This Entire Series Has My HEART Go Read It Rn!!! 1000/10 I Swear To Gods

I need out of sad spn tiktok my feelings cannot handle it

I adore this whole series icl

Escape Is Mandatory

platonic Spencer Reid x geniusbau!reader | part 4

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Summary: prison changed Spencer, and along with it were a couple of horrible choices bau!reader refused to tolerate, hence a threat to their years of friendship. But all of it disappeared as soon as an unsub threatened your life.

Warning: details of death, violence, and infidelity; curse word(s)

A/N: I can't believe it has been over a year since I posted this mini-series (me just disappearing out of nowhere, lol). This draft has been sitting for a year. I never published it because it felt boring (I still do, somehow), but I wanted to celebrate the series reaching a year old HAHA! Anywaysss, as usual, this might be heavy, so be mindful when reading. It's not my gif; credits to the owner :)

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

Luther Gerard grinned maniacally, leaning against his seat, "Let me guess... sister? Oh, but she's too pretty to be related to you." His cuffed hand caressed your picture on the table, "Lover, perhaps?"

Spencer's jaw clenched, "Where. Is. She?" His palms were itchy, breathing steadily as he kept them flat on the table.

This unsub was unlike any other serial killer he had encountered. Luther Gerard, age 38, is an average plumber but one hell of a genius, almost as dangerously intelligent as Spencer, with 186 IQ.

Spencer would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. He was terrified to the bone. Because this time, the unsub had 83.248% outsmarting him, and the victim was you.

"Anyone wanna hear how I picked her up?" Luther glanced at the two-sided mirror, chuckling, "I'll take the silence as a yes."

He looked at Spencer straight in his eyes, "It was dim, but not too much. She was 40 feet away from the precinct entrance... 15 from you. She looked pretty mad when she turned her back, but she looked so hurt walking away. I can remember her tears. Oh, they were sweet and just a little salty. She knew I was there for her. She was going to scream for you. But what can I say? She was a second too slow. I was going to get your attention but she looked so good unconscious in my arms."

"You sick son of a bitch—"

It took Luke, Matt, and three police officers to hold Spencer back. His face was red, and Luke swore he was breathing fire. His knuckles were white as he grabbed Luke's shirt and a bit of the skin on Matt's arm.

Spencer escaped from being pinned by five people with minimal struggle, grabbing Luther's collar to the point of suffocation. "Where the hell is she?! Tell me where!"

Luther laughed out loud, watching as Spencer crumbled into an angry mess. "Listen here, Dr. Reid... you can be a point smarter than me as long as you can, but she will always be two points dumber than me. She'll die in that fucking warehouse."

Emily barged into the interrogation room, "Reid." She gestured at Matt to take him out of the room, leaving Luke to get the answers they'd been looking for the past five hours.

Spencer aggressively shrugged Matt's hands on his shoulders, "I can walk," His voice grew a little softer than seconds ago, but his tone still crunched with anger.

As soon as the door shut, Spencer turned to Emily, "She's dying out there."

"You're not the only one who's worried. She's our friend, too, you know. But we won't find her if you let your emotions take over you." Emily took a deep breath, giving him a concerned look.

Spencer ran his fingers through his hair, "I'm not worried. I'm scared." He dropped his head, letting a cruel sigh pass his shivering lips.

Despite his attempt to reinsert himself in the interrogation room, Emily forbade him from coming in contact with the unsub for the rest of the evening. So, he stood next to JJ in the conference room, trying to save you in the best way he knew how: geographic profiling.

"I should've known," Spencer mumbled under his breath.

JJ turned to him, "Did you find something?" She scanned the board in front of them, hoping that she'd see what Spencer was seeing.

Spencer loosened his tie, "The victims. The location. I should've figured it out the moment we briefed about the case. It should've clicked." He guiltily looked at JJ, "I should've kept her safe."

"Spence," JJ spoke motherly. "None of us knew she was the target. You have to know that none of this is your fault." She gave him a kind look, something he knew well to differ whether it was out of pity or genuine compassion.

"But it is my fault..." He averted his eyes from her. He couldn't bear to look at anyone in their eyes, much less the thought of yours, filled with tears from his stupidity.

JJ's eyebrows gently knitted, "Did something happen the last time you saw her?"

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

2 days ago...

The afternoon's fifth hour barely struck, yet the sky was already dark. The lampposts around the precinct were enough light to at least keep you and Spencer from tripping.

None of you have said a word for the past three minutes. You even missed Emily's nod. Both of you were too occupied to care. You: with the obscene sight you just witnessed and the burning itch to smack the back of his head. Spencer: with whatever internal conflict he was going through after coming back from prison, he refused to talk to anyone about.

With every step away from the might as well named crime scene, your lips slowly unfastened. Spencer had barely clicked the SUV's key when you began.

"She's married."

"She's unhappily married."

Your eyebrows clashed, "That's not an excuse, Reid. Your wrinkly brain knows that."

"Can't you just mind your own business?" Spencer rolled his eyes, treating your conversation lighter than you wanted him to.

"I would have if only you did," You looked at him with utter disbelief. No amount of blinking would erase the sight forever etched in the back of your curse of a photographic memory. "Her unhappy marriage was her business. That was her and her husband's business."

Spencer was growing impatient with you. The signs were easy to catch. His knotted forehead. Thoughtless glare. Clenched hands deep in his pockets. An obvious Spencer-is-pissed-at-you special tell.

He straightened his back, "I was just helping her out."

"Holy shit—" You scoffed a baffled chuckle, "Are you hearing yourself? Adultery and sympathy are not the same, Reid. What the hell has gotten into your head?"

Ordinary people wouldn't have cared. Luke and Matt would disagree and judge Spencer's stupid choices but would've kept their mouths shut. Emily and David would spit a bit of advice on how morally wrong he was, but they would have minded their own business for the most part. Tara would've been disgusted but refused to get herself involved. JJ and Penelope would have been utterly disappointed and angry at him, but they wouldn't have missed a chance to make up with him.

You, however, felt nauseatingly repugnant. Years of friendship felt like a thin layer of ice loudly breaking. He knew most of your uninteresting and failed romance. How often has he lent you a back to bury your face on? The number of times he's caught not two but four of your short-term lovers shamelessly cheating. He knew well enough, too much even.

"You know what I think?" He chuckled evilly. And you knew then he was aiming for your throat. "I think you're just jealous because you don't have the aptitude to get over your dead boyfriend."

Your jaw dropped. You half-expected him to say those words, but it still surprised you. It still stung. Your tears were fighting to flow, but you had enough self-respect to not do it before him, not with his shitty attitude, at least.

You gripped the hem of your blazer, "You're a jerk. That's what you are." You took a sharp breath, biting the overflowing ache on your chest. "Come back when you've got something for the case."

A second didn't pass after you turned your back on him, and the tears immediately trailed down your face. You walked out of the parking lot as fast as you could. Crying in front of your childhood classmates felt more gratifying than in front of Spencer.

Wiping the unwanted tears from your cheeks, your feet came to a halt without warning. Something about the fifteen-foot distance from Spencer's back and the forty-foot gap from the entrance to the precinct left you terrifyingly vulnerable.

Your gears began turning.

Victims were awfully close to your build.

You're in your hometown.

And it clicked a second too late.

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

"Spence!" JJ gently shook Spencer back to reality. As soon as she knew he was back down to earth, she immediately spoke, "They found another body—"

Spencer flew out of the door before JJ could even finish speaking. He went to Luke, who was on his way to one of the SUVs. "Where?" He asked in a rush. His heart was beating right in his ear. A series of negative thoughts filled his head.

Luke had a few seconds to tell Spencer where the said body was but quickly interrupted Spencer's thoughts. "We don't know anything yet, Reid."

"But what if it's her?" Spencer snapped. He had little patience for anyone. All he knew was how important it was to see a body that's not you.

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

"Fuck!" You cried in a shattered voice.

Tears flowed nonstop down your face, along with your own blood dripping from the top of your horribly bandaged head. Luther Gerard was evil enough to let you bleed slowly to death.

Unbeknownst to him, you were the most stubborn person in the entire BAU team. You bled your way out of the place he locked you in, cursing the pain off your chest.

You have been loosening the barbwire wrapped around your feet with your bare hands for the past hour. Your hands and your feet had gotten skinned off from the sharp metal.

Hope was on your side, though, as you felt your left foot painfully slide off the wrap. You cried out in joy, holding your ankles tight as if the pain would immediately dissipate.

You wiped your tears off your face, smearing blood from your palm onto your skin. You laughed, already delirious from lack of blood. "I'm going to break your neck once I find you. Then I'll beat the hell out of Reid for taking his goddamn time."

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

Spencer felt relief wash over him as soon as he glanced at the lifeless woman being pulled out of the creek. It may have been messed up that he was thankful a different woman died, but he wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

He and Luke drove back to the precinct with a little less tense chests. They may not have found you, but the fact that you weren't the body they found meant one thing. You were still alive. That's all that mattered.

"We'll find her," Luke broke the silence between them, glancing at Spencer from his peripheral. "She's stubborn. She won't let anyone hurt her without punching back. She's probably on her way back to the precinct." He attempted to lighten the mood.

Spencer took a deep breath, "She better be." He looked outside of the car, biting his lower lip. "She has to escape wherever she is. It's mandatory. I'm not letting her die without finishing our argument."

— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿

It's been two days of searching every nook and cranny of your little hometown, but the team hasn't gotten anywhere in finding you.

Each member was exhausted, especially Spencer. He hasn't gotten a wink of sleep. He couldn't even if he tried to.

They were running out of ideas. But like every single cases the BAU team had, you knew how to turn things around. Their wake snapped up as gasps echoed in the entire precinct.

The team rushed to see the commotion and almost burst into tears as soon as they saw you.

"Oh my god..." JJ whimpered under her breath as she clasped her mouth.

You stood there by the entrance, bloodied up and half-conscious. You held the door's handle tight, painting it with your dirty blood as it kept you up on your feet. They could barely recognize your face from the mixture of blood and dirt on your face.

Despite your pitiful, bloodied state, you managed to show them your temper. "You better have caught that bastard." You growled weakly.

Your body was shaking from exhaustion. Just as you slipped out of consciousness, Spencer rushed to catch your body.

Tara called for a medic while Emily went to your aid. Luke and Matt went straight to work things out and give Gerard the worst news he's ever going to receive: it turns out you weren't as dumb as he wanted you to be.

Spencer gently wiped your face with his sleeve. He didn't care if it was his favorite shirt. All he cared about was how his best friend stubbornly stayed alive.

When Emily sat next to him to keep you off the floor, she saw just how much your friendship meant to Spencer. She squeezed his shoulder, "She's back safe with us, Reid. She'll be alright."

Her words prompted Spencer's sobs, tears trickling onto your face in hopes that it would wash the hell you went through for the past days. He quickly wiped them off, though. He knew well enough how you'd react to his 'filthy tears' coming in contact with your skin.

"Yeah, you better clean it off," You mumbled with your eyes closed, gripping the hem of his cardigan vest. You couldn't let yourself pass out, knowing you had a severe wound on your head.

Spencer choked a laugh, "Took you long enough. I thought I would have to save your ass." He sniffed as he let the paramedics transfer you onto a crash cart.

You scoffed, turning into a short series of coughs. "Just admit it. You can't figure things out without my brain power. Your brain's getting smooth, Reid. Prodigy no more."

The team couldn't help but roll their eyes at you and Spencer's banter, bouncing back faster than your recovery. Although they hated to admit it, they preferred the two of you that way rather than apart.

"I'm glad you're safe..." Spencer's voice became softer. Somehow, he couldn't stop himself from tearing up. This was the second time he'd cried nonstop. The first time being the love of his life's death.

He was glad this time wasn't due to someone important's death. He didn't know how he'd handle it if the person he could always rely on would leave him of this world.

As you were dragged into the ambulance, you gave all the rest of your strength to glare at Spencer. "Don't think you're off the record. After I deal with Gerard, you're next."

"Is it mandatory?" He sarcastically stated, jumping into the ambulance the moment you were settled in. He couldn't bear to leave you out of his sight.

𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐮𝐲

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → nakedness, suggestive, 18+

Summary → Peter gets really giddy when he sees your boobs.

A/N - was inspired by @webslingingslasher 's this little blurb

You stepped out of Peter’s bathroom, towel in hand as you gently dried your hair, water droplets still lingering on your skin. The air in his room was warm, comforting, and the sound of a movie quietly played on the TV. You stood by the edge of the bed, your eyes naturally drifting toward the screen where Peter had his focus locked—well, until he caught sight of you in his peripheral vision.

He shifted slightly, trying to refocus on the TV, but his mind couldn’t quite settle. His gaze kept pulling toward you, and you noticed how his eyes flickered in your direction, widening for a moment.

“What?” You asked, confused but amused as you caught him staring out of the corner of your eye.

“Nothing,” he stammered quickly, eyes darting back to the screen. But his mind wasn’t there at all. Not when his peripheral vision picked up something else—a peek of skin, the curve of your boobs just barely in sight as you moved to grab something from his nightstand.

Peter turned his head, and in that instant, his brain short-circuited. You weren’t wearing a shirt. In fact, you weren’t wearing anything at all.

"Whoa—" His voice cracked a little, and his whole body froze in place.

You didn’t seem to notice at first, casually sitting down on the bed next to him, stretching out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Is this... are you asking for sex?" Peter blurted out, his face already turning red as his eyes stayed glued to you.

You laughed softly, looking at him like he was overreacting. "No, just hanging out, why?"

His eyes flickered down to your chest, then back up, his mouth slightly open. "Your boobs are out. Like, I’m looking at them."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a playful smile. "Peter, I’m literally butt-ass naked."

"Yeah, I know! But like—" His hands gestured toward your chest, unable to look away. "Your boobs. They’re just out right now."

"And? You’ve seen them a million times!"

Peter was quiet for a second, clearly struggling to process the situation. "Yeah, but… they’re just there. And you’re chilling, like, I can just look at them."

"Peter," you chuckled, giving him a light shove. "Stop acting like a child."

"I did nothing today, and I’ve been rewarded with free boobs," he continued, not even hearing your words at this point. "Holy shit, I’ve never been luckier than this moment right now."

"You're such a dork," you said, shaking your head with a grin.

Peter blinked, eyes wide, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Like, am I lucky enough to get this for the rest of my life?"

You laughed, rolling your eyes but secretly loving how giddy he was. "Oh my god, Peter."

He finally pulled his eyes away from your chest to meet your gaze, his expression still one of awe. "Seriously, I’m the luckiest guy ever. You don’t even know."

"Peter," you said, raising an eyebrow, "I’m right here. I think I know."

But Peter was in his own world, his grin wide and goofy. "I mean, I’ve loved you for a million reasons, but this—this is just the cherry on top."

You snorted, giving him another playful shove. "Okay, calm down, Parker."

Peter scooted closer to you on the bed, still unable to hide his amazement. "Are you sure this isn’t some weird trick to get me to do something?"

You laughed again, leaning into his side. "No, Peter. Just hanging out."

He let out a sigh of relief, but his eyes flickered back down, unable to help himself. "God, I love you."

"You love my boobs," you rolled your eyes.

"That too!" Peter admitted, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. "But I love you way more."

You felt your heart swell at his words, but you kept the teasing grin on your face. "Better."

Peter laughed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, his hand resting lightly on your arm. "Seriously, though. This… this is the best day ever."

You rolled your eyes again, but you couldn’t help the warmth that spread through your chest. Being with Peter, even in these silly, casual moments, made everything feel perfect.

"You're ridiculous," you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Peter leaned into you, still grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck. "Yeah, but you love it."

Peter bit his lip, trying to contain his excitement but failing miserably. His wide, boyish grin returned as he looked at you. "Can I… massage them?"

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you leaned back slightly, crossing your arms. "You're just searching for a reason to touch them."

Peter chuckled nervously, shrugging his shoulders like he was caught red-handed. "No.... okay yes, but… you can’t blame me, right? I’m only human!" His eyes darted between your face and your chest, barely able to keep still.

You let out a light laugh, shaking your head at how easily flustered he got around you, even after all this time. "You are so predictable, Pete."

"Hey, in my defense," he said, sitting up straighter, "you’re literally naked, and I’m trying to be a good boyfriend here by, you know, helping you relax. Massages are relaxing!"

"Is that so?" You teased, leaning a little closer to him, watching as his eyes widened at your movement. "So you're offering to help me relax, huh? Not just trying to cop a feel?"

"Totally!" Peter grinned sheepishly, clearly knowing you saw right through him. "I’m all about helping, nothing else."

You playfully rolled your eyes, leaning back against the pillows, still not entirely convinced. "Uh-huh, sure. What kind of massage are we talking about, Mr. Parker?"

His eyes brightened instantly, and he shifted on the bed, eager to make his move. "Like, a really good one! I’ve been practicing my technique, you know. I could help with any tension you’ve got—neck, shoulders, or… y'know… boobs"

"Peter," you laughed, raising a hand to cover your face, "you really are something else."

"Come on, please?" He practically begged, his face adorably eager as he reached out his hands, hovering them just above your chest as if asking for permission. "You know it'll feel amazing."

You sighed dramatically, though a playful smile tugged at your lips. "Alright, fine. But if this is just a clever excuse to—"

Before you could even finish, Peter’s hands gently cupped your breasts, his touch tentative at first as he gauged your reaction. The second you didn’t protest, he relaxed, his grin widening.

"Okay, this is awesome," he whispered, his hands moving carefully as he started massaging your skin in soft, slow circles. "I swear I’m being professional about this."

"Uh hu, sure you are," you said, but you couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips as his warm hands worked their magic. You hadn’t expected him to actually be good at it.

"See? Told you I’m good at this," Peter murmured, clearly pleased with himself as he gently kneaded your skin. "I mean, I could do this all day."

You chuckled, feeling his excitement through his careful movements. "Yeah, I can tell."

Peter leaned in, his breath warm against your neck as he spoke. "Can we make this a regular thing? Like, I get to massage you every night?"

"Now you’re definitely pushing it," you teased, swatting his arm.

"But I’m serious!" He insisted, his grin still in full force. "It’s a win-win, right? You get a massage, and I get—"

"To touch my boobs," you finished for him, smirking.

"Exactly!" Peter said, nodding as if this was the most logical argument in the world. "Everybody wins."

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his adorable persistence. "You're lucky you're cute, Parker."

"I know," he whispered back, his grin softening as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "I’m the luckiest guy in the world."

His hands continued to move slowly, more focused now as he massaged your skin with just the right amount of pressure. You felt your body relax under his touch, your playful banter giving way to a comfortable silence.

"Okay, okay," you finally murmured, your voice soft as you melted into the pillows. "You might’ve been right about this massage thing."

Peter chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. "Told you."

You closed your eyes, letting yourself enjoy the moment. His hands were warm, gentle, and filled with affection. This wasn’t just about him copping a feel—it was him loving you in his own silly, adorable way.

"Fine," you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips, "maybe we can make this a regular thing."

Peter’s eyes lit up with excitement, his grin spreading wide as he kissed your cheek. "Best. Day. Ever."

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

too late! | liam lawson x fem! leclerc! reader

summary; when due to playing tennis and being a leclerc sister, y/n doesn’t often interact with other drivers. so while traveling, she meets liam lawson and ultimately falls in love with him. having overprotective brothers means having to stick to a soft launch before revealing her relationship

fc; various girls on pinterest

warnings; none (?)

taglist; @namgification

notes; requested ! haha but i actually don’t write for liam lol but i rlly liked this request:p n i don’t really know much abt tennis so bear w me lol

masterlist !

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, and others!

yourusername: this week🌷💓

username: oh mystery man🤔

username: last slide??👀

alexandrasaintmleux: waiting for you to invite me to play tennis😣

yourusername: omg i’ll be in monaco soon!! let’s link up, i miss you😣😣

nicorosberg: make sure you keep that form up😉

yourusername: oh, nico, it was one time !!!

username: y/n gets a break from the wta tour and decides to soft launch😭😭😭

charles_leclerc: y/n??

yourusername: hiiiii charlie☺️☺️☺️

username: pretty girls stan y/n

username: 😍

username: who that

leclerc_pascale: toujours jolie, ma fille 😍 dis-lui que je te dis bonjour ! [always pretty, my daughter! tell him i say hello!]

yourusername: merci, mamannn💗 he says bonjour back😁

arthur_leclerc: maman, you know?

charles_leclerc: tell us, maman, please!

yourusername: go focus on ur vroom vroom go away

liked by arthur_leclerc, lilymhe, and others

yourusername: 💗

username: the alpha tauri shirt???

username: the leclercs really have the best genes wow

lilymhe: double date soon ?😁

yourusername: oh duh

username: wonder if the leclerc brothers know

arthur_leclerc: y/n, answer the gc now

yourusername: no😝

lorenzotl: do we need to have a family meeting ?

charles_leclerc: yes.

yourusername: no we don’t, you drama queens!

username: the leclerc brothers are so😭😭

nicorosberg: i would’ve liked to see how you played with him around 😂

yourusername: he distracts me 😞

charles_leclerc: nico knows but your own brother doesn’t???

yourusername: bc ur a drama queen

[caption 1; 🤍] [caption 2; serenading me 🥴]

liamlawson30 replied to your story !

liamlawson30

your brothers are gonna come after me😩

yourusername

they’re such drama queens

maman is happy 4 me , and my sexy bf is serenading me and that’s all that matters 💆‍♀️💆‍♀️

liamlawson30

sexy you say say😏

yourusername

not w that emoji …

charles_leclerc replied to your story!

charles_leclerc

y/n, what is this

hello?

answer

answer

Y/N???

arthur_leclerc replied to your story!

arthur_leclerc

wtf

hes a driver

y/n what the heck

lorenzotl replied to your story!

lorenzotl

yeah we’re gonna have to have a talk😬

alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story!

alexandrasaintmleux

keep me updated on how charles acts😭

yourusername

going crazy already🙄

liked by liamlawson30, charles_leclerc, and others

yourusername: 💗

tagged; liamlawson30

liamlawson30: love you💙

yourusername: love youuu

liamlawsom30: can we get back to ur sexy bf comment tho 🤔

yourusername: yes we can😁

charles_leclerc: no you cannot. 5 feet away from her. she can’t kiss anyone until her wedding day.

yourusername: 🤦‍♀️

username: CHARLES COMMENT??

username: LMFAO CHARLES

username: they’re so🥹🥹

alexandrasaintmleux: cuties🤍

yourusername: no u😩

charles_leclerc: wait, alex, did you know??

yourusername: LEAVE CHARLES ITS TOO LATE FOR YOU TO BE A DRAMA QUEEN

arthur_leclerc: LET THE MAN SPEAK

arthur_leclerc: ew

yourusername: ur ew.

username: i can’t get over charles and arthur’s comments😭

Oh now this, this is a 10/10

Supposed Distraction

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.

Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”

Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

You always knock four times.

It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.

The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.

“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”

You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”

Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.

But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.

It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.

You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!

He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.

You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.

But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.

Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.

The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.

Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.

Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.

You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.

Honestly, you didn’t argue.

There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.

After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.

You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.

Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.

“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.

“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”

One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.

“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.

“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”

Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.

“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”

You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.

But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.

“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.

Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”

You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.

You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”

Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.

“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”

“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”

You would love to face-palm yourself right now.

Why would you even say that?

There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.

God, you are terrible at this.

Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.

Panic rises.

“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”

You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.

A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.

“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”

You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.

“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”

You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.

Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.

Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.

You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.

“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”

You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”

His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.

“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”

Your pulse spikes. Bastard.

With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.

Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.

Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.

“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”

There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.

He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.

You swallow.

“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.

“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”

Your stomach drops.

Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.

You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”

Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.

His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.

For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.

You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.

He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.

“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.

“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”

“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.

You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”

“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.

It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.

But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.

Your spine goes rigid.

Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.

Another thud.

Yeah, so, that was that.

You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.

Y: What are you guys doing out there?

The reply comes almost immediately.

S: Just keep Barnes inside.

You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.

Bucky is already standing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.

Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”

Something clenches in your gut.

Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.

But that is not what is happening out there.

You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”

But you don’t let him finish.

You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.

Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.

Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.

Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”

“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”

Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.

They both exchange a glance.

You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”

“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”

“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”

“That’s not-”

“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”

Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.

Bucky is exactly where you left him.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.

He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.

You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.

“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.

It does not work.

Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.

“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”

You try to press down the lump in your throat.

“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.

He cocks his head slightly.

Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.

You are so screwed.

You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.

“It’s nothing, Bucky.”

Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.

Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.

Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.

The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.

His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”

Shit.

Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.

You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”

“You sure?” He almost laughs.

“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?

“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.

A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.

And guilt hits you.

How do you get out of this?

But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.

“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.

Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.

You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?

Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.

“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”

You just stare at him.

Your heart is hammering.

What the hell are you doing?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.

But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.

Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.

This is getting way too serious.

Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.

But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.

No time like the present.

Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.

Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?

His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”

Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.

“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”

“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.

Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.

How do you even start this?

You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.

“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”

Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”

You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”

Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”

“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”

His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”

“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”

Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.

“Look at me, please.”

You try, but it’s hard.

It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.

But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.

He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.

His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.

“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”

Your heart plummets like a stone.

“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”

God, why does he have to be so good?

His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.

You don’t want to cry.

You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.

Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”

You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.

“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

He’s right.

“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”

You could lie. Again.

You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.

You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.

You could tell him the truth about the party.

Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.

Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.

You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”

His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.

And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.

You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.

His head dips in a nod for you to go on.

You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”

But then something catches your attention.

The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.

Painstakingly slow.

You stiffen.

Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.

You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.

Steve and Sam.

They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.

Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.

They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.

You don’t think about anything.

Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.

Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.

He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.

His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.

Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.

But you just made this worse.

And you are still holding his face between your hands.

Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.

Your pulse is a drum against your throat.

You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.

But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.

He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.

He watches you. You watch him back.

“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.

You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.

But Bucky still doesn’t move.

His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.

He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.

And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.

There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.

But there is movement in your peripheral.

Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.

And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.

The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.

The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.

Your brain short-circuits.

Like completely.

Totally.

Lacking any sense.

Not only do you pull his face back.

You pull it in.

“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.

Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.

Another bump.

You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.

Bucky freezes.

And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.

Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.

But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.

You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.

For a full few seconds, nothing happens.

But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.

You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.

But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.

They are gone now.

Bucky still isn’t moving.

He’s not breathing.

He’s not reacting.

And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.

Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.

This isn’t just a cover-up.

Your lips are still on Bucky’s.

Your hands are still gripping his face.

And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.

Then the tension snaps.

Bucky exhales against you.

It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.

His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.

But you don’t pull back.

You don’t want to pull back.

And that’s when he melts.

He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.

Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.

He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.

But then something changes.

Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.

And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.

He pulls you in.

His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.

The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.

His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.

He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.

You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.

The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.

And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.

A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.

He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.

You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.

His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.

Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.

But maybe you already have.

Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.

He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.

This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.

But hell, it’s not.

It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.

When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.

Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.

His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.

You open your eyes.

His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.

A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.

Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.

It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.

“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.

“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.

“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”

His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.

Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.

His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.

It’s everything.

You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.

There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.

“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.

His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.

Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”

Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.

“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.

Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”

You blink at him.

Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.

“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”

Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.

Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.

His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.

Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.

“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”

- Zankhana

nobody ever talks about how hard it is to be a soft dom spencer reid girly in a sub spencer fandom

tag you're it

bucky barnes x fem! reader

a/n: this took me 5 days to write and GOD it was hard. the ideas were running around my mind like crazy tho. but I had fun writing this. i cant wait for the rest tho. enjoy your reading and do your thing girl. HAVE FUN YALL! 🙏 (HES SO PRETTY IN THAT GIF OH MY GOD AAAAAHHHH 😻😻😻)

word count: around 4k?

warrnings: blood, guns, sad max, shadow (shes a warning okay?), trauma from the past and yeah.

prologue part i

Max’s grip tightened around the steering wheel, his mind spiraling. 'five years. five damn years, and this guy figures it out in a week? how the hell does he do it? while I’ve been chasing dead ends, he’s been living his life like it’s nothing. maybe I just suck at this. maybe I should’ve done more. maybe I could’ve stopped them. maybe... maybe I could’ve saved her.'

he slammed his fist against the wheel, the pain sharp but grounding. "this is my fault. It always has been," he muttered.

his thoughts were like wildfire, scorching everything in their path. the guilt. the rage. the self-loathing. but the one thing that always stuck with him was the pain of not being able to protect her—of failing his older sister.

pulling into the parking lot, Max forced himself to take a deep breath. the weight on his chest didn’t lighten, but he fought it down. he grabbed the croissant and locked the car, hoping the small gesture would at least make the meeting feel somewhat normal, plus hungry sam isn't on his list. he doesn't like that sam. so maybe if he could get through this conversation with Sam, he could push forward.

Max walked into the café and immediately spotted Sam, who was sipping his coffee and already looking as annoyed as ever. Max barely had time to open his mouth before Sam threw a sarcastic jab his way.

“every damn time. I show up on time, wait half an hour like an idiot, and then you show up like a lost puppy after an hour and a half. why, Max? What’s the deal? am I just supposed to be the fool in this partnership?” sam teased max.

Max, still a bit tight from his thoughts, handed Sam the paper bag with the croissant. Sam’s sarcastic tone didn’t faze him at all.

smirking to himself he knew that sam hated when he was late. “yeah, yeah. you’re lucky I remembered. figured you might need something to stop complaining.”

when he sat down, Sam eyed him, raising an eyebrow as he took the croissant and unwrapped it. “shit. you actually remembered something. pistachio, huh? guess you’re not as useless as you look.”

frowning, but clearly amused, max replied “it’s pistachio, dipshit. i’m not gonna bring you chocolate. you’ve got a weird obsession with that stuff.” and when he says weird he means it. seriously that guys obssession with pistachios is insane.

once when they were watching a movie, sam took a whole ass bag of pistachio's just to munch on them while watching the movie. till this day he has a serious trauma from it.

taking a bite, looking up at Max with a mischievous grin, sam said “you’re right, pistachio’s better. you actually do have taste. i'll admit that much.”

"yeah no shit. seriously when is that obsession going to stop, man? its concerning for both your health and mine." max shook his head trying to shake off the flashbacks he had.

sam eyed max offendedly and shook his head in disbelief. "you're one to talk kid. look your obsession with those drawn girls? now thats concerning. actually now that we are talking about it, why dont you have a girlfriend to bring you back to the place you're supposed to be, huh?"

feeling his cheeks getting hot, max tried to change the subject of the conversation and get to the real point. "that doesn't makes and sense right now. we are not here to talk about that, but something else."

sam chuckled because he knew he hit a weak spot and to be honest? he did not care. hes older than him for gods sake. 'kids these days man. always in the trouble.' he thought to himself.

as they sat down, Sam tossed a thick file of papers on the table. max’s frustration was starting to bubble over again, especially at the sheer amount of paperwork.

annoyed and tired from all the teasing, but with a clear sarcasam in his voice he asked “why the hell do you still do this, Sam? why not bring a tablet or something? you could make this whole thing easier. we’re not in the 90s, man. this isn’t your high school history project.”

smirking while munching on the croissant, sam teased “i like the paper, alright? old school. you should try it sometime.”

Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes. there was always some excuse for everything with Sam.

“whatever. but you still haven’t told me anything useful. we have a lead on her or what?” max asked in curiosity.

Sam leaned back, wiping his mouth, and pushed the folder closer to Max.

more seriously now sam said “you’re right. I’m not here to screw around. I found something that might actually help. hydra’s been holding someone, and it lines up with everything we’ve been looking for. could be her.”

Max paused, staring at the papers for a long moment. It was hard to believe after all this time. Was this real?

gritting his teeth, a little frustrated “you know how many times I’ve heard maybe it’s her, Sam? we need something concrete.”

leaning forward, tone more intense “I know. but this is more than just a maybe. they’ve been shifting people around, and this one’s high priority. we get in, we get the intel. then we plan how to get her out. we’ve got one shot at this.”

Max’s face hardens with determination as he flips through the papers, his pulse picking up at the thought of her possibly being so close. but his mind is also spinning—this time could be different, but there’s a lot on the line.

Max sighed, rubbing his temples, feeling the pressure building. He glanced at Sam, who was already pulling out his phone to make calls.

“alright, what’s the plan? how do i get in? how do i find her?”

grinning a little, still working the phone sam said “you do the running around, make sure Hydra’s too busy with you to notice me hacking into their systems. i’ll handle the details. you get the glory.”

nodding with a smirk, max replied “you know, I love it when you act all calm and smart. it makes me look even cooler when I’m the one doing the real work.”

without missing a beat, not looking up from the phone “yeah, sure, Max. you’re definitely the one doing the work. just don’t blow everything up before I finish the plan.”

grinning as he stands up, max teased “don’t worry, I’ve got this. you just focus on not getting us caught.”

Max turned to walk away, but Sam’s voice called after him.

almost mockingly sam teased back “don’t get yourself arrested, alright? I’m not bailing you out again.”

grinning as he leaves, like a mantra, max says “you say that like it’s not part of the plan.”

chuckling to himself, Sam walked away and drove off, leaving Max alone with his thoughts.

'am I really going to do this? am I really going to find her?'

the doubt gnawed at him, but deep down, he already knew the answer. "God, I hope so. I really do."

fifteen years apart, and still, his sister was the most important person in his life. he had looked up to her when they were kids. he still did—even after she was taken away.

Max sighed and got into his car, starting the engine as he pulled onto the road.

traffic was heavier than usual—clogged, but not fully stopped. he weaved forward slowly, his fingers tapping impatiently against the wheel.

then, he noticed them.

two men in police uniforms were moving between cars, asking questions and checking IDs. it looked routine enough, but something about the way they carried themselves put Max on edge.

his turn came faster than expected. one of the officers approached, leaning down slightly.

"ID, sir."

Max handed it over without a word, his muscles tensing the moment the officer’s eyes locked onto his. there was something in his gaze—something too sharp, too focused.

the man barely glanced at the ID before reaching for his walkie-talkie.

he turned slightly, murmuring something too quiet for Max to hear.

Max’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. What the hell is happening?

the officer’s body language changed—his movements slow, deliberate, as if he were both careful and calculating. his fingers curled tightly around the walkie-talkie, knuckles slightly white.

Max furrowed his brows. He had seen men act like that before. not cops. Soldiers. operatives trained to stay alert at all times.

his instincts screamed at him.

something isn’t right.

should he ask what was going on? play it cool? worst-case scenario—run.

subtly, he adjusted his posture, keeping his breathing steady. his gun was still tucked safely under his seat. If things went south, at least he wasn’t unarmed.

after a few seconds that stretched too long, the man turned back to him, nodding stiffly.

"thank you for your service, sir. you can go."

the words sounded polite, but there was a sneer beneath them. like the man knew something Max didn’t.

Max didn’t hesitate. he nodded, muttered a quick "yeah, sure," and pressed on the gas. but as he pulled away, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

the officer was still watching him.

and then, he spoke into the walkie-talkie again.

while driving, max looked at his rearview mirror and checked if the police man was still looking at him and every time he turned around he did.

stopping on a red light he reached for his phone to call sam and after fourth ring he answered.

"what do you need right now huh? that talk wasnt enough good for you? or you just need an advice how to bag a real girl instead of looking at those drawn girls youre drooling?" sam teased hoping it would cheer him up a little bit, but max wasnt in the mood. after that stunt hes more on the edge than he ever has been.

"Sam, something's happening. Something bad, man. And it’s not good."

Gripping the wheel to the point his knuckles were white, Max kept glancing at his rearview mirror. The so-called cop was still there, still watching, still talking into that damn walkie-talkie.

"I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel it. They’re onto me."

His pulse was hammering in his ears as he pressed down on the gas, trying to put some distance between him and whatever the hell was about to go down.

"I think it’s Hydra."

Static crackled over the line before Sam’s voice finally came through, sharp and laced with concern.

"Where are you, Max?"

"Still stuck in traffic, but I’m moving. Listen, if I don’t call back in five minutes—"

A sudden screech of tires behind him made Max whip his head around. A black SUV had just pulled out of a side street, merging into traffic fast. Too fast to be normal.

"Shit," Max muttered under his breath.

His grip tightened even more.

"Sam, I think I’ve got company."

There was a pause, then a sigh. "You sure?"

"Not yet." He took another turn. The SUV followed. Shit. "But I will be soon."

Max’s mind raced. If this was Hydra, then this wasn’t just some random tail. They were waiting for something—for the right moment to make a move.

"Alright," Sam’s voice was calmer now, more focused. "Listen to me. Don’t freak out. Don’t run. Not yet."

Max gritted his teeth. "Wasn’t planning on it."

"Good. If they’re following you, they’re waiting for confirmation. They don’t know if you’re actually you yet. Don’t give them a reason to be sure."

Max’s grip loosened just a little. Sam was right. If they knew, they would’ve already acted. Right now, they were just watching.

Waiting.

"Okay," Max muttered, switching lanes casually. The SUV mirrored him a second later.

Yeah. He was definitely being followed.

"Sam," he said, voice lower now, "I really, really don’t like being watched."

"Yeah, well, try not to look so damn suspicious, genius."

Max huffed, rolling his shoulders. "Any advice, smartass?"

"Yeah. Keep driving. Act normal. And get somewhere public before they decide to make a move."

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Public, huh?"

His eyes flicked to an upcoming intersection. A plan was already forming.

"I know just the place."

"wait what do you mean? youre taking your other buddies to the secret places too? damn man thats cold. and here I thought i was your best friend. thats cold man." sam said offendedly.

Max rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the wheel.

"Yeah, yeah, now shut up—I’m trying to concentrate."

"Fine, but just so you know, my feelings are deeply wounded."

Max ignored him, making a sharp turn onto a side street, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The black SUV was still there.

Still following.

The tension in his gut coiled tighter. They weren’t even trying to be subtle anymore.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Still got that feeling something bad’s about to happen?"

"Oh, absolutely."

Max’s knuckles were white against the wheel, his heart hammering as the so-called police car sped up behind him.

the sirens weren’t blaring.

that’s how he knew something was seriously wrong.

before he could react, the car slammed into him from the side.

“shit—!” the impact sent his car spinning, tires screeching against the asphalt. he yanked the wheel, trying to gain control, but the car was skidding—swerving—going straight for a row of parked cars.

and then— gunfire.

bullets ripped through his windshield.

“FUCK—” Max ducked, hands still gripping the wheel as glass shattered around him.

his earpiece crackled to life."MAX? MAX, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

"OH, I DON’T KNOW, SAM, MAYBE THE FACT THAT I’M BEING HUNTED LIKE A GODDAMN ANIMAL?!"

more bullets. more fucking bullets.

Max reached under his seat, grabbing his gun while still trying not to die.

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? GET OUTTA THERE, MAN!" sam was stressed and sam is never stressing like this.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN TRYING TO DO, DIPSHIT? YOU’RE NO HELP AT ALL!"

Max yanked the wheel hard right, his car screeching around a corner. he wasn’t outrunning these guys—he needed to lose them.

he swerved into a crowded market street, narrowly avoiding a fruit stand. people screamed, diving out of the way. the Hydra agents weren’t slowing down.

and then he saw it— someone standing in the middle of the street.

dark tactical suit. black mask. rifle raised.

aiming right at him.

Max’s stomach dropped.

"Son of a—" BOOM. a bomb rolled under his car. a fucking bomb. Max didn’t think—he acted.

he threw himself out of the car.

the explosion sent him flying, heat licking at his back as his car flipped—twice—

before crashing onto its roof.

everything spun. pain shot through his ribs. his ears were ringing.

and when he looked up— the masked figure was standing over him. gun aimed right at his head.

fuck.

he reached for his gun— but the figure kicked it away.

the person,  now standing right in frint of him, spoke in a slow voice "не такой быстрый солдат."

Max swallowed thickly, mind racing.

he was unarmed. he was injured.

and this person— whoever the hell they were— was about to put a bullet in his head, but when they took a step closer-Max was already moving.

he lunged—grabbing a jagged piece of metal from the wreckage—and threw it.

It wasn’t a perfect shot. but it was enough.

the masked figure dodged—just barely—giving Max the one second he needed.

he ran.

ducking into the crowd, he kept his head low, weaving between people. He could still hear Hydra agents behind him, still felt the masked figure’s gaze burning into his back.

his earpiece crackled. "MAX?! WHAT HAPPENED?"

"change of plans buddy, im bringing the hell to you" max whispered

"FUCKING—WHY?!"

Max grinned despite the blood in his mouth. "because I think I just pissed off Hydra’s best assassin."

and she really, really wants me dead.

ONE HOUR LATER

By the time Max made it to Sam’s place, he was barely standing. His legs felt like cement. His ribs? Probably cracked. His head? Pounding.And the worst part? He had to walk the whole damn way here. An hour. On foot. Bleeding.

He slammed his fist against the doorbell and leaned against the doorway, gasping for air. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but his injuries? Way worse. His ribs throbbed under his torn hoodie, an ugly purple bruise spreading across his side.

His entire body screamed for rest, but his mind was still stuck in that moment.

The masked assassin. The bomb. The gun pointed at his head.

He swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.

The door swung open, and there was Sam—arms crossed, shaking his head.

“Jesus, Max.” Sam looked him up and down, unimpressed. “You’re always getting yourself into some dumbass situation.”

Max groaned, shuffling past him and immediately collapsing onto the couch.

Sam watched, unimpressed. “How are you still alive?”

Max waved a weak hand in the air. “I’m built different.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but a small smirk tugged at his lips as he walked toward the bathroom. “I swear, man. You’re like a goddamn cockroach.”

“Yeah, well, this cockroach just died and you weren’t there to help me. That’s low, Sam. Real low.”

Sam’s voice echoed from the bathroom. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe because I was screaming at you to get the hell out and you weren’t listening?!”

Max exhaled a tired laugh, running a shaky hand over his face. His body ached in places he didn’t even know could hurt.

A minute later, Sam returned, first aid kit in hand. He plopped down beside Max, flipping it open. “Need help?”

Max took one look at him and scoffed. “What, you wanna kiss it better?”

Sam shoved the gauze at his chest. “Fix your damn face, dumbass.”

Max chuckled weakly, winking as he grabbed the gauze and started patching up his busted eyebrow.

But then—Sam’s expression changed.

Something more serious.

He watched Max carefully. Too carefully.

“How’d they find you?” His voice was low, tense. “You’re careful. You don’t slip up. You don’t leave tracks. Did you—?”

Max immediately shook his head. “I didn’t do anything, Sam.”

Silence.

Sam didn’t look convinced.

Max swallowed, his hands suddenly trembling.

His voice was quieter when he spoke next.

“…Sam.”

Something about the way he said it— soft, uncertain, almost afraid— made Sam’s posture stiffen.

Max exhaled shakily, his jaw clenched.

“I think I found her.”

The words hit the room like a bomb.

Sam’s breath caught. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Max turned to him, and for the first time in a long time—his eyes were glassy.

Raw. Torn between hope and devastation.

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it.

“…Max.”

Max looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if it was really her, but—” His voice cracked. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his blood-matted hair.

“I think—I think she tried to kill me.”

And just like that—the world stopped.

The silence between them was heavy.

Max felt it—the way Sam shifted uncomfortably. The tension in his shoulders. The way he didn’t know what to say.

Max exhaled, forcing a chuckle as he adjusted his position, setting the first aid kit aside. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Sorry, man,” he muttered, pushing himself off the couch. “Didn’t mean to make things weird.”

Sam immediately shook his head. “No, Max, it’s alright.”

But Max was already walking away. His throat felt dry, tight. He needed something, anything to pull his thoughts away from this.

He poured himself a glass of water, gripping the cup a little too tightly.

Sam hesitated, then exhaled. “Sorry that happened, man.” A small pause. Soft. Honest. “Wish I was there to save your ass.”

Max let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, huh.” He took a slow sip of water, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “And listen to this—I’m not even sure if that was her.”

His voice wavered.

Sam froze.

Max scoffed bitterly, rubbing at his face. “I don’t even know if that person was my sister. Or—or if that person was even a woman.”

He felt it before he realized it.

Tears. Hot, angry, silent. Grief clawed at his chest, raw and relentless. It wasn’t fair.

He had spent years—years—searching for her.

And now?

Now she was nothing but a shadow with a gun to his head.

He let out a hollow laugh, voice breaking.

“Sam… I—” His breath hitched. His hands clenched at the counter. “I don’t even know my sister.”

And that? That hurt worse than any bullet.

Sam didn’t hesitate this time.

He got up, crossed the room, and pulled Max into a hug.

Max stiffened, but only for a second.

Because, god—he needed this.

He let himself sink into it, gripping the back of Sam’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

Sam didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tell him it’d be okay. Didn’t promise him things he couldn’t guarantee.

He just held him.

Because what else could he do?

Max’s hands clenched in Sam’s shirt, his voice a low, shaking whisper.

"I’m going to kill them all. Every last one of them. One by one."

Sam stiffened. He’d heard that tone before.

A promise. A death sentence.

Sam tightened his grip around Max and pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes.

"And I’m here to help you, buddy. Alright?" His hands gripped Max’s shoulders, grounding him. Holding him up. "Whatever you need—I’m here."

Max stared at him for a moment, really looked at him. And he realized—this man had been by his side through all of it.

The good, the bad. The moments where Max could barely hold himself together.

Sam had been there. Always.

A choked chuckle broke through Max’s lips. He wiped at his face, forcing the tears away. Enough of that.

"Yeah, well… we better get on with it soon," he muttered, straightening up. "Because I swear to god, Sam, I wanna feel their faces on my knuckles, y’know? Like Captain America. But the bad guy version."

Sam snorted, shaking his head as he clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, dipshit. We’ll get to that." His voice softened. "But first? Clean yourself up. Get some rest."

Max frowned. "I’m fi—"

Sam pointed. "You walked in here with your head gushing blood. Go. Now."

Max huffed but didn’t argue. He muttered something about "bossy assholes" under his breath as he grabbed the first aid kit and disappeared down the hall.

Sam let out a breath, running a hand down his face. Jesus.

Max collapsed into bed, staring up at the ceiling, his whole body aching. His mind racing.

He had found her.

And he had lost her all over again.

His fingers curled into the sheets, his breath unsteady.

'I promise you—I’m going to save you. No one is going to stop me. Just wait for me. Please.'

His eyelids grew heavy.

Darkness pulled him under.

MEANWHILE

3 HOURS EARLIER

She stood still. Back straight, shoulders squared, breath even.

The suit was tight. Heavy. But it felt like nothing.

Because she felt nothing.

She had been given her equipment—knives, firearms, explosives—all perfectly placed, strapped to her like an extension of her own body. Like she had been born to carry them.

She hadn’t been born for this.

But she had been made for it.

And now, she stood in front of Vasily, waiting. For the command. For the only thing that mattered.

The girl she was before? She didn’t exist anymore.

The only thing left was this.

Cold. Ruthless. Empty. A weapon with one purpose.

To eliminate Max Harrison. Her brother. But she didn’t know that. She wasn’t allowed to know that.

Vasily took a step forward, studying her with sharp, hungry eyes. His voice was smooth, calculated. Testing her. Waiting for weakness.

“Тень?” Shadow?

Her response was instant. Programmed.

“Готов подчиняться.” Ready to comply.

Not a flicker of hesitation. No fear. No anger. No doubt.

She was perfect.

Vasily’s lips curled into something almost amused.

"Устранить цель. Медленно и устойчиво." Eliminate the target. Slow and steady.

He was watching her. Waiting for a crack in the armor. For a flicker of resistance.

Because he wanted her to break.

If she broke, he could put her back together again.

If she cracked, he could rip her apart and rebuild her.

Just like before.

But there was nothing.

No hesitation. No flicker of recognition.

Only the mission.

Only the orders.

“Да, сэр.” yes sir

And then she was gone.

To do the “right” thing.

She wasn’t alone. He was there, too. The infamous Winter Soldier. Silent. Unmoving. A shadow carved into flesh and metal.

Different mission. Same purpose.

Cold. Distant. Focused.

There was nothing behind his eyes. Nothing but the mission.

Just like her.

She turned her head slightly, her voice steady. Unshaken.

"Солдат." Soldier.

His response came instantly, without thought.

"Тень." Shadow.

No warmth. No familiarity. Just recognition. Just an echo of something long gone.

Because once, before all this, people had looked at them and said they were meant to be.

Perfect for each other.

But the universe had other plans.

It had torn them apart, piece by piece. Rebuilt them into ghosts. Into weapons sharpened to the breaking point.

And now?

They were together again—but not as people..As something else entirely.

Because it wasn’t like they had a choice.

And soon, the world would feel the weight of what they had become.

If I was desperate for kudos I would not be out here posting villain ships, minor character rarepairs, and other deeply unpopular ships.

I know how to write popular fic. I know how to farm kudos. That's not what I'm here for.

"Readers need to remember that authors don't know a reader liked their fic unless the reader tells them by leaving a kudos or a comment" does not mean "waahhh waahhh I need attention!"

It means "even if writers write purely for themselves, if you don't bother to interact with writers when you do enjoy their work, they might stop posting and just keep their work to themselves."

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who aren't reading the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who did not enjoy the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is aimed at people who read a fanfiction, enjoyed it, and then didn't bother to even do the bare minimum to share their excitement about it with the work's creator, even though that excitement is literally the only thing they get in return for posting their work.

Fanfiction authors write because they enjoy writing. They post because they want to form a connection with the people who enjoyed their work.

This is not an attempt to scold anyone, I literally don't care if I get kudos or not. It's simply an attempt to remind people that fanfiction is a community, and fan authors can't read your mind.

loudly going "YOU'RE GOOD YOU'RE GOOD" to myself to ward off the memory of every embarrassing thing i've ever done

Im writing a really long fic about a reader who has seizures purly for my comfort icl