“Extreme emotional disturbance. It’s twofold,” From the corner of her eye, [Y/N] could see the displeasure of Frank’s movements. “First, the defendant is so emotionally disturbed that he loses control. And second, the defendant has a reasonable explanation for said disturbance, from his point of view.”

Foggy continued to stare at the jury, hoping to rouse some connection with them. “Are you aware that Frank Castle’s wife, son, and daughter were all murdered right in front of him when he sustained the brain injury in question? An injury which, you say, keeps him in a perpetual state of mental and emotional chaos?” Dr. Lee nodded and announced he was aware. “With that in mind, would you say that Frank Castle’s mental state satisfies the definition of ‘Extreme Emotional Disturbance’?”

Reyes shot from her chair. “Objection, calls for a conclusion!”

Foggy restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Your Honor, Dr. Lee is an expert on the brain. He is qualified to an opinion, and said opinion is not only relevant but imperative to the case.” Batzer thought for a second before nodding for him to continue, announcing the overruled decision.

“Personally, I do believe he is suffering from EED, yes.”

“And one who’s suffering from extreme emotional disturbance, is it possible to willfully premeditate a crime?”

“Any infractions would be considered crimes of passion.”

“How many of your patients witnessed their families being brutally murdered right in front of them? Other than Frank Castle?” Dr. Lee confirmed that Frank was the only one. “And so would you say the circumstances surrounding Frank’s mental state are different than those of your other patients? And what exactly would that difference be, in simpler terms?”

“Frank Castle’s been through hell.”

The sound of a chair colliding onto the floor echoed the room. “You killed my dad!” A young boy’s voice tore through the air. A row behind her was a child with pale skin and freckles scattered across his tear-streamed face. “I don’t give a shit what you’ve been through! You killed him!” His eyes were bloodshot, his ginger hair tousled and disheveled. “I saw him in a coffin with holes in him! He was my dad, and now he’s gone!” An officer yanked him by his forearm and his voice dissipated into nothingness as he was dragged outside the double doors. The disturbance racked through the jury. She could see their unsettled gazes flicker between Judge Batzer and Frank. [Y/N] couldn’t even hear the uptight words that judge was advising the jury.

Minutes passed when the courtroom was advised to leave and she couldn’t think of anything other than the grief-ridden voice of the young boy and how he clutched onto a photograph of his father as the tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. She was disturbed, not by his wailing and grief, but more by her lack of emotion towards the outburst. She mulled over the void of sympathy. Did this make her worthy of those distressed glares, too? She didn’t think of buzzing alarms and metal clanking as she ventured further to where the interrogation rooms resided.

The door swung open and the officer stepped aside, his distracted gaze remaining on the softness of [Y/N]’s exposed legs as she entered the confined room. From where Frank was casually perched, his restrained hands closing firmly as his jaded glare intensified. The officer noticed the warning glare and immediately tore his eyes away and closed the door. The scene was familiar as she walked across the room, pulling her chair from under the metal table. “A theatrical performance, wasn’t it?”

“I did that, right?” He asked, “That kid, I took his father from him. I did that.” His voice was jagged as gravel as his calloused hands clenched again.

[Y/N] drew her lower lip between her teeth, nodding. “Appears so.” She agreed.

Frank swallowed and she thought that the boy’s words affected him much more than she initially thought. “Was that rough for you in there?”

She pondered on the question. “I’ve seen worse.” Her detached eyes gleamed as the thick rim of lashes fluttered. “Sometimes I think something is wrong with me because I feel nothing when I think of the things I’ve done. Sometimes, at night, I think of the countless times I’ve scrubbed my hands and the blood doesn’t come off. But I don’t feel guilty, I feel ready to do everything all over again.” The words spilled from her and she couldn’t control them from pouring from her. She wasn’t certain why she was telling him this and he was staring at her as if he were thinking the same thought. “I have done some terrible things for my family and I don’t think the blood is coming off my hands no matter how many times I wash them. So when I hear them say all those things about you, they’re saying them about me and I’m worried because I can’t bring myself to care.”

There was no glossiness in her eyes. He knew the feeling of the gradual numbness that gnawed through him. She wasn’t searching for reassurance or for someone to whisper against her tears that things would get better. She wanted someone to hold her hand and say, ‘I see you and I understand.’

He wasn’t a man of many words, but he told her what he needed someone to say to him. “I see you, [Y/N].” Her eyes moved from the chipping of her nail polish to him. “I see you and I get it.” She closed her eyes tightly with her eyebrows scrunched together. A broken stained-glass mural is what she reminded him of; a shattered array of colors.

When she opened her eyes again, there was something brighter within them. She was understood and this restored a fragment of her mural. “They told me they need you to take the stand.” The conversation was over but he could already hear a shift in her voice.

He groaned quietly, exasperated. “Come on, why would I?”

She leaned forward, her elbows propped on the table. “That kid screwed you over. The jury has to know what happened to you, what you go through every single day.” Her fingers were pressed against her temple, resting there. “They were trying to sugar coat it, but this is basically your last shot before it all goes to shit.”

Frank narrowed his eyes. “And what do you think is gonna happen here?” He asked, “We’re not gonna win this thing.”

Her eyes closed softly. “Think that’s pretty obvious, but we can still reduce the charges.” Frank sighed as if this were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Don’t give me that. You might not give a shit, but this is important to me. Every single one of those people out there thinks you’re some lunatic monster, but I know you’re not.” Her voice was shaky as she opened her eyes, looking into that warm gaze of an off-guard Frank Castle. A rare sight, that was. “You’re not.”

Frank’s expression softened before hardening. “You sure about that?” He asked. “What if I find these men that did that to my family? What if nothing changes? What if this is just me now?” He looked scared at the thought of his efforts, the blood he spilled, the tears he cried to mean nothing.

“I think you’ll adapt and learn to live with it,” She said softly. “It’s the only thing we can do, remember?” Her eyes scanned over his shoulders and forearms, leaning over and glimpsing beneath the desk at his legs. His eyebrows pinched together as he stared at her as if she were the most bizarre thing he’d come across.

“What’re you doing?” He gruffly asked.

“Getting an estimate on your measurements for your suit.” She replied casually.

His nose scrunched, the small wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Hold on, I gotta wear a suit?”

She released a small giggle, the sound was feminine and reminded him of sunshine on a bright summer day.“I didn’t think you’d grown fond of the neon orange,” The lightheartedness seeping from the rosiness of her lips was something he didn’t know he needed. Every day was shrouded with overbearing darkness and just to have a second where he could see the light was gratifying. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s an expensive one.”

“I didn’t agree to take the stand.”

She clicked her pen and brought her legal pad closer to her. She scribbled something down. “You will,” She crossed her knee over the other. He opened his mouth to protest. “Now, black or dark blue?”

“I’m not wearing a—”

“Stupid question,” She said to herself, scratching away whatever she had written. “Obviously black. I’m thinking no tie.”

Stepping inside the courthouse was crowded, the air was thick with aflutter conversation as she sipped the carton of her warm hot chocolate. She didn’t like the strong bitterness of coffee, pouring spoons of sweetened creamer and sugar only for the bitterness to strain her tongue. She pushed through the gathering crowd of the photographers when a hand grabbed her clothed shoulder. She retracted and was going to pummel her closed hand into their nose when she saw the hand belonged to an officer. His eyes remained forward, but his grasp tightened. “Keep walking, [Y/N].” She furrowed her eyebrows together and glanced around. No one was looking at them, they were completely disregarded as they inched closer to a secluded corner. As the crowd dwindled, he leaned closer to her ear. “Castle has agreed to be sentenced to Ryker’s Island. There, he will speak with Mr. Fisk about the information regarding his and your family’s death.” His voice was monotone, almost recited, and nonchalant. [Y/N] yanked his hand from her shoulder and whirled around. His hand quickly moved to the closed latch of his weapon. A wordless threat, surely. “Once Frank complies with Mr. Fisk’s demands, we will contact you and you will pick him up. Any failure to comply, Ms. [Y/L/N], I will arrest you for multiple counts of fraud.” With a final nod, he continued onward as if the conversation weren’t filled with threats and illegal plans. She watched him disappear inside the courtroom with an unbothered casualness.

[Y/N] was rarely ever wrong and when she was, she seldom admitted it. This time wasn’t any different. Frank Castle entered the courtroom with his severely passive expression, his hands, and ankles handcuffed as the crowd gathered in every available cheer. His tailored suit fit him perfectly and the darkness of the smooth fabric matched his eyes. The police escorted him to the stand and his eyes scanned the crowd. There were people wearing clothes with his name painted on them, his face ironed on the plain fabric, and they raised large signs. He thought it was strange for people to be treating him as a celebrity. The officer from earlier leaned close to him. “Think about what you want, Frank.” He didn’t chance him a glance. His eyes glossed over every face in that room until he found her.

She was distracted by the color-coordinated notations on her paper, her delicate fingers twirled her pen in circles. The room clamored with indistinct voices and the aggravating clicks of cameras, but his gaze stayed on the smoothness of her skin. He observed her movements when she thought no one was looking; she was achingly pretty. Her eyes moved from the paper and met his, her blushed lips parting softly before they curved into a half-moon. The noise dimmed and for that brief second, there was nothing worth paying attention to in that courtroom but her. And that was dangerous and he couldn’t have that.

Matt unraveled his white cane and hesitantly loomed closer to where Frank was seated. “Mr. Castle, you’ve been charged with multiple capital crimes. Been called a killer incapable of empathy or remorse. May I call you Frank?” Frank nodded, barely perceptible as he narrowed his eyes. “Frank, we’ve heard a lot about neurochemistry and psychology, and all things unfolding, scientifically and otherwise, inside your brain. But I just have one question I want to ask. What happened that day? The day your family was so tragically killed.” Frank opened his mouth, entirely prepared to speak his truth, but his eyes moved from Matt to the officer who whispered to him that Wilson Fisk had his answers, then they moved to [Y/N]. “It’s okay, Frank. I understand it’s difficult.”

His brusque voice tore through the tense air. “Do you?” He asked, “Do you understand? ‘Cause I don’t think you understand shit.”

Matt sighed, folding his cane. “I’d like permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor?” He placed his hands on his waist. “All right, Frank. You don’t want to tell us? I’ll tell you. I’m gonna tell you exactly what kind of man you are. You’re the kind of man this city needs. Because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we all know this city needs help. Needs it now. Not tomorrow, not next week, not when the day comes, when the corruption that Wilson Fisk left in his wake is flushed out for good, and the police force is finally back on its feet. We need it now. Because this city has been sick. And the cops can’t fix it alone. We all need men and women who are willing to take the fight themselves. The kind of people who risk their lives so that we can walk safely at night in our neighborhoods. The ones our esteemed District Attorney here is trying so hard to destroy. New York needs these people. We need heroes.” The people raised their signs and cheered, clapping and whooping reverberating. “The help they offer and the hope that they provide. Frank Castle wanted to help, but he took it too far. He shot people, he killed people. It’s against the law. And he broke that law many, many times. Now, I don’t like him any more than you do, but here’s the thing, he is not a common criminal. He’s not malicious in intent. Frank Castle is actually a good man, he just doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong anymore. And he doesn’t need punishment for that. He needs help. Our help. That’s the kind of man Frank Castle is. And now, you have to decide what kind of jury you want to be. No further questions, Your Honor.”Frank took a breath. “Your Honor, can I say something?” He wasn’t going to do this just for himself. He was going to do it for her, too. “You know those people? The ones I put down, the people I killed? I want you to know that I’d do it all again,” The crowd exclaimed with shock. “This is a circus, all right? It’s a charade, it’s an act. It’s bullshit about how crazy I am. I ain’t crazy! I’m not crazy. I know what I did. I know who I am. And I do not need your help. I’m smack-dab in the middle of my right goddamn mind, and any scumbag, any lowlife, any maggot piece of shit that I put down, I did it because I liked it! Hell, I loved it! I’m sitting here, I’m just itching to do it again. And you think you’re gonna send me to a nuthouse? Some doctor is gonna get me to stop from doing what I want to do? Well, that ain’t happening! Not on my watch!” [Y/N] watched, open-mouthed, as Frank stood so hard that the chair flew back. “You people call me The Punisher, ain’t that right? The big bad Punisher. Here I am! You want it, you got it! I am The Punisher!” An officer wrapped his baton around Frank’s neck and struggled to remove him from the stand as Frank screamed and bellowed at the crowd and jury.

The moonlight poured through the windows of her apartment, the moonbeams casting panels of white shadows across the cold marble. The blush pink wine was lukewarm as she pulled her knees beneath her chin and listened to the faint noise of the city outside her balcony. She needed the silence, she couldn’t hear anything other than the blaring news all day. The district attorney’s office was obliterated with military-grade ammunition and the devastation unnerved the population like crashing waves. Samantha Reyes was murdered, dozens of bullets piercing through her skin, and there was consolation in the news.

There was a creak across the room, a sound she might’ve dismissed from the flush wine if she hadn’t heard the same creak from her rusty door hinges the morning before. [Y/N] squinted through the darkness of her room, wondering if she could see moving shadows. The sounds seeping from the opened balcony door quieted and there was an unsettling stillness. She apprehensively reached for the chilled metal beneath her silk pillow. Soundless, she wrapped her hands around the handle of the gun. She stopped breathing as the door slowly moved open. She released a wavering breath as Frank Castle appeared from the shadows of the night, her hands collapsing onto the silk sheets.

She was on her knees, the smoothness of her thighs was uncovered from her nightgown. The strap was dangling beneath her shoulder, unveiling the softness of her breasts, and her hair was lazily bound together with strands sticking everywhere. Her bare face brightened as he loomed closer to the edge of the bed frame. With the moonlight caressing her skin and the achromatic nightgown emphasizing her curves, he could have fallen to his bruised knees at the sight of her smiling from his arrival. She was relieved to see him lurking in the glooms of her room and he didn’t know how to feel about the realization. “I have to admit,” She mused, “Orange was not your color.” The corners of his mouth turned up.

An aureole of moonlight shrouded every curve and contour of her with a sweetness he could only think of as basking in the moonbeams at midnight. His breathing hitched as she stared at him with a beckoning gaze. “I like your hair like that,” He foolishly said, nervously pointing to the darkness of her bundled hair. “You look…pretty.” As soon as the words filled the chilled air, he mentally groaned at the stiffness of his voice. There was a time when having conversations with people was effortless, a second nature. But he couldn’t think of something ordinary to say. She simpered and glanced at her reflection across the room before laughing at the sight.

She brought her softened gaze to him and motioned to his clothes. “You clean up nice when you aren’t covered in blood.” He glanced down at the dirtied shoes he found and chuckled airily. When she brought him away from the prison, he didn’t have much time to scrub away the blood he sustained from killing an entire cell block. She had handed him a small packet of floral-scented towelettes and wiped away as much as he could with the car’s mirror. “Do you need any ice for the bruises?” She asked, pointing to her own eyes and nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without any black eyes.”

The purple bruises were beginning to fade until the altercation in the cell block and Wilson Fisk. Now, they had darkened again, spreading further across his face and occasionally aching. He shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” He glanced around the room. The decor was exactly how he’d imagined it would be; sultry and feminine. He felt like a teenager again, like he was slowly walking inside the school’s prettiest girl’s room. His hands were tucked inside the pockets of his black jacket as he examined the framed photographs scattered across her room. He neared the balcony, watching as the sheer curtains flowed with the night breeze, and from the corner of his eye, he’d seen it; a shadow moving quickly across the street on the rooftop before disappearing into nothingness. He paused, contemplating what to do before moving on. “Someone’s on the rooftop,” He said, his fingers brushing over the mahogany desk. This would have been straightforward if he were by himself. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone other than himself, but she was beside him.

She nodded as she pressed her lips together, carefully scooting to the edge of the bed. “Two, actually.” She put her sandals on and Frank thought they were adorably ridiculous. She wore a black satin nightgown with cushioned sandals with some sort of fuzz centered in the middle. She was such a girl. “One for you and one for me, I assume.” Her manicured hand reached for his calloused one. His eyes trailed from her small hand to the space between her eyes where a steady laser appeared.

Frank tossed himself onto her and she gasped before the air escaped from her lungs as she slammed against the floor. His entire body was strewn over her, his hands tangling her hair as he covered her head from debris. His stomach was pressed against her back and the zipper of his jeans scraped her ass as he squirmed above her. The room was decimated with gunfire. She couldn’t see anything from Frank’s large hands shielding her face, but she listened to the glass shatter and wood splinter. The gunfire was deafening as they tore through the room and she choked on the powdery rubble as she breathed heavily. Frank squeezed her tightly as the glass splintered his exposed skin.

The gunfire stopped and the room became eerily still. He apprehensively lifted himself from her and he wiped the fragments of glass and splinters from her cheek. Her eyes were tightly closed and her hands pressed against her ears. When the noise stopped and the heavyweight disappeared, she reluctantly opened her eyes. He tucked her tangled hair away from her dirtied face. “You okay,” She frantically nodded and grasped his steady hand. Her wide eyes blinked as the dust in the air stung them. “Come on, [Y/N/N], I gotta hear you say it.” His hands, rough and the cause of mayhem and death, touched her like she was fragile glass.

The nickname was unfamiliar against his tongue but if she didn’t like it, she didn’t say anything. She grabbed his hands, embracing them tightly. She was in an unfamiliar state of shock. He knew that dazed expression like the back of his scarred hand. “Yeah, I’m okay,” She murmured. Her voice was velvety and faint as she peeked around the tattered room. The filling inside her pillows and mattress were scattered across the floor and her picture frames were torn and fractured. As if waking from a deep slumber, she turned back to him, her shaking hands caressing his cheekbones. She couldn’t think of the broken perfume bottles and holes on her walls, she was distracted from the trickle of blood cascading down his cheek. “Are you okay?” Her eyes moved across his face briskly. She brushed a shard of glass away from his forehead. Her movements were unstable but gentle.

He swallowed away his fogged thoughts. “I’m good, but we’ve gotta go.” He pulled her from the floor with ease, kicking aside the broken pieces of furniture. “Stay low.” He covered her backside as she wobbled to her feet. She took a breath before darting across the room and through her kitchen. There on the countertop were her car keys, casually discarded when she returned home earlier that night. She snatched her keys and unlocked the door, misstepping and nearly collapsing to the hallway floor. The other residents of the complex were screaming and sobbing. She pushed forward and peered over her shoulder and released a relieved sigh as Frank wrapped his arm around her, ushering her to the emergency staircase. The heavy door slammed closed as they stumbled down the staircase, occasionally peeking behind them. Frank’s hand remained pressed against her back, always making sure she was ahead of him. She couldn’t hear anything other than the blood rushing through her ears and the burning of her lungs with each breath she took. Her hand hovered above the rusted handrail and she grimaced every time her sandal almost slipped off.

Messily spraypainted onto the wall was the bolded word ‘Garage’ when they reached the bottom of the complex. She shoved the garage door open, revealing the apartment’s occupants’ vehicles, and she scrambled to the high-priced car parked across the garage. [Y/N] pressed the button on her key and the doors unlocked. Once inside and situated in the driver’s seat and with Frank beside her, she tightly closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. “Gonna take a wild guess and say those are the Blacksmith’s men and you didn’t kill Reyes and Tepper?” Frank glimpsed at the rearview mirror and eased when there wasn’t anyone following them. He nodded wordlessly. “There’s definitely a hit on me now, isn’t there?” His exhausted glance answered her question and she relaxed her head on the headrest, pinching the bridge of her nose.

His eyes softened as she steadied her breathing. He used these brief distracted moments to take in the sight of her. “Last chance to leave and forget about all this,” Frank said, his chest heaving. She opened her eyes and lifted an eyebrow. “You can leave and hide away in some penthouse and be safe, or you can start the car and drive.” He gave her a choice; he was giving her the chance to realize this journey was going to shatter and strain them, forcing them to relive every aching moment of their tragic life. He was giving her the chance to realize this and leave. He was giving her something he never had; a chance to live.

A lush laugh filled the quietness of the car. Her eyes were brimming with stilled distress and he could see her hands trembling on the steering wheel. Her thighs and forearms were scratched, vague bruises blossoming on her skin. “I’m not going anywhere,” She breathed, and the finality lacing her words was profound. She knew this was going to haunt her thoughts and she was going to spill blood again, but she had to. [Y/N] wasn’t going to disregard the torment anymore, distract her plaguing thoughts with expensive shoes when her chance to avenge her family was beside her. She twisted the key inside the ignition and the rumble of the engine ripped through the silence of the garage. “I’m not letting you have all the fun.” Frank gave her a once-over, stunned at the definitive response.

The garage gate slowly moved open and the moonlight streamed through the windows. The multi-colored lights of the nightlife and the clamoring voices and music flowed through the city as they drove mindlessly. She occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting someone to appear behind the car with handguns aimed at them. With Frank beside her, she didn’t feel as vulnerable. There was a small and foolish piece of her that wished someone would try to strike them. She dismissed the twisted thought. “Are you hungry,” He asked, jutting his chin at the bright neon lights of a diner’s sign. Some of the letters were flickering and a few were completely out. She didn’t bother giving him an answer as she parked near the entrance.

She closed her door and crossed her arms over her chest, the frigid breeze caressing her exposed skin. Looking down, she supposed wearing scantily-clad pajamas hadn’t been the appropriate choice. They were further away from the main city, but the streets were still illuminated with the occasional headlights. She exhaled shakily as goosebumps rose. She was going to need a landfill of hot chocolate. Frank sized her up, faintly shaking his head. He removed his jacket, draping the much larger fabric over her shoulders. She jolted at the gentle touch but didn’t protest as the warmth enveloped her instantly. He pulled open the squeaky door and stepped aside, allowing her to step inside before him. Her cheeks flushed, turning her face before he could notice.

[Y/N] smelled the brewing coffee and the sizzling bacon, the warmth of the small diner was comforting, a drastic change of atmosphere. She dismissed the bewildered glances a few of the customers gave her as she slipped inside the booth across the room. She extended her bruised and scraped legs beside his thighs and closed her eyes as she leaned against the backside of the booth. There was faint music playing over the damaged speakers and she needed a second to unwind, to process everything that had happened less than an hour ago. “Had to pick the sketchiest part of the neighborhood to stop at, huh?” She muttered, her eyes remaining closed.

His eyes flickered over the softness of her neck before looking around. There were a few questionable patrons, some he noticed were clutching onto their guns and pocketknives, but the dining area was relatively empty. “Oh, yeah. I’m shaking in my boots.” She opened her eyes, a curve rose on her lips before chuckling. She didn’t think the Frank Castle was capable of making jokes. He gestured for the waitress behind the counter. “Ma’am, can we get a little black coffee over here?” [Y/N] shook her head, muttering that she wanted hot chocolate instead. “And one hot chocolate, thanks.”

She peered outside the windows, watching as the branches swayed with the wind. The streets were emptying as the time passed. “Overheard Reyes saying the Blacksmith is moving uncut narcotics into Manhatten,” She whispered, “I figured with the lack of information about him, he’s working alone. So I eliminated everything except railroads, shipping lines, and trucks.” She mentally crossed off the bullet points she made when determining possible covert routes. She stopped as the woman placed the empty mugs on the tabletop. The waitress poured the burning coffee into Frank’s mug and placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate beside [Y/N]’s hand. She smiled and disappeared before she could thank the woman.

Frank cocked his head, a teasing smile rising. “And how’d you ‘overhear’ that?”

[Y/N] blew the steam from her mug. “I’m good at sneaking into places I shouldn’t be at,” That was a severe understatement. She was adept with breaking into high-security places and leaving before an alarm would even detect something was wrong—a mastery she found brought her much discipline when her father was still alive.

He sipped his coffee. “I’m starting to think you’re some kind of secret badass, [Y/N/N].”

With the rim of the chocolate-stained mug against her mouth, she laughed. “Oh, yeah?” She rhetorically questioned. “Could probably easily take you and put you on your ass.”

Frank laughed quietly as if the mere thought was ludicrous. “I guess we’ll have to see about that one day,” He challenged. He gulped down his coffee and licked the remnants from his lips. She didn’t understand how he could enjoy the overbearing bitterness of plain black coffee. She grimaced at the thought of even sipping a droplet. His gaze moved to the callouses on his hand. “Who would’ve thought?” He mumbled to himself.

She brought the mug down, a ghostly smile still on her lips. She licked the chocolate stains from the corners of her mouth. “Thought what?” She asked, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. Her eyes were doe-like and glittering at each word he gruffly said.

“That the princess of New York would be making jokes with the big, bad Punisher.” His rough hands were permanently tarnished with blood he spilled every night and they were desperately reaching to feel the tenderness of her pure hands.

[Y/N] casually shrugged, not even thinking twice about the nickname. “I’ve had worse conversations with worse men.” She teased. “Although this is the first time I’ve talked to a man who had the trial of the decade and escaped prison in a day.”

“First time for everything.” She glanced at the veins on his hands as he raised the mug to his lips. “Full of surprises, doll. Here you are, sitting in your underwear drinking hot chocolate with the dude who put shitbags on meathooks.”

Her lashes fluttered as she looked at him. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.” She said the docile words brought a warmth inside him. “And it’s not underwear, it’s a nightgown. You are such a typical guy.” She playfully rolled her eyes.

Frank laughed, a sound that wasn’t shared often but a sound she was beginning to grow fond of. “Nah, doll, I’m not like all those pretty boys you’ve talked to.” There was nothing ‘pretty boy’ about Frank Castle. He was a brusque man who relished the warm feeling of his enemy’s blood tainting his skin, used his hands as weapons, and still smiled softly as he opened the door for her. He was knife-like, sharp-edged and rough, calloused, and didn’t care if he broke dozens of bones every night. But, here he was, making sure she didn’t burn her tongue on her hot chocolate.

She lifted an eyebrow. “No, you’re right,” She lightheartedly agreed. “You’re the first guy who opened a door for me.” Her cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. Undiluted shock colored Frank’s expression and she couldn’t restrain the bubbling laughter as she covered her face with her palms. “And definitely the first time a guy has offered his jacket.”

She giggled at the flash of burning frustration on his face. “[Y/N], you dating douchebags or something? Come on, that’s bullshit.” He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the mere thought of someone looking at her, having someone that beautiful giving them a sliver of her precious attention, and refusing to be a gentleman. He was so unnerved by the admission that he hadn’t even realized he had mistakenly correlated himself with guys she’s dated.

“Yeah, I was.” Her expression drooped. “Gave up dating for some time after…everything happened. And when I did start again, all I met were guys who were more concerned about having lint on their suits and having some pretty thing on their arm than being nice to me.” She looked up at him and the sadness on her face disappeared. “So believe me when I say I’d rather talk to you.” [Y/N] was always interlocked with someone who was concerned with their image, and how they presented themselves every second of every day. So she savored this passing moment of genuine conversation with someone who didn’t care if she wasn’t ‘presentable’. Frank Castle looked at her as a human, not a trophy.

Headlights shined into the diner before fluttering off. Frank sighed, almost seeming disappointed the conversation needed to end. “That Buick rolled around the block three times before it finally pulled up,” She tensed as she glanced out the window. Two men slammed their doors closed. “Now, go in the back and get the waitress. Find the cook and find the biggest piece of steel and get under it. Go now.”

She blinked, processing the information. “Who are they?” Were those the men who destroyed her apartment?

“Just some guys who are about to walk into a diner for the last time.” He tore his gaze from the car. She opened her mouth to respond, but he swiftly interrupted her. “You gotta go now. Now, [Y/N/N].” She hesitated, wanting to protest but he was already pulling his gun from his waistband.

She hurried to behind the counter, pushing the waitress away from the dining room. She had barely stepped inside the cooking station when she heard gunshots, glass shattering, and the sound of wood splintering. She ushered the waitress and the cook to the corner furthest from the entrance, covering them with a spare metal table.

[Y/N] removed Frank’s jacket, tossing it aside. She couldn’t even count how many gunshots she was hearing as she fastened her hair with a loose hair tie. Stepping outside the cooking station, Frank yelled incoherently at her as he threw himself over the counter. He crashed onto the floor as the goon aimed his gun, the discarded glass plates shattering. Frank reached for her, missing by inches when she rushed forward, sliding her thigh across the countertop, and kicked the chest of the goon. She landed on her feet as he groaned and collapsed onto the table inside the booth. She didn’t give him the chance to compose himself and she grabbed his raised arm, jamming her palm into the point of his elbow. She grinned as his bone caved in the opposite direction, his bone fracturing. He screamed and she collided her knuckles with his nose, hastily kicking her leg outward and against his stomach. As he clutched his stomach, she spun low to the floor and swung her leg against his ankles. She straightened before he could crash against the floor.

He kicked her ankle and she stumbled against the countertop. With a glare, she steadied herself before she could trip over her own feet and he pushed himself from the floor, grabbing a freshly washed kitchen knife from the sink. He swiped the blade at her and she dodged every slice in the air he made. She backed away and grabbed the handle of the boiling coffee pot from the stove and smashed the glass over his head. The goon screamed with agony as his skin welted immediately, flushing a bright shade of red as the coffee burned him. She yanked the kitchen knife from his weak grasp and sliced at the thin skin of his neck and shoved the blade inside his stomach again and again and again. She ignored the hardness of his ribcage and the sound of his skin tearing as the blood poured onto her in pulsing waves.

Across the diner, Frank stepped on the hand of the other goon who crawled to a discarded gun on the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the floor. He grabbed the gun from the floor, flipping the bleeding man on his stomach. His breathing was heavy as he aimed at his head. “The Blacksmith, where is he?” He interrogated, nearly breathless.

“Screw you.” He brought the gun to the goon’s knee and pressed the trigger. He released a strangled cry as he choked on his own blood.

“Where?” Was all Frank panted.

“Go to hell.” The goon choked. Frank didn’t seem surprised, simply inconvenienced by his refusal. He straddled the man, both of his knees against his bleeding ribcage. He flipped the gun upside down and repeatedly smashed the bottom of the grip against his face. His face was disfigured and chunks of his skin were dangling when Frank stopped.

Frank pressed the gun to the bottom of his chin. “I want a place.”

The man coughed and a splurge of blood dribbled down his face. “41st Street,” He said through broken teeth. “The pier. I can take you—” The gunshot silenced him.

Frank stood from the corpse and took in the sight of [Y/N] completely soaked in blood. She panted as she wiped the drenched hair from her face, tossing the knife onto the counter. The clinking of the utensil against the bloodstained counter pulled him from his jumbled thoughts. She examined her hand, groaning as she picked at her finger. “I chipped my nail polish.” She whined with a small pout.

He stared at her incredulously. “What the hell was that?” His eyes moved to the mangled corpse of the goon she endured by herself, barely maimed by the man. Her skin was colored dark crimson and he furrowed his eyebrows together as he continued to glance between her and the mauled man. She wasn’t small, but he supposed it was only his fault for mistaking her as delicate.

She dismissed the question with a quick wave of her hand. “I’ll explain in the car.” She stepped over the corpses, grabbed Frank’s jacket, and scrunched her nose as if she stepped on a piece of gum, not two dead men—one she had killed. Frank shook his head, unbelieving as he followed after her. The door squeaked as she stepped outside. The wind chilled against her wet skin and walked to the side of the diner, switching the water for the water hose that was discarded onto the gravel. She quickly doused herself with the water, washing away the blood as much as she could. She rinsed her hands, then washed her unclothed legs and arms. “I’ve got spare clothes in the trunk for times like this. Be a doll and grab them for me, please?” The blood pooled on the gravel, seeping into the patches of dirt.

Confused, and particularly intrigued, he obliged and opened the trunk of her car. Neatly folded near the back were all-black attire and stained boots. With his hands gripping the clothes, he chuckled to himself. He was a fool to think [Y/N] was innocent. He handed her the folded clothes and turned his back toward her, offering some privacy. She dried herself with Frank's jacket and slipped on the skin-tight bodysuit before tossing the nightgown in the truck before slamming it down, and zipping the front zipper. She slipped on her socks, then boots. When Frank whirled around, he gave her a blank look. “Really,” He asked blandly.

She scrunched her eyebrows and looked down at the clothes. There wasn’t any skin visible, although the bodysuit clung to every divot and curve. Was it unnecessary? Absolutely. Did she look incredibly gorgeous? Also absolutely. She shrugged. “It was on sale.” She tossed him the car keys and he latched onto them mid-air. As the engine rumbled, she inspected her reflection with careful eyes. She rubbed the splotches of splattered blood from her cheeks.

Frank drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other behind her, his hand brushing against the skin of her neck. His eyes were narrowed on the traffic of the streets, but she could feel his thoughts were rampant. “You gonna explain what that was back there?”

She lowered the music from the speaker after a moment. “My dad was a paranoid man,” At the mention of her father, his disarray eased. “You know what war does to people. Each time he came home, it was like seeing him slowly fade away. When I was eleven, he decided I needed to be prepared for war when it came. He wanted me to survive.” She watched as the city lights blurred together outside the window. “I didn’t have much of a childhood with being forced to learn how to stitch stab wounds and how to kill someone under thirty seconds with my hands.

“I didn’t see my dad often when he was across the world, but when he did come home, it was like all the things he forced me to do with strangers didn’t even matter. All that mattered was that he was home and he could hold me again. I don’t blame him for losing himself during the war. I can’t even imagine the horrors men like you both would have to see and endure. I love my father and I couldn’t be more proud of him, but there is a small part of me that can’t forgive him for leaving me when I needed him the most.” Her gaze flickered from the smears of the nightlife to him.

He didn’t know how he could respond to the admission. He didn’t think of the wistful yearning from someone else’s perspective before. Of course, he knew his wife and children had missed him, but he didn’t think the longing ache could create unforgiveness or resentment. “I’m sure he understood.”

[Y/N] knew they had arrived at the pier once the air smelled like seawater and machinery oil. The car slowed to an eventual stop. There was an eerie silence as she stepped outside the car, the gravel crunching beneath the bottom of her boot. Frank unlocked the trunk and stuffed a gun in his waistband and then offered her another one. He closed the trunk and they watched their steps, careful not to make too much sound as they neared the pier.

She had been aiming for a subtle approach and Frank most certainly wasn’t as he rushed forward, yelling and immediately shooting at everything that moved. There were flashes of orange light as Frank pressed the trigger dozens of times before she could even match his pace. When she lowered her gun to her side, she glanced at the puddles of blood dripping into the steady waves of the pier as Frank panted beside her. The silence returned and she stepped forward on the dock.

There were hundreds of boxes and crates scattered across the dock, all varying in size. She dragged her hand across the splinters of the wood, attempting to decipher the spraypainted words. She grabbed a discarded crowbar and jammed the edge in between the crate’s crevice, grunting as she pushed open the lid. There were multiple wrapped bricks of drugs, tightly sealed with a clear wrap and then taped. Frank appeared behind her, peering inside the crate with a curious gaze. She handed him a brick. “What do we do with this,” She asked. There were enough undiluted drugs to reach a worth of millions and it was unguarded and in her palm.

He looked at the heroin, disinterested. “Burn it.”

The suggestion was absurd, but this was the Blacksmith’s operation and if they burned this entire boat into ashes, the Blacksmith had nothing. At the realization, [Y/N] smiled. “You go find him, I’ll take care of this.” Frank hesitated but nodded nonetheless. There were a few large canisters of fuel and she unscrewed the caps as Frank sprinted inside the boat. She began pouring the fuel over the crates and on every surface she could tarnish. The fumes of the fuel singed her nose with each breath but she was concentrated on the sloshing sound of the canister. Inside the boat, there were gunshots and muffled outcries, but she wasn’t going to interfere. This was something Frank needed to do.

A gloved hand covered [Y/N]’s mouth and she dropped the green canister, small droplets of fuel seeping from the nozzle as the canister clanked against the floor. She scratched at the leather of the glove as she stomped the bottom of her boot on the assailant’s shoes. A pained groan escaped their mouth as their grasp loosened. She jammed her elbow into their ribcage and she slithered from their restraint. With a side-step, she whirled on her heel and pulled the gun from her holster, and aimed.

She raised an eyebrow as the blood-red leather gleamed from the moonlight. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen raised his hands and apprehensively stepped back. “That isn’t the Blacksmith in there,” He said and she could’ve sworn his voice was painfully familiar. “I know you’re trying to help Frank, but listen to me. That isn’t the Blacksmith. Just think about it.”

[Y/N] tightened her grasp on the cool metal of her gun, calm and steady. She glanced around her, at the bodies leaking and staining the wood of the boat. This was effortless, almost too easy. Guards were surrounding the area, but these goons were guarding heroin, not the head of the entire operation. This wasn’t the personnel you handpicked to defend your life and money. Her resolve faltered and she slowly lowered the weapon. “It’s bait,” She mumbled, realization coloring her expression. There was anguish filling her as she realized this was a trap and they eagerly stepped inside. “How could I be so stupid?”

With the weapon lowered and her thoughts distracting her, Daredevil rushed forward and pushed open the metal door where Frank had disappeared minutes before. “Don’t shoot him, Frank!”

Frank’s head lowered with frustration. “For Christ’s sake,” He tightened his hand on the gun and pressed the tip further inside the man’s mouth. “Get outta here, Red.”

“He’s lying, Frank,” Daredevil said through rough breaths. “We’re here for the same reasons, all right? I want the Blacksmith just as much as you, but he’s not him. I know when someone is telling the truth and he’s not.” [Y/N] stepped inside, her palm slamming against the rusted door. There were dozens of sealed bricks of cream-white heroin scattered across the rickety table and Frank gripped the lapels of the unknown man’s jacket, peering over his shoulder.

“Bullshit,” He shouted, his throat burning as his finger brushed against the trigger. “Just get out of here!”

“He’s not the man you two came for, Frank.”

Frank was silent for a moment before readjusting himself, pressing the gun deeper into the man’s skin until there was a redness blossoming on his mouth. “Are you lying to me,” Frank screamed and [Y/N] wondered if he was even asking the man anymore.

She hesitantly stepped further, her expression drooping as Frank snapped his head towards her. “Frank,” She said breathlessly. His name was a soft pull from the burning ire consuming him. An anchor tethering him to the cruel reality. She shook her head, barely perceptible and wordless, but he knew this was a confirmation that the man with a gun between his teeth wasn’t the Blacksmith.

Matt Murdock listened to the falter of Frank Castle’s heartbeat as his watering eyes connected with [Y/N]’s. Interesting.

Frank stood from the floor and removed the drool-covered gun from the imposter’s mouth. “Either way, you die.” Daredevil threw a small hammer at Frank’s hand and the gun was ripped from his grasp, falling across the room. Frank’s nostrils flared as he slammed his heel into the imposter’s jaw before attacking the man in red leather. “You just couldn’t let it be, could you? You just couldn’t let us—” Frank latched his hands onto Daredevil’s shoulders as he launched them both through the doorframe.

Frank landed on Daredevil, immediately punching his masked cheekbones. “When are you gonna learn,” Frank shouted roughly. “Mind your own goddamn business!” Each word seeped through clenched teeth as he repeatedly kicked wherever he could stomp his foot.

Daredevil hurriedly rushed to his feet, panting as blood dribbled down his cheek. “Goddamn it, Frank. I don’t want to fight you.” [Y/N] watched as they stumbled across the boat, their grunts of exhaustion and pain filling the cold air. Daredevil was quick and dodged Frank’s faltering punches, kicking his spleen and knocking him to the floor. “Stay down, Frank.”

[Y/N] didn’t interfere as Daredevil extended his hand and offered Frank a truce, helping him straighten from the floor before Frank shrugged him off. “Just couldn’t let me have it, could you? One second in peace.” Frank was pumping with adrenaline, his heavy breaths appearing in puffs before swirling away as he collapsed onto the floor, his backsliding against a crate. “It was right there. You had to sweep in. Do you feel good about yourself? Piece of shit.”

With a sigh, [Y/N] moved and stood against the crate, inches from Frank’s fidgeting form and she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Oh, come on, Frank,” Daredevil said, “It wouldn’t have been the truth, and you know it. I can’t let you start a war for the wrong reasons.”

“Maybe a war is what I need,” Frank frightfully admitted, “Maybe I need that. These people, they took my children from me. They killed my kids! Don’t you get that?” Frank’s scream tore through the night, his voice cracking as he screamed his reality into Daredevil’s face.

Daredevil kneeled. “Then do right by them! Help me. Work with me to find the man who gave the order.”

Frank looked defeated. “And then what, Red? Are we gonna bring him in for justice? Is that what we’re gonna do? Your way’s bullshit, Red. It doesn’t work. I need him—We need him gone. It’s gotta be permanent. It’s gotta be finished!”

“I understand,” Daredevil said, “You’re right. My way isn’t working. So maybe just this once…” He trailed off and [Y/N] didn’t need to see his concealed expression to know he was frightened and disappointed as he pressed his fingers into himself in a cross. “Maybe your way is what it’s gonna take.”

Elle closed her eyes and she saw a younger version of herself; frightened and shattered as she realized she was going to permanently tarnish her hands. She could see herself in Daredevil as he accepted that he was going to need to take a life and he was already begging for forgiveness. “It’s not going to be just this once,” She said, her voice a ghostly whisper. “If you do this, this is never leaving you and you don’t get to go back to your side of the line. It’s never just once.”

Daredevil stared at her, but it was a distant gaze. His head jerked as a tire screeched from the distance. “I count ten of them, all armed.” She peered around the crate, blinded by the headlights of the speeding cars as they abruptly parked on the pier. Daredevil sniffed. “There’s a lot of gunpowder below decks. If any of these guys start shooting, this whole ship is blowing up. We gotta get off this boat before they open fire.” Daredevil hurried to the railing of the boat, glancing below at the gentle waters.

Frank clenched his teeth as he rushed forward and pushed him over the edge of the boat, Daredevil disappearing into the darkness of the water with a splash. [Y/N] glimpsed down at the ripples before returning her confused gaze back to Frank. His expression softened and there was a warmth glittering within his shattered eyes. The tenderness was enough to have her heart flutter as he apprehensively loomed closer. “That’s Gosnell,” He whispered, jerking his chin in the direction of the man on the pier, slowly interlacing his bloodied hand with hers. She furrowed her eyebrows together as he touched her with an unfamiliar fragility. “I used to serve with him and that can only mean one thing, doll.” His thumb caressed her cheek as he pressed his forehead against hers. “Schoonover.” He muttered so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

She closed her eyes as she relished the feeling of his touch. She was lost within her thoughts and didn’t notice he subtly brought her to the edge of the boat. When her back pressed against the railing, she opened her eyes to find him already remorsefully staring at her. [Y/N] shook her head. “Don’t be stupid, we’ll find him together.” She pleaded, disregarding the sound of car doors slamming close. If he was going to take the risk of potentially dying within the gunpowder explosion, she would remain by his side. “Jump with me, Frank, or I’m staying with you. You don’t have to do this alone.” The finality of her voice shook him and that terrified him.

Frank squeezed her hand, his eyes fluttering close as his nose brushed against hers. “I’m sorry,” She opened her mouth to plead with him, or scream at him, she wasn’t sure, but he already pushed her over the railing. The cold air nipped at her before she landed within the ripples of the water. She barely managed to tear free from the depths when the explosion shook the pier, bright orange flames burning everything within its path. She concealed her face with her shaking forearms as shards of glass and splinters of wooden crates flew into the water.

She pushed through the floating debris, warm tears streaming down her cheeks as she searched through the darkness of the water for him. She couldn’t see beneath the water but she splashed through the growing waves as if she were going to suddenly discover him. She paddled forward and the overbearing heat of another explosion crashed against her. She wasn’t going to be able to stay there, the flames were traveling quickly and the explosions would only continue.

With a frustrated cry, she chose to swim away from the debris and away from Frank.

[Y/N] cleaned the fogged mirror with a quick swipe of her palm and clutched the porcelain of the sink. The dampness of her hair clung to her neck as she stared at the ceramic drain. Her skin was slathered with moisturizer and she scrubbed her scalp twice before the saltiness of the seawater finally disappeared down the drain. Another day had gone by and Frank still hadn’t contacted her and her hope was slowly dwindling. She couldn’t remember how many times she checked the unlit screen of her phone and peered behind the floral curtains of her cheap motel room. She was clutching onto the flickering flame of hope that he was going to appear outside the door and tell her he kicked some ass. But he didn’t.

When she discovered the confidential discussion between the authorities the following morning, shaking hand pressing the police radio beside her ear as she listened to the quiet words discussing the explosion, she practically collapsed onto the floor. She closed her eyes tightly as the distinct chatter revealed their suspicions of Frank Castle’s death. She felt utterly pathetic for clinging onto her childish hopes. The amount of gunpowder made the explosion practically impossible to survive, and she knew that, but there had been the small part of her that was praying for the renowned Punisher to arise from the heroin-soaked ashes.

Her dazed eyes scrutinzed the small gashes plastered on her knuckles and forearms, the radio chatter had become indistinct whispers as she thought over everything she needed to do. She remembered the softness of his voice when he realized Schoonover was the Blacksmith, the deepness the betrayal seeped through his glistening eyes. She was overcome with a blinding rage as she understood the man—the monster—that sliced away everything she ever cared for, had taken another person from her. And the loss was quick. She barely had any time to register the salty burn of the seawater before he was torn from her life.

With a resolute expression, she stood from the rough carpet of the floor and her freshly-washed suit. Her hands were no longer shaking.

The modern lanterns brightly illuminated the polished porch of Schoonover’s lavish house. [Y/N] glanced around as she pressed the small doorbell, gritting her teeth as the chime echoed through the night. The ornate glass panels on the door were decorated with chiffon curtains, complementing the freshly painted doorframe. She wondered if he was comfortable shrouding himself with the wealth he gained from spilling her family’s blood. He must’ve been because he didn’t appear uncomfortable when he swung open the door. There was the daughter of the man he had brutally murdered and there wasn’t even a noticeable waver in his eyes.

The harshness of her expression softened as his gaze moved across her face. She couldn’t have him discovering her intentions, she needed to have the upper hand. “I was hoping you could talk to me about Frank.” She reluctantly said, wondering if her performance of the grieving daughter searching for solace in a man she barely knew was believable. “I just need to know if he was a good man.”

Schoonover grimaced at the request, but he widened the entrance and stepped aside. The flames of the fireplace filled the foyer with an intense orange glow. She inhaled, smelling the burning wood and aged whiskey. He offered coffee, but she declined, mumbling something about having drowned herself in caffeine earlier. She would have to be a thoughtless fool to drink anything coming from him. “Castle would call that a good start,” She refrained from flinching at the mention of his name, choosing to centralize her focus on the bright flames crackling a few feet away from her. “I know I’m old. My wife calls me cranky. With all the violence these days, the media would have you believe that’s all there is in the world. I’m glad you got to know Frank. The real Frank.”

She forced herself to remove her gaze from the fire. “I’m glad I got to know him, too.” And that was the unfortunate truth. She didn’t want to admit the reality of her emotions, but she was beginning to care for him.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Although I’m confused as to how you grew into contact with him. I wasn’t aware you were a lawyer.”

[Y/N] smiled. “No, a legal assistant.” She casually corrected. Her dark gaze moved across the array of framed photographs displayed on the wall. There were several of Schoonover with his uniform and medals, but there were even more of him draping his arm over the soldiers, including Frank, with the faintest hint of a smile. “You know, you’re probably the only person I’ve met that has said positive things about him. Would you consider him a friend?”

Schoonover smiled politely. “When you’re fighting a war, you don’t really make friends. At least, not if you’re fighting it the right way. I suppose you don’t want to get close to anyone because we’re not all coming back. But at the same time, you have to feel something, don’t you? Otherwise, what are you all fighting for?”

Her head tilted slightly and the false glimmer of naivety disappeared from her eyes as they narrowed. “And do you feel?” She inquired, disregarding the intensity of the warmth from the fireplace. His expression transformed into something much more confused as he opened his mouth to respond. She interrupted him. “Do you feel anything knowing you’ve murdered innocent families? My family?”

His face turned into jaded awareness, a completely different person from a few minutes prior, and released a bored sigh. “Right into business, I see.” His hand moved underneath a pile of mail, revealing the sleekness of his gun in his hand. “I was hoping it didn’t have to come to this.” She chanced an unimpressed glance at the barrel of the weapon, knowing this was going to eventually happen. She was almost disappointed that this entire situation was predictable.

[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “Do you love your wife, Colonel?” And with the question floating in the air, there was a waver from his mask. It was brief, barely a second, but she noticed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter because she’ll be dead if I don’t leave this house alive in an hour. Sooner if you don’t get that fucking gun out of my face.” She sneered and the contempt was obvious on her expression.

And his resolve dissipated, his hand shaking as soon as the words fell from her clenched teeth. He pressed his lips together firmly, performing mental jumping jacks in order to decide his next move. But his hand and weapon remained raised. The coldness of her eyes hardened. “How about your kids, Colonel? You would think a man like you would take precautions for this exact reason, but it was so easy to find each and every person you feel and fight for. It was pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t.”

A curve on her lips rose. “Won’t I?”

He exhaled shakily. “They’re innocent.”

“So was my family.” Her voice was detached, enough to make his blood run cold.

“They’ve got nothing to do with this!” His voice cracked as he shouted. That was the first time she’d ever seen him anything other than calm and collected. She was making him shatter and break and she savored every second of it.

There was a sickening cruelness behind her smile. “You took my family, I don’t see why I can’t take yours?” He thought over his options, wondering if there was any possible way he could gain the upper hand, but he was ultimately at her mercy. He eventually lowered the gun. She smiled. “We’re going for a drive.”

Within moments, they were outside of the lavish household and unlocking the passenger door of rented car. She purposely shoved him inside the vehicle, making sure he roughly banged his head on the top of the car. She slammed the door, ignoring his string of curses. After turning the car on, they silently drove on the dark and empty thoroughfare. She could see him contemplating, planning on something beside her. She knew there must’ve been another weapon concealed beneath his clothes and she could’ve removed anything possibly lethal, but the would have eliminated the challenge.

And Frank Castle had a knack for dramatic and unnecessary entrances because the predictable moment Schoonover pulled a small blade from his waistband, Frank smashed his stolen truck onto the passenger side of the car.

[Y/N] gasped as the shattered glass of the windows sliced small gashes on her exposed skin, a wave of dizziness overtaking her as her head smashed against the car door. Everything happened quickly, much too quickly for her to have even noticed the warm blood gushing from her arm. The sound of metal scratching against the gravel captured her attention. She slowly moved her head, attempting to blink away the blurred haze. The truck was slowly backing away before the headlights blinked off. The door opened, revealing black boots crunching on the broken shards. They moved quickly, circling around the damaged vehicle until they stopped right beside the driver door. Within seconds, the seatbelt was removed and she was gently pulled from the wreckage.

The coldness of the winter air nipped at her soaked skin, puffs of smoke escaping her lips with each shaking breath. Warm and calloused hands cupped her cheeks, uncaring for the redness cascading down her temple and cheeks. “Come on, [Y/N/N],” The gruffness of the voice sparked something deep within her. His thumb caressed her cheekbone, almost fondly, and he gently shook her. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”

She recognized the softness of his voice, the delicacy behind his bloodstained touch, and her eyes fluttered opened. “Frank,” She mumbled, her words were breathless as her weak hand moved to touch him. She grasped onto his arm, steadying her wobbly feet. She couldn’t see the exact details of his bruised face, the orange light of the street lights overhanging them shrouded them in a fiery blanket of light. But Frank could see her and there was something frightening about the overwhelming relief coursing through him as she said his name. “You’re…here.” She eventually said, swallowing the dryness of her mouth away.

A ghostly smile rose as he slowly brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.” Within that moment, he knew something changed about him; she thought he was dead, was moments from avenging her family, him and his family, and was leaning into his touch like he was her savior. Whatever changed inside him in those seconds, he knew it was dangerous. “Someone’s gonna come pick you up, take you to the hospital. Just get some rest.”

She closed her eyes and listened.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle fic #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fluff #frank castle x you #the punisher x reader #the punisher x y/n #the punisher fic #the punisher fanfiction #the punisher x you #the punisher fluff #marvel fanfic series #marvel x reader #marvel female reader insert #frank castle x female reader

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6rookie-writer0110 · 9 months

Text

Short Nights & Stars

Storm x Female Reader/daughter x T'challa

Request: Hey there! May I have a request of a reader being the daughter of storm and tchalla who’s powers is to control elements?

Your parents are pushing you hard on your training. They always remind you that, the fights will never be easy or fair. You managed to use your powers to break the ground, it would make them lose their balance. Your eyes would change white when you use your powers. The idea was good but they managed to get to you.

“Y/n, you have to be faster,” T'Challa said.

He had his claws aimed at your face and you are breathing hard. But he moved away to give you space and your mom was in the sky looking down at you two.

“Your father is right,” Storm said.

She lands on the ground and you thought that you would win.

“I thought my plan was perfect,” You said.

“No plan is ever perfect. Let's take a break then we would go again” Storm said.

“Okay, mom,” You said.

You would train with them in a private room. The technology can change into any scenery and it can rain inside the room.

“Are you okay? You seem off” T'Challa said.

“I’m fine, just tired from training,” You said.

“Remember to stay hydrated,” Storm said.

“I know,” You said.

Everyone assumes that you have to be a perfect hero. And you feel the pressure even more when you are around your parents.

Storm and T'Challa are alone, in the laboratory.

“I’m worried about our daughter,” Storm said.

“About what?” T'Challa asked.

“She seems off and she is different,” Storm said.

“Storm, she is growing more of course she would be different. Every young person like her would have a hard time controlling their powers, just give her time” T'Challa said.

“I think you are right. But she has been getting better at moving faster” Storm said.

“Yes, she has been getting faster. We should give her the night off from training” T'Challa said.

“Yes, I agree,” Storm said.

Storm and T'Challa start to design the suit with Shuri. Storm and Shuri start to pick the colors while T'Challa makes sure has the right technology to protect you during battles.

----

It's late and you sneak out of your bedroom, through the window. You are happy to see your friends Kate Bishop and Yelena Belova. Kate hugged you and Yelena isn't a hugger.

“Wow, I can't believe we are in Wakanda” Kate smiled.

“Kate, wouldn't shut up about it,” Yelena said.

“I’m glad you two are here” You smiled.

“Yeah! What should we do first?!” Kate excitedly said.

You were going to show them around but that didn't happen. Okoye was guarding then she assume they were going to attack you. She jumped down and used her spear to attack Yelena, but Yelena managed to move out of the way.

“Who the hell are you?” Yelena asked.

Yelena takes out her hidden blade and starts to attack Okoye. Then more guards come out, but Kate doesn't have her weapons. Kate tries to fight back but she is outnumbered.

“Protect, Y/n” Okoye yelled.

Yelena almost stabbed Okoye but she used her spear to block the attack, then she kicked Yelena in the stomach. Yelena falls down and Kate was flipped to the ground.

“Stop! They are my friends!” You yelled.

Everyone stopped and you stand in front of Okoye.

“I’m serious, don't attack them. They are my friends!” You yelled.

“You let them in Wakanda?” Okoye asked.

“Yeah, so I can spend time with them,” You said.

“Take them to their cell,” Okoye said.

“Why? They didn't break any rules!” You yelled.

Before Okoye can answer, your parents showed up. Okoye told them what happened and your parents aren't happy. They take Yelena and Kate to a cell temporarily. You are in standing in front of your parents, and they start to lecture you.

“How did you even meet them?” Storm asked.

“I met them through Miles Morales who is Spiderman and Gwen Stacy... When umm I sneaked out to a concert to see Hobie Brown aka Spider-Punk and his band called Spider-Band” You said.

“Y/n, you did what! I can't believe you would sneak out. And what if something happened to you and you got hurt!?” Storm yelled.

“Mom, I was fine and I wasn't alone. And I have powers-”

“Y/n, having powers doesn't mean that you will be unstoppable. There is always someone stronger than you or us. If something happened to you and we couldn't find you, then we would have lost you” T'Challa said.

“You are being reckless and you need to grow up,” Storm said.

“I’m sorry. But I wanted to have some fun” You said.

“Go to your room,” T'Challa said.

“What about my friends?” You asked.

“They will stay the night and then leave because you won't go anywhere in a long time,” T'Challa said.

“Not fair” You sighed.

“Don’t you dare, roll your eyes at us. Go to your room, Y/n” Storm said.

“Whatever” You mumbled.

You go to your bedroom and the guards are standing by your door. They set your friends free and let them stay the night.

✫ ✫ ✯ ✫

You have your new suit, your parents and Shuri told you to go over your limit. You didn't know how so Shuri’s robots and your parents are all fighting you at once.

“I didn't have this in mind to try out my suit!” You yelled.

“Once again, Y/n we told the battles are never fair. Step up your game, Y/n” Storm said.

Her eyes changed colors and she summoned thunder to attack you. Your dad is using his claws to attack you. The robots have guns and you are trying to dodge everyone’s attack, then you used your power to create an earthquake.

Now, you are using all your powers at once. You created a hole in the ground and the water starts to rise fast, then you used the water to attack the robots. Then you use powerful thunder to attack your parents. But they teamed up together to fight back, T'Challa jumped higher while you are distracted by him then your mom used tornadoes to attack you.

“I almost had you!” You said.

“You need to think faster, Y/n” Storm said.

“I’m so close but yet I fail every time!” You sighed.

“Just because you fail doesn't mean you shouldn't stop getting stronger. That's why we train you hard, we might not be around to help you” T'Challa said.

“I know,” You said.

Your parents hugged you and you tell them you like the suit. Your parents take you out to eat and you are having a good time with them.

----

Later, T'Challa and Storm asked Shuri to do a background check on your friends. They don't like that Yelena is a black widow and Hobbie is a rebel. They check deeper into their background and they found out stuff that you don't know.

#female reader #fem reader #t'challa x reader #T'challa x daughter #marvel female reader insert #t'challa imagines #T'challa imagine

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sadadaptive-daydreaming · 2 years

Text

Baby on the way | Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 2k +

Summary: Being pregnant with Steve’s child hasn't halted your need for him, in fact it's only made it stronger. But Steve isn't so on board with the idea of getting intimate until you convince him otherwise ;)

Warning: 18+ Fluffy, light smut. Intimacy during pregnancy. (Everything described/implied in this oneshot is consensual.)

He couldn't wait to go home. He couldn't wait to see you. And yet, much like all day, another impromptu meeting was hindering him from driving to the Brooklyn apartment you had bought together and spending the evening with you.

“Mr. Rogers, you’re needed in conference room two.”

The words suffocated him as they swarmed about the tiny boxed-in cubicle he had wandered into following what he had hoped would be his last summit for the day.

When the words stopped ringing in his ears, he searched for their owner and met the eyes of a fiery red head who stood in the doorway of the makeshift office.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Steve said, shrugging his blazer onto his body and when it was fitted to him properly, he adjusted his blue tie.

His blunt response had procured a look of confusion from the woman who just so happened to be the assistant of Thaddeus Ross, the US Secretary of State. But Ross was much more than just his title. He was in fact the driving force behind pushing Steve and the rest of the Avengers to sign the Sokovia Accords—an agreement that would see enhanced individuals governed by the United Nations.

Steve understood the urgency of taking responsibility for one’s actions, he was never in dispute of that. This was largely the only reason he was willing to hear out the UN’s proposal for governance, but he was nowhere ready to sign a contract without understanding what sovereignty he and his fellow Avengers would lose in the process.

And so all day, he was in meeting after meeting listening to UN officials coax him into signing his name on the same dotted line—each discussion more sugar coated than the last. Now that the clock had finally struck 5pm, he was ready for it all to end for the day. He was willing to come back tomorrow and acquire more information, but he couldn’t listen to another word when his brain was full of you.

Being Captain America wasn’t a responsibility he took lightly. Using his strength, agility and courageousness was a choice he made every day. It was a commitment that overwhelmed the majority of his time. He didn't have time for himself. He didn't have time for friends. He especially didn't have time for relationships. But that all changed when he met you.

“But sir,” Ross’ assistant began again, her long ginger curls swaying as she shook her head. “Mr. Stark will be attending the conference as well.”

This made Steve laugh. It erupted loudly from his stomach.

“I’m sure Tony won’t need me there,” he sneered.

And it was true, he didn’t. Tony had already made up his mind about obtaining accountability for the actions of the Avengers, and the Vienna bombing at a UN ceremony that killed twelve people, including T’Chaka, the former King of Wakanda, only solidified his stance.

“He does,” she reassured as Steve began to walk towards her in an attempt to slip right past her and out of the office.

Steve shrugged. “Well he'll have to do without me this evening.”

And then he was off, leaving her in the distance as he walked his way through the New York UN building until he found his Harley-Davidson parked outside.

He mounted the bike and turned it on, a loud purr notifying anyone in the parking lot that he was leaving. With one hand pulling at the throttle and the other adjusting the motorcycle’s small circular mirror, Steve began his journey home to you.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

There wasn't enough time in the day to go to work, grade a month’s worth of assignments, prep lessons for the rest of the working week and then come home and make your husband a five-course meal. It just couldn't happen, and so as you stood in line waiting for your order of Chinese takeout, you hoped Steve would be alright with yet another dinner picked up on your way home from Midwood High School.

The first year of your marriage had been full of home-cooked meals prepared with enough love to drown cupid. But as you transitioned from a middle school teacher to a high school English instructor and Steve found himself wrapped up in conflict after conflict, neither of you had time for cooking by your third year wed. But that didn't mean you two still couldn't squeeze in a moment of your busy lives for each other.

As you finally reached your apartment after a long walk from Panda Express, the food gripped tightly to your side, you had half expected your home to be filled with the clanging of plates and cutlery as Steve set the dining table in anticipation of your arrival. But when you pushed open your front door, only silence greeted you.

“Steve?” you called out.

And when no response returned, you set the takeout on the kitchen island and walked over to the landline, the answering machine blinking brightly. With a quick press of the play button, Steve’s voice as sultry as ever filled the small room, honking cars sounding all around him.

“Hi honey, it's me. I'm stuck on the FDR parkway and I'm going to be home late. I should have left work earlier but I've had one of those days. I'll tell you all about it when I get home. I love you.”

A soft click chimed and then his voice was gone.

“Oh Steve, again?” you whispered to yourself.

You knew what you were getting yourself into by marrying the Captain America, and yet nothing could have prepared you for all the nights spent completely alone and the nonstop worrying while Steve was off fighting yet another outer-worldly threat to humanity. You couldn't fault him for putting his duty to protecting others first—that was just the kind of man he was, and it was one of the many reasons you married him in the first place.

But still you couldn’t hide your disappointment as you watched his dinner go cold or went through celebratory moments by yourself. Finding out you were a few weeks pregnant should have been the happiest day of your life, but instead it was as isolating as ever with Steve away in Austria and it broke your heart to deliver the news to him over the phone. He couldn’t kiss you, caress you, or even rub his hand along your belly, feeling the spot that would house his child for nine months. But he was home now, and being an hour late was far better than being oceans away.

Even though you had a long work day, you still wanted to make tonight special. It wasn't an anniversary; you didn't have any more surprising news to share. Today was a typical spring day, but whenever Steve was in town, you cherished every waking moment together.

You kept the takeout warm in the bag as you set the table for two. The small dining room just off of the even smaller kitchen oozed sensualness as you lit an array of white tea candles scattered around the porcelain dinnerware. Once all was to your taste, you headed to the master bedroom.

If you were going to put in this much effort into an improvised dinner date, you might as well dress the part too. You scoured through your closet looking for the scarlet V-neck dress you had worn on only one other occasion—you’re second date with Steve to a winery. When you finally located it, you undressed before your full-length mirror examining your growing belly in the reflection. In less than five months, you would be holding your newborn who was now just about the size of an avocado in your belly. You gave your stomach one last rub before slipping the dress on, and to your surprise, it fit right over your growing bump. You didn’t appreciate it then, but now you were oh-so-grateful for the dress’ stretchy fabric.

You did your best to zip the back up as far as you could. Then you departed back to the kitchen and waited for Steve.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

After being stuck in traffic for what felt like hours, Steve was finally home. He set his keys on the entryway console table and took off his shoes.

“Honey!” he called to you. “Are you around?”

He was still upset from his work day as he looked up and undid the top button of his white dress shirt, then he loosened his tie. But that all changed as you walked into the tiny foyer of your apartment that just had enough room for the two of you.

“Wow.”

That was all Steve could say as he took you in top to bottom.

He stammered, “you look—”

It brought butterflies to your stomach knowing that you could still make him speechless even after all this time.

“Pregnant,” you finished for him.

He laughed and then shook his head.

“I was going to say beautiful.”

You could feel your cheeks flush as Steve moved towards you. And with one swift movement, he had pulled you into him, his muscular arms wrapped around you.

“I've wanted to do this all day,” he whispered.

As he spoke, you could feel his chest vibrate against your cheek where your head was resting. If he could hold you like this forever, you would die happy.

He loosened his hold around you and took a step back.

“What?” you questioned, searching as far into his deep blue eyes as they'd allow.

He positioned his hand under your face and pushed your chin up.

“And I've wanted to do this,” he said before planting his lips on yours.

It was sweet and gentle. No matter how many times you kissed him, each felt like the very first time. He made you helplessly giddy and when his hands explored your body, he sent shivers down every last inch of your body.

“Steve...” you breathed into his mouth, gasping for air.

You could feel him smile against your lips. He loved when he got you all hot and bothered.

“Shh,” he mouthed, silencing you back into submission, back to mingling your tongue with his.

And for a while it worked until you pulled away.

“Steve,” you stammered between uneven breaths, “I've gotten Chinese takeout for us.”

He grinned at how flustered he had made you.

You continued after another deep breath, “It's already cold.”

He tugged you back into his chest and held you there.

“Well it'll just have to stay cold,” he teased, his breath hot against the top of your head. “I'm not finished with you yet.”

If his voice was tangible it would have stripped you of your clothes right then and there. Steve was so effortlessly sensual it was surprising that you were able to get anything done around him. How could you not want to jump his bones all day every day when he looked so good and said all the right things? The answer was simple: you couldn't.

You loosened yourself from Steve’s strong grip. Then you reached for his hand, pulling him along with you through your apartment’s main hallway towards your bedroom.

When you walked through the doorway you didn’t need to say anything, you both knew what was about to go down.

You stood in front of your bed, your back towards him.

“Unzip me,” you whispered and Steve was happy to oblige.

He moved slow. One hand pulled down the zipper as far as it could, the other was planted on your hip. He placed kisses on the back of your neck, working his way down your spine. As goosebumps prickled at your skin, he helped you step out of the red fabric. Completely exposed, he spun you around so he could take in your bare front.

“God you're beautiful,” he gushed, his eyes trailing over every inch of you.

Then he bent down on his knees so that he was eye-level to your stomach. He placed both of his palms against your belly, his hands warm against your skin.

“I hope they look just like you,” Steve whispered.

You snaked your hands through his hair and smiled down at him.

“Oh Steve.” His name poured off your lips slowly, the way honey oozes from a spoon.

And that was enough to make his eyes haze over with desire. He wanted you right here, right now and you'd be lying to yourself if you said you weren't craving the same.

You pulled at Steve’s biceps, urging him to stand back up. And when he had done so, you got to work unbuttoning his dress shirt as he yanked off his tie. Your hands ran up and down his exposed chest, tracing over every dip and crevice of his muscular upper half. Once they brushed upon the top of his pants, you maintained eye contact with him as you began toying with his belt, teasing him.

“Y/n...” he groaned. He hated when you made him wait.

“Is this what you want?” you teased, fondling his large buldge begging to burst through his pants.

He sighed loudly and you took it as a yes.

After undoing his belt buckle and unzipping his pants, you reached your hand deep into his boxers. You had Steve growling your name as your worked him to a point of no return. Over and over, he threw his head back and you smiled at your handiwork. But before he could reach his end, he grabbed at your hand.

“On the bed,” he demanded.

His voice was far to stern and salacious to not obey and so you found yourself mounting the mattress with haste, your back tingling at the contact of the cold sheets.

It didn't take him long to spread you open and give his full attention to your most intimate parts. He had you screaming his name as he kissed in between your thighs, his tongue brushing all the right spots.

When you finally dug your fingers into his dirty blonde strands, pulling him closer to where you needed him to be, he decided that it was time to quit before he lacked the strength to control himself. Steve was the definition of self-restraint but around you, composure flew out the window.

“Noooo,” you pouted, “don't stop.”

Steve shook his head and then stood up, taking a step from the bed. If he could put some distance between you and him, he might just be able to hold out.

You sat upright and reached for his hand. “I need you.”

“I can't,” he protested, shaking his hand free of yours. “I'm going to hurt you.”

You stood and moved towards him, pressing your front against his.

“You won't,” you assured.

Steve glared down at your belly and like a lightbulb sparking to life above your head, you finally realized where his hesitation was stemming from.

You brushed your hand against his arm.

“You won't hurt the baby either, Steve.”

He shook his head again, that was all he could think to do.

“We just have to go slow and be gentle,” you said.

The thought of him slowly pumping into you brought chills to your skin. You wanted him so bad you could barely contain it anymore.

“But you know I can't do that,” he answered.

“Steve!”

“I’m sorry.”

And he was, truly. He couldn't live with himself if he hurt you or the baby.

“Babe, I promise you we'll be fine,” you protested.

“How do you know that?” he questioned.

You grabbed both of his hands and positioned them on your protruding bump.

“Because I know you couldn't hurt us even if you tried,” you said.

Steve’s gaze was fixed on your stomach, he couldn't focus on anything else.

“But if you don't want to do it, you don't have to,” you continued, caressing his cheek in your hand. “Steve, we can wait. I promise I won't be upset.”

Finally, he eyes shifted from your belly and trailed up to your face. Something had shifted in him and his gorgeously lustful look returned.

“If you feel even the slightest bit of discomfort, you have to tell me. Deal?” he propositioned, wrapping his hands around your waist.

You stretched as tall as you could reach on your tippy-toes and kissed him softly.

“Deal,” you smiled into his lips.

Steve walked you backwards until your legs hit the front of the mattress. Then he gently lifted you up and lowered you carefully onto the bed. Your stomach performed a routine of backflips as you watched him lick his hand and then stroke it on himself. He positioned his pelvis at your entrance and with the smallest of thrusts, he was inside you.

You both sighed instantly at the friction.

“Is this okay?” he asked, maintaining a slow pace.

“Perfect...” you moaned, gripping at the bedsheets to either side of your hands.

You two continued in this gentle rhythm together, working each other’s body until all that was left was pure bliss. Steve was doing his best to control himself, so much so that you could feel him clenching inside you as you straddled him. That couldn't have been pleasurable you rationed and though your body said otherwise, you forced yourself to roll off of him.

“What's wrong?” he asked in a panic. “I knew I was going to hurt you.”

You rested down beside him. And once you were comfortable, you began massaging his chest slowly to calm him.

“You didn't baby,” you assured. Then you sighed, “I'm the one hurting you.”

Steve rolled onto his side to meet you face to face.

“You haven't,” he said. “How could you hurt me?”

If he weren't Captain freakin’ America, you would have been offended by such a statement. The man you were just atop of was practically invincible, and yet he was exhausting himself in an effort to not knock the wind right out of you.

“I’m making you strain yourself and I don't want that,” you sighed. “Let me just help you finish.”

Before he could protest, you dove towards his groin and took him all in. His body twitched at the sensation and you grinned in satisfaction. You bunched your hair into a ponytail and motioned him to take it. Without hesitation, he did, guiding you until he was cursing profanities.

When you could finally speak again, you teased him. “Language, Mr. Rogers, language.”

“I would mind my language if I could,” he answered, nearly breathless.

“Was I that good?” you taunted.

He swung his arms towards the headrest and propped his hands under his head. “Hell yes.”

“Steve!” you laughed, “you've become a full on potty-mouth.”

You rolled onto your side and gazed at his side profile as he laughed along with you. You couldn't help but admire how perfect he looked when he was his most candid self. If father time would let you, you could stay right here and stare at him for the rest of infinity.

“Should we go eat now,” Steve smirked, halting your fantasies. “Or would you like to stare at me some more?”

Of course, you denied his accusation. “I was not starring, Steve.”

But that was as far from the truth as humanly possible. You couldn’t help but stare at him in amazement that he was all yours, and when you brought your little bundle of joy into the world, you had no doubt that you would fell just the same towards them.

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raleighcarreras · 1 year

Text

perfectus

Part 1: and I know I said go slow

Pairing: wanda maximoff x black!fem!reader

Rating: M (language)

Wrd Cnt: 1.5k+ maybe?

Warnings/Tags: friends to lovers, angst, slow-ish burn, eventual smut

Part(s): 2,

Summary: You're determined to be in a committed relationship by Valentine's Day. So what if it's a capitalistic holiday that holds no real significance. In your 25 years of life, you've never had a Valentine and if you make it to 26 the same way, you might just jump out of a window. So, you and your best friend Wanda have 60 days to accomplish the impossible.

Little do you know, your Valentine has been right under your nose the entire time. And Wanda has a plan of her own. Sorta.

Notes: trying my little hand at a rom-com because I get to do whatever I want around here. here's the playlist for this fic. the title song is 365 by Katy Perry & Zedd. Translation done by Google translate of course.

Falling deeper than before. Say that you are ready, lock it up in a heartbeat.

How early was too early for stores to start prepping the shelves for Valentine's day? Christmas was still a week away. Certainly, you would have thought that would be too early.

But the Walgreens closest to your and Wanda's apartment had other ideas. They were shoving the teddy bears with hearts sewn to their paws right next to the teddy bears with santa hats sewn to their heads.

Even worse? They blended together seamlessly because everything was red!

You had crossed your arms and pouted severely as you recounted the blasphemy you had encountered (while trying to retrieve your daily vitamins and a bag of baked cheetos) to your best friend, Wanda Maximoff.

"Are you even listening, Wands?!" You shrieked something serious.

Wanda only peaked one of her eyes opened, "Yeah."

You flopped onto the couch heavily. You threw your feet to one end and laid your head in her lap, "Then what did I say?"

"You said that it was stupid to put the V-day stuff out so early but you only feel that way because it reminds you of how lonely you are."

You stared up at her, "That isn't what I said in the slightest."

"No, but it's what you meant."

You scrunched your nose up in offense, "I don't like you."

Wanda smiled softly, "Liar."

"You smell like smoke."

Wanda laughed out loud at that. She gestured for you to get off her lap so she could extradite herself from the couch, "That's what happens when you're a volunteer firefighter. Sometimes, you encounter fires."

Wanda stretched dubiously, as if to empathize her point. Her wife-pleaser raised above her midriff. You made it a point not to look. You had always been envious(?) of her body in a wierd homoerotic way that you rather not explore.

"Did you save everyone?"

Wanda walked over to the kitchen, probably in search of a Nutri-Grain bar, as was her routine.

"No one to save. Some teen thought it would be funny to light a match next to a newspaper stand."

You stretched your neck over the edge of the couch to see her. She was upside down in your vision, but you would make do.

"My brave bestie."

Wanda mumbled something that you couldn't hear.

"What was that?"

"I said it wasn't really about being brave. I could have thrown a cup of water on it and it would have been fine."

"Well, I still think you're brave. Even though you didn't run into a burning building today, doesn't mean you haven't before. And you're doing it for free? You're a hero in my book."

Wanda's cheeks reddened, "Thanks."

You hummed, "Where's Kaiser?"

"Who? Oh! I locked him in your room."

You gave a scandalized gasp and jumped up. You ran to your room, opening the door to the saddest puppy you have ever seen in your life.

You picked up the german shepherd and husky mix, cuddling him into your chest. You walked back into the livingroom with a scowl.

Wanda huffed, "What? He screams for you when you leave and I was trying to take a nap before I go to the bar."

"Your mommy is so mean, isn't she, my little kaiser roll?" You're 76% sure he nodded at you in confirmation.

"I'm not his mommy. He hates me! Despite having saved him from a tree. He's a dog, why was he in a tree!?"

"He's adventurous and he can smell your fear." You thought back to the day Wanda seemed to reluctantly come back home with a random puppy, despite not having left with one.

She told you that she had to boost Natasha into the tree during one of their shifts and in the process Natasha had stepped on her face to retrieve him. No one else could take him home and they didn't want to drop him off at a shelter because he was clearly not that smart. Wanda drew the short fire hose.

"He's the size of my shoe, I'm not scared of him."

"You're still a bad mom. Say sorry to our son."

Wanda turned to you with an incredulous look that quickly turned exasperated when she saw you were serious, "I'm sorry, Kaiser."

Kaiser gave her a look that was clearly meant to be perceived as triumph over Wanda.

"He said apology accepted."

Kaiser barked.

"No he didn't."

You placed Kaiser down on the floor and watched as he curled into a ball at your feet.

"Anyway, back to the problem I brought up earlier. I refuse to be without a Valentine next year. Tony is inevitably going to rent out your bar for a stupid little love day party and if I don't have a date I think I might explode."

Wanda returned to the livingroom. Kaiser nipped at her ankle when she got decidedly too close to you.

"Who cares if you have a date or not? You normally don't."

Your groan forced you deeper into the couch, "Exactly! All of our friends probably think I'm a loser and unlovable. And...and fuck, I just don't want to spend another year alone."

Wanda's brows furrowed, "You're not alone. You have me. And I know for a fact that you're not a loser and extremely lovable."

You pressed the palms of your hands into your eyes, "You're supposed to say that. You're my best friend. If you didn't think that the bestie police would like arrest you or something."

"That's not a real thing."

"Sure it is. And so is me needing to be boo'd up in the next 60 days." You crossed your arms over your chest.

"I'm still not understanding the rush-"

"Wanda, when was the last time I brought someone home?"

Wanda wished she didn't have to think so hard, "Oh! Three nights ago!"

"That was Pietro. And I definitely didn't fuck him. One, because he's gay, and two, because we were in here the whole night and you were with us!"

"Yeah...okay, last week?"

"That was Natasha." You deadpanned.

"The week before that?"

You rolled your eyes so hard Wanda feared she have to catch them when they fell out and rolled to the ground.

"That broad was here for you!"

Wanda sunk into the couch cushions, "Damn. It has been awhile."

"See?!"

"But that doesn't mean you need to fall over yourself to find someone by Valentine's day. Besides, we always do Galentine's instead. What about that?"

"Technically, I need to find someone before then because I want to be in a committed relationship by V-day. We can still do Galentine's with Nat and Carol. It'll just have to be earlier in the day." You said easily. You didn't notice the miffed expression Wanda was giving you.

"How are you going to even do any of this?"

You smiled brightly, turning to face Wanda, "With your help, of course! And probably Nat, Tony, Carol, and Sam's too. You guys will find me suitable dates. And we'll go from there. I'll even reactivate my Tinder account."

Wanda's frown deepened even further, "But you hate Tinder."

"That's how you know I'm serious about this."

Wanda watched as you frantically typed away on your phone. Informing your friends of your plans and setting up multiple online dating profiles.

"There's no talking you out of this, is there?"

You only shook your head with an infuriating smile.

"Fine. I'll ask around I guess."

"Yay! Thank you, Wands!" You threw yourself into Wanda for a hug. Wrapping your arms around her neck as much as you could.

Wanda patted your back.

"Youre welcome, Detka. At least this way I know they won't be the losers you normally have an affinity for."

You pulled away, "I do not have an 'affinity for losers'."

Wanda raised an eyebrow, "Which one of your exes has not been a loser?"

"Carly!"

"We were 16 when you dated Carly. She was definitely a loser."

"Jackson?"

Wanda's eyes widened, "Jackson tried to cheat on you. With me!"

You shrugged, more than over that by now, "Yeah, but he was so hot. And his dic-"

"Okay. You win. Moving on."

Kaiser hopped up onto your lap.

"Your mommy is so easy, Kai."

Wanda just scowled.

"And your dumbass agreed to that?"

Wanda huffed for the fourth time that evening.

This little coffee break with Natasha and Sam was not going well. She thought they'd be on her side when she explained the crazy episode you had the day before.

But instead, they were just staring at her like she had three heads. She wasn't the crazy one. You were!

"What do you mean? I had no choice. She volunteered me!"

Sam blinked. Once. Twice, "Did it not occur to you to just say 'No'?"

"Of course it did. But I couldn't!"

It was Natasha's turn to blink blankly, "And why not?"

"B-Because!"

Natasha and Sam shared a glance.

Natasha shook her head in astonishment, "Oh my God."

"What?" Wanda asked softly, thinking something was wrong.

"oH. My. GOd." Sam, for his part, looked just as confused as Wanda.

"What, Natasha?!"

"YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH Y/N!" Natasha exclaimed with a half shriek half laugh thing that caused her to choke. Sam patted her softly on the back while looking at Wanda in shock.

"Заткнись на хрен." Wanda said through gritted teeth, looking around the fire department's lounge like you would pop out from behind a light fixture at any second.

Sam pouted, "Hey, no Russian. Bucky still won't teach me anything. Not even the cuss words."

"She told me to 'shut the fuck up'. Which obviously means I'm right, Sammy boy."

Sam turned to Wanda, "Then why did you agree to this!?"

Wanda blew out a latte scented breath. The cat was out of the bag and there was no getting it back in. So, she might as well have leaned into it.

"Because she asked." Wanda shrugged.

"You simp. I'm so ashamed of you right now." Sam said with a shake of his head.

Wanda rolled her eyes, "When was the last time you said 'No' to Steve?"

"This isn't about me, Wanda."

"Anyway, so you're actually going to let her go on dates and potentially find a life partner even though you like her?" Natasha asked with a concerned grimace.

"Yes. As long as she's happy. If she liked me back she wouldn't always put me in second place."

Natasha shook her head, "That's not fair! You're always in second place because she doesn't even know you're in the damn race."

"And you're not going to tell her, are you?" Sam said with a soft, sad smile.

"No. I'm going to help her get ready for her dates with a big smile on my face. And if she finds the love her life. I'll be happy for her."

"Wanda?"

"Yes?"

"You looked like you were going to burst into sobs while saying that."

Wanda scratched at the side of her head, "Yeah. I'm-uh-still working on that."

Sam was silent for a moment, "Can we make a deal?"

"Depends?"

"If she still hasn't found a Valentine by February 13th, you ask her. And not in a 'besties gal pals BF4EVA' way. In a 'if you took off literally any peice of clothing even a sock I would have to change my pants' way."

Wanda dismissed her blush with a breathy chuckle, "Deal. But we all have to take this assignment seriously. I'm a last resort. No setting her up with losers."

Natasha and Sam both looked reluctant to shake hands on those terms, but they did anyway.

"Deal."

#wanda maximoff #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel female reader insert #marvel fanfiction #wanda maximoff x you #perfectus #jessicas fanfic

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totomoshi · 2 years

Text

Whispers

pairing: Stephen Strange x reader

authors note: this was an idea had while listening to First Burn and it doesn’t have to do with the fact that i still can’t move on from MoM 😌

You would be lying if you said you didn't want to be your sister, Christine Palmer.

In all honesty, it wasn't because she's a successful surgeon or a certified brainiac but mainly it was due to the fact that she has the love of your life in the palm of her hand, Stephen Strange.

Many people don't know what you saw in the doctor, but they didn't know about those secret moments when he put aside his ego just to talk and comfort you when you couldn't keep up with your sister's achievements.

That and the teasing moments where he would show his infamous smirk made you fall wholeheartedly. At first, you were confident he reciprocates those feelings but every time you saw the look that he gave your sister; one filled with love and adoration, you knew you didn't stand a chance.

Now here you were standing on the balcony of the ballroom that was currently hosting your sister’s engagement party. You were happy for her but you couldn't stand there for another second watching Stephen look at her like a lovesick puppy.

Your private moment alone was interrupted by a familiar voice that always made your heart flutter

“Y/n, what are you doing out here?”

Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Nothing just needed some fresh air,”

“Even after all these years, you’re still bad at lying” he chuckled

“Leave me alone, I'm not in the mood Stephen”

“Well it didn't seem that way when you chatted with Doctor Andrews” he muttered

That made your anger bubble up as you didn't know what Dr. Andrews had to do with any of this

“Excuse me? What does that mean? Also, since when does it ever concern you which guy I talk to Strange?” you told him as you turned around to look at him properly which was a mistake as he looked oh so good in his suit tonight

He knew he was already in uncharted territory with her, hence the use of his last name. But it didn't matter because jealousy seemed to currently blind him.

“I’m not stupid, y/n. You were in a good mood before and now suddenly I come near you, and you’re becoming so hostile? Just tell me you hate me and I won't bother you ever again. It's the least you could do”

The blue eyes that you came to love were gone and were replaced with anger, hurt, and jealousy? But that's impossible...

“What the hell are you talking about? Since when do I hate you? I think it's better if you just go back inside and continue to stare at my sister instead of talking out of your ass”

You knew it was wrong to bring Christine into this but you couldn't care less. You were just so angry at him.

“What does Christine have to do with this?”

“Everything! She’s the reason I’m out here! What, you thought I didn't see you staring at her like someone killed your puppy? I may not be smart as the both of you, but I’m not blind”

This was it, you’ve reached your breaking point. The tears that you tried so hard to keep in were starting to form.

“I don’t have feelings for Christine, y/n. Not anymore”

“I know about whispers, I see how you look at my sister...” you whispered as the tears started to show

At this point, you were done being angry, you were just so heartbroken to see the man you love to be in love with your sister. He seemed to finally understand the situation as his eyes finally softened to become the blue that you fell for.

“Y/n, believe me when I say that I don't love her anymore. Care? Yes. But as a friend, nothing more. Damn it y/n, you’re the one that I'm in love with” he confessed as he held both of your hands

You were shocked, to say the least. It was like the two of you were currently filming a scene of your favorite rom-com.

“Please don’t lie to me Stephen” was the only sentence you managed to muster out without breaking down.

His eyes raked over your face as if he was memorizing every little detail

“Maybe this will make you believe me” was what he told you before he cupped your face and gave a kiss that you once thought existed only in dreams.

It took you only a few seconds to return the kiss as you looped your arms around his neck

“I think I might need a little more convincing” you giggled

“As you wish” he chuckled

#stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor stephen strange #doctor strange x female reader #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange #marvel female reader insert #doctor strange #fanfiction

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those-late-night-feels · 2 years

Text

Epiphany

Part 4

Word Count: 1114

Summary: You've been training hard and convince Loki to see your progress first hand.

“That was great, y/n! Let’s do it again!” Wanda was being extra encouraging and perky and it was way too early in the morning. All you wanted to do at this hour was sip coffee and work in the lab with Tony and Bruce–or sleep. She had you come in to train at 5 am every morning, believing that your mind was the clearest and strongest right after waking up. She was right, but you hated it.

For the past few weeks, the two of you had been working on energy manipulation. Wanda had a feeling that if you could manipulate another’s movements, you could also manipulate their powers. Over and over again, you would run drills with the intent of focusing on controlling her powers, first by suppressing them, and then attempting to siphon them. The potential was definitely there, but it would take a lot of patience and practice.

Your training session with Wanda wrapped up a few hours later. Grabbing your earbuds and an electrolyte drink, you stretched on the ground while watching as other team members and agents worked out and trained in the gym. You reached out to your toes to stretch out your legs when you noticed a pair of black leather boots come to stand in front of you. Raising your eyebrows, you looked up to find Loki in a full green and black ensemble. “Training in leather again, are we?”

Smiling, he licked his lips and ignored your quip. It had been over a week since Tony’s party. Besides some briefings with Fury and the occasional passing in the hall, the two of you hadn’t spoken much. You were focused on your lab work, and he was working with Thor on updates from Asgard.

“I see that your lessons with Wanda are paying off,” he said. “You seem to have improved tremendously.”

You rolled your eyes at him, coming to stand. “If you’re here to gloat about your decision to pass me on to Wanda, no one wants to hear it.”

“Why gloat? Your progress speaks for itself.”

Tilting your head, you asked, “Care to put my progress to the test?”

He hesitated, thinking it over.

“Come on, Loki,” you encouraged. “I told you, you aren’t going to break me. And look, no broken ribs this time.” You pulled up your shirt to prove your point. He considered your words. “Or, are you afraid I might actually beat you?”

His face broke out into a full on grin by your words and you knew you had him. “Alright, lead the way.”

*****

Five minutes in, you could tell that he was going easy on you. This wasn’t the Loki you had trained with previously. He let you land punches and kicks, and it was starting to piss you off. “Knock it off, Loki!”

He raised an eyebrow as he blocked a kick. “What exactly would you like me to stop right now?” he grunted.

“You’ve never let me land a punch before. Stop. Going. Easy. On me.” You annunciated each word with a strike, landing your final hit with him pressed up against the wall.

He could see the fire in your eyes up close, could see your pulse thumping, your heavy breathing. You wanted to prove to him that you weren’t just another weak Midgardian in his eyes. That you were strong and capable. That he had made a mistake.

“Fine,” he uttered, reaching for your wrist, twisting you around and bringing your back flush up against him, your arm wrapped behind you. “Is this what you wanted?” he breathed onto your neck, raising goosebumps on your skin.

You closed your eyes, mentally telling yourself to ignore the way he was making you feel, pressed up against his firm broad chest. With your free arm, you reached up and elbowed him in the jaw, then spun out of his hold.

“Is that all you got?” you taunted.

He smiled menacingly, and came at you with his usual force, attempting to get you off balance. You blocked his strikes, but he was gaining on you. He grabbed your wrist again, this time pressing your arm into your stomach and with a thud you felt the cold cement wall at your back. He pinned you in place, and with his seidr, allowed a black blade to appear in his hand, holding it at your neck. “Are you ready to yield now?”

You locked your eyes with his, never once bringing your focus to the blade. You directed all of your energy only to him and concentrated, remembering what Wanda had taught you. He took a sharp breath in as he could feel your power overtaking him and you forced his arm from your neck, the blade now pressing against his own.

“Are you?” You asked him, a very satisfied look on your face.

He allowed the blade to disappear. You slid down the cement wall to your knees and kicked his feet out from under him. He crashed to the ground, blocking a kick to his midsection, but you wound your legs around his to pin him in place. You pulled every ounce of energy you had with all your might to use your power again to pin his arms and ultimately secure the victory. But, he was too fast, too cunning. In a matter of seconds, you found yourself flipped onto your own back, your arms tied above your head on the mat, looking up at the trickster hovering above you.

Your eyes narrowed as your wrists strained against his seidr ties. “You cheated.”

“I won,” he answered matter-of-factly. And, for a moment, he hovered above you, looking down at your panting lips. You noticed and held your breath, feeling both your own heart beat and his pumping rhythmically.

He slowly pulled his blue eyes from your lips to your own eyes, when music came blasting through the speakers, ultimately announcing Tony’s arrival to the gym, and the seidr ties instantly faded. Somewhat flustered, you laughed nervously as he pulled you to your feet. He held your hand a moment longer, then dropped it as Tony walked in with Rhodes, the two of them not paying any attention as they discussed some improvements to his Ironman suits.

“You headed up to the lab soon, y/n?” Tony inquired when he noticed you. “The green-man was going to run some theories we had by you.”

“Um, yeah,” you said, pulling your gym bag over your shoulder. “I’ll be right up.”

Turning to Loki, you gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks for humoring me.”

Tag requests:

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said, and it felt like he meant it.

Part 5

@lokisasgardianvampirequeen @huntress-artemiss

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thranduilsperkybutt · 2 years

Photo

Lamb Among Wolves ♠️ Part IV ; Wild Card

Photo sources: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

| Part 3 | Part 5 (WIP) |

Imagine: Imagine owing mobster!Bucky a lot of money after your deadbeat brother bails with it, leaving you with his debt, and you offer yourself as payment that he is more than happy to collect himself.

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes/Reader

Series Warnings: NSFW unprotected smut; phone smut; fantasy description & oral mention; teasing; dark!fic; dubcon themes; mobster/mafia AU; mentions of blood, guns, violence, murder, drugs, gambling, etc.; mentions of character injury which occurred in the previous part & IEDs; nightmares/trigger behaviors; not quite PTSD but it’s PTSDesque; brief mention of choking (not the sexy kind); it gets worse before it gets better but dont tell nobody mama aint never fed ya

Word Count: 22k words

Reader Gender: Female

Author: Meg

Summary: The stakes are higher than you could have ever known, and the comedown from the events leading up to now feels like it will kill you, if Bucky doesn’t first. Just when the numbness sets in, an unexpected and unwelcome visitor comes to call, bringing more trouble on the horizon.

A/N: This has taken a thousand years, I know. I’m sorry about that, but with the pandemic, it’s been very overwhelming. Either way, I hope you enjoy this part! Thank you all for hanging in there with me and sending such kind messages. This has not been proofread. I’ll do that later.

The smell of rubber burning is what you remember most. It stuck in your mind and clung to your memory as vividly as if you were still sitting there on cold concrete, watching the Jaguar burn in the sparking lamplight.

The heat had cast a sickening glow, slicing through the chilly air like a knife, and warming your face with a caress that was much too welcoming for the horror that played out before your eyes.

The wailing, you realized, was coming from you when the strong force of Sam’s hands on your shoulders kept you from scrambling up off the ground. If he hadn’t, you’re certain you would have attempted to run towards the burned, bloodied body of the boy resting on the sidewalk, regardless of the staggering vertigo that would have surely hit you far sooner than it did.

He’s only seventeen, you thought, over and over again, Peter’s only seventeen.

“Don’t look,” Sam ordered, voice tight and militant, but his hands were gentler than you would ever have thought them to be as he pulled you into his chest. You don’t know if he’d done it in an effort to keep you from escaping his grip, or if it was his attempt at calming you down, but his repeating of, “Just, don’t look,” hadn’t helped soothe your terror as much as he probably intended it to.

That was your blood still staining Sam’s shirt, you notice as your head throbs despite the medicine they’d given you for the pain. It’s the only part of you that doesn’t feel numb.

“The doctor thinks you might have a concussion, huh,” Sam’s voice carries in the small space of the curtained observation bay, accompanying the distant beeps and groans that define the emergency department’s sterile atmosphere. “At least that cut on your head wound up looking worse than it really was. Don’t think it’ll scar up too bad, since you only needed a couple stitches.”

Your hand reaches up instinctively, ghosting over the bandage on the side of your head. It was near your hairline, barely creeping down the northernmost edge of your forehead, and you know you must look as much the mess you felt right now.

Blood still stuck to the hairs there, though dried with the time that’s passed since your bleeding stopped. It all felt like a blur, though you’re certain that’s from the shock of it all. Fresher in your mind was the memory of the haze of fear that overcame you when the stitches were being placed, and the emergency doctor’s attempt at conversation throughout the process.

She’d talked about how your scar should mend into your scalp rather unnoticeably; that head wounds bleed more than in other places. There was an attempt at a joke at one point, about how this was why you and Sam looked like you had just walked off a horror movie.

You don’t think she was aware that you might as well have.

God, you need a shower, but the exhaustion that’s seeped into your bones with the tapering of whatever adrenaline remained in your bloodstream protested any thought that didn’t involve collapsing into your bed the first chance you got. Hell, you might could pass out right here, if your head wasn’t throbbing like this.

Sam hasn’t left you, not since you hit the pavement, except to have a hushed conversation beyond the range of your curtain with the physician. Whether it was due to some worry that if he left you unattended you would take the opportunity to tell the nearest medical professional in earshot everything you knew--- which was practically nothing--- or a genuine decency buried somewhere deep inside this man, you couldn’t figure out. You didn’t want to try. Your head hurts too much for complex thought, right now.

Even laying it down on the pillow makes you wince. You just want to go home. You want all this to be a bad dream that you can wake up from in the morning.

“Did you find out if they’re going to keep me overnight?”

“They aren’t. You get to go home,” he probably doesn’t mean it this way, but you can’t help to hear the, when Peter doesn’t, at the unspoken end of his sentence. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the provided chair for visitors in the small space beside the bed, but you haven’t seen Sam sit down in it once. He just hovers around the part in the curtain, shifting his weight, sometimes moving beyond it. You wonder if he’s unable to sit down. If maybe he doesn’t, because the same nerves that were jittering under your skin had gotten under his, too. It’s about the only indication you get that he’s just as antsy for news as you are.

“I’m sorry,” you try to swallow it down, this feeling of dreadful worry. Focusing on the dark stain draping over the chest of his shirt. There’d be no getting it out; you’ve ruined it, “For bleeding on you.”

Sam stares at you for a moment, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’re saying, until he scoffs, “Why are you apologizing for bleeding? Not like you could help it.”

Your mouth clamps shut at that, because silence is easier than trying to explain the habit that has followed you since childhood. You’re saved from needing to when Sam’s phone beeps. He reads the waiting text immediately, brows drawn together. Concern, in the way the endless abyss of his dark eyes seems to somehow widen, encapsulating his once-friendly posture with the stiffening cold within them.

“What is it?”

“You should rest. You’re pretty beat up.” Even his voice sounds tense.

“Sam,” your own shakes with the change in his mood, worry creeping up your throat, “is it Peter?”

This kid, he’s gotten under your skin. Or, maybe you’re too empathetic for your own good. Too soft, because you know what he is wrapped up in— has been wrapped up in, long before you ever entered the picture— but seeing that boy on that pavement had broken some small piece of you. No matter what life he chose, this was something you couldn’t believe anyone deserved. Let alone a boy with his whole life ahead of him.

You’re worried sick, and it only makes the sharp pain in your skull ring. Gritting your teeth, on the verge of praying for the pain pills to soon start kicking in.

“Look, you don’t need to get all worked up right now,” Sam’s voice is softer, undoubtedly with the pain he’s noticed along your face, but you cut him off with one last, pleading sound.

“Sam.”

He sighs deep, running his hand over the short crop of his hair, and relents much more easily to your pleading than a man like him probably should, “They’re taking the kid back to surgery.” Your breath catches in your throat, as Sam explains, “He’s bleeding, on the brain. They’re going to put in some kind of tube to help relieve the pressure.” None of that could be at all good, and your breath catches as he continues, “Steve went to go get Peter’s aunt.”

“Is he,” you dare the question, even though you know it’s a stupid one, despite how terribly hopeful you sound as you say it, “going to be okay?”

Sam’s eyes flicker with anticipatory grief, looking back to his phone when he clears the emotion from his throat, but you can still hear the lie there, “Of course, he’s gonna’. That kid? Knowing him he’ll probably be running circles around us all by next month.”

Fuck, Peter’s in bad shape. You have a sneaking suspicion that it’s even worse than what Sam will tell you. He’s minimizing whatever it is, maybe for your sake, maybe for his own. Maybe it’s too hard to say out loud, without bursting into a million pieces. Maybe it’s too much for even a big, bad mobster like him to fathom.

Or maybe it’s just none of your business.

The nurse pulling back the curtain breaks you from the verge of dissolving into tears, as she moves towards you with a stack of paper in hand, “Okay, so if you’ll just sign these, you’ll be good to go. Now, you’ll need to be watched for the next twenty-four hours, in case you get any worse. If you do get worse, you’ll need to come straight back to the Emergency Department, okay?”

“Watched?” you sit up, trying not to groan at the stiffness in your bruised bones, “I live alone---”

“That’s already handled,” Sam cuts in, drawing both yours and the nurse’s attention, as he addresses her with a smile that’s all assurances, but doesn’t meet his eye, “She’ll be well taken care of. Don’t you worry.”

“Alright then, sweetie,” the nurse smiles at you, flipping through the papers you return to her after signing them, separating the back pamphlet, “these are yours to take with you. There’s a list of symptoms to watch out for, a summary of your visit, and when you’ll need to go back to the doctor to get those stitches out.” You’re too busy dwelling on Sam’s assertion that you were going to be well taken care of to do anything but stare at the papers in your hands.

He makes up for your distant state when she passes him, “Thanks a lot.” Near asking him about it, you don’t get the chance when he offers you a wide, open palm to rise from the hospital bed with, “Come on, Bucky’s waiting for us upstairs.”

Right, Bucky.

There’s a clenching in your chest, which would be way too easy to blame on your currently injured state. It would be a lie, though, if you told yourself that this feeling wasn’t caused by the thought of seeing him again. The desire to do so. You haven’t seen him since he was pulled from your bedside by a rather determined nurse, intent on assessing him in his own designated trauma bed. His face had been bloody then, and as much as you wanted to not care, you hoped he was alright.

That was over two hours ago, and you don’t blame him for not returning to your bedside. You figured his prolonged absence was due to more important matters, upstairs.

Mainly, Peter.

Your suspicion is proven right, as you let Sam lead you up and down hallways, to an elevator, and beyond. Neuro Intensive Care Unit, sprawled in bold block-print on the sign pointing in the direction he walks down, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still keeping up with him. There’s a waiting room which catches Sam’s attention for the split-second it takes to note that noone recognizable sat among the sleeping, crying, or reading people within, and so he leads you further, until you reach a set of double-doors that require him to press a button on the wall in order to gain entry.

A quiet that was too peaceful for your raging soul seeps into every inch of the space beyond the locked double doors, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and airflow of ventilators. Lining the walls on either side of the nurse’s station Sam guides you to are glass doors leading into exposed rooms, the curtains hanging within them clearly only have been placed for a momentary privacy.

“Ma’am, I’m here for--- oh, there he is, nevermind,” Sam begins, and the nurse sitting beyond the desk nods as she registers the room you’re heading for.

He sits in an empty room, leant forward so that his hands could support the weight of his head as he rested his chin upon intertwined metal and flesh knuckles. The hospital bed was missing, you notice, as Sam ushers you forwards until the movement catches Barnes’ attention. From a distance, he had looked almost peaceful, or at least exhausted, but in the brief moment after his eyes landed on you, you knew that initial observation to be incorrect.

Glaring anger, worry, grief, and something almost hauntingly vacant swirled in the blues of his eyes. It’s replaced with something nearby relief almost as soon as you’ve noticed it, but just as quickly, that’s schooled into the unreadable mask of nothingness he loved to wear.

He’s cleaner, now, in regards to the blood that had once stained his cheekbones and jaw, but a hint of it crept against the collar at his throat. A bruise blossomed along his jaw, having the time to settle its pink threat beneath the hairs there, aside from which a few minor scratches trailed up over his left temple. Overall, he looks like he’s been in a fight, with the worst of his injuries being a cut against his forehead, secured with two butterfly-like strips of bandage. At least, from what you can spot at first glance.

Sam’s voice keeps you from freezing in the doorway under the weight of Bucky’s stare, “Hey, man.”

“There you are,” his voice is almost hoarse, but not quite, as he stands from the chair to make his way towards the two of you.

“Shit,” he sighs as he reaches up familiarly, catching your chin by the tips of his metal fingers, tilting your head to the side to get a good look at the bandage against your skull, “bet that smarts. They give you something for it?”

“They gave me some Tylenol. Apparently, it’s all I’m allowed to have,” you try not to sound too pitiful, but Bucky raises his brow regardless.

“Yeah,” he hums in a way that almost sounds sympathetic, “sounds about right for a concussion.” You don’t know why it surprises you that Sam’s apparently kept Bucky in the loop on your medical condition, with all that texting he’s been doing, but it does. Moreso, it surprises you that Bucky would want to know about it. Everything about this is surprising, down to the gentleness with which he smooths his hand along your jaw, and asks, “You hurtin’ too bad right now, doll? You should sit down.”

The flip of your stomach has you recoiling from his grip, away, to look at Sam in a way that you hope isn’t completely dominated by the embarrassment at Bucky’s open affection, “I’m fine, thanks.” Maybe it was a little clipped, your tone, but you don’t dwell on it in favor of trying to refocus on Sam. Anything other than your pendulum of consciousness, swinging from Bucky to Peter and back again.

Sam’s eyes are trained on Bucky, though, as he leans against the pane of the glass door, suggesting with a wave of his cell phone, “We should take this outside. Cap’s on his way up.”

When you look back to Bucky, you find his jaw’s set, agreeing, “That’s probably a good idea.”

It takes you halfway across the ICU to realize the dread mirrored in their posture is due to the fact that with Steve, would come Peter’s aunt.

And it’s all you can think of, by the time you’re standing in the waiting room with them. Who were you, to be here right now? To witness one of the worst moments in a person’s life?

A stranger is what you were, and the thought only makes you all the more guilty when the low back-and-forth conversation between Sam and Bucky trails off into low silence. The vision of a woman catches your eye, emerging from the extended hallway to march across the waiting room, towards your group, with Steve quick on her heels.

For an instant, you consider making your escape to the restroom on the other side of the waiting room, but you’re too frozen to even move.

She was strikingly beautiful, in a way that only became more distinguished with the years between her youth and older maturity. Brunette, donned in the pastel yellows of a coffee-stained, aproned uniform dress that came down to rest just above her knees. Her petite frame made her no less of the hurricane she was when she rears her hand back and slaps Bucky straight across the jaw so quickly that it knocks the breath out of even you with the pure shock of it.

Steve was quick, but not quick enough to stop her, “May---!” Steve tries to grab her by the shoulder, but she’s already too upset. Too easy to escape his first, initial grasp.

“You promised!” furious tears escaped her then, as Bucky caught her next swing, weak beats dissolving against his chest more feebly, but she continued her distraught accusations, “You promised to--- to look after him!”

“May,” his voice is tight, as he wrestles with little effort to pull her against him by his grip on her forearms, repeating the soft, near broken, plea of her name, “May---”

“Why didn’t you look after him?” and it’s not fair; it’s not something anyone can ever level on one person, but the words that spill from her mouth are wracked with sobs as she finally lets herself crumble into Bucky’s grip.

He holds her tight, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him close to tears as he clutches her to him, promising, “We’re gonna’ find who did it. Hear me? We’re gonna’ find them, May. I promise—”

All you can do is exist, stock-still, as the scene unfolds before you. Much the same as the few others who lingered around the edges of the waiting room, attention drawn when she pushes Bucky away roughly, and he lets her go just as quickly.

“Don’t you dare touch me right now, Barnes,” she sobs, all grief and anger, moving away until she collapses, exhausted, into a chair. “The last thing I need is more of your empty promises.”

Sam crouches down before her, watching her hands wipe at her eyes in an attempt to compose herself in vain, “May, listen, Peter’s got the best doctors money can buy.” She looks at him, weary through the veil of anguish that nearly consumes her, and he glances at Steve, “Steve, you already tell her everything?”

“Couldn’t really get down to specifics,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, stiff, as he catches May’s watery glare. He excuses his omission with, “You’ve been pretty upset since I told you what happened.”

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, “Well, tell me everything. Now.”

Steve and Sam move back-and-forth between explaining the situation of what occurred outside Galereya Romanova to her in detail, and attempting to comfort her as best they can. Talking of Peter’s condition, you’re surprised to find, does not turn her into a mess of sobs again. Instead, she remains somewhat collected through the news of it all, and your eyes wander back to Bucky.

He wouldn’t look at her, fixated on the floor with his hands in fists at his sides, but anything else to suggest his emotional state was closed-off to you. A blank expression set upon his face, almost too calm for the detailing of Peter’s condition to his most beloved aunt. It looks as if he’s in another world, anywhere than right here, and your heart aches regardless of your better judgment.

It’s somewhere between Sam explaining the mild flash burns and Steve mentioning the broken ribs, that you move towards Bucky before you think better of it. Reaching out to brush the warm skin of his fingertips with yours in a way that you hope is at all comforting. Anything to pull him back from that haunting vacancy that’s overcome him. When his eyes cast upwards to find yours, they’re softer, if not minutely surprised, at the feeling of your fingers beside his own.

You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re too tired to think past the basest implication of what your hand reaching for his could mean.

Just this once, you can let whatever he’s done slide, because you need to feel okay in some small way, if it was at all possible. Any shred of comfort you could find, you were chasing right now. You know he needs it too, when his fingers flex, and he catches your hand with his own. Holding tight, as if you would disappear if he let go.

He looks like he’s going to speak, eyes searching yours for whatever there is that he needs to hear from you, but another, firm voice catches your attention with a call of, “Are Mister Parker’s family members in here?” A man in navy scrubs stands tall, glancing about the waiting room for the instant it takes to look up from the charting tablet he carried.

“Yes!” May all but leaps from the chair she’s in, Sam rising just as quickly, “I’m Peter’s aunt--- his legal guardian.” Her voice is rushed, in the same way that most people become when they’re on the verge of desperation. Sam and Steve flank her, as the doctor reaches to tug the scrub cap from his head.

“Ah, yes,” dark hair falls messily along his forehead, gray hair framing his cheekbones as he offers his hand for May to shake, “I’m Doctor Stephen Strange, your nephew’s neurosurgeon.” His arms cross in front of his chest, as he explains, “We’ve just finished in surgery, and you’ll be able to visit once he’s stabilized in Recovery. You are aware that your nephew had a subdural hematoma?”

“Um, yes, I’ve been told. There’s some kind of… tube you had to use?”

“Right, well, we had to go in, and place a Burr Hole in his cranium, along with a tube to drain the fluid, but it looks like most of the bleeding has stopped on its own, so that’s a good sign. We’ll keep him sedated and on the ventilator as the fluid continues to drain. He’ll be returned to the ICU after the recovery period is over. That should take a few hours,” the way he explains it is direct, as if he can’t quite figure a way to say it in layman’s terms or simply doesn’t care to, but May nods along regardless.

It’s Steve that asks directly, “You think he’s going to be okay?”

Dr. Strange’s attention slides towards the blonde, raising one eyebrow as if the answer should be obvious, “Brain injuries are somewhat unpredictable, so we’ll be watching and waiting to see how he progresses over the next several days. That said, if you’re asking for my professional opinion on his prognosis, I do think his chances are much improved with the drain placement than without it.”

An answer without an answer, and you’re certain Steve’s thinking the same thing with the way he smiles, dripping with sarcasm, “Thanks for your professional opinion, Doc.”

“Will I be told when I can go see him?” May fidgets with her apron when she’s worried, and her hands have balled into fists along the edges of the off-white fabric.

“I’m sure the nurse can help you with all that at the nurse’s station,” he gestures towards the double doors leading back into the ICU, before turning with a non-negotiable, “Now, please excuse me,” and briskly walking back down the hallway, probably towards the O.R. from whence he’d came.

Steve’s hand finds May’s shoulder comfortingly, ushering her towards the ICU, “Come on, we’ll go ask the nurse, okay?”

“Yeah,” May breathes, moving a few steps forward only to finally glance back at Bucky, and you feel his hand in yours clench ever so slightly. She looked hurt, but even more than that, she looked angry, with all the commanding authority of a mother in her tone as she said, “Barnes, you make this right.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares back into the unspoken suggestion of her words. Giving a short nod, before she turns back to make her way towards the nurse’s station.

Even to your ears, her words had sounded like, “You make them pay for this.”

When he does speak, it’s to catch Steve with a call of his name, “I want extra security with the kid when we’re not here.”

“You read my mind, Buck,” Steve nods, reaching into his pocket to toss his car keys towards Sam, who catches them easily. “Sam, you need a change of clothes. It’ll take a while, handling stuff here, so you should take my car.”

Sam plucks at his shirt, scrutinizing it with a sigh as Steve follows after May beyond the double doors, “He’s right. This one’s history.” The urge to apologize again is quickly stamped out when Sam half-heartedly teases, pointing his finger at you, “You know, she apologized for bleeding on me? Who apologizes for bleeding?”

“You’re still on that? Excuse me for being polite. Won’t make that mistake again,” you defend as Sam’s eyes flick to where your hand rested in Bucky’s. It was stupid, to feel so self-conscious at your age, but you retrieve your hand, choosing instead to shove it into the pocket of your jacket, alongside the folded discharge papers you’ve tucked there.

The small quirk at the corner of Bucky’s lips appears for only an instant, yet doesn’t brighten his mood as he leans towards you, scrutinizing with only the barest hint at teasing, ”Maybe it’s that hit to your head.” His attention shifts to the bandage, then back to hold yours, “How ya’ feeling, doll?”

“Tired,” you admit, “sore, but my headache is a little better than it was.” Nodding towards the cut on his own forehead, “You?”

“I’ve had worse,” is all the answer he gives you, shrugging slightly, before his head turns towards Sam, “Give us a ride on your way?”

There’s no question, and you’re certain there’s only one answer, but Sam jokes anyway, “What? No, ‘please.’” Part of you is thankful for Sam’s attempts at lightening the overwhelming mood around you. It’s something you’re sure is for his own benefit, but the sliver of lighter conversation helps to soothe the worry in your own soul.

Bucky stares at him, deadpan for a moment, before dryly stating, “Sam,” like he doesn’t have the energy to banter with his friend right now.

Shaking his head, Sam calls your name, “You need less manners, he needs more.”

“Says the guy who won’t offer a ride before I have to ask,” Bucky starts, as if he can’t help himself, but any budding back-and-forth is soon stamped out when his attention catches beyond Sam, on two approaching figures. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, and when Sam catches sight of them, his demeanor changes as well.

A man and a woman approach the three of you with purpose, like they know who you are, but you’ve never seen either of them in your life. The man is older, dark-skinned, with a beard kept close to his chin, but even the simple suit he wore couldn’t hide the distinct impression that he was a threat. What’s jarring, though, is the eye-patch covering his left eye, and you have to force yourself to look away before you linger on it for an inappropriate amount of time.

The woman at his side wears dress slacks and a dress shirt, replacing the typical blazer that would accompany such an ensemble with a brown leather jacket that complimented her paler skin tone. It framed her shoulders in a way that suggested she was well-muscled beneath it, as blonde hair fell haphazardly from her ponytail against the sides of her jaw. Nowhere near as put-together as her male counterpart, but just as unnerving, because you make them for cops before they even open their mouths.

“Special Agent Nick Fury, FBI,” the man begins, reaching into the breast of his blazer to retrieve the badge he flashes at the three of you. “This is my partner, Agent Danvers,” he gestures to the woman, who flashes a similar badge with less enthusiasm. “Would you mind answering some questions regarding the explosion you were involved in earlier this---”

“I already told the cops everything that happened when they came through,” Bucky interrupts, tone solid, cold. Dismissing them with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam chuckles dryly, “Don’t you guys compare notes?”

Agent Fury’s smile is tight, and his hands slip into his pockets, “We have reason to believe this bombing may be related to several others.” He speaks slowly, as he stares towards Bucky with an almost smug expression on his face, “Possibly even terrorism.”

“Unless you have a reason to believe someone would want to kill an upstanding businessman such as yourself, Mister Barnes,” Agent Danvers says it in an innocent enough tone, but your stomach drops at the sound of it. It was anything but an innocent question, that’s clear enough.

Bucky doesn’t bother looking at her, instead asking Fury, “Which department did you say you were from, again?”

“They didn’t say,” Sam crosses his arms.

“Criminal Response,” Danvers holds out a business card, and only then does Bucky glance at her. First her hand, then back to her face. He makes no move to take the card from her offering fingertips.

Sam takes it, scrutinizing the card as he comments, “If you think the bombs are terrorism, why isn’t counterterrorism standing where you are instead?”

“Possible terrorism,” Fury corrects, like the distinction is obvious, but you know a lie when you hear one, “but that’s still under investigation. What do you think is going on here, Mister Barnes?”

“It’s not really my job to figure out what’s goin’ on, is it? All I know is, my intern got seriously injured tonight,” comes, clipped, from Bucky. When Agent Fury’s uncovered eye casts his attention on you, Bucky clears his throat, “Look, Agents, now’s not really a good time. I’m still pretty shook up after everything, y’know. Maybe I’ll be more up to answering your questions at a later date.”

Trying your best not to visibly shrink under Agent Fury’s scrutiny, you know you’re not the poker player Bucky is. Before you think better of it, you murmur something about needing the restroom, and escape towards it before they can blink twice in your direction.

You were going to be sick.

The feds?

What were the feds doing here?

Bucky said he spoke to the cops, but you sure as hell hadn’t seen any of them since you’d been wheeled into the hospital. Would they come to ask you questions? It made sense, considering you were a witness, but what could you possibly say—?

Nothing, you’d say nothing, of course—

And you’re pushing a stall open, collapsing to your knees, dry-heaving into the toilet before you can continue that train of thought. Your head felt like it was going to explode, and you don’t know if it’s from the concussion or the borderline-hyperventilating state you’ve dissolved into in that brief moment it takes your stomach to realize there’s nothing there for it to expel.

Doing your best to collect yourself once the worst of it stops, you grip the stall door as the world spins ever so slightly, before leveling out again, and make your way to the sink to clean yourself up, even a little bit.

Harsh paper towels are all you have to work with, as you wash your face as tenderly as you can in the motion-activated tap, trying not to moan with the relief of the cool water on your overheated skin.

The sound of the bathroom door opening, and boots approaching the sink beside yours is what opens your eyes to the intrusive presence of the blonde federal agent— Danvers. You do your best not to tense up at her approach, as she leans towards the mirror to apply her chapstick.

Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool—

“You look pretty banged up, yourself,” she says, casting a sideways glance your way as you continue to drag the paper towel along your cheek.

“Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel pretty,” you shoot back, hoping in vain your standoffishness would be enough to have her leave you alone, but she just cracks a smile.

The bathroom door opens again, just enough for you to hear Sam’s voice call your name, “You almost done in there?” There’s an edge to his tone. Something that sounded more like insistence than anything else.

“I’m coming,” tossing the paper towel into the trash, you move to pass Agent Danvers, but she holds her hand out.

“Hope you’ve got an umbrella,” caught by her index and middle fingers is her business card, and in her eyes is a suggestion of some deeper meaning you don’t quite understand, “It’s a little misty out there tonight.”

You don’t want to take it, but Sam was calling your name again, more insistent this time, and you needed to get her out of your way. Silently, you take it from her, shoving it deep into your coat pocket alongside your discharge paperwork before finally leaving the restroom.

“You good?” Sam stares down at you, moving you across the waiting room towards where Bucky waits near the hallway leading out of it.

“I just was feeling like I might be sick, but I think I’m okay, now,” is your answer, and it’s only half of the truth, because you feel the furthest from okay.

It’s only when you’re in the elevator, on the way to the parking level, that Bucky finally asks, “What did that agent say to you?”

Glancing up at him, you know he’ll see through anything but the truth, so you get as close as you can to it, “She said I looked banged up, then told me to watch out for the rain outside? I think she was just trying to intimidate me, or something.”

Sam huffs in annoyance, “They usually do. Bastards.”

“You don’t gotta’ worry about them,” Bucky begins as the elevator finally opens, and you all make your way towards the exit. “Their kind just like to flash their badges around, act all authoritative— it makes them feel like they’re doin’ something.”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” Sam agrees, as the sliding double doors open out into the night, but you’re not stupid enough to believe the lie they’re trying to sell you.

How can you, when you finally realize what Agent Danvers had meant? The meaning of it was literally staring you straight in the face from the other side of the road, begging to be noticed by the only person who would: you.

Dark brown eyes peer from beyond a rolled-down window, almost black in the dead of night, but there she was. Watching you for just long enough to know you’ve seen her. Only then does she turn her car from her park to pull out of the deck, but not before getting the message across.

Misty Knight was working with the feds, and the feds were watching Barnes— therefore, you. The walls were closing in, and you were going to find yourself stuck if you didn’t find a way out.

There’s a tinge of regret on your tongue at how you had left things with Misty last week, nerves spiking at the remembrance of the wire you’d abandoned beneath your bathroom sink at home. You can’t risk giving away how the sight of your old friend here truly shakes you, though; not with these two men at your side.

Something bigger was going on here, and you’re certain Bucky knows that, despite his attempt to minimize it in front of you. And, God, from the bottom of your heart, you want nothing to do with any more of this, but you feel entirely powerless to keep yourself from getting dragged deeper into this rabbit-hole of a situation you’ve found yourself in.

You’re so tense, so wound up, that as soon as you sit down in the back of Steve’s borrowed Cadillac Escalade, a wave of exhaustion practically melts you into the leather seats. This day’s been too much for you to handle, and your brain simply can’t take anymore with the stress it’s already been under. If it weren’t for Bucky sliding into the space beside you, you’re certain you would have slumped over and passed out in the backseat, right then and there. His shoulder is a welcome alternative, considering.

“I’m so tired,” you remember saying as Sam drove out onto the highway, and the feeling of warmth that radiated from the arm Bucky draped over your shoulders. You’ll blame it on the concussion, why you let yourself relax there, against him, when every logical part of your being would usually demand otherwise.

It’s later, and you’re groggy, when you’re jolted awake, hearing him murmuring softly beside your ear, “Sorry, doll, didn’t mean to wake ya’.”

“Ameye ‘ome?” you slur, before blinking into a more firm plane of consciousness at his next words.

“You’re at my place.”

His place? As in his home?

A sharp intake of air accompanies your squinting blink at your dim surroundings, and only then do you realize he’s carrying you, not unlike you would a sleeping child, through the hallway you remember leading towards his bedroom.

“Why?” is all you can manage, the blanket of sleep luring you more than the unease that comes with every moment spent alone with him.

Bucky’s chest, flat against your own, rumbles when he speaks, “You can’t be left alone with that concussion of yours.” It’s the only explanation you get, before he’s moving into the darkness past his bedroom doorway. It makes sense, but it also doesn’t. He didn’t have to do this. There are probably a hundred other options out there, aside from him watching you personally.

You’ve long since come to the conclusion that James Barnes doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. Maybe there was a time when he once did, but he’s fought hard to be in the position he’s now in. Killed for it, even—

Fists catch in the fabric at his shoulders when you lean back in his arms, just enough to get a better look at him. Hallway light illuminates his jawline, the cuts along his face and the bruise that’s only darkening with the passage of time, but he doesn’t shy away from your stare. You catching a hint of what he’s feeling seems to be the least of his worries tonight.

All it takes is the soft murmur of, “Please, put me down,” for the hands at your thighs to do just that. Easing you down until you find yourself standing along the side of the very bed you’d found yourself tangled up in not so long ago. Only as your feet rest softly along his floor do you realize that you’ve lost your shoes and coat somewhere between here and the car, but he has, too.

He looks different, in the lowlight and solitude of just the two of you in this room. More worn down than he had at the hospital, if that were possible, but with that same haunted vacancy in his eyes as he watches you. There was a carefulness in his eyes you aren’t familiar with, almost like he expects you to move away from him, further than you already have.

The familiarity of the situation, however, does not escape you. The closeness of his body to yours has come to be expected, but the moments of passion you shared hours ago had been separated by the horror of the night, until that felt like miles away to you, now. There’s no denying that the exhausted desolation of his stare is a stark contrast to the way he had looked at you in the redlight of the darkroom. It’s too tinted with grief for you to mistake this for want.

“There’s a room at the other end of the hall… you could stay there instead,” he splits the silence, as if it’s a revelation that he probably should have come up with the offer far sooner than he has.

“I…” you begin, hesitant to admit the truth, because as terrible as it is, the idea of being left alone in this foreign, vacant house after what’s happened creeps a fear up your spine that’s even more terrible than that of the man standing before you. The fact that, in this moment, you feel at all safer by his side than you would at the other side of that vacant hallway is almost impossible to accept.

The part of you that wants to run far, far away from him is no match for the side of you which wants anything but the cold loneliness that will allow you to dwell on what you’ve both gone through.

Only when you avert your eyes from his, can you finally say, “I don’t want to be alone… tonight.” It’s certainly early morning by now, but that technicality doesn’t really matter, because when you dare to look back at his eyes, darkened by the shadows across his face, you still make out how softly he looks at you. For a moment, you can almost trick yourself that you’re simply two people in need of comfort, rather than the truth of everything between you, “Do you want to be alone tonight, Bucky?”

His lips part, hesitancy on his own tongue, before he breathes a solid, honest, “No.”

“Okay,” you say, like it’s that simple, and crawl into his bed, clothes and all. Exhaustion capturing you and dragging you down into the mattress that was still too soft for a man like him, but is perfect for forgetting why. He just stands there, watching until you’re buried beneath his irritatingly soft duvet. Calling to him with that same drowsy airiness of someone on the verge of sleep, “Come to bed, Bucky.”

Your eyes are already shut by the time the bed dips with his weight, and you’re too tired to worry past the feeling of cool metal dragging along the hitch of your exposed waist, pulling you against the warm expanse of his clothed chest.

You have no idea where this falls in the context of your debt to him, or if it even counts at all, when he murmurs his own breathy exhaustion at the nape of your neck, “Night, doll.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes looks less threatening when he’s sleeping. It’s almost like, in full consciousness, he’s never truly relaxed, even when he appears to be. His apparent laid-back confidence doesn’t carry over in his sleep; when the actions and conversations and expectations all fall away into the pit of unconsciousness.

You don’t know what you’d expected. For his side of the bed to be empty, again, maybe? Or perhaps for him to appear just as much the icy-hot threat he was when awake? Something other than the simple, normal vulnerability of a man lost to the world at this current moment.

Part of you wonders if he’s dreaming, or if it’s one of those blissful periods where nothing at all disturbs the blackness of the mind. When the peace of it is as close as you can come to death.

The clock on his nightstand announces almost midday, now, but you figured as much with the strong sunlight shielded beyond the curtained windows. Even still, it’s too early to pick apart your every action or choice for the day before; micro-analyzing your time with him was a habit you struggled to break.

No, that… that would have to wait until after coffee, and another dose of tylenol for the throb in your head. It isn’t as bad as the night before, thankfully, and you have a sneaking suspicion the ache is more due to stress than your physical wound itself. Truthfully, your whole body aches to a certain degree, and you’re certain that it’s littered with bruises from hitting the pavement as hard as you had.

A lull of your head to the side reaffirms your proximity to the sleeping gangster, the part of his lips, the mess in his hair. Not even the scratches along his face or the purpling bruise on his jaw can keep you from staring. Your breath catches alongside the skip in your chest, and the guilt at the feeling washes over you only an instant too late for the thought of his attractiveness to blossom at the back of your skull.

He sleeps pretty well for a killer.

But perhaps the bitter thought comes too soon, because Bucky’s brow furrows and his body tenses. Discomfort spreads across his features as quickly as your brain can process them, and before you can think better of it, your voice parts the morning quiet with a murmur of his name. A brush of your fingertips at the scruff of his jaw and—

Metal digits wrap tight around your wrist so quickly you think it startles the both of you with how you gasp and he inhales, blinking wide-eyed like he doesn’t quite recognize you until his eyes focus. Whatever had been there before dissolves with the relaxation of the grip at your wrist. Bucky blinks, but even then it takes a minute for the startled look in his eyes to dissipate.

“Bucky,” even to your own ears there’s a hesitancy to it, a sobering concern in the back of your throat. You don’t care if you shouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t your place, “Bad dream?”

He releases you just as quickly, rolling onto his back with a groan, “What time is it?”

You don’t know why you ever expect him to give you a straight answer, literally ever, “Almost noon.”

“That late?” his fingers wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. “I overslept.”

He looks like the only thing he needs right now is to oversleep, you think, as you supply with a dry sarcasm, “I think the Queen of England will understand your tardiness.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, casting a glance towards you that is more unreadable than it is threatening. Irritation, maybe, you could expect, but the subtle curiosity there is something else entirely. You don’t know if he finds what he’s searching for by the time it melts into something closer to compassion.

“How’re you feeling? Any numbness? Nausea?” it takes you a second to realize he’s assessing you like a soldier would, straight to the point as his attention settles on the side of your head, and the bandage there.

“Just dandy,” you sigh into the pillow. You weren’t about to complain about the soreness, when you had yesterday’s throbbing pain to compare it to.

“Yeah, tell me that again when you get up, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“What about you?” you question, and there’s that curious look again. You point towards his purpling jaw, “That’s bruising up nicely.”

He reaches for his jaw, a gentle caress over the affected area, and his eyes finally look away from you, as if the memory is somewhere far off, before repeating what he’d said last night, “Had worse, doll.”

But you’re tired of him avoiding you, and just this once, you decide to push it, “That’s not an answer. How bad does it hurt?”

“What? You gonna’ kiss it better for me?” Bucky’s teasing deflection cuts with his smile, until he flinches from grinning too widely, and you huff at him.

“Bucky.”

He grunts, and you thank your lucky stars that he looks too tired to keep this round of cat and mouse going, because he simply groans and deflates into the sheets, “Yeah, it’s kinda’ sore.” He’s minimizing, and you know it. The man can’t even smile naturally without flinching.

“That settles it, then,” Bucky glances towards you at that. “First order of business, pain meds for the both of us, and then I’ll head home—” Before he can say anything, you maneuver yourself to push off the edge of the bed. Standing straight only lasts for a split second, before the lightheadedness sets in and you’re falling back to the bedside once again.

Bucky makes a quick, “woah,” sound before you find his hands at your waist just as you hit the bed, the small effort to keep you from falling onto the floor being greatly appreciated.

“Fuck,” you groan with a soft defeat, trying not to look as embarrassed as you felt, but you can hear the man behind you start to chuckle as the bed shifts when he sits straighter. You can’t even stand up without fucking it up.

“Well, that didn’t go to plan,” his joking breath ghosts over your skin, perhaps genuinely enjoying your struggle or simply trying to lighten the mood. It could go either way at this point; you don’t know what to think of him, not when he leans his chin onto your shoulder, the tight grip at your waist easing with your steadiness.

Tensing up with his sudden proximity, you shouldn’t want to lean into him like you do. Your heart shouldn’t speed up like it does, hammering away in your chest like he’d just released a million butterflies there. Heat creeping up your neck from where the prickly set of his jaw leans into you, catching your breath from your near-fall seems easier said than done.

“Want to try that again, or maybe I should get you a parachute first—”

“Shut up—” comes out weaker than you intended it to, with less edge, and he’s chuckling again. Leaning further into you until he’s practically draped himself over your shoulders, trapping you in the cage of his arms, the prey instinct to run is nearly as powerful as the impulse to melt there. To accept your fate.

Your only saving grace is the sound of your stomach growling, alerting you to just how hungry you were, and subsequently making you wish that a hole would simply open up in the ground and swallow you whole right then and there.

You can hear the sound of the smile in his voice, coaxing in a way that makes you want to agree before he’s even finished his thought, “How about this, Sam’s probably starving, too. Let’s grab a bite, and then I’ll take you home, if you want me to.”

If you want me to has you wondering if he wants you to stay. If it was some kind of invitation. If perhaps you erupted the same borderline uneasy desire in him that he had set alight in you—

You fight to forget that train of thought, instead settling on, “Sam’s still here?”

“Yeah,” he hums, “he had to stay. After last night…” Bucky trails off, and you try your best to avoid the feelings that threaten to come rushing back all over again at the slight mention of it. “Well, let’s just say that Sam and Steve are the only ones I can trust right now.”

In the light of day, after the immediate shock of it has worn off, and enough time has passed for you to somewhat separate in your mind the pieces of what happened last night for appraisal, you can understand the implications of what he’s saying. You should have realized it sooner, but the rushing intensity of the moment coupled with your concussion had slowed your thoughts.

Someone wanted to kill him.

That in itself is probably nothing new, knowing him, but the fact that someone had so brazenly attempted to achieve it shocked you. Maybe you’re naïve to think of it this way, you don’t know for sure, but the idea that someone would simply try to kill him in such a public place was baffling to you. There was no finesse about it, no attempt at hiding their intent.

The thought of his attempted murder should have left you with some kind of relief. Your problems would be solved with him out of the picture, right? Shouldn’t you be hoping whoever it was would achieve their purpose?

The one thing you do know right now was that the idea of him being killed gave you a very different feeling than relief. This anxiety simmering within you was an unmistakable worry. You could try to excuse it, to say that you don’t want anyone to be killed. That this was simply a compassion for your fellow man and nothing else.

But you know that’s not true.

He’s under your skin now, and as much as you wish you could claw him out, or even feel some sort of indifference towards him, you can’t.

Turning your head slightly, you dare to look at him, catching his questioning eyes with yours. Reaching up to feel the warmth of his arm, caging you against his chest.

It slips from you before you can help it, “They placed that car bomb to kill you?”

You don’t care if it’s a stupid question. You already know the answer to it, you just need him to confirm that this is real. That this othered they you speak of exists.

Bucky’s jaw sets, before his arm slides in your grip to catch his hand at your own, “You’d think people would know I’m harder to kill than that.” And he’s slipping from you, pushing himself away and taking the warmth that has radiated through your clothes with him. Leaving you with a chill that was more than just the room temperature.

This was real. This was real, and someone was really trying to kill him—

Mind racing, you almost miss when he rises from the bed to stand before you, stretching for the moment it takes before he offers you the cool metal of his prosthetic hand, “Let’s go eat, doll.”

You take his hand with less hesitancy than you expect of yourself, using his strength to guide you to your feet slowly. Thankfully this time, the lightheadedness doesn’t follow you, so much as the aches in your bones do.

“Still feelin’ ‘just dandy?’” Bucky shoots at you, but lets you keep your pride and his assisting arm as you roll your eyes at him. When you finally let go of him on your steadier legs, he continues, “I’ll go see if I can find where Sam’s at.”

“Alright,” you try to breathe even, to focus on the small smile at the corner of his lips. Watching him leave the sanctuary of his bedroom, only one thought dominates your thoughts, coming to a head when he shuts the door behind him.

That someone who had tried to kill him last night had failed, and you doubted that whoever it was was going to give up so easily. They’ll try again, you’ll bet money on it, and anyone in their way is fair game. They’ve made that clear enough with what happened to Peter. Wrong place, wrong time had just turned into a life or death situation for anyone in a ten yard radius to James Barnes, and you’re already standing far too close.

That futile urge to run creeps up the back of your throat again. You swallow it down as you push into the ensuite bathroom instead, going through the motions. If you hadn’t liked the girl who looked back at you in the mirror the last time you were here, then you hated the girl who stares back at you now.

Damn, you look rough. The scrapes along your body from the pavement are nothing compared to the bandage on the side of your head. The bruising along your temple on that same side of your face maps where your head had hit the ground, and you hiss as you pick through the dried blood against your scalp. You need a good shower. The sooner you get back to your place, the better.

Aside from your clothes being wrinkled from having been slept in last night, your shirt has dots of blood on it, though it’s nowhere near as terribly marred as Sam’s had been. Wiping at it with a wet rag only seems to make the stains worse, and you sigh with defeat before meticulously removing the shirt entirely once you’re done freshening up as best you can.

Stealing is the least of your crimes, you suppose, intruding upon Barnes once more when you emerge back into his bedroom to toss your shirt upon the bed. That dresser with the picture from his army days upon it is your target, and by the time you pull out the second drawer from the top you hit gold.

Immaculately folded plain t-shirts stare up at you, and you reach for the black one. You’re in enough debt as it is with him, so what’s another twenty dollars?

Besides, this was more like borrowing.

The shirt is comfortably generic, if perhaps a bit inappropriate for the chillier weather, but when you find wherever Barnes has put your jacket and shoes, you know it’ll be fine. Scooping up your crumpled shirt from the bed, you haphazardly fold it as you make your way into the hallway, deciding to be lazy and take the elevator rather than the stairs.

Bare feet pad along the hardwood, as the elevator dings, door smoothly sliding open to expose the white walls within it, contrasting the light grays of the hallway. Leaning against the rail, you take the opportunity to scrutinize the operation panel after clicking the corresponding button to the first floor.

Scoffing in the silence of the moving elevator, your suspicion that this place was entirely too large for its own good is confirmed with the denoting B, 1, 2, 3, 4, R that are labeled on the panel. Four floors, plus a basement and roof space? You’d be terrified if you were living here all alone; it was much too big for your liking, but you guess that this was just another piece of evidence that Barnes had no fear whatsoever, and more money than God.

You’re torn from your mute appraisal of the elevator when it dings once again, alerting you just before the door opens and you find yourself walking into the vacant formal living room. The dim memory of when you had walked in on Barnes conducting business with Cornell Stokes scratches in the back of your skull, but the faint sound of voices drifting further into the home. Following the sound, you’re led down a short hallway until you can hear the sound of running water.

“---is handling the hospital, and Steve’s going to swing by here tonight after he checks out the car. I’m thinkin’ the two of us will alternate your security.”

“Sounds good to me, Sam,” the water turns off as you round into what you realize is the kitchen, catching the attention of Sam and Bucky with your presence.

Sam whistles, shooting off at the mouth before he brings a glass of water to his lips, “Even all beat up, she’s still prettier than you, huh, Barnes—” Bucky glares, as Sam grins with the opportunity to tease the two of you, “I mean you look rough—”

“Fuck off,” but it seems to be in good fun, this teasing, and judging by Bucky’s reaction and Sam’s low chuckling, it’s nothing new to either of them. Sam’s wearing fresh clothes, but not even his bright smile can distract you from the holster at his hip. It’s clear he’s not just here to hang out with an old friend.

“Bucky,” you move closer to the marble-topped island counter Sam leans upon, “where’d you put my coat and my shoes? I can’t find them.”

Sam looks pointedly towards Bucky, something playful in his tone that is so much like schoolyard teasing that you almost want to melt with the embarrassment of it, “Hmm, where did you put her things, Bucky?”

“They’re in the coat closet,” Barnes replies with only a hint of annoyance at how much Sam seemingly enjoyed goading him.

“Man’s a neat freak,” Sam sighs. “That’s a red flag.”

“You know what? Let me just show you where your stuff is,” rounding the counter, Bucky catches you by the forearm and all but drags you from the kitchen, shooting one last glare towards Sam. You have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from reflexively giggling at the bizarre exchange, keeping up with Bucky’s long strides until he inevitably releases his hold on you to open a door at the end of the small hallway you’d initially come down on your way to the kitchen.

It’s a walk-in, lined with a myriad of men’s jackets and coats, wherein your feminine ensemble sits on a wooden hanger as if it were at all meant to hang among the expensive fabrics there. Bucky plucks it from the hanger while you slip your feet into your shoes.

“Here,” when he hands it to you, the weight of it reminds you of its pockets filled with discharge paperwork and your personal belongings.

“Thank you for taking care of it for me,” politely draping it over your shoulder, you look back up at him, only to be rendered immobile by the hand that finds the side of your neck. His thumb caresses your jaw as he tilts your head under the more pointed closet lighting. It takes you a moment to realize he’s scrutinizing the bruising along your temple, with something akin to regret.

“Sam was right. You are pretty beat up,” you’re about to supply a sarcastic comment about how beautiful that reminder makes you feel, when his eyes refocus. Staring into your own with a weight in them that silences you completely, but it’s what he says that leaves you speechless, “I’m sorry. I got you hurt.”

He was apologizing. As if the entirety of your relationship with him hadn’t been spent with his constant disregard for your comfort or wellbeing. As if you weren’t near-constantly teetering between desire and outright fear of what he could do to you.

This confounding, terrifying man was apologizing for something he didn’t even do, and it makes about as much sense to you as the gentleness of his hand at your jaw does. You’re sure you could study him for the rest of your days, and still not have figured him out.

Because why does he care? Aren’t you simply his most recent object for amusement?

There’s the possibility that, in some way, you may have misjudged him.

It takes a second, before your tongue catches up with your mind, and you weakly supply, “You weren’t the one who did this to me.” You don’t know why you feel the need to absolve him of the guilt he rightfully has in this situation, but you’re starting to accept you don’t know much of anything at all.

“Still,” he murmurs, and when he tears his eyes from yours, they settle at your lips. His own promise, “I’ll find who did.” His promise to make it right shouldn’t leave you as indifferent as it did. You knew who he was, you knew his implied methods for dealing with these people would be less than above board, and yet… it doesn’t matter to you. The promise of his threat to the people who had tried to kill him, subsequently injuring both Peter and you, was perhaps the only time when a threat from those lips didn’t scare you.

In some sick, twisted way, it makes you feel a little safer in his arms.

“I know you will,” for a moment you think he might kiss you again. There’s something similar about this closet and the darkroom back at Galereya Romanova. Something intimate about being alone with him.

You’ll never know if your suspicions are correct, because the sound of footsteps strips whatever veil that had descended on you away, along with Sam coming into sight beyond the doorway, “Hey, we going to eat or not? I got that Tylen— Oh, am I interrupting something?”

Bucky rolls his neck, fixing Sam with another annoyed glare that’s a little more genuine this time before you move away from his touch, “Yes.”

There’s no remorse from Sam, who simply grins back at him while you try to melt into the floorboards beneath your feet. Clearing your throat, you pull your jacket on, gesturing towards the pill bottle in Sam’s grip in an effort to quickly change the subject.

“Mind if I grab some of those.”

“Course,” taking the bottle and the opportunity to escape the coat closet, you down the appropriate dosage of pain medicine as quickly as you can, before supplying Barnes with a matching dose.

By the time you make it into the garage, you find that Steve’s Escalade has been replaced with a black Mercedes G-Class which Sam unlocks before you even reach it. Sometime in the night it seems Bucky’s men had been coming and going while you slept, evidenced by the exchange of cars.

It’s a little diner in Brooklyn that Sam and Bucky finally settle upon, but hole-in-the-wall places like these are typically the best kind. Somewhere between deciding on if you wanted breakfast or lunch, you thank your lucky stars that you had decided upon only bringing your wallet and keys with you yesterday to work. They were still tucked into your jacket’s deep pockets by the time you found yourself searching for enough cash to cover your meal, only for Bucky to nearly laugh in your face at the notion that you were paying for your own brunch.

“I already owe you too much money as it is,” you huff, trying your best to snatch the receipt he’d cornered from his grip.

“Isn’t letting me do what I want part of you working off your debt, doll?” he playfully bit back at you, and you had settled into your seat with nary a grumble after that.

You half expected Sam to just dump you out at your place like he had the last time, but instead you realize Bucky’s quick behind you when you slide out of the Mercedes’ back seat.

“I’ll walk you up,” is all he says, and you know better than to argue with him, but part of you doesn’t want to. Calling back to Sam, “Won’t be too long.”

This time, you supply Sam with a proper good-bye, but any chance at hearing his reciprocation is obstructed by Bucky’s quick shutting of the back door.

“You really don’t have to,” there’s a hint of awkwardness in your voice as you begin the trek up to your apartment.

“Sure I do,” Bucky shrugs. “What would I be if I didn’t make sure you got in safe?” There has to be more to it than that, but you do have a terrible habit of overthinking.

Keys in your lock, you push your way into your quaint apartment, but your tension doesn’t fade like it usually did upon returning home. It lingers, like he does, on the precipice of your threshold when you look back towards him.

Wracking your brain for something to say, he cuts through the silence before you have the chance, “I’ll be back by tonight.”

Your brow furrows, evidencing your confusion, “Tonight…?”

“Yeah, I got that meeting to go to, remember? Though, with everything that’s happened, it’ll probably run a little later than I told you yesterday,” and that’s when it hits you. He had asked you to meet him afterwards for dinner. Truthfully, you’re surprised that he still wants to, considering.

“I… don’t know if I’ll be good company,” you begin, leaning into the doorframe with crossed arms. “I’m all sore, and my head’s still hurting—”

Stepping closer, Bucky shakes his head, “No, it’ll be lowkey. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bucky—” for once, you’re about to protest. The last thing you felt like doing was going out God knows where to be the thing on his arm like you’d been at his poker club. A girl can only take so much stress, and you don’t care if you sounded whiney, if it meant the chance at getting out of it.

Even if it meant turning down the first date he ever asked you on.

You’re about to go further, but he silences you when he steps into your space, leaning to ghost at your lips, “I said, don’t worry about it,” before capturing them entirely. He may as well have captured you, too, because your attention is completely short-circuited by the gentle leisure of this kiss.

It’s not the same hasty passion of that time in the darkroom, or the explorative touch from the time before that. No, this is something else entirely. A soft, delicate kiss that drips warmth down to your toes, and only after that do you feel the brush of his fingertips at your neck. Not to trap you there, but rather to almost steady himself against you.

It doesn’t last long, and you’re damned for wishing it was longer than it was, because when he pulls back he takes his hand with him, and you’re left only with the crooked smile on his bruised lips, “Better shut and lock that door, doll, or someone’s bound to walk right in.”

Flushing under the intensity of his flirting, you step back, away from his proximity, and grip to your front door for dear life, “Yeah, I ought to do that.”

You don’t bother telling him good-bye, because you’re afraid that if you linger too much longer with him staring at you like he was, the weaker, supid part of you would invite him inside. Locking and bolting the door, you take a deep breath, allowing one, two, three long seconds to pass before you dare look through your peep-hole to see if that action alone had been enough to keep the wolf from your door.

Forehead thumping against the door at the realization he’s gone, you take a deep breath in the hopes that it will cure you of this tension he’s set in your shoulders.

Your apartment looks too similar for the shifting in your stomach. Too much has changed too quickly, and in your efforts to maintain your life as closely as you could to what it was before these events were set into motion, not even your unaffected home could save you from this feeling that things would never be the same again. That you would never be the same again, once the chips fall where they may.

Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, you push yourself from the door, and this spell he’s cast over you. Emptying your coat pockets on your kitchen counter, you put your wallet and keys aside in order to sort through the discharge paperwork from the hospital, reading over the vague home-care instructions they had given you which amounted to little more than you already knew. You’re on the third page when the business card falls from between the papers, and you’re left staring at the name printed there.

Carol Danvers

Picking it up with your nails, you flick the card absentmindedly, wondering if it was even smart to hold onto it at all, or if throwing it into the trash was the dumbest option you could take. Misty had tried to get through to you as a friend, and it hadn’t worked, so now she was sending in the big guns.

Really, did she even have a say in what the FBI did? You remember from that fragment of a conversation you never should have heard that Bucky had told Stokes something about a task-force out in Harlem making trouble for him. Were Agent Danvers, Agent Fury, and Misty all part of that same task force he mentioned?

You refused to believe it was a coincidence.

But you have no idea what to do about it right now. You don’t think there’s anything to be done about it, at least not by you.

So, you decide to tuck the business card in your wallet among the gift cards you still haven’t used since your last birthday. Squirreling it away just as you had the wire that Misty left you with.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The rest of the midday consists of peeling off your over-worn clothing, and throwing everything into your wash, along with the shirt you’d successfully stolen from Barnes. Scrutinizing every scratch and bruise on your body came next, and then changing the dressing on your skull as you carefully washed the hair around the stitches there.

By the time you’re through, it’s near five o’clock, and while you would love nothing more than to crawl onto your couch and veg out, there’s something more pressing you feel you have to do.

⤜♚⤛

The gift shop is more like a highway robbery. Fifty bucks for flowers, balloons, a card, and a stuffed bear? Ridiculous, but you’re either a schmuck or a sucker, because you fork it over nonetheless when the receptionist rings you up.

The bear isn’t even a bear. It’s a panda, and you sigh as you look down at the items you’ve acquired when you find partial solitude in the elevator. Was it too much? You were second-guessing yourself, now.

But when the floors ding off, you have only a split second to decide if you truly want to do this before the doors threateningly begin to slide shut once more. Catching it just in time, you push your way out, along with your myriad of presents.

Fuck, you didn’t even know if they allowed gifts like these in the ICU. You hadn’t thought that far ahead.

You feel like a damn idiot as you walk the same path as last night once again, tunnel vision only easing when you’re standing out front of the push-button double doors. Deep breath. You reach out and push it.

The beeps are just as familiar as they are foreign, breathing whooshes of the ventilators accompanying the atmosphere of this place, but in the setting daylight, you notice it’s busier than it had been the night before.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asks an older nurse with pulled back box braids from beyond the counter at the central nurse’s station.

“Oh, yeah, I’m visiting Peter…”

“Last name?”

It takes you a second, “Parker. Peter Parker. He is still here, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. Technically, we’re only supposed to allow two visitors at a time during visiting hours, but if you’re going to be quick, I’ll let you go back,” she offers kindly, and you nod. You didn’t need long. You just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“I’ll only be a second,” you agree, before she points you around to the same room he had been stationed in the night before. As you move around the ICU, you spot the room, now curtained, and the large hulk of a man standing beside the door to it.

He squints at your approach, before recognition eases his brow, “Oh, you.”

“Drax, wasn’t it?”

“That’s me,” Drax nods towards the items in your hands. “Boss send you down with those?”

“No, actually, I was just hoping to deliver them myself, for the kid… if that’s alright.”

He grunts, frowning, “Not supposed to let anyone in that the Boss hasn’t approved.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Can you just put these things in there for me, then?” you offer him the get-well-soon items, and Drax raises a brow. “I just… don’t want him to wake up to an empty room when he does, you know?”

“I don’t know. The boss said—”

The sound of metal against metal catches your attention when the curtain is pushed open, the same petite woman from last night staring out at you with a questioning gaze, before realization dawns upon her, “You’re that girl from last night. You were there when it happened, weren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I was,” you supply awkwardly, and Peter’s aunt sighs with all the exhaustion it takes to wave off the guard at the door.

“Oh, let her in, Drax. She wouldn’t have blown herself up, now, would she?”

“I… guess not, Aunt May,” he concedes, and she waves you into the room.

“That one doesn’t have a whole lot going on between the ears, but he’s just a big teddy bear when you get to know him,” May moves around the bedside, returning to a small packet that she uses to produce lubrication for the boy’s lips. Glancing towards where you linger along the outskirts of the bed, she nods to the corner of the cramped room, “You can put all that near the window. That way he can see it when he wakes up. I know he’ll love it. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, I just… wanted him to know people were thinking about him,” you supply weakly, gingerly placing your various items on the small windowsill there. May was still carefully treating his lips around the endotracheal tube, and if the various wires and low rhythm of the ventilator weren’t there, you could almost believe Peter to be sleeping.

His head is bandaged, but from beneath the bandage comes another tube, hooked to some sort of draining mechanism on the other side of the bed. It must be the product of that surgery he had last night. One thing stood out to you, more than anything else, and that was how small he looked laying there. He was nowhere near the man he so desperately wanted to pretend to be.

May breaks you from your solemn observation of the boy, “I’m sorry, do you mind if I ask you something?”

Catching her brown-eyed stare, you nod, “Sure.”

“The other boys… I know they won’t give me an honest answer, but… was it— do you know if he was in a lot of pain, when he was on the street?” her question punches you in the gut, pushes all the air from your lungs and leaves you empty.

You gape like a fish for the moments it takes to collect yourself, and you avoid her stare when you reply, “Honestly? From what I remember of it, he was already unconscious. No… I don’t think he even saw it coming.”

She hums, tucking the blanket around him like a mother would her child, smiling weakly when she confesses, “That’s good. He wasn’t scared, then.”

Trying your best to swallow the lump in your throat, you aren’t ashamed when your voice shakes, “I’ve heard that sometimes people in comas can hear what’s going on around them, so right now, he might know you’re here with him. That you’re taking care of him. I might not know him as well as everyone else does, but I do know that kid loves you with his whole heart. There’s no way you can’t know that, if you’ve met him at all. I’m sure it makes him happy, having you here with him now.”

May looks towards you once more, hopeful, as if she wants to believe you, “I hope he can hear. He needs to know how much he matters.”

Silently, you nod, before reaching out to offer her the card, “This is for when he wakes up, but if you need anything, my number’s in there, too. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, but I’m just a call away, okay?”

“That’s awfully nice of you to offer to someone you barely know,” she begins, somewhat skeptical, but takes the card from you anyway.

“I know what it’s like to try to make it on your own.”

“You don’t know what I’m going through.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m only offering what I can, if you figure you need some extra help, aside from that big lug at the door,” a bittersweet smile cracks on your face. “But, I better go before the nurse comes in here and shoos me out. There’s only supposed to be two visitors at a time, technically.”

Before you’re past the curtain, her voice catches you, and you turn to find her reading your name from your signature at the bottom of the card, “Thank you for coming by to check on him. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Something told me I did.”

The path back through the hospital is something you’re starting to remember automatically by your fourth time through its curving, winding halls. It takes three stops by subway to get back to Hell’s Kitchen, and when you do, you find yourself taking your time down the brisque city streets.

The air’s getting colder as the hour passes, the threat of winter looming ever closer, and by the time you’re once again standing in front of your building, the sun has gone all the way down.

Barnes had said not to worry about tonight, but you weren’t sure if that meant you were off the hook or not. You wished he would leave and never come back, that he could take this uncertainty swirling in your chest along with him when he did, but it’s too late for that now.

The on-edge feeling returns as the evening hours tick by, until you’re barely able to enjoy the reruns you’ve taken to watching on your couch. Tension seeping into your skin until the way you constantly check your phone every thirty minutes to check the time gives away your anticipation of his possible arrival.

It’s past nine when you hear the rap at your door, and the way you nearly jump out of your skin is enough reason to thank the heavens that no one is around to see you do it. It might not even be him—

A glance through your peep-hole proves that thought incorrect, because there he stands in a leather jacket. More casual than you expected him to be with the jeans along his hips. Fuck, you’re still in the sweats you threw on after your shower, having been too ambiguous about his arrival to decide on a proper outfit—

Hesitantly, you unbolt and unlock the door, swinging it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the plastic bag he holds in his hand.

Barnes still looks like sin when his teeth cut in a grin at the sight of you, even with the bruising and cuts on his face. It makes him look somehow even more dangerous than he already did, in the low fluorescent lights of your building’s hallway. Lifting up his hand to dangle the plastic bag between you, you make out the unmistakable shapes of the to-go boxes nestled within.

“Told you it would be low-key,” he juts his chin upwards slightly, motioning for you to open the door wider. “Let me in.”

You do as you’re told, but mostly because whatever he’s carrying smells heavenly, “Didn’t you want to eat out, though?”

“Nah,” brushing past you, he spots your kitchen easily enough, placing the bag on the counter like he owns the place, “could barely stand to sit through the full meeting, with how long it wound up taking. Besides, you said you were sore, right?”

Upon re-locking your door again, you meet his raised brow, “Yeah.”

“Hope you like shawarma, ‘cause that’s all we got,” he grins, pulling the boxes out of the bag as you come closer to examine the food. You should be more uneasy with his presence here, but maybe you’ve become numb to the feeling. Perhaps it’s simply your new baseline, now, and you’re unaware of it.

Or, maybe, you don’t mind him as much in this moment as you used to.

He offers you a plate, “This one’s yours, doll,” and you take it from him like he doesn’t completely baffle you at every chance he gets. Looking towards the television, he asks, “What’re you watching?”

“Oh… reruns of some old show, but I wasn’t paying much attention, I’m afraid,” moving towards the couch while he finishes up grabbing his own plate, you tuck your legs under the box of food. You can’t help but wonder, “Aren’t you supposed to be under, like, constant guard or something, after last night?”

“Yeah, Steve’s sitting out there watching the place.”

“He’s just sitting in the car?” there’s no hiding the amusement in your voice. “Isn’t that kind of mean to just leave him there?”

“I could invite him up here, if you’re so worried about him, doll,” Bucky grins back at you, watching you lean back into the cushions with a snort.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So she does have a mean streak,” sitting his plate down on your coffee table, he sinks into the couch beside you. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“I’m not the one who left him in the car.”

Bucky’s shrugging off his jacket, draping it over the arm of your couch, “He’s not a dog on a hot summer day. Plus, the car’s on. I think he can handle himself for a couple hours while we eat.”

“Two meals in one day,” the smile on your lips is as genuine as they come, peeling open the plate of food to properly appraise it. You had to admit, it looked good. He’s begun to pick apart his own plate when you decide to tease him a little, “If I knew all I had to do to pay off my debt was let you feed me, I’d have sent you a grocery bill sooner.”

The initial bite of your wrap silences you and he shoots back, “If I knew all I had to do to keep that smart mouth of yours quiet was to stuff it full, I’d have done that sooner, too.” The mischievous glint in his eye is all it takes for you to know that he’s exactly aware of the double entendre in his words. It takes all you have not to choke on your bite before you wash it down with your drink.

“Gross,” you huff around a giggle when you catch a breath of air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, taking his own bite of his wrap.

The evening dissolves like this, and you hate to admit that it’s… pleasant. Talking and occasionally joking back and forth with him is dangerous, because he seems almost likable. As if he’s just a regular guy on a laid-back date. As if he didn’t have a disproportionate amount of control when it came to every interaction you had with him.

As if this weren’t the cost of a debt beyond your control, but as the night wears on, you start to wonder if that’s really the reason he was sitting here with you now. Surely there are other women he could be with. Women who don’t owe him practically anything he wants from them.

You should be thankful that all he wants from you right now is your company. That should be enough, but in the back of your mind, the thought crawls up your neck, planting the seed of uncertainty there. Of questioning.

And you know asking questions will only serve to get you even deeper into this mess.

The only question you should want to ask him is how much longer until your debt is paid, but that one— perhaps the most important question in your life right now— is far away from you tonight. Instead, a far more treacherous question eats at your thoughts.

Is there some part of him, perhaps the part that made him come here tonight, that might care a thing about you?

You shouldn’t wish for it. You shouldn’t want it. You shouldn’t want him, or want him to want you, but damn it if you haven’t become a complete mess in the head, ever since you first met him.

And when the dinner’s over and done with. When he’s leaning against your couch with you settled into his side, the reason you let him kiss you again is more than just the score you have to settle.

That realization is more terrifying than he ever could be.

His lips, his hands, his body pressing you into your couch— he’s all consuming. Burning away every shred of good sense you have left, and the butterflies in your stomach scream out how you’re in too deep for your own good— drowning in him in more ways than one. The Devil is supposed to be charming, though, isn’t he?

If he’s the Devil, you’re already falling.

Metal and flesh have become so familiar to you that you think it would be strange for two warm hands to touch you at the same time. The scrape of his beard is a map that you’re certain you could trace with your eyes closed. It’s already certain to you that he’s utterly ruined you, in just the short time you’ve known him.

Is it possible for a week to feel like a lifetime? Maybe you are completely insane.

His breath is warm as he kisses you into the couch, gasping into your lips when you tug gently at the dark hair of his head. You’re on the verge of doing anything he asks, when his lips part from yours to trail across your cheek, gently avoiding your bruised temple.

“Ask me to stay,” he murmurs into your ear, and you try to hang onto the last shred of your dignity at the sound of it.

“You can’t,” pushing against his chest, you’re desperate to distance yourself. To try and breathe a single breath of air that doesn’t smell like him, “Steve’s outside. He’ll be sitting out there all night if you stay. I’m mean, but I’m not that mean.”

He has checkmate when he counters, “Then pack a bag, and come home with me.”

Your eyes flutter open, staring up at him in the dim cast of light from the television and your kitchen light. There’s no teasing smirk on his lips, no evidence that he was simply trying to pull another one of those reactions he liked to get from you. He’s serious, and while it’s an offer, it’s not a question.

You’re nearly sobered by it, “What did you say?”

His hands find your thighs, still flanking his hips, giving you a squeeze to punctuate, “Grab a duffel, throw what you need in it, and let’s go.”

A refusal buds in the back of your throat, but what falls from your lips is, “Only for tonight.”

His noncommittal, “Sure,” convinces neither of you, but when he kisses you again, you’re too distracted to care.

He waits on the couch as you dump out your gym bag’s random contents onto your bed. Not wanting to stay for too long to start overthinking this more than questionable decision on your part, you hurry to sling some clothes in your bag, along with the bare necessities you would need to keep your third walk of shame less shameful.

Pausing in your bathroom, you glance towards the cabinet, the thought of Misty’s wire coming to mind once more, but you shake that off almost as soon as it comes. You were not going to get involved.

Flipping the light off, you grab your phone and wallet to stuff into your duffel, and by the time you’re back in the living room he’s standing in front of your door. Staring at you with an expectation that you’ll follow him from the safety of your home, into the night.

“Ready, doll?”

You’re already too involved with him as it is.

“Ready.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes has a way with manipulating his way into getting what he wants, and before you know what’s properly happening, one night has turned into two, and a lazy weekend spent between his home and accompanying his visits to the hospital flies by you in a way that’s strangely comfortable. As if bending to his whim is becoming somewhat natural with the passing days, and any discomfort at the idea of that dissolves when you think that maybe your increased time spent with him will absolve you of your debt all the more quickly.

The most baffling part of all of this is that, over those two days, save for a little hot and heavy kissing or teasing, Barnes hadn’t initiated anything more intimate than that. You don’t know if it’s because he was more injured from the explosion than he let on, or what, but it left you with time spent… unpressured. Less performance anxiety, at the very least, followed you through the weekend, lulling you into a state that was… almost, relaxed, in a way.

Truthfully, you’re satisfied with wasting the weekend away with him, refusing to question the moments he’s pulled away by either Sam or Steve for some sort of business not meant for your ears. Still, it’s clear they’re still working through the weekend, and even when one is keeping watch of their boss, the other is doing something. Your guess is on them investigating who was after Bucky, but you have no concrete evidence of what they were truly doing.

It’s just past noon on Sunday that he finds you in his bathroom, shoving your toiletries back into your gym bag, “Going somewhere?”

“Just getting ready to go home,” you say as if it’s obvious. This was already a day longer than you had initially agreed to, and on top of your seriously diminishing wardrobe which currently consisted of another of his stolen t-shirts and your recycled pants, you had other matters to worry about, “I have work in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says quickly, somehow entertained by your announcement, “so you literally almost get blown up, and you want to go back to work on Monday?”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury to not go to work on Monday, Buck,” you sigh, tugging your bag onto your shoulder once you zip it up. “I’ve got bills to pay legitimately. I can’t just miss work, or they’ll fire me, and I worked hard to get this secretary job.”

“Okay, I hear you,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders as if to calm your insistent tone. Raising one finger between you to pause your thought, he continues, “Hear me out, though. I’m sure they’ll understand if you need a few days off after going through what you did.”

“My boss isn’t the understanding type—”

“I could pull some strings—”

“Oh, really?” raising a brow, you place your hand on your hip in disbelief. “What kind of strings are you going to pull in an elementary school, Bucky. Gonna’ start strong-arming third-graders?”

“I have all kinds of strings I can pull, if you want me to… all you have to do is ask nicely.”

The taste of skepticism on your tongue, you search his amused gaze for an answer, “And what is this going to cost me?”

“Not anything that you can’t make up to me,” he grins, and you’re left chewing the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling reflexively.

“You won’t hurt any of these strings you’re gonna’ pull, right?”

Bucky’s metal hand comes to his chest, as if he’s hurt you’d accuse him of such a thing, “What am I, a common criminal?”

“No, you’re worse,” you step into his teasing with equal strides, in a way that you’ve come to realize is safe to do. The man who was once entirely unreadable to you had somewhat become understandable, at least at times like this, when his smile reached his eyes.

“Ouch,” he calls after you as you slip away from him, following not far behind your stride into the bedroom to search for any of the items you might have missed. He halts your scrutiny with a blatant step into your line of sight, “I still haven’t heard you ask me nicely, doll.”

Testing the water, you dare to be bold— to throw some of this tension he’s wound in you over these past two days back at him.

Slipping close, just a breath away from him, you all but purr, “Do you want me to get on my knees for you first?”

His grin falters, lips parting, and for once you relish in genuinely shocking this man who consistently seemed prepared for anything you could ever do. You even think you see a hint of a blush, before he clears his throat.

“Doll, you can’t go around just saying things like that to me…”

“And here I thought you wanted me to ask you nicely,” you hum, edging closer.

“You’re still a little too bruised up for all that, don’t you think?”

Oh, so that’s what this was about. Some sort of twisted guilt that he had for your injuries? Or… did he not find you as attractive with the healing bruises along your face?

Either option stings your pride, and has you leaning away from him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just wouldn’t want to tear open your stitches.”

Swallowing down the urge to verbalize the insecurities jumbling around in your head for fear of genuinely irking him, you blandly ask, “Will you please help me get off work this week?” If there’s any evidence that your change in tone is deeper than the act of it you put on, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Bucky taps beneath your chin with his index finger gently, “Hey, try to sound at least a little enthusiastic about it.” Forcing a smile, he buys it just enough to allow you out of this conversation, “Let me go make a call, then I’ll get you home.”

You don’t know who he called, but it must have been one hell of a person with pull, because it’s barely eight on Monday morning when you’re woken up from a dead sleep in your own bed by a call from your boss, gushing about how terrible an ordeal you’ve been through. Better yet, you suddenly had enough PTO that your whole week off would be covered.

Thanking your boss as professionally as you could considering the groggy haze you were in, you dissolve back into your empty bed and try not to think about Barnes’ comments on your face. It might sound vapid, but it’s been bothering you ever since he left you at home last night. Sure, he’d taken the chance to kiss you senseless again before he left, but still.

You’d never had a problem being left untouched before now, but nearly every second you spent with him was a constant tease, and after his rejection yesterday, your mind was going down the path of worst-case-scenarios. What if he was starting to find you boring? Unattractive? What if he was getting tired of you entirely? What if that made it harder to pay your debt off? What if— What if—

Distance, that’s exactly what you need right now. Space to clear your head once again from him like you had last time. Everything would be just fine after a couple of days spent alone—

Easier said than done, when he’s calling you right now. You contemplate ignoring the vibrating phone when you see his name there. You could wallow in your own private self-pity a moment longer, if you did.

Just when you’re about to answer, it goes to voicemail, and you’re left relieved that the universe has chosen your fate for you.

Until he starts ringing you again. This time you answer.

“Mmm, Bucky?” you know you sound groggy. You don’t particularly care.

“Doll, did your work call? They’re supposed to let you off—”

“Mhm,” you sigh into the phone, stretching your tired bones and letting out a slight whimper in response. “My boss just did. I’m off the whole week. It’s even paid. Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” he chuckles low into the phone, and you’re left wondering if he’s still in bed like you are, or is he doing that early-riser thing he seems to favor?

You hate that you know that about him.

“Yeah,” it comes out a sigh again, “thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he sounds so proud of himself. “Feel free to show your appreciation the next time you see me.” How dare he say things like that. He’s nothing but audacity, making your mind race with ideas fed solely by the memories he’s provided you with, only to turn you away like he doesn’t want you anymore.

You dare to ask, if only for a chance at reading his meaning, “And how should I do that, do you think?” He’s silent for longer than it should take to answer you, so you call his name. Had you been disconnected?

“I’m here… uh,” he breathes into the phone, softening his tone even lower as if to keep the conversation private, “I can think of a few ways.” If he didn’t want you, then what’s with that tone?

“Tell me.”

“It can wait until you’re better—”

Rolling your eyes, you huff into the phone, settling your other hand along your stomach, “When I do get better I’m just going to write you a thank-you note and call it a day at this rate.”

The sound of his chuckle settles into your chest, “That’s not quite what I’ve got in mind, doll.”

“Spell it out for me,” you taunt, using his own words against him. “You gotta’ tell me what you want, or you’ll never get it.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?”

“Some tight-lipped jerk told me something like that, once.”

He sighs into the phone, like he’s exasperated with you, but there’s also a hint of something electric there. Some kind of excitement that carries through the phone when he finally gives into your temptation.

“You really want me to tell you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“This early in the morning?”

“Mhm…”

“I don’t know, I’m a busy man… might not have time to detail everything to you.”

“Bucky, I’m this close to hanging up on you—”

There’s his laughter again, and it cuts right through you like butter. The man was a tease. That’s what he was, and you were falling for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Hold on.”

You groan at the sound of his order, utterly fed up with him, but you don’t dare hang up. Not when the possibility of him spelling out exactly what he wants from you is within your reach. Staring at the ceiling, you lick your lips, and listen to the muffled sounds that you can’t make out on the other end of the line.

His breathing returns, closer this time, “I’m back.”

“And I’m still waiting,” you whine. You can practically taste the anticipation.

Bucky hums into the phone, “I don’t know, I can get pretty creative when I want to be.”

“Give me an example.”

“I’d like to see you on your knees again, just like you offered to.”

You have to bite down to keep from making some silly noise of excitement into the phone, “Oh? Here I thought you didn’t like that.”

“Doll,” it sounds chastising, nearly a growl, “you should know better than that.”

“And when I’m on my knees for you, then what?” your fingertips move along your stomach, southward at the sound of his voice. You don’t care if it’s selfish, the sound of the slight breathlessness in his voice is twisting the knot in your stomach.

“You looked so pretty with my dick down your throat, so I figured we could start there.”

“I wish I could taste you right now,” you confess quietly into the receiver, pushing your fingers beneath the elastic of your sleep shorts when you hear a responsive murmur in return.

“Yeah? I bet you’d take it all, wouldn’t you? You did so well last time,” his voice is getting lower, more raspy, and it’s making you insane as you drag your fingers through your wetness like he had in the past. Shutting your eyes, it’s almost like you can imagine him there with you now.

“You wanna’ get me messy again, huh, Bucky?” your voice hitches as you roll soft circles on your clit. “I’ll be good for you.”

“You’re always good for me,” there’s a groan in his voice. “I want you to beg me to make you cum, doll.” His words have you flushing from head to toe, heat pulsing through you in time with your increasingly hasty fingers between your thighs, and you can’t help the moan you try to muffle against the pillow. “I want to watch when you do. Do you know what seeing you walk around all weekend in my shirts did to me, knowing I couldn’t touch you?”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you worse.”

His words sober you, but only just enough to murmur into the phone, “I’m not that easy to break, Bucky. I would’ve let you have me.”

“I know you would have. You like it, yeah? You like when I touch you?”

You grit your teeth. It shouldn’t be hard to say it. It’s not like it wasn’t entirely obvious by now. It’s not as if you weren’t actively exchanging your fantasies of him with your hand buried between your legs right this instant.

Bucky doesn’t let up, “You’d like me to fuck you right now, wouldn’t you?” A swipe of your thumb puts him on speaker, and then your other hand dives beneath the sheets to join the first. This time, you can’t muffle your whimper.

“You’re touching yourself right now, aren’t you, doll?” the way his endearment for you rolls from his tongue should be illegal. It sounds as close to a purr as you’ve ever heard him, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice at having caught you red-handed. “C’mon, you can tell me.”

“Y-Yes,” you breathe around a whimper, and your lungs nearly close up entirely when you hear the faint sound of a zipper in the background.

“Shoulda’ told me sooner,” he pants, and you know he’s doing it too. “You’re so lucky I’m not in Manhattan right now. You’d really get it for starting without me.”

God, he’s completely melted your brain. That’s the only explanation for the reason his words alone are getting you so worked up.

“I can’t help it,” you turn over onto your stomach, hoisting yourself to your knees until your face is tilted towards the phone from the pillow it rests upon. “I need you so bad right now.”

“I know you do. Fuck your fingers like it’s me,” his breathing is speeding up, and you can’t stop the mewl that escapes you when your fingers dip into your entrance. Stretching yourself in as closely a mimicry of his own ministrations, you’re going mad here by yourself.

“I want to sit on your lap,” the thoughts spill from you, as you desperately chase the end of this moment with him, relishing in the moans that are spilling from his own lips at this point. “Ride you like that time… when we were on my couch, I wanted it then, too.”

“Doll, ah, fuck,” he trails off.

“And the way your beard feels on my skin— whenever you’re kissing me, I’m only thinking about what you feel like inside me,” this time you’re certain he whimpers. “Bucky, I don’t care who sees—” His breath hitches, a soft moan spilling from his throat before there’s even a chance at biting it back, before he dissolves into heavy breaths, and you can’t help but to ask, “Did you cum? Did I make you cum?” You don’t care how needy you sound, or if he can possibly hear how wet you are as your fingers desperately try to compensate for the lack of him.

His voice sounds utterly wrecked when he finally responds, “Yeah, you did. Fuck’s sake, you’re driving me crazy over here.” He’s closer to the phone now, voice coming in clearer beside your ears, “Tell me you’re close, doll. You go ahead and cum for me.”

You’re near drooling as you whine, “I can’t— I can’t take it—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmurs, and it sounds so low, so dangerously close, that you can nearly imagine him right behind you as he says it. “You’ll take it all. I’ll make sure of it—”

His name breaks in the back of your throat, bit down against a pillow as you try your best not to scream your way through the grind of your fingertips at your clit. You all but collapse with the weakness that settles over you in the immediate aftermath of your orgasm, and by the time the ringing in your ears dulls, you realize he’s coaxing you through it on the phone.

“---did so well. I knew you would. I bet you look amazing right now—”

“Bucky,” it’s nearly a whisper, and that’s all you can do to alleviate the confession in your chest, “I wish you were here.”

His laughter is more breathless this time, and there’s a dark promise that sends arousal seeping through your skin once again when he hums, “Trust me on this, no you don’t.”

There’s no energy left in you to argue with him, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do that,” he lingers, probably in just as much a stunningly blissful state as you were right now. It clearly takes a second for him to gather his thoughts, “Damn, I’m supposed to go help Steve and Sam with something, but you’ve completely derailed me.”

“This early?”

“It’s the city that never sleeps.”

“Well, the city may not sleep, but I sure do,” you don’t think you’ll be getting up any time soon after that.

“Then, I probably should leave you to it, huh?”

“Mhm… I guess so…”

He sighs into the phone, “You enjoy your time off, okay? I’ll see you in a day or two.”

“Busy, busy, huh?”

“Hmm, yeah. Business and pleasure don’t mix, unfortunately.”

You raise your brow, “Well, sometimes they do…”

You can practically hear the gears in his head turning, until you hear the amusement that accompanies, “Touché.”

“Hang up, Bucky. Steve and Sam are waiting for you.”

“Right… yeah, I probably should. I’ll call you later,” you don’t dare think that he sounds like he wants to linger longer, even if there’s barely a single thought in either one of your heads right now.

“Bye, Bucky,” you sigh, swiping your phone off the bed to hold closer.

“Try to not miss me too much,” he manages, and before you can get the last word, the line goes dead. Groaning, you toss your phone to the other side of the bed. You know you’re playing right into what he wants, but it was starting to become damn enjoyable.

Turns out, “a day or two” was more appropriately described as several days, because when Barnes showed up again, three days had passed. That’s not to say you spent the entirety of those days waiting listlessly by the phone. That time off was spent with you finally doing the things you enjoyed, as well as some errands here and there. Your bruises were starting to yellow, some of your scratches were nearly healed, and the stitches along your forehead were bound to come out any day now. The calls you did happen to receive from him had been shorter than the one on Monday, and less filled with pent-up frustration, but that didn’t mean that by the time you saw him you weren’t wound up.

Barnes shows up out of nowhere, not long after six in the evening, and when you wrench your front door open upon realizing it was him knocking, it takes only a split second to realize he was staring at you like a man starved. You barely have the time to breathe his name past your lips before his hands find your jaw, dragging you up to his lips with a haste that would have had you collapsing, were it not for the long form of him against you.

Walking you back into your apartment, he kicks the door closed with his boot before abandoning one side of your face for the breath it takes for him to fumble blindly behind himself and click turn the lock. The bolt would have to wait, it seemed.

He leaves you lightheaded, as his lips and tongue drag one kiss out into another, one of his hands migrating into your hair only to tug your head back, allowing him the access to your neck he desires. You’re pliable, putty in his hands.

“Bucky,” rips from your lungs, “what—?”

“Doll, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” is all the explanation he supplies before you shiver in his hold, the drag of his lips down your throat just as good as if he’d set you on fire personally. You thought you’d cooled off some with the days spent apart, but just like that you’re consumed with him all over again.

“If you don’t throw together your bag in the next minute, I’m going to take you right here, and if I do that, then Steve’ll be waiting all night in the car, and I know how much you worry about him,” Bucky teases, straightening up just enough to brush his lips against yours before releasing you entirely. For a moment, you stand there staring at him in a daze, trying to process what he’s just said, until he lifts his wrist and begins counting, “One, two—”

“Wait, like an overnight bag? Like last time?” you try to clarify and he smirks.

“Yeah, exactly like last time,” part of you wonders if he’ll keep his word were you to stall him, but at the sound of his pointed, “nine, ten… you better start packing… thirteen, fourteen,” you know he’s entirely serious.

“Gimme a minute—” you squeal before turning on your heel, trying your hardest to remember where all your crap is as fast as you can.

Bucky calls after you, a hint of laughter on his tongue, “You have forty-five seconds.”

You barely make the timer, but you’re certain that you’ve forgotten something important in your haste to meet him back at the door in the nick of time. He drags you back into his arms, kissing you deeply once more, before gesturing you out the door.

“Let’s go. You’ve got a long night ahead of you for that little stunt you pulled on Monday.”

He was right, too, and the worst part was trying your hardest to keep from letting Steve— and then Sam, when he switched out security at eight— from hearing every little cry or whimper that Bucky mercilessly wrenched from you. You’re certain he was working out more than just the pent-up result of your phone sex, because you may as well have been left entirely boneless by the time he was through with you. There had to be more to it than that, and you had a gut feeling it was due to a week’s worth of investigating the bombing with little progress, because if there had been progress, wouldn’t Sam and Steve be off security detail by now?

Bucky doesn’t tell you anything about it, and you don’t ask. You doubt he’d answer even if you did.

Instead, you settle into his side, and content yourself with your simple lot in life… for now.

It’s nearly five in the morning when you’re jolted awake. There’s a pitiful, soft groaning that sounds throughout the bedroom, and it takes you a moment to realize it’s coming from the man beside you.

“Nnn… Rebecca…” has you sitting up, flicking on the dim bedside table lamp to get a better sight of him. “No,” he struggles, slurred and smudged between his lips as he fights through whatever dream— or rather, nightmare— had claimed him. There’s a cold sweat on his brow, and while you’ve seen him in the midst of a nightmare before, this time it’s different.

His whole body is clenched, wrestling with the sheets at random as pained murmurs pass his lips before another, barely audible call of a name, “Becca…”

You reach for him before you think better of it, calling his name as you try to shake him awake, but instead of catching you by your wrist like last time, this time vibranium fingers catch you at your throat. You’re beneath him before you even realize what’s happening. Blinking up, at the confused, wild eyes of the man above you. Struggling to breathe. Choking around his grip.

“It… Bucky—” you barely manage around his closing grip, before the glassy stare in his eyes fades as he blinks down at you, realizing what he was doing. He releases you like he’s been burned, pushing himself off of you nearly as fast as he had pinned you down with a sharp gasp. Trying to catch your breath, you hear his shocked repetitions of an apology, before you manage to push yourself up on the bed.

“I’m sorry— God— Fuck— I’m sorry— I’m sorry—”

You’d gotten too comfortable, too complacent in whatever façade he had shown you over this past week, but that shaking, icy fear that chased up your spine now was as close to the truth of him as you can believe. He reaches for you, and you flinch towards the headboard before you can school your emotions. There’s no burying the terror in your eyes this time.

Bucky all but scrambles away from you until he’s reached the edge of the bed, recoiling from your reaction. Turning to sit his whole body off the edge of it, as if that will give you both the time it takes to compose yourselves.

Your throat is sore, by the time your breathing slows from its desperate wrenching of oxygen through your mouth. The threat to run slips through your addled mind before you manage to calm yourself enough to not shake entirely when you move away from the headboard.

Bucky is still tangled in the sheet, his head in his hands, and he is trembling.

“Bucky,” you try, but there’s a somewhat hoarse edge to your voice, and he tenses at the sound of it. You’re hesitant to touch him again, so you ghost around the edges of his space. “Bucky,” you clear your throat, and that almost fixes your tone. “C’mon, Bucky, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, and with the dark shadow cast over it, you can’t help but think he looks like a fallen angel. A peculiar, foreign brand of terror that you’re entirely unequipped to handle stares back at you, nearly as deep as the pit of regret that, for once, is openly exposed for your perusal. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to hide it in this moment, or if he’s completely lost all control of his ability to do so.

His mask is gone, for the moment you ask him, “Are you okay?”

Irritation flashes, then he scoffs, “I hurt you,” with all the venom it takes to push another person away.

Still, you sit there, “You… didn’t mean to… right?”

“Fuck, you aren’t even certain about it,” he shakes his head, and once again his eyes are shielded in his hands. Anger radiates from him, but there’s a hurt, defensive edge to it. Ready to lash out like a cornered animal, when given no other option but to fight their way out.

You’re silent for too long, and when you do finally speak, the wrong question comes tumbling from your clumsy lips, “Who is Rebecca?”

He almost stops breathing entirely, before glancing towards you, “What?”

“Rebecca?” you stupidly blunder onwards, thundering all over the eggshells laid between you when you continue, “You were calling for her in your sleep.”

“She’s no one,” it’s a lie, and for once you hate that you’re able to read him so openly, when all this time you’ve been begging for the ability to do just that.

“I was just—”

“Just drop it!” his voice raises, biting at the person who’s cornered him in. Screaming, “Damn it! Can’t you just mind your own business for once?!”

There’s a specific kind of defeat which washes through you so quickly that it’s somehow faster than the immense regret that swells in his eyes when he dares to look at you again. You fight to keep the tears from welling up, but they’re blurring your vision before you can even escape his bed entirely.

Bucky reaches out as you try to stand, catching you by your forearm, voice heavy with grief, “Wait—” but you snatch away from him, despite knowing that if he had truly wished to keep his grip, he could have done so far easier than you could have broken away from it. He calls your name softly, like a wounded creature would cry out for help, and you try to keep the tears from falling, but they have a mind of their own, and an intent to blaze their way to the floor with one destructive streak along your face.

“No,” you step away from him, from the bed, backing towards the door. Before he can fully evoke whatever words are forming on his parted lips, that traitorous reflex to run creeps into your very soul, and this time you have the good sense to listen to it. Darting down the hallway, you don’t stop at the stairs, or the living room, you don’t tuck yourself into the coat closet, or pause in the small hallway that your feet lead you through.

You don’t stop until you find yourself cornered in the kitchen, choosing to fall to pieces against that beautiful marble-topped counter, sinking to the floor. Knowing you’ll look nothing near as pristine by the time you’re through.

You just need to cool off. To collect yourself. To fit these feelings back into the box they crawled out of, but you can’t possibly do that sitting by his side. You barely can regulate your own emotions, let alone that of one of the most dangerous men in Brooklyn.

The violence, the yelling, the uncanny similarity of the upheaval of that same feeling of walking on eggshells that had followed you most of your childhood— it turned out to be too much, and now you were sobbing your eyes out on this spotless tile floor.

You’re still trying to piece yourself back together— grasp one shred of composure— when the sound of someone approaching takes your breath away. Forces you to reflexively minimize yourself, but hoping whoever it is will move along without noticing you is too much wishful thinking.

“Shit!” Sam jumps like he’s been startled, upon rounding the corner of the island counter, not having expected you there, “What are you doing on the floor?” It takes him all of two seconds to roughly appraise your emotional state, and his voice changes accordingly, kneeling slowly with a hesitant, “Hey, woah, what’s goin’ on?”

“N-Nothing,” you try your best to keep it in. But when Sam reaches a finger out to carefully push away your hair from obstructing his view of your neck, the tears well up all over again.

“What happened?” it’s firmer this time, that same authoritative voice he had used when you were lying in the middle of the street after the car bomb, and all your resolve crumbles under the weight of it.

“I don’t think he meant to,” is your hiccupped excuse, before the whole story gushes from you through the blubbering expression of a hysterical woman. Sam listens, sitting on the floor beside you throughout it.

When you finish, he settles his chin in his hands, and sighs, “Rebecca, huh? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Who… is she?” you carefully ask, and Sam frowns at the question.

“Don’t know if it’s my place really, but it’s not exactly a secret, either…” rubbing his hands on his sweats, he sighs, “I figure you deserve to know, considering…” Leaning against the cabinets, he explains, “Rebecca was Barnes’ older sister.” Was lingers heavily in the air, but you’re too worried about evening out your breathing to question him on it, “He doesn’t talk about her anymore. At least, I haven’t heard him talk about her in years. Steve says he still visits her grave on her birthday, and during Hanukkah, but other than that… Bucky isn’t really an open book when it comes to things like this.

“Steve knew ‘em both, back before the army. That’s where I wound up meeting them, though. From what I understand of it, they had a hard time as kids, and when she aged out of foster care the army was pretty much her only viable option. Bucky signed up more to keep tabs on her, rather than because he wanted to,” Sam goes on, and you don’t know why it surprises you that Bucky lied… or at least omitted some pretty important details, but it does. “Becca was… well, she was special. She’d do anything for the people she cared about. We were quite a unit back then, the four of us.

“And for a few years it was going good, y’know? The army is different from civilian life, your squad is your family. They’re the ones who keep you alive out there. No one else is going to risk their neck for you like that,” Sam picks at the fuzz on his pants, wetting his lips as he tries to find a way to say the next part. “We were on a mission— we didn’t know it was a suicide mission until after— and getting separated would’ve been no problem if it weren’t for the mines.

“The enemy was ready for us before we even got there, and we didn’t realize we were being used as a distraction by our commander until it was too late,” Sam blinks, avoiding your gaze to stare at the cabinets across from you, as if it’s the only way he can get through the story. “Becca realized before the rest of us that we were being led into a kill box— a place they’re leading you to die. She saved our lives that day, but an IED exploded when Bucky reached for her.”

Sam tries to remain steady, but you hear the quiver in his voice that he tries to fight back, you see the weight of his dark eyes when he fixes you with them, “That grave Barnes goes to, she’s not in it. There wasn’t enough left to even bring home.” Your breath hitches at the terrible dread that sinks through you, “On top of his sister, Bucky lost an arm. Mentally dealing with what goes on over there is hard enough without all that. I’m not surprised he still has nightmares about it… and with that bombing last week, I’m surprised he’s handling it as well as he is.”

Straightening up, Sam makes to stand, “That said, it’s not an excuse for how he handled you tonight. I’m sorry you were caught up in the middle of it.” He offers you a hand to help you up, but you don’t take it. You can’t. You’re not ready.

“I’ll just… stay here a little longer,” you breathe, trying to process everything he said. “If that’s okay?”

“Stay there as long as you like. I’ll go check on Barnes,” when Sam catches your questioning look, he shrugs, “I used to do some counseling to veterans after my time serving.”

You’re left sitting there, sorting through the pieces you knew about the man you had shared a bed with until you have some fractured, kaleidoscope picture settled in your mind. Just when you were starting to think you could possibly know something about him, you find you never knew anything about him at all.

Everything was the façade— it had to be. You have to believe that, in order to do what has to come next.

You didn’t learn by example from Pandora, or even Icarus, because the only thing you’re stuck with now is this box of frayed, torn feelings, longing to burst out of your chest at any moment, and the evidence of his metallic fingertips, burned along the column of your throat. The ultimate destruction of your very being was, perhaps, the fact that you can no longer deny that, good or bad, there were feelings in you for James Barnes.

And those are the last things you need.

Pulling yourself up, catching your footing on the cold kitchen floor, you wish you could leave these collected pieces of yourself there. Abandon them, like a changeling in the night.

The more time you spend in this irritatingly large house, the more claustrophobic you feel. Maybe this house was big enough for him. Maybe, it’s just too small to hold the devastation you construct here together.

Your jacket resides in the coat closet, alongside your shoes, just as before. Your bare necessities of personal effects were stuffed well enough in your pockets, and you sacrifice the rest to him at this very moment. You can’t go back.

It’s dark and dangerous on the streets of New York at night, but no moreso than it was in this brownstone, and you know your way around the city you were born and raised in to find your way home. One glance back, catching the dimly lit, deceptively beautiful sight of this empty palace, which you now realize reflects him perfectly.

A push of your hand to unlock the door, it beeps. The quiet denotation of your exit, and your lingering items on the second floor, are the only evidence that you were ever here.

Running seems to be the only option that was ever worth taking in the first place.

⤜♚⤛

The cold night air whips your long coat around your legs, but there’s no turning back now. Sleep shorts and another stolen t-shirt are all that accompany your coat and sneakers, but you make do with it, and by the time you reach the subway, it hardly matters.

The air does little to clear your head, consumed by the toxic swirl of longing, regret, uncertainty, and fear that follows you all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen. Truthfully, you don’t know how long you have until they realize you’ve gone.

Will Barnes even try to come looking for you, in that vast manor of his? Will Sam think you’re still sitting on the kitchen floor?

The adrenaline is the only thing keeping you warm by the time you finally find yourself on your own street, and you’re intent on abandoning it all. The sympathetic response to run is all that drives you when you turn your key in your lock. Thinking through it requires slower thought than the racing of your mind allows when you push yourself into your dark apartment.

You’re breathing heavy, relishing in the warmth of your home for the split second it takes you to dump your keys on the kitchen counter. The sun’s rising slowly beyond your drawn blinds, and you’re so focused on stripping yourself of your coat that it takes a moment for the eerie feeling of being watched to creep up the back of your neck.

You freeze. Hoping it’s only a lingering fear response from earlier. Peering through the melting darkness. You catch sight of a void in it. The shape of a person.

The urge to scream swells in your lungs. You don’t dare do it. Caught between the choice to turn the light on or not, and praying that it’s some collection of furniture playing tricks on your mind, you round into the kitchen.

Reaching for a knife just in case, you choose.

Light swims in your vision, and you almost scream at the sight of the man sitting in the chair across the room, only for the sound to choke off in your throat when you recognize him.

“Donnie?!” you gasp with all the heightened exhaustion you can muster at seeing your brother for the first time in five years, “What the fuck is wrong with you, sitting in the dark like some psycho?!”

He’s just as you remember, a spitting image of those old photos your mom showed you of your grandpa, if only he had been a degenerate rather than a coal-miner. A grin cuts along his teeth, and you suddenly recognize the dread swirling inside you for what it is— a premonition— because nothing good ever came from Donnie being in your life.

“What? Aren’t you happy to see your big brother?”

#bucky barnes fanfic #winter soldier fanfic #the winter soldier fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel female reader insert #female reader insert #newstuff female reader insert #author meg #trigger warning #nsft #smut #au fanfic #mob au

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pellucid-constellations · 8 months

Text

Are You Bored Yet?

Pairing: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader

Summary: God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Alcohol, annoyance to lovers, a bit of angst, a scary man in a parking lot, frat!bucky c:

a/n: I am so excited to finally post something!! It only took me four months 😅 If you enjoy it please please let me know ❤️❤️

Masterlist

12:59 pm.

The birchwood table nestled in the back of the library was long but otherwise empty, the only thing occupying it being your laptop and quite a few books. He wasn’t late. Yet. You weren’t going to hold onto that hope, however.

Tutoring Bucky Barnes was not what you had in mind when you volunteered for the peer assistance program at your university. It was true you were only using the club to boost your resume, but you had assumed the only people reaching out for help would be those that actually wanted it. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Sure, Bucky wanted help. Just not with anything that actually warranted the word. He wanted help sweet talking the cops so they wouldn't shut down his parties. He wanted help recruiting girls to show up to his parties. And—the one thing you could actually do—he wanted help passing his classes with the minimum GPA required to not get kicked out of his frat. So he could continue to throw parties.

Everything in his life revolved around his fraternity, which made you very important to him. When he wanted you to be.

With your apparently astounding knowledge of biology (you took notes during lectures), you became the star in Bucky’s life every Monday and Wednesday from 1:00 pm (give or take ten minutes) to 2:00 pm. He was also very attentive during the thirty minute phone calls he initiated prior to tests, and always looked happy to see you when he passed you devouring a bagel at the crack of dawn in the dining hall.

Every situation in which you had come in contact with Bucky was isolated and purposeful (minus the bagel). You didn’t hang out or invite each other places, and you were almost positive that if you were to see him in his natural habitat, you would want to tutor him even less than you did now, and that was saying something. So you were important to Bucky during the times you were supposed to be important, and he was important to you in the sense that he was a job.

But as your laptop blinked the numbers 1:22 pm back at your unimpressed expression, Bucky became much less important today. You took in a long, tortured breath before sending your gaze up to the ceiling, giving it another three minutes before you truly gave up on him for the day.

One minute.

Two minutes.

The library really needed new ceiling tiles.

1:25 pm and you snapped your laptop shut. Your fingers itched to send yet another complaint about this whole ordeal Natasha’s way, but you stopped yourself. She had already heard plenty about Barnes at this point, plus she always gave you a weird look every time you came stomping into the apartment, grumbling about something else he had done.

You hated her weird looks, all raised eyebrows and stiff lips.

With your backpack heaved onto the table and your things slowly funneling in, you figured a nap was the best reward for sitting in the library for an unnecessary twenty-five minutes. Your last prickle of irritation was stifled at the prospect of a warm bed as you stood, only to find that irritation had returned to you tenfold. In the form of Bucky Barnes.

“You going somewhere?” he seemed to taunt, his bag slung casually over one shoulder.

Your jaw ticked. “Home.”

His mouth turned up at one side, an expression you had learned meant he found you amusing. He never seemed to outright laugh at your annoyance, but apparently, it was hard to tamp down all of the joy he got out of it. Bucky took two long strides to meet the table you were attempting to abandon.

“But I still got about—” he checked his watch “—thirty-three minutes? And an arsenal of questions about amino acids. Help a guy out.”

“And I still got—” you checked the nonexistent watch on your wrist “—no patience for this today. You’re over twenty minutes late, Barnes. Use that watch to set an alarm on Wednesday and I’ll tell you everything you’ll inevitably forget about amino acids then.”

He groaned, rounding the table to set firm hands on your shoulders as he hovered behind you. “Sit. I’ll buy you a coffee and I promise I won’t be late on Wednesday, okay? I was dealing with something before this and lost track of time.”

“Were you dealing with another sorority girl in your bed? Who was it last week? Amber? No, Michelle?”

“It’s a Monday, y/n. Cut me some slack.”

“You came to me on a Wednesday with a hangover,” you deadpanned.

Bucky grimaced, the expression visible to you as he managed to guide you back into your chair. “Oat milk, right? A double?”

You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest as he tossed his bag by your feet and jogged over to the coffee cart just outside the library. He fumbled with his wallet when he went to pay, and you watched him point to the carton of oat milk the barista had yet to reach for. His greek letters were printed on the gray hoodie he had haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, and you held the reprimand on your tongue when you saw the matching sweatpants he donned.

The last time he had shown up in his pajamas—late—you’d had some choice words for him. Bucky turned around with your coffee then, poking the straw through the lid and sending you a sheepish smile through the window.

He was lucky you accepted bribes.

“Please,” the boy across from you continued to beg, a pen held loosely between pliant fingers. “Just ask her, that’s all I want. You can even come too.”

“Oh, wow, the great frat president letting me come to his stupid toga party? How could I ever thank you enough?”

It was Wednesday now, and Bucky was surprisingly on time to the tutoring session. You’d gotten through about half of the last bio lecture before he started asking you ridiculous questions that had nothing to do with the content. Today, he was dead set on getting your lab partner from chemistry to go to his party this weekend.

“Okay, yeah, you could come to whatever party you want, you know? I put you on the list—but this one will be even better if you’d just do this one thing for me.”

You finally tore your eyes from your laptop, glancing lazily at him. “And what would make this one so—wait, what list?”

He waved you off. “The one at the door. Did it like… the second week we started this? Anyways, Wanda?”

You let this new information settle and tried to ignore whatever implications came with being on some frat list thanks to Bucky. He had never explicitly invited you to any of his parties over the past few months and you had never asked to come. Apparently, you could have shown up whenever you wanted to and had a grand old time.

Not that that sounded the least bit grand.

Bucky was looking at you still, all pleading features and a soft, infuriating smile on his lips. When he wasn’t talking to random girls in the library or taking annoying phone calls in the middle of your sessions, he was sort of endearing. In a terrible, awful sense.

You groaned, throwing yourself back against your chair in begrudging defeat. “I don’t even talk to her outside of chem. Don’t you think it’d be a little weird to invite her to a party that I’m not even going to?”

“So come,” he answered simply, as if that was in the realm of possibilities.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Sure, I’ll come to your party, Barnes.”

“Great,” he grinned. “Vision’s gonna be so hyped.”

You watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket and kept your lie to yourself. He wouldn’t notice that you didn’t show up on Friday, and likely wouldn’t even bring it up the following Monday. He always had such vibrant, headache-inducing stories that you were sure your absence would be nothing more than a fleeting footnote.

“You have a toga, right?” he mumbled, face still screwed up in concentration as he continued his text.

“Isn’t it just a sheet all twisted up?” you asked, shutting your computer. Tutoring was obviously over.

Bucky pocketed his phone again, brows raised in amusement. “Depends on your motives for the night.”

“And my motives wouldn’t be to… wear a toga?”

He chuckled and huffed out your name, resting an arm along the back of the chair to his right—your chair. “Other motives. Like if you’re trying to get someone’s attention.”

You blinked at the warmth along your back. “Oh, of course. Then I would twist up a pillowcase instead, right?”

“Something like that.”

He smelled like coconut. Like a day at the beach but afterwards, when the sunscreen still lingered in the air but fresh clothes covered skin that had been warmed by the sun. You could usually ignore whatever expensive combination he had on his skin, but when he got close like this it was almost impossible.

Part of you always wanted to chuck his arm away when he leaned over you, but another part of you liked that he kept it there. It was a strange part of you, the same one that relished the looks you got from sorority girls in the library and harbored a sense of pride each time he made a blatant attempt to touch you.

You had spent fleeting moments analyzing these emotions and chalked them up to some internalized desire for validation. Nothing else. Bucky was a hot guy and everyone knew that, so having his attention—in any capacity—felt nice. Sometimes. Meaning right now it was nice that he was looking at you with his arm practically glued to your back, but next week when he showed up late with a hangover and tried to steal the jacket off your body it would be not so nice.

The duality of man.

It helped your partial insanity that Bucky would never actually be interested in you. You weren’t in a sorority or interested to his parent’s money, and, worst of all, you didn’t know how to maneuver a sheet into a toga. When he put his arm around you or moved your hair from your eyes as you leaned over a book, it was probably out of habit. It felt nice, but you knew reality. This was a passing phase, and by the summer you wouldn’t even speak to him anymore.

“I’ll text you more info about everything,” Bucky called, pulling you from your thoughts. “You can come early and I’ll help you with that pillowcase.”

You froze, the book you were shoving into your bag pausing in your hands. “Uh, maybe.”

“No, seriously, it’d be better if you came early. I was kidding about the pillowcase but if you come on time it’ll be too crazy for me to show you around.”

“You don’t have to show me around, Bucky. I’ve been to a house party before.”

“Y/n, are you not coming to this thing?” Bucky accused, swiping the book from your hands and softly tossing it on the table. It still made a loud thud that had a few bitter looks thrown your way.

“Dude!” you whispered, meeting each mean gaze with your apologetic one. “Why does it matter if I come? You just wanted Wanda anyway.”

He knocked your hand away when you went to reach for the book again, encircling your wrist with his fingers. “You just lied to me. Straight to my face. You said you’d come and now you gotta.”

You gave his fingers an experimental tug, but he was unrelenting in his soft grip. You glared at him through your lashes, meeting his uncharacteristically stern gaze that contrasted the humor on his lips.

“You ever hear of sarcasm?” you whispered with a half-hearted bite.

“Unfortunately, that’s about all I hear outta you,” he smirked back.

You rolled your eyes, finally yanking hard enough to free yourself from him. “Then you should have known I wasn’t going to come. No matter what ‘list’ you put me on.”

“What else could you possibly have going on on a Friday night?”

Ouch. You felt your brows furrow even though you didn’t will them to, and even worse, you felt a rash defensiveness lodge itself in your throat. You hated the heat that now prickled along the skin of your neck, and you hated even more how it extinguished all of the good warmth you had felt from him earlier.

This was humiliation, surely—the kind that only came from feeling small.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” you seethed, snapping up the remainder of your belongings. “Just because I don’t want to go to your stupid frat doesn't mean I have nothing to do. I don’t spend all of my time hoping to get invited to ridiculous parties.”

Bucky shifted up in his seat, eyes blown just a fraction wider. “Whoa, I didn’t mean—hey, stop a sec, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever, Bucky,” you droned, as a new temperature seeped into the skin of your palms and made them clammy. Any semblance of delusion you’d fallen into earlier was long gone now, but you knew to expect that. He wasn’t interested in you and you weren’t interested in him. But embarrassment wasn’t a good feeling, regardless of a multitude of reality checks.

Bucky got up when you did, his clothes looking creased and lived in. “We still have time in our session,” he defended, arm jutting out to the table. “C’mon, I didn’t mean you don’t have friends.”

Your glare sharpened. “Great, another insinuation.”

Bucky sputtered out incoherent words as you continued your trek outside, resorting to grabbing your wrist again, this time with more urgency. You felt the heat in you simmer down to a dull throb as he made contact, mostly out of respect for your future self. If you made this a huge deal it would only embarrass you more.

“Look, it doesn’t even matter, okay?” you huffed, but he just tugged you forward. It was then that you realized you were in the doorway of the library, effectively blocking it off from anyone trying to leave. Bucky pulled you close enough to his chest that you weren’t in the way anymore. His cologne was back with a vengeance, your nose just inches from his collar.

You took a steadying breath, blinking away the remnants of shame. “It doesn’t matter, I overreacted.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m still apologizing. I didn’t mean any of that stuff you were talking about.”

Of course he did. You were sure he thought it all the time. He just didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“It’s fine,” you rushed. “I have to go, anyway. Office hours.”

“Okay,” he nodded, soft and low, like he just remembered he was in a library. “You’ll still come this weekend, right? Even if Wanda can’t?”

“You have some kind of girl quota you need to meet?” you pressed.

Bucky smiled, still so close to you that you could feel the small breath that accompanied the expression. “And she’s back.”

You left without promising anything, and Bucky left feeling like you had.

Sometime between Wednesday and Friday, your detestment for frat parties had snowballed into determination. You were going to go and you were going to look like you were having so much fun it was ridiculous. Then, on Monday, when Bucky would usually poke and prod about what you’d gotten up to over the past few days, you were going to pretend that it was nothing for you. That you did that every weekend.

Of course, you didn’t. Your weekends typically consisted of calm nights with friends or dinners near campus. You’d been to a party before, sure, but you didn’t exactly frequent those kinds of scenes.

Bucky had continued to make it clear that you were invited. He had texted you a few times, prompting you to come and thanking you for getting Wanda to agree. The messages looked strange under the plethora of biology related questions, but that just spurred you further into action. You weren’t just a tutor with no social life, and Bucky was going to see that tonight. You couldn’t remember doing something out of pure spite before, but you figured having fun to prove a point wasn’t the worst thing.

Wanda pulled you out of your thoughts as the Uber rounded the last dark corner and revealed an overcrowded house with too many lights on. She rambled on about some guy she couldn’t wait to see and confirmed that she would likely be spending the night. You expected as much; it hadn’t taken much convincing to get her to come. If this night resulted in anything good it was apparently the blossoming relationship between your new friend and a man you’d never met.

Wanda continued to chat as she yanked you out of the car and past the yard littered with sparse grass. The music was loud already—the type of loud that you needed to be at least a little drunk to enjoy. And that was the plan.

“Okay, if I start dancing on a table you pull me down. And if you start dancing on a table I support you, right?” Wanda giggled, her voice now raised as you walked past the threshold of the house.

“Exactly,” you yelled back. A guy nodded to you as he leaned against the front door, his eyes glancing up from his phone and then returning. It seemed Bucky’s ‘list’ was a page on some guy’s notes app. How luxurious. “Let’s drink.”

The next hour was a blur. You tried your hardest to get as drunk as possible and Wanda tried her hardest to find the British man she was enamored with. You hadn’t seen Bucky, but you figured he wasn’t looking for you too hard since you hadn’t responded to any of his texts. Not out of anger, but because you didn’t know what to say. Somehow, with alcohol warming your blood and music vibrating your skin, none of that mattered anymore.

You: Your house is soooo dirty

Your phone jostled in your grip, people bumping into you from every side. When he didn’t answer in the thirty seconds you spent staring at the screen, you locked it and continued on with your mission.

After a few too many shots of hard liquor, you switched to beer. Gross, but decidedly less likely to make you pass out on the staircase of this house. Because you weren’t lying in your text—it was slightly disgusting. You figured you should clarify that with Bucky. You reached for your phone once again, knocking your head against the wall in the process and giggling to yourself. You had no idea where Wanda went.

The device was snatched from your hands just as quickly as the screen had lit up your face.

“You ever answer this thing?” an accusing voice called out. “Or do you just insult people and put it on do not disturb?”

The look on Bucky’s face would have made you roll your eyes in any other circumstance. Right now, however, it had a startled laugh bursting past your lips. You clutched at your stomach as the laugh grew and you found yourself tipping forward until your forehead met his chest. You felt delirious, almost silly. A hand came around to rest on the back of your neck.

“Alright, alright.” Bucky’s words rumbled against your face. “I get it, this is hilarious.”

“Your… your face,” you breathed out, catching your breath enough to part from him. “It was all—” you mimicked the straight line of his eyebrows, voice raising in a mocking tone. “—You don’t ever answer your phone. You’re so boring, y/n, answer your phone.”

“I didn’t call you boring. Hey—hey,” Bucky stressed, reaching for you as you leaned too far to the side, a smile still lingering on your face. “Jesus, y/n, how much did you have to drink?”

You went to mock him again, but his fingers on your jaw stopped you. He tilted your head up and to the left, and although he was much more composed than you were, you could still smell the alcohol on his breath. You scrunched up your nose as he continued his inspection.

“Why’re you being so uptight?” you slurred, trying and failing to push away from him. “I thought you were all like, ‘I’m Bucky and I party and get drunk and have sex with girls.’”

Bucky pulled you forward as you laughed at your impression of him, his shaking head making you blink away a bout of dizziness. You toppled over a set of stairs as he threaded his fingers through yours, and then you stumbled through a doorway and onto carpeted floors. Being pressed into an uncomfortable chair was the most jarring action, the world still spinning as you sat.

“You’re even more mean when you're drunk,” you heard Bucky mumble. You couldn’t quite catch him as he moved around whatever room you were in. “And I don’t talk like that.”

You let out a careless sigh and leaned back. “You soooo talk like that.”

Something cold pressed to your hand, followed by another touch to the back of your neck. You gazed down at the water bottle being guided up to your lips and couldn’t find it in you to fight against it, despite the small spark of defiance on the tip of your tongue. After about four large swallows, Bucky was satisfied.

He asked again how much you’d had to drink.

You answered that you didn’t know—that it didn’t matter because he wasn’t your dad and you were having fun like you always did. He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for the next few moments.

And then, “Thought you weren’t gonna come tonight.”

You hummed, rolling your head against the chair to look up at his standing form. “Of course I was going to come. I love parties. Love drinking alcohol.”

His expression twisted into something you couldn’t recognize. “God, you’re so drunk.”

“M’not even that drunk!”

“You’re willingly in my room right now. You’re plastered.”

“Maybe I want to be in your room.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

You chuckled breathily, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the pretty flush of Bucky’s face. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Don’t know much about me though. Or biology.”

Bucky kneeled down to the height of the chair. “And what do I not know about you?”

“So much.”

“How much?”

You bit into your lip and cracked an eye open, catching the amusement that had slipped past the strange mask of his emotions. With blissful ignorance, you heaved yourself forward on the chair, your nose a few inches from Bucky’s. His eyes didn’t waver from yours as you swayed.

“You don’t know that I’m the most interesting person on Earth,” you boasted, fingers gripping the upholstery of your seat.

“That right?” Bucky probed, his voice a melodic hum.

“Yup, I’m always really busy and even though you think I’m some boring biology tutor I’m actually super cool and, like, go to raves and stuff.”

His brow twitched but his mouth stayed soft. “I’ve never said you were boring. And I don’t think you’ve ever been to a rave.”

You groaned loudly and flopped against the backrest of the chair. “See! I’m telling you I do all this cool stuff and I’m so drunk my fingers are buzzing and you still don’t believe me.”

You crossed your arms with a huff, a small pout forming on your lips. In any other context, this behavior would probably embarrass you to no end. In the dim light of Bucky’s room where you felt the feeling leave your fingers and the care leave your mind, you were just disgruntled, not embarrassed. If you remembered this tomorrow the latter would surely catch up to you.

Bucky stared at you from his spot on the ground, his gaze a bit foggy and unfocused. He was clearly intoxicated, as you deduced earlier, and it made him look more wild. Mused hair and pink cheeks, he looked like he’d been having plenty of fun before he found you. It was distracting. He was distracting you from proving that you were having a blast.

“What?” you snapped, the tone a testament to the drunken fit you were throwing.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

He must be really, really drunk. Despite your clouded mind, you knew that, but the words affected you just the same. Your lips parted as a new lightness both lit up and compressed your chest, and Bucky watched the movement.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, but it was hardly a scoff. “Sure, Bucky. How much did you have to drink—”

“I’m not lying. I’ve thought about you in my room for weeks and now you’re here and you’re so pretty. Even when you’re yelling at me.”

“You’ve… thought about me in your room?”

Bucky shuffled forward and you subconsciously parted your legs to allow the space for him. “I think about you everywhere.”

This was crazy. It was certifiably insane. A voice in the back of your head—Natasha’s voice, it sounded like—was screaming at you to stop and think about the situation at hand. He was drunk, you were even more drunk, and he was far too close to you. He had ushered you in here with good intentions and had sobered you up a fraction, but things had taken a turn and this was a sensitive situation. The kind of sensitive that altered your reality and his and probably a bunch of other people’s you’d never met.

Or it could be nothing and you were over exaggerating.

But then Bucky’s hand was warming your thigh. You’d felt the press of it on your back and your shoulder and your head before, but it had never been on your thigh. It felt heavy there, hot. His other hand moved to touch your face and he propped himself up on one knee. His thumb brushed your cheek. Words tumbled from your mouth before you registered that you were speaking.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Why would you ask that? Who asks Bucky Barnes if he’s going to kiss them?

“Would you let me?” he responds.

“Yes.”

He didn’t waste any time, his mouth hot against yours. He tasted like mint and vodka and his lips moved so slowly it ached. You had expected a fervor behind his lips, but instead you got a build up, an orchestra reaching its crescendo. He was kissing you like you were important, like this wasn’t some random hookup in his bedroom at 1 o’clock in the morning, and you had to catch your breath when he parted from you.

But he moved back in so quickly after your brief respite, and you were eager to give him more. This was crazy, insane. This was the best kiss you’d ever have and also the worst. This was months of staring at his stupid lips when he tried explaining concepts back to you, but this was also weeks of feeling small in his presence. Bucky slid his hand back to press against your hair and you didn’t feel small anymore.

A loud thud from the hallway interrupted the silence you’d created, and Bucky pulled back, keeping his hands on you as he craned his neck around to stare at the door. He waited a beat, and then two, and then he turned back to you. The moment was gone, but he was still touching you. You weren’t sure what you wanted—if you wanted him to kiss you again or run out the door—but when he slid his hands from your body and rubbed them down his jeans, it became clear that was not what you wanted.

A knot formed in your stomach when he met your gaze again, and you tried blinking the feeling away. It didn’t work.

“Um,” Bucky began, his voice sounding more clear, his tone not holding the weight it had.

Your plan had backfired. Severely. This was a mess and you needed to save yourself before you ended this night even more humiliated.

You were still drunk. Pretend you were still plastered.

You giggled airily, the sound burning your throat. “That was loud.”

Bucky blinked at you in what you assumed was disbelief. “Probably just someone trying to find the bathroom,” he clarified.

You shrugged, nudging him back with your knee as you stood from the chair. “I’m bored now.” You took fast steps to the door, your words foreign to you. “Thanks for the water,” you all but gritted out.

You expected him to get up. Not to run after you or proclaim his love or even say anything. But you expected him to get up.

He didn’t, and you couldn’t understand how the knot in your stomach had moved to your throat. Or how it made tears spring to your eyes when your feet hit the sidewalk outside. Your Uber came and you couldn’t understand how you felt hot and cold at the same time. How it was freezing outside but you were sweating.

You couldn’t understand why you were crying over a boy that so often infuriated you, or why he kissed you in his bedroom. The reasonable side of you sent gentle reminders that he was in a frat and kissing people is just what he did. All the time. But the unreasonable side of you won out tonight, and it was telling you that this felt different.

That you should be different, somehow.

Bucky: You’re here???

Bucky: Where are you?

Bucky: Y/n answer your damn phone

Bucky: This place is fucking packed tonight I thought you weren’t coming

You stared at the text messages you hadn’t read last night, the bright light of your phone burning into your retinas. You had a brutal hangover, and the memory of the disaster in Bucky’s room felt like an even bigger one.

You’d gone through a myriad of emotions the night before, tossing around excuses and speeches in your head until you were so exhausted you let the alcohol in your system lull you to sleep. With all of that delirious thinking, you’d landed on blacking out. You were going to tell Bucky you blacked out last night and couldn’t remember a thing. He obviously wouldn’t care and would probably appreciate it.

Saturday was slow-moving. Reruns of television shows and bags of popcorn and overthinking. Natasha was at her parent’s house in the city, so you had no one to bounce your racing thoughts off of. You certainly weren’t going to text her about it.

When the evening finally rolled around and your attempts at distracting yourself with mind-numbing movies failed, you checked your email. You always tried not to on the weekends, but doing anything else sounded much less appealing.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get past the first one.

From: University Peer Assistance Program

Dear Y/n Y/l/n,

This is an automated message from the campus peer assistance program. We thank you for your continued devotion to the betterment of students at this school. At this time, your tutoring placement with James Barnes has ended. We will search for a new placement to fill your current hours.

Thank you,

University Peer Assistance

You blinked at the email, then blinked again. The breath left your chest and the muscles on your face twitched, but you were otherwise frozen.

This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be free from the haughty frat boy that didn’t even listen to you when you tried to help him raise his grades. You wanted someone nice, someone that had the same goals as you and appreciated the color-coded notes you took for them. Bucky only tried to get a rise out of you. He sat too close and made fun of you and put you on lists you didn’t ask to be on.

But he had kissed you. He had kissed you and then tutor-dumped you.

You knew you weren’t his type, but were you really that bad? Was the kiss so terrible?

Every inferiority complex you had developed exploded. You over-analyzed things that had already happened, things you had said. Not just at the party, but in the library, the coffee shops, the lecture halls.

Was he really willing to risk his position in the frat just to avoid you?

The strangle tickle of tears itched to be released from your eyes again, but you pressed it down. No, this wasn’t on you. He had kissed you. He had dragged you into his room and stumbled on pretty words. If he didn’t want you to tutor him anymore because of his stupid mistake, fine.

His mistake.

That word felt wrong.

You tossed your phone on the couch with vigor. The clock above the television read out 10 pm, but that meant little to you as you slid on your shoes at the front door. You were wearing sweatpants and a jacket that was far too big on you, sadness and frustration and raw confusion propelling you down your apartment stairs.

Ice cream would fix this.

The only place open at this time was the gas station at the edge of campus. It wasn’t university affiliated and was usually overrun with belligerent greek life trying to buy alcohol, but the decision-making part of your brain was currently shut off.

Ice cream, anger, probably watching tiktoks until your eyes were too heavy to keep open—those were the only things rattling in your head.

You yanked open the gas station door after your short walk, the glass smudged and fogged from the cold night. The fluorescent lights aggravated the headache you’d been sporting all day and the floor made sticking noises with each step you took. To add insult to injury, there were only three cartons of ice cream left, and they weren’t even the good flavors. Grabbing the least offensive one, you made your way to the small line of people by the register.

“Nice outfit.”

Too enthralled by the disappointing ingredient list on the side of your ice cream, you had missed the tall man now looming at your shoulder. You whipped your head around with a start, taking a step back, smelling menthol and asphalt and nothing good.

“Thanks,” you quietly replied.

He waited until you turned back around to continue. “You go to school over here?”

You kept your gaze forward. “Um, yeah.”

“Nice. I graduated a few years back. Marketing.”

“Cool,” you replied. What had compelled you to leave your phone on the couch? This night sucked.

You found reprieve in the line moving, the employee calling you over to check out. As soon as you paid—a few dollar bills funneled out of your pocket with shaky hands—you booked it. Your ice cream burned in your palm but you didn’t care, feet carrying you out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot. You fisted your keys in your fingers; pointless, you knew, but a small comfort.

The man’s voice returned with the chime of the bell over the gas station door. “Wait! Wait, I’m Beck. I own a business nearby.”

You should have kept walking, but one of your fatal flaws was, apparently, people pleasing. You turned to him. He smiled at you but it made your stomach twist.

“Oh, nice,” you responded, rocking back on your heels.

“We should connect. Maybe go for coffee or something?” He took a step forward. You fought the urge to take one back. His beard was unkempt and he held a six pack in his white-knuckled grip.

“Um, I don’t know. I’m pretty busy with finals coming up. Plus, I’m not really in the business field.”

“Not for business then,” he smiled again, teeth dull in the streetlight.

Just agree. If you agreed you could block him soon after and everything would be fine.

You took too long to answer. He took the final step forward to arrive in your space and wrapped his fingers around your bicep. “C’mon, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything.”

Frozen by fear, you let out a weak laugh. The pint in your hand was sticking to your skin now in a way that would be painful when you tried to let go of it later. Your breath rattled in your chest when you laughed again.

“Sure, okay.” But he didn’t let go of your arm, instead sliding it down to the bone of your wrist.

“What about now?” he posed. “You don’t look too busy. I can make you something at my place.”

He was at least ten years older than you. You attempted to pull yourself from his grasp to no avail. Maybe reasoning would work.

“My roommate's waiting for me,” you lied. “Could you let go? I sprained my wrist at the gym last week,” you lied again.

He refused with a shake of his head. You took a panicked glance inside the gas station to your right. No one was looking.

“Please let go of me.”

The call of your name from the other side of the parking lot initially sent more unbearable fear down your spine. But then the owner of that voice registered in your brain, and although it had been the cause of your recent internal strife, you couldn't be more grateful to hear it.

He said your name again, closer now and questioning. Bucky jogged up to the pair of you, saw your wrist and the man holding it hostage, and looked back up at you with confused, wild eyes.

“You know this guy?” he asked, jutting his thumb out at Beck.

“No,” you whispered. The word was short but the syllable still trembled.

Bucky didn’t look confused anymore. He looked pissed. “Wanna take your fucking hands off her?”

Beck was tall, but Bucky was taller. And angry. Beck released your wrist and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, man, no need for the theatrics. I’m guessing you’re here to stock up for a party? I used to be in Sigma Nu.”

When Bucky’s silent glare failed to dampen, Beck continued with, “We were just planning a night at my place, right?”

His nod in your direction made your breath catch. Bucky took his piercing gaze off of Beck and softened it as it fell on you. You wanted to respond, but words were gone. They were impossible. Your ice cream was melting.

“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Bucky scoffed, placing his arm around your shoulder. He guided you past the wall of a man, making sure to drive his shoulder into his chest as he went. Beck went to say more, to protest or whine, but Bucky shot him such a scathing look it almost made you wither.

The smell of coconut and spices and a hint of whisky met your nose, and it was familiar. It was safe. You fumbled with the keys in your hands as your feet guided you wherever Bucky was going, and then you fumbled even more, soft jingling disrupting the softness of footfall. God, why wouldn’t you stop shaking?

A hand fell atop yours, crunching the keys to a halt. You stared down at them, unsteady breath hitting the tanned fingers that served as your current anchor.

“Look at me, y/n.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything.

“Sweetheart, eyes up. All you gotta do.” Bucky’s voice was as soft as it was last night. That was the only reason you were able to follow his request. “There she is,” he hummed.

He removed his arm from your shoulders and shifted in front of you, placing his hand on your cheek. You ignored that it felt the same as it had last night. You ignored that you wanted it to feel the same for him, too.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his neck down to better see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye. “He hurt you?”

You shook your head, whispering no, whispering that you were fine.

Bucky nodded to himself, eyes tracking down to your toes and then back up again. He must have mistaken your shaking for coldness because the next thing he did was guide you into the car behind him. You didn’t know it was his.

He blasted the heat the second he got in. He had shuffled you into your seat with his hands before that, smoothed your hair down and closed the door after you were settled and not shaking as hard. The heat dried out your eyes. It distracted you enough to let words form.

“Thank you,” you said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t bring my phone with me. I should’ve.”

“Of course.”

There was a beat of silence. The relief you had felt earlier had been muddled down to an awkward pit in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if Bucky felt it too or if he was still riding a testosterone-fueled adrenaline high.

You wanted to go home now; this was uncomfortable and you had felt Bucky’s lips on yours less than twenty-four hours ago with no closure. He obviously didn’t want to be around you. This was probably a responsibility thing for him.

“I can… I can walk home now. The guy left. I’m just a quarter mile away and you probably have to stock up or whatever.”

He looked at you with a pinched expression. “I’m not letting you walk home after that. You kiddin’ me?”

“I’ll be fine, really. I walk over here all the time.”

“You get harassed all the time too?”

“No…”

“Exactly. So you’re not walking home.”

“Bucky—”

“Look I’m not gonna kiss you again, alright? So you don’t have to turn down a ride because of that.”

Your ice cream was soup at this point. You let it roll into your lap as you clamped your mouth shut just to open it again. Bucky ran a rough hand through his hair before dropping it on the steering wheel, clutching at it with no place to go.

“I’m not following,” you finally relented.

A loud sigh released from his nose. “You don’t have to worry about me kissing you again. I just want to make sure you get home safe and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Worry about—you’re the one trying to avoid me,” you snapped, frozen fingers pointing to your chest. “You tutor-dumped me.”

“Tutor-dumped? How do you…” he trailed off.

“I get an email when you make a change request, Bucky.”

He stared at you for a moment, lips parted and unmoving. He clenched his jaw a moment later, a red tint adorning his cheeks.

“Well, you—you—look, I know you don’t like me, y/n. You’ve made that clear,” he stuttered, words getting louder as he moved his hands around with each one. “But I like you. I like when you get mad at me and when you yell at me for not listening and when you get all embarrassed when I play with your hair. And I’ve been trying to get you to come to one of my parties since we started this whole thing, but every time I talk about them you seem to like me even less.

“If I had known insulting you would get your attention, I woulda done that week one,” he exasperated. You sat up in your seat but he continued. “I didn’t mean any of that shit you thought I did. You’re not boring. And I didn’t mean to kiss you, but you looked—well, I already told you.”

“So you don’t want me to be your tutor anymore because you like me?” You spoke slowly, each word careful.

“No,” he sighed, frustrated. “I can’t be around you because I kissed you and you didn’t care. Because I’ll want to kiss you all the time and you didn’t even wanna kiss me once. I know we were drunk, I get that, but I’ve wanted that for a long time and I need to move on. It’s nothing against your… tutoring skills. If that’s what you’re worried about”

“But you talk about hooking up with other girls all the time, Bucky. To me.”

“You ever hear of lying?”

“Why would you—”

“You really gonna make me live out all of my failures with you?”

You’d read so many things wrong. Taken so many things the wrong way. You figured the email earlier was the final nail in the coffin, but this was something else entirely. This was Bucky, sitting next to you in his car looking distressed and frazzled with his hair six different directions, telling you that he’s been trying to get your attention since he met you. That you weren’t small or insignificant or boring.

It was probably a terrible idea to follow through with your next thought. You’d probably get hurt in the long run. But you did it anyway.

“I wanted you to kiss me.” Bucky’s head whipped towards you. You bit the inside of your cheek and said, “I want you to kiss me all the time.”

He whispered your name. It sounded like the air had left every corner of his body. But he didn’t move, and you needed to rectify that.

“You’re infuriating,” you began. Bucky cringed, but you needed to explain as he had. “You’re like the antithesis of everything I want out of college. You don’t care about classes. You’re always late. You talk too loud in the library.”

You took a deep breath, fiddling with the loose thread of your pants. You couldn’t make eye contact with anything but the ground.

“But then you know my coffee order when I’ve never told it to you. You save me from losers in parking lots and make sure I’m not drunk out of my mind at your obscene party. You make me feel… you make me feel stupid sometimes. And I thought it was because you’re everything I’m not, but I really think it’s because you’re everything I told myself I should stay away from. But I don’t want to.

“I wanted you to kiss me at that party and I want you to kiss me now.”

“Then get over here. I’m not kissing you over some bullshit center console.”

You twisted to follow his directions, gasping as his hands clasped around your waist to tug you into his lap. It wasn’t seamless—there was laughing and your head briefly connected with the roof of the car—but Bucky’s touch was everywhere, soothing the uncertainty and fear and slight headache.

His forehead connected with yours when you felt secure in his arms. His fingers slid down from your waist over the material of your sweatpants and when he spoke next you felt the words on your own lips.

“You’re wearing sweatpants. You get so mad when I wear sweatpants.”

You laughed. “I get mad because it usually means you just rolled out of bed, and you’re usually. late.”

“I got a secret,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “I’m never late. And I only wear those sweatpants around you. You get cute when you’re pissed at me.”

“Well, I’m about to be really cute—”

He kissed you. You’d have plenty of time to argue later.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #college!bucky #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #college AU #frat!bucky #marvel imagine

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Text

Late (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: When Bucky overhears you telling Natasha about your period being late he immediately knows what this could mean. To ease your mind until you know for sure he tries to subtly show you that he’d be there to care for a potential child. You find yourself surprisingly happy about this possibility. (Female Reader) Word Count: 4,986 Warnings: Mild Pregnancy Scares, Talk of Menstruation, Baby Fever, No Y/N, Petnames (Doll, Sweetheart) Crossposted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54538210 A/N: Also, quick question, would anyone be interested in a smut fiction with Bucky, containing choking?

---

"I’m really late.”

“How late?”

“My period should have started about seven days ago. I’ve never been this late, normally I’m almost always on time.”

“That really is pretty late.” Natasha mused and turned to face you as you stood next to her on Clint’s porch, overlooking the rainy fields. You were all visiting the Bartons after Clint had gotten injured on a mission, leaving him with a broken femur and you all coming over to try to make the house easier for him to get around with his injury. “Have you talked to Bucky, yet?”

You quieted down for a second, opting to turn back toward the rain rather than look at Natasha’s face, knowing that she would urge you to talk to your partner about this. And you knew that even with such an intimate topic you could always talk to Bucky. Menstruation wasn’t a taboo subject in your relationship, so when you were on your period Bucky was aware of it and when you needed him to comfort you or run to the store to get you supplies he was quick to do so.

The two of you had also talked about the possibility of having children before and you had both agreed that one day you would love to have some of your own but that this day was still in the future. So, you knew he wanted children one day and after being with him for years you also knew that he wouldn’t react negatively to all of this. But you didn’t want to worry him because you thought that your period was late for a whole different reason.

“I was so stressed and busy lately. I even calculated when I should have ovulated and at the time we were flying around the world, trying to take down that crime syndicate.” You explained, not meeting her eyes just yet. “I’m sure it’s just the stress that delayed my ovulation and with that also my period.”

“But have you talked to Bucky about it, yet?”

“Not yet. As I said I’m pretty sure it’s just the stress I’ve been under, so it’s probably not a serious issue and I don’t want to worry him with it. I know that everyone immediately assumes that a late period means someone is pregnant, so I don’t want him jumping to conclusions when it might just be from the stress and will probably resolve itself.” You explained before turning to her. “Can we talk about something else? If I don’t get my period within the next week, I’ll talk to him, alright? But for now, let’s please change the subject.”

“Alright.” Natasha nodded and thought for a second. “How was your date night?”

Before you could answer you heard the screen door open and turned to find Bucky stepping onto the porch. Your eyes locked with his and you smiled brightly, making his face light up as you walked up to embrace him. He pulled you to his side and pressed a kiss to your head.

“Where have you been all day?”

“All around the house really, talking to Steve and Sam, helping Laura and everyone else move things around to make it easier for Clint to get around with his cast on.” Bucky said nonchalantly, leaning over to press his lips to your cheek. “I heard you talking about our date night.”

You looked up at him, worry rising in you for the flash of a second, concerned that he’d heard the previous topic of conversation. But you quickly overplayed your concerns with a bright smile as you nodded and went on to tell Natasha about the museum you’d been to where they were currently showing an exhibition about Captain America. When you started talking about how many children had been there Bucky piped up.

“Sweetheart, do you remember that young girl who recognised me as the man from one of the photos?”

You nodded quickly and turned to Natasha with a bright smile. “He was in the historical photos there and a little girl, no older than maybe five or six years old, recognised him. She was too shy to talk to him at first but we saw her pulling at her father’s sleeve and pointing Bucky out to him.”

“How cute!” Natasha smiled and looked back at Bucky. “Did you go talk to her?”

“He did.” You answered for your partner, a warm smile on your face. “He went up to her and asked her if she could point him to the display of the shields. It was such a good idea because it meant she could be the one to help Bucky.”

“That was exactly why I did it and it did the trick. It put her in charge of the situation and she pointed me to the shields. She tagged along with us as we went there, chatting away with me about how she’d read books about me and Steve, how she wanted to be just like us when she grew up and asking me all sorts of questions. “

Natasha smiled at that, putting her hands on her hips. “Sure you don’t want to switch professions and work in childcare, Buck?”

“No, I’m quite fond of the whole superhero business.” Bucky chuckled and then nodded his head toward you. “I’m also more fond of the idea of having my own children.”

Natasha shot you a pointed look but you remained quiet and simply leaned back into his side, changing the subject of the conversation to an elderly lady who had also approached Bucky after recognising him at the exhibition. Bucky’s hand tensed on your arm for the fraction of a second but before you could even look up he was already talking to Natasha again.

---

It took another hour for the rain to lighten but as soon as it did Clint’s children were outside in the garden, Cooper getting on the tyre swing and pulling out his book, Lila going back to practising her archery which the rain had interrupted her at and Nathaniel running to get his soccer ball to play with. That’s when you heard Clint calling out to all of you, asking for someone to help him get outside onto the porch. Natasha was quick to rush inside to help him while you and Bucky kept an eye on the children.

“Come on, Lila!” Nathaniel complained from down on the field as he approached his sister who put her bow down to look at him. “Why won’t you play with me?”

“I want to practice my archery, Nat.”

Nathanial groaned in annoyance before walking over to his brother. “What about you? Can we play soccer?”

“I just want to finish the chapter first.”

The boy crossed his arms and hung his head in disappointment, kicking his ball to the side and slumping down on a nearby log. You were about to go down into the garden, to try and mediate, comfort Nathaniel or offer to play soccer with him when you felt Bucky’s arm slip off your shoulder. When you turned your head to look at him you saw him giving you a small glance before walking down into the garden, waving at Nathaniel.

“I’ll play with you!”

“Really?” Nathaniel looked up, a smile immediately spreading on his face as he watched Bucky come up to him. “Thank you, Mister Barnes!”

Bucky smiled at his excitement, picking up the ball on the way. “Call me Bucky, alright?”

“Alright!” Nathaniel nodded and then moved across the field, waving Bucky after him. “You be the goalie, alright?”

“Sure, but go easy on me. I’m not a professional soccer player.”

“But you’re a superhero!”

You watched a genuine soft smile spread across Bucky’s face. “Do you think we defeat bad guys by challenging them to a game of soccer?”

Nathaniel shrugged and then grinned up at Bucky. “Have you ever tried?”

“Actually, no. I might have to give your idea a try, buddy.”

Crossing your arms over your chest you watched Bucky play soccer with Nathaniel, a soft smile spreading across your face and a warm feeling engulfing your heart. You still thought that stress was the reason for your late period but you knew that even if you were expecting Bucky would make a great father -- but then again, you had always known that. Nathaniel kept scoring goals and though you could tell that Bucky was letting the ball go in on purpose from time to time, sometimes he looked genuinly surprised at the boy’s aim. Sighing softly, you leaned against one of the wooden support beams of the porch while Natasha helped Clint sit down on a nearby chair and you watched Bucky cheer Nathaniel on.

“Sure you don’t want to talk to him?”

You winced in surprise when Natasha’s voice sounded off just beside your ear and you turned your head to find her standing right next to you. Sighing softly, you shook your head and leaned back against the beam, turning to continue watching Bucky and Nathaniel play.

“I’ll wait a couple more days but I will eventually talk to him about it.” You promised, keeping your voice down so Clint wouldn’t hear your conversation. “But I know that I have nothing to worry about. Even if I were pregnant, I think Bucky would make a great father.”

“Definitely.” Natasha said, her smile evident in her voice as she whispered back to you. “If you want to wait a few more days, do so. But you have nothing to worry about. He’s a good guy and he will stand by you no matter what happens.”

“I never doubted that.”

A clap of thunder made everyone look up at the sky and Clint called out to the children to come back inside. They didn’t have to be told twice. Lila started packing up her things while Cooper got off the swing to head for the porch. Nathaniel clutched the ball to his chest as he looked up at the sky in fear but Bucky was quick to react, crouching down next to him and holding out his metal arm to him.

“Hold on and I’ll carry you inside. We’ll be super fast, I promise.”

Nathaniel turned to look at Bucky and at another encouraging nod from the man he grabbed onto the metal arm’s biceps, holding on tightly as your partner stood up, lifting the boy off the ground and leaving him dangling from the arm. While they set out for the porch, you could hear Nathaniel laughing as he swung back and forth on Bucky’s arm, his hands clasped tightly around his biceps. What stood out to you was the fact that Bucky’s eyes kept flicking over to yours, almost as if to see whether or not you were looking at him. But you couldn’t really think about that observation because you found yourself distracted by a strange sense of longing settling in your chest.

---

It was two days later that you two found yourself in a furniture store, looking for a new dresser and despite your period still being late, you were no longer focused on the worry you felt about that and more thinking about the longing you had felt when watching Bucky play with Nathaniel two days prior. It made you wonder if having a child with Bucky was something that you might want sooner rather than later.

“I cannot believe we broke your dresser.”

You shushed Bucky, heat rising to your cheeks as you remembered how exactly the dresser had broken and how much teasing you had already had to endure from your fellow Avengers. “Will you keep it down?”

“You didn’t tell me that last night.” Bucky grinned and wrapped an arm around your shoulders when he saw you roll your eyes, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek. “But then again, that is part of the reason why we’re here.”

Once more you rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help but chuckle as you leaned into him. “Just remind me that we’re only here for a dresser when I will inevitably find twenty other things that might come in handy. I need you to be the voice of reason here and tell me I don’t need every little thing I see.”

Bucky chuckled at that and threw you a playfully wary glance. “I don’t know if I can turn down any of your wishes, Doll.”

The two of you kept walking until you came to the department for children’s furniture beyond which you knew lay the department for regular bedrooms. As you walked past the displays of cribs and bunk beds, the walls behind them decorated in images of stars with stuffed animals and mobiles all around, you felt a strange longing return. You cuddled closer against Bucky’s side, making him turn to you but you didn’t see his facial expression because you kept looking around. He was quiet for a few seconds before he leaned over to press a kiss to your head.

“When we have a kid one day, what theme would you choose for their nursery?”

You blinked in surprise at his question, noticing how the longing feeling lightened just the smallest amount at the first word of the sentence and you couldn’t stop yourself from asking the first thing that came to your mind. “When?”

“We spoke about having children one day. Is it a surprise that I use ‘when’ instead of ‘if’?” Bucky gave you a comforting smile. “So tell me, what theme would you choose for our future child?”

“The space theme.” You smiled softly, looking back at the displays. “Imagine our baby sleeping under those glow-in-the-dark stars or under a mobile of the planets. It would also fit so well because our first proper date was to an exhibition about space travel.”

Bucky’s smile was clear in his voice when he spoke up. “I like that idea a lot.”

You leaned closer to him again and his hand came up to squeeze your shoulder lovingly as you two started walking again. But your peace was interrupted when you rounded the corner to find a couple fighting over what sounded like the choice of a crib, making you stop in your tracks. Against your better judgment, you spoke up, directing their attention to you and Bucky.

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

The blond woman rolled her eyes and nodded to the redhead next to her. “My wife here thinks we should get the crib with the wooden frame but it’s much more expensive than the metal frame one.”

“Yes, I know that but I think a crib is not the piece of furniture to cut costs at.” The redhead crossed her arms and shook her head. “Our baby is going to sleep in that bed every night. If you want to cut costs anywhere why not on something like the dresser? If that’s a bit cheaper it won’t be as bad!”

“Would you like an outsider’s opinion on it?”

Both women turned to look at Bucky who took his arm off you to approach the two and they gave him a shrug, agreeing in almost perfect unison that someone else’s opinion might be helpful for their situation. You watched with an interested expression as Bucky smiled and inspected the cribs for a few minutes, reading their descriptions and taking a closer look at them before he turned to the two women again.

“I wouldn’t get either of these.”

“Why not?”

Bucky glanced at you as he spoke up again, once again seemingly making sure that you were paying attention before he said anything. “The one with the metal frame may be an inexpensive one but the mattress that comes with it is not tight fitting enough and that’s a safety hazard for the baby.”

The blonde woman quickly distanced herself from the metal frame crib to examine the wooden one once more. “Why can’t we choose the wooden framed one? The mattress fits better than the one in the other crib.”

“It does but it has those cloud-shaped cutouts on the headboard. The baby’s head or limbs could get caught in it and that’s a safety hazard, too.”

“I totally forgot about that. We even looked up crib safety before coming here and I forgot.” The redhead mumbled and sighed, turning to her wife. “And I’m sorry for going off at you like that. I’ve been so stressed lately.”

“I get it, I wasn’t any better. It’s all forgotten, don’t worry.” The blonde sighed and took her wife’s hand into hers before turning to Bucky. “Got any recommendations on what crib to buy?”

Bucky smiled and nodded toward a crib a few metres away. “I’d get this one. I know that it’s a bit more expensive than the other two but it is convertible, so it can be turned into a toddler bed. It will last you two much longer, so I’d say it’s worth the price.”

“It would look great with the changing table we picked out.”

“It would.” The redhead agreed to her wife before smiling at Bucky. “Thanks for the help, we really appreciate it.”

The blonde nodded before turning to smile at you. “You got yourself a very knowledgable baby daddy there. He’s a keeper.”

Bucky smirked proudly as he turned back at you, watching you come over to embrace his arm and look back at the two women. You didn’t correct the first statement and you didn’t even question why as you answered. “He really is a keeper.”

---

After buying a new dresser the two of you had decided to get lunch together and take a walk around the park afterwards. Your hand was in his as you walked down the walkways, passing by the other people in the park until you heard something that made you stop dead in your tracks. Someone was crying and it sounded like a child. Bucky seemed to have also heard it because he looked around for the source of it before his eyes stilled on a spot next to a large patch of shrubbery. You followed his gaze and found a young girl, no older than four years old sitting on the ground, legs drawn up to her chest and face buried in her arms as she hugged her knees. Before Bucky could react you were approaching her, calling out to her so you wouldn’t startle her as you came close.

“Are you alright?”

“I want my Daddy.” The girl sobbed brokenly but she looked up at you and only then could you see the bloody scrapes on her knees. “I-- I saw a kitty and went after it and-- and I got lost and I fell and my knees hurt real bad!”

You felt concern and pity wash over you at seeing the girl so distraught and hearing that she was lost, so you knelt down next to her. “How about my friend and I help you find your way back to your family?”

“You would? But-- But I don’t know where to look and-- and my knees hurt.”

“Let me check to see if I got some bandaids in my purse.” You said softly and began rummaging through your purse as Bucky crouched down next to you. When you found your small first aid kit you held it up triumphantly. “Look at that, we can patch you up and find your family, alright?”

She was still crying but she let you put bandaids on her knees after spraying some wound disinfectant spray on them. The sting of the spray made her cry even harder but when Bucky let her hold his hand, she calmed down a little. You ignored how he was once more eyeing you as you helped the girl.

“You did so well. You were really brave.” You smiled at her before sitting back on your haunches and introducing yourself by name. “And what’s your name?”

“Penny.”

“It’s nice to meet you Penny.” Bucky said softly, smiling at her. “I’m Bucky.”

Penny wiped her eyes and when you got up, offering her a hand to help her stand she accepted it. Once on her feet, she kept her hand firmly in yours as you surveyed the area, hoping to find someone who looked like they were searching for her.

“What is the last thing you remember? Were you at a playground or a picnic area? Do you remember anything like that maybe?”

“We were at a fountain.” Penny mused, her index finger on her chin as she thought. “We were taking a break.”

Bucky looked back at you with a smile. “I know where they might be. There’s a big water fountain not far from here. We should start there.”

Penny looked up at you before pulling at your hand. “Can you carry me, pretty please? My knees really hurt.”

“Of course.” You smiled and bent down to pick her up, letting her wrap her arms around you as you set out with Bucky leading the way. “Let’s get you back to your Daddy.”

The three of you walked for about ten minutes, with Penny telling you all about her day and you listening intently, only interrupting her to ask questions to keep her talking. Bucky kept glancing back at you, a soft smile on his face. When you came to the fountain you were immediately greeted by a panicked-looking man that Penny quickly reached out to.

“You found her! Thank you so much!” He exclaimed as he took her into his arms and held her close. “I looked away for five seconds to talk to my wife and when I turned back Penny was gone.”

“I saw a kitty, Daddy.” Penny explained before pointing at her knees. “And I fell and hurt myself. But the nice couple helped me and gave me bandaids.”

“Again, thank you so much.” Her father said with a smile. “I hope you didn’t have to search for us for too long.”

“Not at all. Penny was really smart and told us you were at a fountain.” You explained, taking Bucky’s hand and nodding to him. “And Bucky knew where the fountain was so it was no trouble finding you.”

“But even if it had been, we wouldn’t have minded. There’s no need to thank us.” Bucky explained, squeezing your hand and smiling at the man. “We’ll be on our way then.”

“Have a good rest of your day. And again thank you.”

Penny smiled at the two of you, waving from her father’s arms. “Bye-bye!”

You two waved back at her, said your goodbyes and then left to head back to the car. On the way, your hand migrated from Bucky’s hand to hold onto his biceps. Your head leaned against his shoulder and he turned his head to look at you with a small smile.

“You would be a great mother.”

The longing was back and by now you knew exactly what it meant. And you wondered if he felt the same, given how many references to having children he’d made during the past few days, from speaking about it to Natasha to asking about potential nursery themes with you to flat-out telling you you would be a great mother. The glances he kept sending your way whenever either of you interacted with a child or talked about anything that had to do with child-rearing made you question if he was doing all this on purpose.

“You think so?”

“Definitely.” He said and then looked back ahead, a gentle smile spreading across his features. “I cannot wait to have a family with you one day.”

You decided to keep the fact that there was a slim chance that day might come sooner rather than later to yourself for the time being, opting to wait a few more days. Yet, you suspected that you wouldn’t even have to tell him about your worries because by now you were sure that he’d heard all you had said to Natasha. It seemed that Bucky was trying to show you that he’d be ready to raise a child with you. And you were surprised at how happy you were about that slim chance that you might have been pregnant.

“I can’t wait, either.”

---

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

Bucky looked up from where he was putting away the dishes, giving you a confused look. You just leaned against the counter next to him, giving him a warm and thankful smile because now you not only knew what he had been doing but you also had an inkling as to why he’d been doing it.

“What do you mean, Doll?”

“Showing me how good you are with kids, how well prepared you would be for raising a child, talking about how much you want to have a child with me, telling me that I’d be a great mother and always making sure I saw how good you were at everything to do with childcare.” You explained softly, reaching out to take his hand into yours. “Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“You overheard me talking to Natasha two days ago, didn’t you?”

“How you talked to her about your period being late?” He asked and when you nodded, so did he. “Yes, I overheard it before I came outside.”

“And I assume you thought it meant I might be pregnant.” When he nodded, you gave him a soft smile. “Did you do all of that to show me that you’d be ready to raise a child with me should I be pregnant?”

Bucky nodded and turned to face you fully now, moving so he could take both your hands into his. “I want you to know that should you ever have the suspicion that you’re pregnant you can talk to me and that I’d be willing to step up to be a father in an instant.”

“I love you so much, Bucky.” You said and pressed a small kiss to his cheek before drawing back again. “But we won’t need to worry about that for now. I got my period just after I got out of the shower, so I’m definitely not pregnant.”

Saying it out loud made you feel almost sad or disappointed but you tried your best to overplay these feelings. But Bucky was a very observant person, especially when it came to your emotions, and the frown on his face showed that he’d realised that you weren’t all too happy at the moment.

“Are you happy about it?”

“It would have definitely been a big change and a very sudden, unplanned one at that.”

“That’s not what I asked, Sweetheart. Are you happy about it?”

You swallowed at his question and shook your head. “Not completely, no. I’m obviously happy that nothing unplanned has happened because I know that it-- it would have been a big and sudden change. But these past few days I’ve seen how prepared you truly are for a child and how good you are with children and-- and you got called my baby daddy and you kept talking about how much you were looking forward to us having children. I really started liking the idea of having a child with you, James.”

“Come here, Sweetheart.” Bucky whispered as he heard the sadness in your voice and immediately drew you into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” You protested through the tears in your voice but you held on to him nonetheless. “I just got so-- so excited about possibly being pregnant but I knew from the start that it was likely not the reason why my period was late.”

“Yes, I heard you talk to Natasha about that, too.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I felt so excited, so happy and so ready for it.”

Bucky gently drew back from you, mustering your face for a few seconds before he spoke up again. “You feel ready to have a baby?”

“Yes.” You nodded after a small pause before you looked up at him again. “But if you’re not ready then please don’t feel forced to do anything you don’t want to just to make me happy. I can wait, I promise.”

“Doll, what about the things I did and said in the last days makes you think I’m not also more than ready to have a child with you?”

“You want to try for a child?”

“I think we should try for a baby if we’re both ready.”

“I like that idea.”

You squeaked in surprise when Bucky all but hoisted you onto the counter behind you, capturing your lips in a kiss as he got between your legs to get closer to your body. The kiss deepened as he tipped you back and pulled you closer, and when he pulled back you gave him a breathless laugh.

“For the record, I didn’t ask you to impregnate me right this instant.”

“Then I think some signals got mixed there.” Bucky chuckled and pressed a kiss to your head. “But if we’re going to try, what’s stopping us from starting now?”

“For one, I’m on my period right now.”

Bucky leaned over to gently kiss your jaw. “If you’re uncomfortable with sleeping with me right now then obviously we’re not going to and I respect that. But if you’re worried that I’ll be uncomfortable, let me just tell you that a little blood doesn’t scare me.”

“I think we can wait a few more days to start trying.” You chuckled softly, running your hand up and down his neck. “There’s no need to be in such a hurry.”

“Of course, Doll. Whatever you want.” Bucky said and drew back to give you a warm smile. “I guess I’m simply excited to start a family with you.”

“I am excited to start a family with you, too.”

#fanfiction #textpost #writing #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #marvel #marvel x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #female reader #no y/n #reader insert

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lokis-dark-queen · 1 year

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A “Horny” Reunion Pt. 1/2

Sub Loki/Fem Reader Smut

Summary: After some time away on Asgard, Loki receives a special request from his lover during their steamy reunion that involves his ceremonial armor and those iconic gold horns.

Warnings/notes: SMUT 18+, kinda inappropriate use of Loki’s horns (they are basically handlebars.) He’s also sub because I say so. This is part one of a two part one-shot.

Word Count: 2,869

Also on AO3

Loki has been in Asgard for almost three weeks now, three weeks without Loki was hell for her. She thought that it would be fun at first, some time without Loki where she could focus on herself and have fun with her girlfriends. And she did for the first couple weeks, while Loki was dealing with “official royal business” in Asgard, she was partying with her friends and staying up late. It wasn't that she couldn’t do all those things with Loki around, he was not controlling at all. She just liked the feeling of being by herself for a while and doing what she wanted. However, time apart makes the heart grow fonder, and at the end of the second week, the lack of Loki’s presence began to weigh heavy on her. She missed his voice, his laugh, and his witty remarks. Her bed felt cold without him, she missed waking up to him in the morning, his hands would wander her body as she was slowly drawn from her slumber. He would place soft kisses on her face and down her neck as she stirred awake in his arms.

What she missed most, however, was the sex. She loved Loki as a person and she was absolutely in love with him. But gods he could fuck! She became addicted to him after their first night together, she could never sleep with anyone else after that. Eventually he moved in with her after they both grew tired of living at the Avengers’ tower. Sneaking around with him and being bugged by the Avengers constantly was not a good mix. They finally had their privacy, that was until Loki was being called back to Asgard more often. She was happy that Loki was close with his brother again, and that he was able to go see his mother freely. However, his relationship with Odin was still estranged, it wasn’t surprising, Loki still refused to fully forgive him for the way that he treated Loki growing up. She supported Loki and his decisions, but she still missed him dearly.

Now she laid on her bed, one of Loki’s capes was wrapped around her frame as she curled up, staring at the empty spot next to her. Loki's scent was beginning to fade from his side of the bed, as well as the cape. She closed her eyes and pretended that he was there next to her. Her hands ran down the material of the cape, to her stomach, and eventually down her shorts. Getting herself off these past few weeks wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do until Loki came back.

When she suddenly heard a deep familiar voice, she thought she was hallucinating.

“Oh darling, have you been desperate in my absence?”

Her eyes flew open as she sat up on the bed, the god of mischief himself stood at the foot of it. She flung herself at him immediately, jumping off the bed and wrapping her arms and legs around his tall frame.

“Loki! I missed you so much.” Her face was buried in the crook of his neck as a few tears fell from her cheeks, “Part of me thought you would never come back.”

“Me? Leave you? Darling I would simply cease to exist without you. These past few weeks have been incredibly tiring, they wanted me to stay longer. But I told my mother I had important business to tend to on Midgard.” He smirked, taking a handful of her ass as he held her up.

She pulled back and looked Loki in the eyes, “Is that my name now? Important business?” She giggled before giving him a brief kiss. The kisses traveled to his flushed cheeks and forehead as she pampered him with love and affection. She ran her hands down his neck to the ceremonial leather and armor that he still wore from his business on Asgard, “It’s been awhile since i've seen you in the full get up. I almost forgot how hot it is.”

Loki backed up and spun them around so that she was pinned between the wall and his body. His hands wrapped around the backs of her thighs and hoisted her up so that he could pull her into a deep, desperate kiss that would make a virgin blush. The scent of leather mixed with Loki’s natural scent of cedar and spice filled her nostrils as he pressed his hips into hers. She gasped into the kiss, running her fingernails down the back of his leather coat. Loki pulled away, causing her to let out a small whine before kissing down his neck.

“I know how much you love my armor darling, however, it is quite difficult to AGH-!” He grunted as she left a small bite mark on his neck, she sucked on his skin with the intention of leaving a nice mark for later. “QUITE! Difficult to maneuver in.”

She pulled back and gave him a smile, “But you seem to walk around in it just fine.” She runs her hands down the golden armor, fingers tracing the small patterns that adorn it.

“I’m not talking about walking. I mean special… maneuvers.” He hoped she would get the hint.

She looked at him in confusion for a moment, “So what? You can’t fuck in it?”

Loki normally loved and admired how straightforward she was when she spoke to him. But now, she was leaving him flustered and speechless. His eyes were wide as he looked at her, he saw that her pupils were blown with lust as she smirked, fully aware that she currently had the upper hand.

“It's not that I can’t, it’s just difficult to move in that way.” He explained.

“Oh, I understand.” She complied, somewhat sarcastically.

“Good.” He gently placed her back on her feet, “Now let me take all this off and we can-” He was cut off by her guiding him back to the armchair in the corner of the room before she put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him down, his armor clanking as it met the soft material. Loki was immensely stronger than her, of course, but he still let her control him at times.

“What? Darling you’re not! Ooh~” He gasped as she gripped his hard cock through the leather.

“C’mon baby, don’t act like you don’t like it when I push you around. You're already so hard for me.” She replaces her hand with her clothed, wet cunt and ground against his leather trousers that concealed him. She could feel her wetness leaking through her thin underwear and shorts, now polishing his leather pants perfectly. “See? Feel.” She grabbed his hand and brought it to her heated center, she guided his fingers into a circling motion on her clit. Loki moaned at her actions, secretly loving the feeling of being used by a beautiful, demanding woman. “This is how you make me feel, I get so turned on when I see you dressed like this.” She moaned, moving her hips in time with his hand, “Good boy, you make me feel so fucking good.” She kissed him, swallowing his moans that she drew from him.

“Darling, please.” He begged between kisses, “I need you, p-please.”

“I love it when you beg for me, mischief.”

They just couldn’t wait any longer after these long weeks away from each other. While she was tending to her needs on earth, Loki was pleasuring himself on Asgard whenever he had time away from his royal duties. He imagined fucking her in his large bed covered in his favorite green silken sheets, making her scream his name so that all of Asgard knew who she belonged to. But now, he was sitting in their shared room of her New York apartment, the curtains wide open and looking over the lively city beneath them, absolutely at her will. He was ready to do anything for her, and he nearly moaned out loud when she began to undo the laces on his leather trousers. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of the chair, his eyes were focused on her, taking in every feature on her face and they way that her hands trembled with excitement as she finally undid the final lace and opened his trousers. She quickly abandoned her tee, showing her soft breasts to Loki’s wandering eyes, before reaching down to make a fist around his long cock. She slowly stroked him, he threw his head back in pleasure as she used her thumb to circle the blushed head, a small sheen of pre cum covered her thumb. She brought her thumb up to her mouth to taste him.

She slipped herself off of his body before untying her sleeping shorts and sliding them down her legs, Loki clenched his jaw in anticipation. She placed herself back on her throne that was Loki’s lap and gave him a deep kiss and ran her hands up his chest to play with the curls at the end of his hair. She leaned back and looked the powerful god beneath her up and down. His angry red cock stood in contrast to his black leather, his chestplate raised up and down with his heavy breathing and his pale cheeks wore a faded flush.

“Somethings missing.” She stated, running her fingers through his dark locks.

“What is it, my love?”

She put her index fingers to her forehead to mimic the look of his signature horns. “Put your horns on.” She demanded.

“W-why?” He stuttered

“Because I want to hold on to them while I ride you.”

Her straightforwardness made his cock twitch in need, “Anything for you, my love.” He smiled before a ring of magic, manifesting itself in green glimmers, surrounded his head in a halo before turning into his glistening, golden horns.

She smiled as she ran her hands up and down the gold that now adorned his head, stroking the horns as if they were his dick. She slid her fingers along the cheek pieces that accentuated his prominent cheekbones. She tilted his head back further so that she could kiss him deeply without colliding with the horns before lifting her hips to press her wet pussy against the head of his cock, the sheen of their combined arousal put a nice shine on the leather that covered his abdomen. She pulled away from the kiss to hold onto his horns before sinking onto him. They both gasped at the feeling of being with each other once again.

“Oh fuck- I missed you so much Loki.” She moaned before gripping onto his horns tighter and moving her hips in a circling, grinding motion.

Loki let out a deep growl and held on to her waist as she began to slowly bounce on top of him. His fingers eventually made their way up to her pebbled nipples and began to play with them gently. She arched her back into his touch and whined his name. Loki’s moans became louder as he realized he wouldn’t be able to hold back for much longer, he was more desperate than he anticipated. He didn’t think he would cum this quickly, and if he was in control he probably wouldn’t, but she was riding him so perfectly right now and he couldn’t stop himself from pushing his hips up, causing his cock to slide inside her perfect cunt even deeper.

“Darling, w-wait I- I can’t. Slow down.”

“It’s okay, you can cum.” She allowed, circling her hips once again.

“FUCK! Fuck~” His hands held on tight to the flesh on her thighs, fingernails leaving shallow marks in her skin as he coated her walls with his cum. Sweat formed underneath the headpiece on his forehead and small tears shone underneath his eyes.

She gasped, loving the feeling of him filling her up. She knew Loki insisted that she came first whenever they fucked, but seeing him lose control under her was worth it. Besides, she would make sure he made it up to her after he recovered from his powerful orgasm.

“Are you with me, darling?” She ran her thumbs along his jawline as he relaxed beneath her.

“Always, my love.” He opened his eyes, looking into her’s with the same amount of love and lust that he had when he caught her touching herself when he arrived back home. “What about you? You didn’t cum.”

“Aw darling, so considerate.” She lifted herself off his softening cock, Loki’s cum leaking from her pussy, and stood in front of him, “Stand up.” She demanded. He did as he was told before she put her hands on his clothed biceps, turning them around and sitting down where Loki was only seconds ago. She spread her legs for him, giving him a perfectly unobstructed view of his seed leaking out of her cunt. “Get to it then.”

Loki wasted no time dropping to his knees in front of her and holding on to her thighs, keeping them open so that his horns could fit in between her legs. She reached down and held onto them once again as she felt his warm breath brushing against her wet folds. She pushed her hips into his mouth and pulled his head closer by his golden headpiece. Loki licked up her slit, drinking his own release from her cunt, before circling her clit with his tongue.

“Fuck~ can you taste yourself, mischief?” She moaned, grasping on tight to his horns.

Loki groaned in approval as she arched her back and pushed her hips closer to his mouth in an attempt to feel more friction from his tongue. His long fingers teased her entrance as his tongue circled her clit. His cum being used as lube as he curled two of his fingers to push against her g spot. She now her head thrown back in pleasure, screaming out his name and digging her fingernails into the soft felt of the chair. Tears of utter pleasure pricked the corners of his eyes as her legs shook on either side of his head, brushing against the chilling gold of his horns that raised gooseflesh on her skin.

Loki moaned between her legs as if he was getting off from her taste alone. He looked up at her with those gorgeous cerulean eyes that bore into her soul, she could barely keep eye contact with him before her eyes rolled back into her skull. Loki sped up his movements, determined to make her cum just as hard as he did. He smirked against her pussy as her thighs tightened around his head.

“I’m gonna cum- ah LOKI!” She cried out as her knuckles turned white, holding Loki’s horns in a death grip as her powerful orgasm possessed her body, leaving her quivering in Loki’s arms. Loki continued eating her out as her climax felt nearly endless. Her cunt was swollen in overstimulation as she began to push at his head in an attempt to crawl away from his talented silver tongue. Loki took the hint and stopped his pleasurable assault, slowly kissing her thighs and up to her stomach. He made his way back up her body so that his face was level with hers, giving her a soft kiss before she wrapped her arms around his neck to help her sit up straight and return the kiss.

“I love you darling, it feels good to be home. May I change into something more comfortable now?” He smirked, placing a kiss on her soft cheek.

She giggled and stood up with Loki, running her hands around the intricate details of his armor, taking it in before it was gone for the foreseeable future. “I guess you can. I’ll miss it though.”

“You will see it again darling, I promise”

Loki used his magic to change into a pair of black lounge pants. Loki looked sexy in whatever he wore, besides now she had access to his exposed torso. She immediately took the opportunity to touch his skin that was slightly flushed and sweaty from their previous activities. She ran her hands through his inky hair, caressing where the proud helmet once sat.

“I love you mischief, never leave me again.” She pouted, burying her face in his chest and wrapping her arms around his back.

He wrapped one arm around her waist as the other cradled the back of her head, running his fingers through her tangled hair and kissing her on the forehead. “Unfortunately, I cannot skip my trips to Asgard. I can, however, bring you with me next time.”

“Sounds perfect.” She looked back up at him, kissing his lips once again before they made their way back to the bed, she ended up back on his lap, peppering his face with kisses once more.

“Since you got to make demands on what I wore this time, I have a request.”

“What is it, mischief?” She smiled.

“I want you to wear the deliciously tight combat suit that you wear on your missions next time.”

She leaned back and looked at him with an entertained look on her face before giving him a seductive smirk, “Deal.”

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anonymityisfunwriter · 19 days

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Let Me Help You

Pairing: Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Grumpy Sunshine Series

You knew something was off with Bucky the moment he came home. He kept rubbing his left shoulder, a deep grimace on his face.

You asked him what was wrong and he brushed it off saying it was just a tough mission. You didn't want to push him, so you let it go. You curled into his side on the couch, reading a book as he played with your hair.

And then he winced. Once. Twice. You've just about had it when he winces again. For the third time.

You snap your book shut. "Alright, that's it!"

"What?"

"Take off your shirt," you order.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow, a smirk slightly tugging at the corner of his mouth, "Really?"

"What? No!" You playfully swat his chest. "You're obviously in pain!"

“Aw…” Bucky dismissively waves his hand at you. "It's not that bad."

"It's been bugging you since you got back."

"I just overdid it a little. I'm fine." Even as the words leave his mouth, you can tell he's fighting back another wince.

"It's hard to see you like this."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine!" you insist. "I know you don't like other people seeing your arm, and I know you've said no to trying physical therapy, so if you're not going to go ask for help then just let me try to help you. Please?"

He deeply sighs, but considering that even the small rise and fall of his shoulders is sending pain radiating all through his shoulder, he's pretty sure he does need your help. "Fine..."

Your fingers trail over the metal plate holding his arm in place. As you flip the release trigger, he grits his teeth, a huff of relief leaving his lips as the vibranium arm detaches from the joint.

"Baby..." Your voice wavers slightly. It makes you want to cry for him. "It's really swollen. This had to have been bothering you."

"I'm used to it," he grumbles.

Your heart clenches for him. That was the problem. He was used to it. Far too used to pain. Far too used to dealing with it on his own. "I'm gonna go grab you some ice."

You return with an ice pack in hand moments later. He hisses as the coolness presses against his scarred flesh.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Thank you."

"All I did was grab an ice pack."

He grabs your unoccupied hand, kissing your palm, "No, thank you for caring. Sometimes, I forget that I'm not alone anymore."

"You'll never be alone. Not as long as I'm here." You press a gentle, feather light kiss to his shoulder, "From now on, promise you'll tell me when your arm's bothering you?"

He hums as your hand gently kneads his shoulder blade, soothing away the radiating ache and pain, "I promise."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes@beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarne @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a @weallhaveadestiny @mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064

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trenchcoathunnybee08 · 2 years

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You know what the most annoying thing about being a fan of Loki is for me??

It’s the fact that I’m not attracted to him and I in no way imagine myself with him in any way. I imagine us more as best friends that pick on the other avengers and kick ass but here’s the problem I want fluffy buddy cop vibe ficks and it’s so incredibly difficult to find those 😫 like even if it says friends somewhere in it its either friends with benefits of friends to lovers and it’s killing me AHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAAHAHAH!!!!!!

#marvel memes #marvel female reader insert #marvel fanfiction #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #platonic friendships #kickass

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urdepressedslut · 9 months

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Hello lovely,

I saw your post that your requests are open, so I will give it a try =)

Imagine Bucky and reader are best friends but they have a huge argument and now they don't talk to each other for days. She's feeling really bad, missing him. He is her most important person and now without interacting with him for days, she's feeling lost and lonely and heartbroken. Maybe she has not a super power and is only a normal human, helping the Avengers with IT or something. Due to the argument with her best friend and not talking to Bucky (Bucky ignores her completely) she begins to feel it not only mental but also physically. She can't eat probably and at the end falls deathly sick.... With a fluffy happy ending and a worried and protective Bucky

Please. That would be nice.

Take care honey

oh my goodness— my heart 😭❤️ the angst is gonna hurt, but i’m such a sucker for it. i had so much fun writing this one, thank you for requesting and i hope you like it🥰

Love Hurts

♡ Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: You and Bucky get into a heated argument, things are said and done and now he won’t speak to you. You don’t think you can handle him ignoring your existence.

♡ Warnings: language, mentions of bucky’s trauma, heavy angst, malnourishment, depression, anxiety/panic attacks, minor injuries, hospitalization, suicidal ideation, self hate, literally hurt just writing this

main masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | MATURE CONTENT 18+

Your nails bit into your palm, denting the flesh— threatening to pierce the delicate skin. It was all to hold yourself back, distract you from the words that wanted to burst out.

It was becoming a sickening routine, Bucky was reckless and had yet another near death experience on his recent mission. The anxiety and the nerves stopping your body from functioning— the dreaded wait for his jet to arrive back at the compound. You shouldn’t have to be used of receiving the call that he had yet again made a reckless move— but you were starting to discover a pattern.

It did nothing to ease the panic that swirled in your chest every time he left for missions. You’d sob, throwing up everything you had eaten that day— unable to stomach anything with the idea that Bucky was on a mission. You never found your anxiety to be so severe— but when Bucky was even mentioned about going on a mission… it spiked.

That’s where you found yourself in his room, watching him pace the space— avoiding your frustrated stare. You weren’t angry at him per say— you were angry that he didn’t value his life.

“Seriously (Y/n)— you get so worked up over nothing. I’m here and alive— isn’t that enough?” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

You pressed your nails tighter to your palm, yet the pain couldn’t stop your thundering thoughts.

“You’re here and alive now, until you do some stupid shit like this again and are dead!” You hissed, trying to keep your voice low but you didn’t know how much longer you could control yourself.

He glared at you, squinting his eyes in anger and then rolling his eyes.

“Oh for fucks sake— can you stop fucking babying me? I can handle myself!” He raised his voice, his metal arm whirring.

“I’m not babying you— I’m just scared you’re gonna get yourself killed. Do you care about your life at all?” You asked him aggressively, your voice raising just a tad.

He took a long pause, staring at you with his face void of emotion— only annoyance.

“Not really.” He admitted.

You were taken back, although you had these conversations with him a time or twenty. It was an ongoing process to get him to slowly love himself— his past as The Winter Soldier torturing his soul. He was so convinced he wasn’t deserving of anything, not even a roof over his head. It was a struggle to help him, but you weren’t going to give up on him.

“You realize if anything ever happened to you I—” Your voice broke, needing a breath, “Buck I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

You thought you saw his eyes flash with guilt, but before you could linger on the look for too long— his face was hardening again.

“That doesn’t sound like my problem.” He mumbled out, making your eyes widen.

You were extremely taken back from those words, your chest aching painfully— him not knowing what effect those words had on you.

“Are you fucking serious?” You asked him, your face morphing into a hurt expression, mixed with anger. “Can you just do your job without trying to kill yourself?”

His face grew red with rage and he was stomping up towards you— his face inches from yours.

“I am doing my job— very well in fact. Unlike you who just fucking sits here doing nothing!” He defended himself, his breath hitting your face in warm pants.

“Doing nothing? Buck— why are you like this?” You puffed your chest, not backing down from his towering form.

But your words seemed to have hit a nerve, as he shrunk back slightly, narrowing his gaze at you.

“Like what?”

You furrowed your brows, slowing your racing heart from the shouting— you weren’t sure you had said anything bad. Did you?

“What?” You squeaked out, nervous now.

“You said, why am I like this… like what?” He pushed, stepping closer to you now, his face still red with anger but you could see the hurt in his eyes.

You swallowed and wondered how to convince him you didn’t mean anything bad by what you said. But you were almost positive it would be an impossible task to get Bucky to listen.

“Buck, I didn’t mean anythin—”

“What— you think I’m not capable of doing my job? You think I’m still the monster hydra made me?” He spat, his chest rising and falling quicker.

“No, no Buck listen—”

That was definitely not what you meant, you could tell he was spiraling and you were still confused as to why. You would never make him think that.

“After 70 fucking years I finally have a job that I like— that I enjoy doing— I fucking help people! I’m finally doing some good and now you’re telling me I’m not capable of doing it?” He boomed, his chest puffing into yours and your stumbled back slightly. “You think I’m only capable of being a monster? Huh? Is that what you fucking think?”

You were growing scared now, the look in his eyes wild with something and you didn’t like how close he was to you— you knew he’d never hurt you but your fear overwhelmed your senses.

“Friday— call Steve and Sam in here now!” You shouted into the room, and Bucky’s eyes squinted painfully— his metal arm whirring again.

Bucky only saw one thing— you didn’t reassure him that he was thinking irrationally. You didn’t correct him that he wasn’t the monster. Instead you called for help, that you were clearly scared— because you thought he was a monster.

He was at a loss for words and just stared at you, almost through you— as his breathing was only getting heavier at the sight of your fearful eyes.

Not even minutes later, Steve and Sam were busting through the door, taking in the scene and separated you and Bucky.

“Hey— what’s going on?” Steve asked in between the two of you. “Buck, what’s wrong man?”

You couldn’t seem to find the words and just stood speechless as well— the fight startling you. This was one of the worst ones, and it was also one that still left you confused. You cursed yourself for not being careful enough with your words— but it was almost impossible to get through to him when he was on the brink of having an episode.

Sam walked closer to you, his facing morphing into concern as he took in your shocked expression.

“(Y/n)? You okay? Did he hurt you?” Sam whispered, keeping his words only between you two.

You slowly shook your head but still didn’t respond verbally.

“Okay, okay that’s good. You wanna go get a drink from downstairs? Why don’t we take a breather okay?” Sam suggested softly, big brother mode kicking in at the sight of your frazzled state.

Without another word, you left the room with Sam— missing the devastated look from Bucky.

Steve waited until the door shut, then his attention was back on Bucky.

“Buck, you gotta talk to me man— what happened?” He asked softly, watching his friend slowly relax, but it wasn’t from being in a relaxing mood— his body and mind were just exhausted from the argument.

“I fucked everything up. That’s what happened.” He mumbled, turning away from Steve to sit on the edge of his bed.

Steve followed behind but stood in front of him, shaking his head— ready to argue.

“You didn’t mess anything up, arguments happen. You guys will work it out. I know how much you mean to each other.” Steve pointed out, watching Bucky’s face unchanging.

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me— she’s scared of me I—” He shuttered, his breath shaky as he remembered your look, “I fucking scared her.”

Steve’s chest ached, the state of his friend breaking his heart. He knew Bucky meant no harm, and he almost for a fact knew that you knew that too. But Bucky for sure didn’t believe that himself.

“I didn’t see what you saw, but I can guarantee you that she’s not afraid of you. This is (Y/n) we are talking about. You are her world Buck.” Steve tried to convince him.

Bucky shook his head, running his flesh hand through his hair.

“I think I just need to stay away from her for awhile.” Bucky came up with instead.

Steve immediately started shaking his head, knowing that was the last thing he needed.

“Bucky I—”

“Please Steve… I just need some space.” Bucky pleaded, his body sagging in exhaustion.

Steve couldn’t find it in himself to argue with him anymore about this. Maybe he did need some time to himself, to cool down and gather his thoughts. Also Steve wasn’t going to force him to anything ever. After the years his pal went through— he would never make him do anything. He had enough things decided for him, and Steve wasn’t about to stoop to hydra’s level.

Meanwhile down in the kitchen, Sam was getting you a glass of water— standing across from your seated form at the island. He slid the cup across, sending a worried glance at you.

“(Y/n)?” Sam snapped his fingers getting your attention.

You were shaken from your state of staring, but even snapped out of the trance— the anxieties still swirled within you.

“Yeah sorry… I’m here.” You whispered, grabbing the glass and taking a tiny sip.

Sam gave you a quizzical expression, watching you start to slip back into a mindless stare— so he spoke up.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” He asked, genuinely curious what had went down.

He knew— hell everyone knew you and Bucky were extremely close. Best of friends, always there for one another— dancing on the line of strictly friends to lovers. Truthfully, Sam found it completely obnoxious and just wanted you two together already.

“I don’t really know… I think I said the wrong thing— I didn’t mean to make him upset.” You confessed, keeping your eyes on the countertop, not risking a glance to Sam.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up— mistakes happen. I’m sure he’ll forgive you.” Sam told you.

You shook your head, gripping the cup tighter.

“God I hope so… I don’t know what I’d do without him.” You whispered pathetically, tears welling in your eyes.

Sam reached out to rub your arm comfortingly, trying to relax you so you didn’t start crying. He hated to see you cry— made his heart hurt.

“It’s been a long day for everyone, why don’t you go head upstairs and get some sleep. I’m sure things will have blown over by tomorrow.” He suggested and you finally met his gaze, smiling weakly and nodding.

Without saying goodbye, you stood up and headed to your room. Taking Sam’s words and playing them on repeat in your head.

Tomorrow is another day, tomorrow would be better.

God had you hoped that was the case— it only was the beginning on the torment.

You had slept in longer than usual, but overall felt refreshed. The first thing that came to mind when fully waking up was Bucky. Immediately you headed downstairs to find him— needing to talk with him— apologize.

Making it down to the kitchen, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in at the sight of him sitting at the island— sipping at his coffee. You furrowed your brows, thinking he'd be done with his coffee by now, since you had slept in. Your chest ached with guilt with the possibility that he didn't sleep well.

You took a deep breath before making yourself known, although you were sure be could sense you in the room— considering he was a super soldier.

"Morning Buck." You announced, walking around the island so you could face him.

He kept his gaze down at his coffee, finding the cup more interesting than you.

Okay, that’s fair. You thought, you most probably deserved that reaction.

“You sleep okay?” You asked again, picking at the skin on your nails nervously.

Again— he didn’t even lift his head. In fact, he wasn’t even acknowledging you. You waited several minutes for a response, the silence becoming thick with tension and you couldn’t stand it.

“Bucky?” You tried, and this time he lifted his head.

Your heart twinged in your chest at his bloodshot eyes, clear evidence that he hadn’t gotten good sleep. You hated yourself for causing him the stress, especially knowing he was just starting to actually get hours of sleep. It was huge progress compared to his nights either screaming awake or just staring at the walls. But now you had to go and ruin all that progress. You felt sick to your stomach— disgusted with yourself.

“I’m really sorry about last night… I didn’t like how ugly it got and I’m sorry if I said something to upset you— you know I’d never intentionally hurt you.” You told him, picking more aggressively at your nails, causing to nail beds to bleed.

You swallowed nervously when he didn’t answer right away, instead staring at you with… what was that? Disgust? You didn’t know, but you hated the look altogether.

“Bucky, please say something.” You pleaded.

Bucky lowered his gaze to his coffee again, taking a minute before he stood up and looked your way.

“I just need some space.” He told you quietly.

You were relived to have him finally talk to you, but to hear him suggest space between you two— you could almost feel the knife digging into your chest. You tried to keep a neutral expression but otherwise felt your bottom lip quiver.

Without giving you time to respond, Bucky was walking out of the room— leaving you standing there speechless, lungs begging for air. You didn’t want your mind to go immediately to that thought, but you couldn’t ignore it either— he hated you.

“Hey babe, I need you to help me out in the lab tod—” Tony came busting into the room, but immediately shut up once he saw your broken expression. “Honey, what’s wrong? You alright?”

You nodded your head, lying to him and yourself and started waving him off with the fakest smile.

“Yeah— yeah I’m good. Just need to uh— need to get some things done.” You told him, your eyes darting all around the room, the familiar feeling of panic seeping into your being.

Tony gave you a ‘really?’ look and stepped closer to you.

“(Y/n) I’m not blind— I can see you’re upset. Talk to m—”

“Seriously Tony— I’m fine! Just leave it alone!” You told him a little too aggressively.

His face was taken back and you felt guilty immediately, cursing yourself for hurting everyone.

Why are you such a fucking issue? Your mind screamed at you.

You didn’t waste another second and sped walked out of the room, needing to calm yourself down before you ran into any one else. You were spiraling and you needed to just relax— take a deep breath. Maybe you just needed one more day and things would be back to normal.

Yeah… just one more day.

You had hoped that was the case as well… but as always— things only got worse.

Bucky refused to talk to you or even look at you. He’d given you the cold shoulder for almost two weeks now. He would get up and leave the second you entered the room. He couldn’t stand you it seemed.

You couldn’t keep hiding your hurt. At first, you had done a good job at hiding how you were really feeling. Saving the sobbing and attacks for when you were alone in your room. As the days lingered on, you found yourself weak and drained— you didn’t have enough energy to put up a charade anymore.

The whole team were sending you worried looks, and attempted to talk with you. But the second they’d try— you’d bolt. The subject was too sensitive, too raw. You didn’t want to talk to anyone but Bucky— and he hated you.

You had missed so many meals, forgetting to eat with your mental struggles throughout the days. You had been getting no more than two hours of sleep. You were so stressed, so stuck in your own mind that you couldn’t function. Even when you had managed to remember to eat, your stomach would knot up to the point that you were throwing everything up. You were gaunt, basically a real life zombie. You needed help— but you needed Bucky more.

You were laying in bed staring unknowingly into space, it had been hard to focus with no food or sleep in your system— so you had only managed to lay here. Even that was exhausting, no matter how much you laid around— your mind wouldn’t stop the assault. Your anxiety had never been this bad, you were a prisoner to it.

Knocking at your door had you jumping, your heart racing— and for a moment you forgot where you were.

You’re in the compound… yeah that’s right.

You slowed your breathing and swung your legs sluggishly over the edge of the bed to answer it. You weren’t prepared for the sudden dizzy spell, your vision spotting with black and white specks. You tried to blink it off, but suddenly you were toppling to the ground.

You fell to the floor with a loud thump, luckily landing on your front, your hands somehow catching most of your fall— you could already feel the throbbing in your palms.

You didn’t hear the persistent knocking, or the door open. You didn’t even hear the voice speaking from the doorway. It was when a hand landed on your shoulder that you were gasping, forgetting your surroundings once again.

Your eyes met Steve’s and you swore your heart was about to beat out of your chest.

“(Y/n) are you alright?” He asked you, hovering his hands over you— not sure what you had hurt.

You furrowed your brows, looking him over.

“Steve what are… what are you doing here?” You asked genuinely confused.

You watched Steve’s eyes widen and he swallowed nervously— his expression growing more concerned.

“(Y/n) it’s okay… I’ve got you.” Steve hushed, and he was pulling you into his chest, hugging you protectively.

You were still confused but then you tasted one of your stray tears, and you immediately came to your senses. You were crying in Steve’s arms… but why? You were having gaps of time missing from you, this wasn’t the first time this had happened— you just didn’t seem to care.

“Steve… my head hurts.” You slurred into his chest, sagging against him.

You were grateful that he was here, you desperately needed someone around. You were just hoping that someone would’ve been Bucky.

“Okay, let’s get you to Helen. She’s gonna take care of you, okay?” Steve asked you, and you could only give a weak nod.

He knew there was no way you were walking there, so he hoisted you up into his arms, and cradled your head as he started to the med bay.

You just stared blankly at his chest, not really caring if Steve were to throw you off the roof of the building. You just didn’t care.

Steve had gotten you down to her, and she checked you out. Alerting Steve that you were extremely malnourished, dehydrated— an insomniac. She kept listing off all the things Steve was afraid to hear. The whole time he was sure you didn’t hear a thing, although you were in the room— you were just checked out.

Helen eventually left, and Steve took his opportunity to speak with you. He pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed and grabbed your hand.

“(Y/n), what’s going on? You can talk to me— you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Please… just talk to me.” Steve whispered, pleading with you that you would stop torturing yourself.

“He hates me.” You mumbled.

Steve’s eyes widened and he frowned, knowing what you meant. He knew he let this go on for too long.

“(Y/n) he doesn’t hate you. He just needed time to himself, so he co—”

“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, I don’t even know what I said to hurt him but I—” You rushed out, the heart monitor beeping frantically, “I’m a horrible person, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean to!”

You wheezed out, clutching your chest as you couldn’t catch your breath. Your cheeks glistened with a steady stream of tears, your wheezing only growing by the second.

“Okay, okay (Y/n)— I need you to slow your breathing. You’re okay, he doesn’t hate you. Just take deep breaths okay— even if you can’t just try. I’m here.” He tried to coach you, but this wasn’t his thing.

Now he was starting to get mad at his friend, Bucky shouldn’t of let this go on for this long.

You followed his chest rising and falling, staring at him as he tried to calm you down. Your breaths were heavy and painful sounding. Steve was about to say something but stopped himself when he saw your eyes look behind him.

He turned and saw Bucky standing in the doorway— his face paled. Truthfully, he looked like he was going to be sick.

“(Y/n)?” He whispered, his heart breaking at your state.

He had ran into Helen in the kitchen and was informed of your condition— he didn’t believe it and had to see for himself. He was shocked to find you like this.

Your tears only edged on from his appearance and you shook your head in shame.

“I’m sorry Bucky! Whatever I did, I’m sorry!” You sobbed and Bucky ran to the bed, kneeling down and taking your hands into his.

“Doll it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here— I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you… I’m sorry.” He rushed out, shushing your cries, watching you slow your breathing at his words. “There we go, just keep breathing with me. I’m here, you’re okay.”

He kept repeating himself, making sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Steve knew you were in good hands and slowly snuck out of the room— knowing you two needed to talk.

Bucky tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail down your cheek to your jaw. You couldn’t help the way your face leaned into his touch, it felt like it had been forever since the last one.

Your breathing had slowed down, and now you just stared up at him— eyes glossy with more tears. You felt so many emotions. You felt relived, but also angry and hurt. Above all— you needed to know what you did to upset him. The guilt still ate away at your heart, and even just the memory of the argument had your chest aching.

“What did I do?” You whispered, making his eyes shoot up to yours, concern painting his face.

“You didn’t do anything.” He told you, and you furrowed your brows.

You were still anxious— he hadn’t answered your question. Even more so— if you didn’t do anything then why did he ignore you?

“Then why?”

“Why what (Y/n)?” He dared to ask, and you scoffed— ripping your hands out of his.

The anger was approaching.

“Why did you shut me out?” You wondered, and he only let his eyes cast down to the bed— making you angrier. “You ignored me for two weeks! Two fucking weeks you just acted as if I didn’t exist! Do you know how much that fucking hurts?”

You were breathing heavy again, but this time it wasn’t from panic— it was the full force of all your anger bursting out.

He lifted his eyes to you, and you saw how broken he looked. How your state had affected him.

“I could never do that to you Buck— I would never do that to you! You’re my everything! I don’t trust anyone as much as I trust you!” You raised your voice, while he stayed silent. “If I didn’t do anything then why would you— why—”

You broke out into a sob, covering your face with your hands. You felt good getting all the built up anger out— but now you felt extremely guilty. The pitiful face of Bucky staring at you, causing your heart to hurt all over again. It didn’t matter what happened, you always ended up hurting others.

“(Y/n) I’m so sorry I— god I fucked up. I didn’t ever mean to hurt you, please know that. You’re my other half, and no one has ever been there for me like you have.” He spoke through a tight throat, swelling with emotion.

You uncovered your face and just stared at him a little longer, still incredibly hurt from his actions— but you knew you couldn’t stay mad at him. You so badly wanted to forgive and forget— and just wrap him in your arms like you both needed.

“It’s hard to explain what’s wrong with me to someone when I don’t even understand what’s wrong with me— I just know I’m fucked up. I’m broken beyond repair.” His voice broke, his own eyes welling with tears.

You didn’t have it in you to keep up an angry facade, and so you reached out and took his hand in yours. His face almost immediately lit up, his breathing slowing at your touch.

“Try me.” You whispered, watching Bucky take a deep breath before he spoke again.

“The night of our fight…” He started, and you swallowed in having to remember that night. “I had never seen you look at me like that.”

You stayed silent, afraid to open your mouth and have a sob escape. You could feel it bubbling up— the memory playing back through your mind.

“You looked at me like you were scared. You looked at me like I was a monster.” He confessed and it all made sense to you now.

It wasn’t about what you said, it was your reaction that disturbed him to no ends. Even if you couldn’t control your reaction in the moment— you still felt guilty for causing him pain of remembering the hydra days.

“Oh Buck…” You whimpered, trying to pull him close— but he pulled away before he could reach your embrace.

“No— you don’t get to be nice to me after what I did. I promised I would never hurt you and I did— you’re in here because of me! I don’t deserve your forgiveness!” He raised his voice, and you weren’t scared of him— just concerned.

“I wasn’t scared of you Bucky, you just caught me off guard. Things were heated— I’m not afraid of you and I most definitely don’t think you’re a monster.” You tried to convince him.

“I really hope you’re not lying because if you were afraid of me… god I don’t know what I’d do. If you never wanted to see me again— that’s fine. Whatever you want, but I can’t live knowing you’re afraid of me.” He whimpered out.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He nodded his head, knowing damn well you’d never lie. That was one thing he loved about you— you were so honest. Keeping it real with him, even if he didn’t wanna hear it. He could count on you for the truth.

“I still don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He argued.

“Well too bad, I’m forgiving you anyway.” You finally told him and he felt his chest expand.

Like he could finally breath.

“Why?” He wondered.

You knew it was the line you two had been dancing on forever— but you knew if there was ever a time to say it. It was now.

“Because I love you.” You admitted quietly.

His eyes widened just slightly, and his breath stuttered. He had always had a feeling what you two had was more than friends, he just never spoke up about it. Of course he loves you too— god he loves you so much. That’s why the thought of you being scared of him was enough to pull him away. He couldn’t bear being around you if you were frightened by him. He couldn’t live with himself. More importantly he now discovered, he really couldn’t live without you.

“I love you so much.” He confessed back as your tears leaked down your cheeks.

You pulled his arm, and he let you pull him to the bed— close enough where you could cup both his cheeks.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, please. I need you Bucky— life is not livable without you.” You cried, kissing his forehead to which he leaned into your lips.

“Never again— I promise.”

This time, he wouldn’t break it.

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