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barnesonly · 2 days ago

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okay we start with the headache… I see you girl, i see you…

THE BRACELET STOPPP… after all of it finding the bracelet would shatter me istg i feel so bad for her

„you know he loves you. but not in the same way.” crashing out

„but for you, he tried.” I’m so doneeeee, he cares… HE CARESSSS

this goddamn headache—

I’m not sure this amount of pills is safe anymore, girly—

okay the phone call is getting interesting

„I didn’t mean any of it” I GASPED

„maybe that’s for the best” FIGHT BACK, BUCKY??? HELLO?!!!

she is taking those pills again, this is so going to end up terribly.

oh yeah. told you so.

bucky better come visit her at the hospital or i’ll throw hands.

HERE HE IS!!!!!!!!!!! HE BROUGHT FLOWERS I’M GONNA PASS OUT

TELL HIM THE TRUTH PLEASEEEEEE

okay she did i’m glad now please talk it through like adults!!

HE FINDS THE BRACELET IM BLUSHINGGG

“I love you, kid.” WAR IS OVERRRRR OMG GONNA OPEN A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE RIGHT NOW WE GOTTA CELEBRATE THIS SHIT

THIS CHAPTER WAS SO GOOD OMG OMG OMG I CANNOT WAIT FOR MORE AND IM SO HAPPY WITH HOW IT ALL WENT!! I LOVE THIS SERIES

real - dbf!bucky barnes

word count: 5.3k disclaimer: uncle kink. (not actual uncle, it's reader's dad's best friend.) all characters are 18+. there was no grooming and no attraction on Bucky's end until a few years after reader was an adult. medication overuse and other dark themes I don't want to spoil SO you have been warned, read at your own discretion. *please note: follows immediately after the events of simple. a/n: hope y'all enjoy.

series masterlist - previous part - next part coming soon.

~~~

your head is pounding.

what are you doing? what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

it’s one thing to secretly harbor a crush, for years, on the man who helped raise you.

it’s another thing entirely to drag him into your bullshit. to admit, out loud, a number of truths you had fought yourself over for years. to let him know how you feel.

it’s just a stupid crush. nothing more.

it’s not like your entire life has revolved around him for as long as you can remember. it’s not like you’ve fallen so deeply in love with him that you don’t know how you’ll ever be able to move on from him, no matter how much you try.

it’s just a crush.

except now, because of it, you’ve gone and done something you can’t undo.

~~~

by time you get back to your car, you’re shaking.

after everything you just admitted in the heat of the moment, of course he’s fucking asleep. of course it doesn’t fucking matter to him.

because his words were just that: words. taunting you, deliberately riling you up for fun. but everything you said that only served to turn him on was real for you.

how can he pretend like it was nothing, sleep like a baby after all of it?

of course. to him, you’re a stupid fucking kid. and now he knows you’re in love with him, and all you’re going to get in return is more mockery and heartbreak.

but while he’s knocked out without a fucking care in the world, you’re in your car, panicking. your head is throbbing, the pain back with a vengeance that you wish would just go away. you open the center console to pull out your bottle of emergency meds.

a handful of acetaminophen and you’ll be fine.

you just need this headache to go away and you’ll be fine. you’ll figure everything out once you feel better.

you’ll be fine.

~~~

it’s nothing but an interrogation when you get home.

“who were you hanging out with?”

“how is she doing?”

“what did you guys do? did you have fun?”

you’re so disoriented and in so much pain that you can barely sustain the lie, maintain the facade that you were once again out with a friend.

when’s the last time you actually saw your friends?

all the times they’ve texted, and you’ve turned them down in favor of seeing Bucky, using their names as an excuse to your parents.

who are you? are you really turning back into that stupid teenage girl that would’ve done anything just for a chance with Bucky?

you’re a liar, a traitor. to your family and your friends.

all just to have sex with the one man you’ve wanted for as long as you can remember. you’re tearing your entire life apart, destroying everything for him.

and to him, you’re a game. a joke.

a good time.

you excuse yourself from the interrogation, admitting the terrible headache you’re suffering from.

the instant you get to your bedroom, you shut the curtains and turn out the lights. they’re a nuisance, simply worsening the pain in your head that won’t let up. you try to lay down, praying that sleep will take you, even in your frantic mental state. just get some sleep, and the headache will go away.

the pain will go away.

you open the drawer of your nightstand, reaching inside for a bottle of pills. another handful of pills down.

it will help.

it will.

except when you reach to set the bottle back inside the drawer, you feel something brushing up against your fingers. dear god, not a spider, please don’t be a spider–

you sit up to look inside, fully prepared to see a spider in your drawer and start screaming.

when you gaze down at where you just discovered the foreign entity, you see it. thank the heavens, it's not a spider.

what you felt was the small plasticky strings fraying off an old, worn-down bracelet you haven’t picked up in years.

it’s a friendship bracelet.

one that a young version of you had bullied Uncle Bucky into buying for you a number of years ago, along with a matching one for him. you’d worn it for years, up until the point you stopped wearing it around the time you turned 10.

you knew you probably still had it around here somewhere, but…

you rarely thought about it. it was a memory buried in the depths of your mind, something easily forgotten.

but with the sudden reminder, you can’t help it.

you can’t help but start crying, burning hot tears falling down your face, your head throbbing with each sob that wracks through your body.

you’ve ruined everything. he was someone you trusted, cared about, and now you’ve embarrassed yourself beyond belief, admitting that this was real for you.

as you pick up the bracelet, clutching it tightly against your chest, his words from weeks prior float through your head:

“don’t want anyone but my pretty girl.”

“forever, baby. just you and me. nobody else.”

“you’re my girl.”

all of it had to have been a fucking lie. how could you have believed it? how could you let yourself believe that he might ever return the sentiment, hold the same kind of love for you that you hold for him? it's not possible, it never was.

perhaps his soft words were the reason you’d let yourself tell him the truth. you’d deluded yourself into thinking he meant it, that his words were something more than just a means of easing your anxiety.

you know he cares about you.

you know he loves you.

but not in the same way.

your head pounds as your tears fall harder, forcing you into a dreamless sleep.

~~~

when he wakes up a few hours later, he’s expecting you to be there. beside him, in his bed, in his arms.

you’re not.

he stands from the bed, walking down the hallway to find your clothes that he’d littered across his floor, gone.

you’re not in his bathroom, his kitchen.

you're not anywhere.

your car is gone.

you’re gone.

and in this moment, he realizes he’s scared you off. he’s finally pushed too far, trying to drag it out of you, trying to figure out how you felt.

he’s made it so goddamn obvious that he never could’ve wanted just sex from you. not when it comes to you. he tried to tell you with soft words and praises, but he had never been very good at this.

he’s never been good at relationships. he’s pushed everyone away one way or another.

but for you, he tried.

this is so much bigger than the two of you just sleeping together, and he wanted to do better, for you.

this whole time, he never knew what you were thinking. how you felt about any of this.

he thinks he knows, now. he thinks you’re in agreement, thinks that this is real for you, too. but he can't know. every word you said to him, all of it, is too blurred by the reality of the situation to give him the confirmation he needs.

he sees now how his words, too, were greyed by the position you're both in. how easy it was for their meaning to fall through the cracks.

all of this has weighed on his head and heart more than he’s let on to you, but he’s tried, as best he knows how.

clearly, it wasn't enough.

he knows this is wrong. he knows that you, being who you are to him? it’s so wrong, in a million ways.

but you came home this summer, and it was just…

different.

he couldn’t stand the idea of letting anyone else take care of you. he didn’t trust anyone else would know how.

he never should’ve gotten himself involved with you. it’s wrong.

but once he did…

how was he supposed to let you go?

and now, he’s gone and upset you. he’s forced you into a conversation you weren’t ready for, all because he couldn’t handle not knowing anymore. he had needed to know.

but you’re not there for him to apologize, to explain.

he knows how badly all the sneaking around is hurting you, how it’s carving away at you, and that there’s only so much he can do to ease your struggle. that’s all he wanted to do, this entire time: to be there for you. he wanted you to be comfortable with him, to never doubt that you were safe with him, even when your anxiety and your guilt surrounding the situation ate away at you.

hurting you was the last thing he wanted.

he should’ve known that somehow, he would have hurt you one way or another.

now it’s all he can do to try and fix it.

~~~

when you wake up a few hours later, you have three missed calls and one unread text from him.

“you okay?” it reads.

seriously?

you don’t have much time to think about it before your headache comes back in full force, a choked sob falling from your lips at the sudden onset of the pain.

fuck, fuck, you think, scrambling for the pills.

another handful down.

just give them time to work. you’ll be fine.

through the searing pain in your head, you force yourself to text him back.

“fine. needed to get home before my parents got suspicious.”

the text shows immediately that he’s read it, the little bubbles popping up indicating to you that he’s typing.

“can we talk?” he responds immediately.

no. you can’t talk. not only are you not ready for this to be over, to lose what little of him you have for good, but you’re in no state to be having this conversation right now.

“I’ll call you later,” is all you say, setting your phone back down on the bed next to you.

and when your hand brushes up against the sheets, you feel it lying there: the bracelet.

it’s a ratty old thing you haven’t touched in years, something cheap you had found at whatever store he had taken you to. you don’t remember the details of that day: why you were with Bucky, what you were at the store for.

what you do remember is how excited you’d been as a little kid when he’d agreed to buy one for the both of you, how warm and giddy it made you that you got to share it with this man you’d looked up to.

of course you still look up to him. of course you still idolize him, the same way you did when you were five and he was buying you silly little friendship bracelets.

regardless of the fact that you're so desperately in love with him, and regardless of the fact that he obviously could never love you that way, you still care what he thinks of you. you still have that stupid, childish desire to make him proud.

to make him love you, even if only in a respectful, familial capacity.

you hope you can go back to normal after all this. you hope he can forget all about this small blip in time, and that you can go back to silently loving him from afar.

even if it kills you inside, you need him in your life.

worse yet, you won’t be able to live with yourself if his vision of you is forever tainted.

~~~

you end up sleeping through the night successfully, only to wake up in the morning brutally uncomfortable. not showered, clothes not changed, headache not going anywhere.

you’re getting really fucking sick of this.

you open the drawer once more, reaching for the bottle.

another handful down.

you drag yourself out of bed, every inch of your body feeling disgusting and exhausted. once you reach the bathroom, you turn the knob of the shower faucet on high.

it’s just your luck that it’s only after you’ve shed your clothes and gotten in the shower that your phone begins ringing. fuck, you debate with yourself, knowing that the only person it could be is him.

what the hell does he think there is to talk about? is he just going to sweet talk you some more, tell you to come over later so he can grill you a second time?

only after a few more rings do you finally make the decision to get out of the shower and pick up the call. except as you peel the shower curtain back and begin to jump out, the water underfoot betrays your ability to stand upright. in any other case, you likely would have been able to catch yourself.

but you’re not yourself right now. you’re dizzy, and not thinking straight.

you fall backwards, the cold tile sharp against your back as you make contact with it. you awkwardly fall back onto your ass, water splashing everywhere in the process. as you slip, you instinctively reach for the shower curtain to catch yourself.

bad idea.

your hands grip the curtain so tightly, the bar holding it up rips itself out of place and falls, too.

you’re more than lucky it doesn’t hit you.

it takes you a moment to get to your feet, stepping over the bar and reaching for your phone, which is now ringing for a second time after missing his initial call. you successfully answer the call this time, turning it on speaker as you assess the situation of the shower.

“now’s not really a good time,” you say loudly enough for the phone’s microphone to pick up your words as you walk around the bathroom.

“I was just hoping we could talk,” he says trepidly. you’re distracted, too busy trying to turn the water off and wrap a towel around yourself in your disoriented state.

just then, there’s a banging on the bathroom door, alongside a shout of your name.

“are you okay? what happened?” you hear your mom call out.

Bucky, in turn, calls out your name through the phone as well. “what’s going on?” he asks, suddenly panicked.

“I gotta go,” you yell into the phone before hanging up and opening the door to your mom, explaining that you fell, it happens. you hurriedly put your ringer on silent when he begins to call again.

“it’s no big deal, really. I just knocked the bar out of place,” you tell her.

“you didn’t hit your head, did you?” she questions. “how did you fall?”

“no, no, I’m fine,” you reassure her, “I was just dizzy, and my phone was ringing, and… I gotta go lie down.”

“you really shouldn’t, if you hit your head–”

“it’s okay, seriously,” you tell her, brushing off her concerns. “promise I didn’t. it’s just the headache.”

your room is still dimly lit when you return. you shut the door, encasing yourself in the darkness, easing the pressure in your head. after you put on some pajamas, giving up on showering, you look at your phone: five more missed calls and a few voicemails.

you sit down on the bed and begin to call him back, opening your drawer once again.

another handful down.

“what the hell just happened? why did you hang up on me like that?” he asks in a panic, barely letting you get a word in. “are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you say, exasperated.

“seriously? that’s all I get?” he questions, “I’m worried about you, I don’t know–”

“oh, you’re worried about me?” you laugh sarcastically, appalled at the audacity. “right.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean? of course I’m worried about you! first, you run out of here without a word, and then you don’t pick up my calls, and when you do finally answer me there’s some kind of commotion on your end! so just, tell me that you’re okay. or better yet, tell me the truth.”

“I’m fine,” you reiterate, annoyed.

you might be acting unfair to him right now, but you’re exhausted, and in pain, and you can’t stand to draw this out any longer. “tell me what you want to talk about.”

he knows he’s not going to get anywhere with you, trying to encourage you to share whatever the hell just happened. he decides to continue, telling you, “well, I was hoping you could come over–”

“I’m not in the fucking mood to have sex with you right now, Bucky, I swear to god–”

“–woah, relax, that’s not what I meant–”

“–relax? you want me to fucking relax?” you yell back at him.

you both go quiet, and you take a moment to collect yourself.

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” you mutter under your breath, rubbing your forehead with your free hand.

“sick of… what?” he asks you tentatively.

“all of it, Bucky. I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

another pause.

he pipes up once more, pleading with you, “but yesterday, you said–”

“I didn’t mean any of it,” you lie.

because that’s all you’ve been doing, for months, is lying. lying to everyone you care about just to protect your dirty little rendezvous with your dad’s best friend. lying, just so you could have pieces of a relationship, have these stolen moments that would never be anything more than a placeholder for the relationship you wished you could have with him.

you really are just a stupid kid.

“can we talk about this in person?” he asks, trying to hide how frustrated he feels. how devastated your words make him. “I can come over, we can–”

“no, no, no,” you protest, head pounding harder. “this was a stupid idea from the start. what the hell were we even thinking?”

you can’t mean it, you don’t mean this, he repeats quietly in his head.

“whatever the fuck we thought we were doing, it’s over,” you tell him. "I'm done. I'm out."

this is the very last thing you want. you don’t want to lose what little you have of him.

but this is never going to be anything more than a fling in his eyes. that’s all he does, is casual affairs that don’t mean anything, and you can’t live with being nothing more than that for him. not anymore.

why would you ever think that you could be more than that?

why did you ever think you could be more than a fucking idiot kid who fell in love with the one person she never stood a chance with?

you don’t want this to be over.

the only way to move forward is to nip this in the bud now, shut it down before he begins lording it over your head that you admitted your little crush on him, using it as a reason to mock you for the rest of your life.

tell him you didn't mean it.

convince him this was all just an accident.

let him think that this was nothing more than the actions of a confused, lost young soul who doesn’t know what she’s doing with her life.

that’s the only way you’ll ever find peace with not getting to be his.

“right. well. maybe that’s for the best,” he affirms after a moment.

“good,” you return hastily, trying to portray your confidence as best you can.

“fine,” he responds.

it’s all you can do to hang up the phone before you lay on your pillows and begin crying your eyes out, all alone in your room, stuck with your crippling despair and the inescapable throbbing pain in your head that hasn’t gone away in days.

sit up. open the drawer. grab the bottle.

another handful down.

maybe this time it’ll work.

as you lay your head back down, bawling your eyes out and praying you’ll wake up and feel better, there it is again, sticking out from underneath the sheets.

the bracelet.

you gently reach for it, pulling it towards you and slipping it onto your wrist.

and then the darkness drags you under.

~~~

as you begin to blink your eyes open, your whole body feels heavy. your eyes are swollen, likely from crying before you fell asleep, you deduce. you take a few deep breaths as your body begins to wake.

you reach to scratch an itch at your nose, and your mind slowly catches up with the fact that there’s something on your face.

you force your eyes to open, and you don’t remember the lights in your room being so bright when you look down at what you’re grasping between your fingertips: a nasal cannula.

and then everything overwhelms you all at once.

the brightness of the lights in the room burns your eyes, and as you reach your other hand up to block the lights out of your face, there’s a slight stinging sensation in your elbow. the sound of a machine beeping filters into your ears as you recognize the stinging pain as the needle of an IV in your arm. there’s an oxygen monitor on your finger and a blood pressure cuff around your bicep.

what the fuck?

you’re in the hospital?

“sweetie, hey,” you hear from beside you, and you look up to see your mom standing there. “you’re awake.”

“what happened?” you ask, just now realizing how dry your throat is.

she reads your mind before you can even speak up, handing you small cup of water.

and then,

woah.

your headache still lingers, but you feel a million times better than you did before.

“I came to check on you half an hour after you fell in the shower. you wouldn’t wake up,” she tells you. she continues with a small, sad smile, “you’re a mess, you know that?”

you can't help but crack your own broken smile, too, at hearing her words.

“you feeling better?” your dad asks from his seat next to your bed, previously unaware of his presence. “knew your head was bugging you. got the rest of the story from your mother, and the doctors, apparently?”

your mom pipes up again, “yeah, what’s this they’re telling us about a toxic dosage of acetaminophen in your system?”

she’s clearly not pleased at the discovery.

“the headache wouldn’t go away, no matter what, and I just… kept taking the pills,” you excuse. in hindsight, it was a bad idea, but what were you supposed to do?

“you are severely dehydrated, have taken way too much medicine, and you have a concussion from hitting your head in the shower,” she informs you.

wow. you should have listened to her when she warned you about that.

“you should have told me when the migraine got bad,” she tells you.

“I’m sorry,” you tell them, “really. I just… I didn’t know what to do.”

you could have, should have told them. it’s never been this bad before, and what the hell were you thinking?

except clearly, you’ve gotten yourself into the habit of not telling them things. of lying to them. of keeping a monumental secret that could tear your family apart.

no wonder you couldn’t tell them this, either.

your chest aches a little when you remember there’s no more need for lying. there’s no more sneaking around, none of it.

you and Bucky are done.

but for now, you’re lucky to be alive.

~~~

the next day goes by incredibly slow.

you’re not allowed to look at your phone, or turn on the TV, or even read a book, all thanks to your concussion.

you’re sent for numerous scans of your head, bloodwork, the works. they continue to hang banana bags and saline to rehydrate you. you spend an hour speaking with a therapist, ensuring her that you weren’t trying to hurt yourself.

the pain in your head hasn’t gone away in its entirety, and you’re told you will likely have headaches on and off for a few more weeks because of the concussion.

it’s nothing but torture, really, being poked and prodded at, all while being told to “rest” when you complain of your boredom.

you think about Bucky. of course you do, it’s not your fault that he’s the only thing that’s been on your mind.

you want to demand your mother gives you your phone so you can check and see if he’s texted you. you want to apologize for yelling at him. you want to give him one last kiss goodbye.

you hate that it ended the way it did.

but your feelings about the situation haven’t changed much. you’re still overly insecure about what he thinks of you, what you’re going to do going forward.

so you lay in the uncomfortable hospital bed, wrapped in itchy blankets, staring off into the distance and forced to sit with nothing but your thoughts.

~~~

“you can go home tonight, seriously. I’m getting discharged in the morning, go home and rest,” you urge your parents, who haven’t left your side in over 24 hours. none of you have properly eaten or slept this entire time, but there’s no reason they can’t rectify that for themselves. you’re only here for one more night, anyways.

“no, we’re not leaving you here alone, we–”

they must notice how suddenly, you become distracted, disengaged from the conversation. your dad pauses the moment he looks to the doorway.

Bucky’s standing there, looking awfully concerned; you’re sure you’re the only one who notices it. he’s holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, in your favorite color.

they’re beautiful.

he looks away from you, demeanor perking up to keep up the facade that nothing is wrong, that he’s just a doting, caring friend of the family here to check up on you.

“hey, kid,” he says, stepping inside. “heard you cracked your head pretty good, huh?”

you watch as your dad gives him a friendly handshake and he gives your mom a hug.

“you heard her,” he begins, voice calm as ever, “go home, get out of here. I’ll hang out with her, make sure the nurses are giving her the good stuff,” he says with an overdramatic wink in your direction.

you can’t help but laugh a little. you know your mom is rolling her eyes as she gathers her stuff.

“we’ll be back first thing in the morning, yeah?” she tells you with a kiss to your forehead.

“get some sleep!” your dad calls out as they walk out the door, and down the hallway.

and then it’s just you and Bucky.

the second you’re left alone, his fake smile falls from his face. he doesn’t meet your eyeline.

“had me worried sick, kid,” he tells you, trying to keep his tone upbeat, positive. you can see right through it.

except you don’t know what to say. you feel stupid. ashamed. embarrassed beyond belief.

“I brought you these,” he says, stepping closer to the hospital bed and tentatively sitting on the edge, reaching the bouquet in your direction.

you take them, bringing them to your nose to take a whiff. “they’re beautiful. thank you,” you tell him before carefully setting them on the table next to you.

“they been treatin’ you okay in here?” he asks. it’s tense, awkward between the two of you.

he’s really trying.

“well, they won’t let me have my phone. and I can’t do anything ‘cause of the concussion,” you mumble.

he winces when you mention the injury. “what did they say is going on with you?” he inquires.

“well, the migraine kept getting worse, so I started taking way too many pills. the doctors said I must have been dehydrated because of it. and I guess I hit my head slipping in the shower when…” you trail off, not wanting to make this any worse than it already is.

“when…?” he presses.

you’re hesitant to respond. you don’t want to make him feel bad about it.

but you can’t lie to him anymore.

“when you called yesterday, I was in the shower. I was trying to jump out to pick up your call and I fell,” you admit. now, you’re the one not meeting his gaze.

“damnit,” he whispers under his breath. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

“it’s not your fault,” you try, “you didn’t know. I should’ve–”

“I knew you had a headache. I knew you hadn’t been feeling well,” he interrupts, “and then I had to go an’…”

he takes a pause.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to push you. I just had to know, and now… I won’t bug you anymore. I’ll get over it, promise.”

you blink once. twice. a few more times.

what?

“I’m sorry, what on earth are you talking about?” you press, entirely confused. “I– what? know what?”

he looks up at you, the two of you finally making eye contact.

in his eyes, he looks heartbroken. his jaw stutters as he struggles to come up with the words.

“if any of this meant anything more to you,” he confirms. “but now I know, it was just… heat of the moment. whatever.”

it takes you a minute to catch up with what he’s talking about. after a beat, you realize: you yelled at him on the phone yesterday, telling him that you hadn’t meant any of what you said when you were at his house, in his bed.

when you admitted your crush. confessed to him how deep-seated your feelings had been.

you’re still hung up on everything he’s said to you up until now. and, now, what does he mean “get over it”? what exactly does he have to get over?

is he saying what you think he’s saying?

“Bucky, I meant every word I said to you,” you clarify, unable to let him go another minute thinking any differently. you begin again, chuckling a little as you speak so honestly, “all of this was real for me. it’s always been you.”

a pause.

“but I know it’s not like that for you. I know it’s all just a game, and that’s okay–”

“you think this is a game to me?” he questions.

his voice cracks, heartbroken that you could think that.

he only ever wanted you to feel loved when you were with him.

he made you feel like you were a fucking game to him?

he scoots closer to you, taking your hands in his shaky ones as he tells you, “baby, goddamnit, this was never a game to me. not when it comes to you. it was real for me, too.”

your head is spinning. not from the migraine, not from the concussion.

from the pure, unbridled shock and hopefulness that courses through your body, lighting up your every nerve from head to toe.

his hands are still in yours, and his thumb traces over the hospital band on your wrist. with the motion, he displaces it from its spot, revealing what’s hidden underneath.

“you still have this?” he asks, taken aback. he smiles softly, taking your hand in both of his and tracing his fingers over the friendship bracelet that sits on your wrist.

you remember then that you’d slipped it on before you’d fallen unconscious.

“of course I do, Bucky,” you say as though it’s common knowledge.

he chuckles softly, telling you, “yeah, I still got mine, too. you were acting like a goddamn little princess that day.” he smirks, finally letting go of your hands. “come on, move over, kid,” he urges you, laying down in the rock-solid bed next to you and wrapping you in his arms.

he shifts one of his hands to cup your face, directing your gaze to his. his eyes roam your face for a moment. even in your sickly state, you look perfect.

“I love you, kid.”

holy shit.

did he really just say that?

you could jump for joy. your stomach is doing somersaults, the butterflies fluttering in your tummy as your excitement boils up.

“I’ll never let you feel like you don’t mean the absolute world to me ever again.”

your soul is overflowing with joy, every concern in your head going out the window. you can deal with what this means later. you can deal with figuring out the logistics of a real relationship later.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you say, and press your lips to his.

for now, he loves you.

that’s all you need.

~~~

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#iamthatonefangirl #fic rec

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barnesonly · 2 days ago

Text

reblogging cause i’m in the middle of writing the next part…

forwards beckon rebound

40’s!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You finally found love. Found your place in the world, as your brother’s best friend fell for you with a kind of devotion that made life feel safe for once. But everything changed when he got drafted to war and you refused to be left behind.

word count: 12,3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, angst with crumbs of smut (although not very descriptive), war, guns, injuries, violence, death, grief, emotional distress, pregnancy.

A/N: part two of my „half-return” fic but not really since this one is a prequel, so you don’t have to read the other one first. They’re just related. This one’s also inspired by one of Adrianne Lenker songs as you can see from the title, even made a series playlist! And yeah, the actual part two of „half-return” is still coming, I promise. But I had to write this first. This prequel just… felt necessary. I don’t think the story would’ve hit as hard without knowing what came before—without reader’s story. Her love, her loss. Everything she gave up. So thank you for being patient with me <3

Steve told you how Bucky used to ask about you.

Never directly, not at first. Just little things. Tossed between casual and too hopeful, always aimed at Steve like a question he hoped wouldn’t sound like one.

“Your sister coming with us?” or „Should we wait, y’know, just in case she’s coming too?”

And Steve would sigh. Sometimes roll his eyes. But he never told him to knock it off. Never warned him away.

He just gave Bucky this look—half really? and half don’t make me regret trusting you—but there was never any real bite to it. Not with Bucky. If it had been anyone else, maybe. But Steve knew who Bucky was. Knew how he looked at you when he thought no one saw.

“You’re relentless,” he’d mutter once in a while, dry as ever.

And Bucky would grin, smug and unbothered. “Not my fault she’s prettier than you.”

At first, you only ever saw him when Steve was around. He never invited you anywhere alone, never stepped over that line. But his eyes always lit up a little when you joined them. His jokes got louder. His laughter came easier. He always let you take the last piece of anything and pretended it was chivalry, not affection.

You were younger, then. Still learning how to let people in. Still too stubborn to admit you might’ve had a crush on your brother’s best friend who kept showing up at your door

But he made you laugh. Made you feel something real.

And slowly, things changed.

He started lingering after Steve left. Walking you to the store even when it was out of his way. Loitering on your stoop in the evenings under the excuse of borrowed books or “just making sure you got home safe.”

You started noticing the way he watched your hands when you spoke. The way he smiled like you were the only one in the world.

And then came the day he actually asked you out. You still remembered the knock on the door. Gentle. Hesitant.

When you opened it, he had that crooked half-smile. He’d tip his hat and say, “Evenin’, Miss Rogers,” and you’d try not to smile, but it was hopeless. His charm was relentless—boyish and bright and warm in a way that made the world feel less cruel for a second.

„Thought maybe you’d wanna get out for a while,” he said.

You blinked. “With Steve?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Just you.”

It hung there between you, a breathless beat.

He rubbed the back of his neck like he was nervous. Bucky Barnes. Nervous. It almost made you laugh.

“I mean—we don’t have to. I just thought… maybe I could steal you for the afternoon.”

You didn’t say yes right away. You let him squirm a little, just to see if he meant it. And he did.

So you stepped out, pulling your coat tight against the breeze, and tried not to let your heart trip over itself when his hand brushed yours as you walked side by side down the block.

He didn’t say where you were going.

Just smiled like he had a secret and kept walking, a little too fast, like he was afraid you might change your mind if he gave you too much time to think.

The streets were chilly but familiar, the late afternoon light slipping gold between the buildings, turning everything soft around the edges. You caught glimpses of him in the shop windows as you passed—his profile reflected beside yours, a little too close, like you already belonged to each other.

Eventually, he stopped in front of the old movie theater on 12th. The one that still had velvet seats and a crooked marquee that hadn’t lit up properly in years.

“You serious?” you asked, half-laughing as you read the sign. It Happened One Night.

He shrugged, not even a little apologetic. “You ever seen it?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Of course I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, but have you seen it with me?” he grinned, like that made all the difference. And somehow, it did.

Inside, the place was nearly empty. Just you, him, and a couple sitting three rows down whispering over popcorn. You sat in the back, knees close but not touching. You pretended not to notice the way he kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye whenever something funny happened on screen, like he was more interested in your laugh than the punchline.

At some point, without really meaning to, your hand drifted just slightly closer to his. Not touching—just close enough to feel the warmth. And maybe that was all you needed then. Just the heat of someone who wanted you there.

When the credits rolled, neither of you moved right away. He looked over at you, quiet for a second.

“You remind me of her, y’know,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Who, the runaway heiress?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Got the same look in your eye. Like you might bite a man’s hand if he tried to help you cross the street.”

You snorted. “Well, maybe I would.”

“I know,” he said, still smiling. “That’s the best part.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm.

He went quiet after that, just for a moment, gaze drifting back toward the darkened screen.

“I liked it better watching it with you.”

That one got you.

Your heart tripped a little—just enough for you to feel it, sharp and sudden—and all you could do was look at him, a little stunned by how gently he said it. You didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a long time.

His face lit faintly by the flicker of the screen, his expression unreadable—but softer than you’d ever seen it. Like he was already halfway somewhere else, and trying to memorize the way it felt to be here.

When you stood up to leave, he helped you into your coat without asking.

Outside, the sun had slipped beneath the buildings. The wind picked up a little, sharp and cold. He walked you home slowly, not saying much—just occasionally bumping your shoulder with his, like a secret language.

When you reached your stoop, you hesitated.

So did he.

His hand hovered like he might touch your cheek, then dropped just before it reached you. He cleared his throat, nervous again.

“I had a good time,” he said.

You smiled. “Even though I made fun of your movie date?”

He laughed, low and real. “Especially because of that.”

Another pause. Then, like he couldn’t stop himself:

“Can I take you out again?”

You nodded, already feeling the yes bloom in your chest.

“Yeah,” you said. “You can.”

And God. That was the moment. Right there on the stoop, with your coat still buttoned and his hands shoved back in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

That was when you realized it wasn’t just a crush anymore.

It wasn’t just the way he smiled at you, or how he always saved you the last piece of pie, or how he said your name like it tasted good in his mouth. It wasn’t the teasing or the charm or the softness he only ever showed when no one else was around.

It was the way your chest ached just a little when he turned to leave.

The way you caught yourself watching his back as he walked down the steps.

The way you suddenly knew—bone-deep—that you’d say yes again. And again. And again.

You were falling for him.

Not like in the stories. Not loud or dramatic.

It was quieter than that.

Like a slow sinking. Like warmth in the cold. Like something you never meant to reach for but suddenly couldn’t imagine letting go.

And before he disappeared down the block, he looked back once—just a quick glance over his shoulder.

You didn’t wave. He didn’t speak.

But something passed between you anyway.

And it stayed with you.

Long after the street was empty.

Long after your fingers had gone cold.

Long after you closed the door behind you and leaned against it with your heart racing and your eyes wide.

———

It had been weeks since that movie.

Weeks of him showing up with that easy grin, asking if you were free like it wasn’t the most important question in the world.

You’d gone dancing once. Not the fancy kind, just some small hall with a jukebox and sticky floors. He’d stepped on your toes and made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He kissed your cheek at the end of that night. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But it burned like it meant everything.

And now—tonight—you were walking with him again. Just the two of you. The city was quiet, and the air smelled like warm pavement and something sweet from a bakery still open down the block.

You were holding his arm without thinking now. It felt natural. Like it belonged there.

You were already at your stoop before you realized how fast the walk had gone. The city felt soft and far away. He stopped in front of your steps but didn’t let go of your hand this time.

“Bucky?” you asked gently, when he didn’t speak right away.

He looked nervous. Not the kind of nervous he got when he was trying to be smooth. This was different. Real.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said. His voice was quieter than usual. “And I know it’s fast, I know it’s… maybe crazy. But I wanted to tell you something.”

You didn’t breathe.

He took both your hands in his, held them like they might break. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation left.

“I love you, and I want to marry you.”

Your chest tightened so quickly it almost hurt. You blinked at him, stunned—but not surprised. Like you’d always known, somehow, that it would come to this. That this was what he was leading toward every time he smiled at you like you hung the stars.

“I don’t got a ring yet,” he added, sheepish. „But I wanna marry you one day.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t want to waste time. Not with the way things are.”

You nodded, even before your voice could work. Your hands tightened in his.

“You’re not wasting anything,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

You smiled through it. “I love you too.”

And the way he looked at you then—you’d never forget it. Like you’d just handed him the whole world.

And for a second, it was perfect.

For a second, you were standing in the middle of a dream—hands in his, eyes full of something warm and wide and forever. You were his, and he was yours, and nothing else mattered.

But then his expression changed. Just slightly.

The smile on his face didn’t fall, not completely. But it faded at the edges. Like something heavier had been waiting underneath it the whole time.

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumbs still brushing over your skin. Slower now. Less steady.

“There’s a reason why I had to say it,” he said, voice low.

Your stomach turned before your brain caught up. “What do you mean?”

He looked back up, and there it was.

The thing you’d been afraid of since the first headlines. Since the first boys started disappearing from stoops and street corners. Since the world stopped pretending it wasn’t burning.

“I got my notice,” he said.

You stared at him.

“They’re drafting me. I leave next month.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words fell around you like glass—silent and sharp and sudden.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this,” he went on, quickly. “Not tonight. But I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you thought he could hear it.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer now. “And I’m gonna come back to you. I swear it. I just… I needed you to know before I go.”

You blinked, and tears burned without warning.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Not this timing. Not this war. Not the way you’d just let yourself fall.

You looked at him and saw everything he wasn’t saying. The fear. The hope. The desperation to hold on to something good before everything turned to smoke.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t want to go either.”

He reached for you—hands at your waist now, like he needed to feel that you were here, right now, real in his arms.

“But I have to.”

You nodded. Not because you were okay. But because you loved him too much to make him feel worse.

And then you leaned into him, forehead to his chest, his heartbeat loud in your ear.

He held you tightly as If he was already afraid of losing you.

———

It was about a week later when you found yourselves at the fairgrounds just outside the city—one of those traveling setups with strings of crooked lights, melted cotton candy, and carousel music playing too slow.

You’d gone because he insisted. Because he said it was “un-American not to have funnel cake before summer hits,” and because he made you laugh when you wanted to cry.

He’d won you a stuffed bear at the ring toss—one of the sad, overstuffed ones with crooked eyes and a lopsided bow tie—and handed it to you with a flourish like it was a diamond necklace.

You kissed his cheek in return, and he grinned so wide it made your stomach twist.

You were happy.

You were trying.

But the days were counting down too fast.

You sat together on a wooden bench near the Ferris wheel, watching the lights spin slow in the late evening haze. Your hand was in his again. It fit there now, like it belonged. Like it always had.

He was telling you a story—something about Steve getting into trouble at school for throwing a punch at some kid who insulted his art project—and you laughed, genuinely, but the sound stuck in your throat halfway through.

Because the whole time he spoke, you were staring at his profile in the amber light. Every line of his face. The way his eyes creased when he smiled. The way his lips would twitch nervously.

Memorizing.

Preparing.

He didn’t notice your silence right away. Just squeezed your hand a little tighter.

And your thoughts drifted—uninvited—to what would come next.

Him in uniform. Letters that might not come. Headlines you’d have to squint through, praying you didn’t recognize a name. A face.

The idea of staying behind felt unbearable. Of just… waiting. Every morning stretching into some endless ache. Every knock on the door a loaded gun in your chest.

You’d overheard a woman in the grocer talking about nursing positions. Civilian medical support. Overseas service.

It had stirred something.

You looked over at him now, at the man who had once been just your brother’s friend. Who had become everything.

Maybe there was a way to follow.

You didn’t even notice you were staring until he tilted his head.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his thumb against your wrist. “Where’d you go?”

You blinked, startled. “Sorry. I…was just— thinking.”

He didn’t press. Just leaned over and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I wish I could stop the clock,” he murmured. “Wish we had more time.”

You nodded.

“I’m gonna come back,” he said, like it was a promise he’d carved into stone. “I’ll marry you the second I do. Hell, we’ll run down to the courthouse before Steve even knows what happened.”

That made you smile. But it didn’t stop the quiet panic growing in your chest.

Because love didn’t stop war.

And promises couldn’t stop loss.

So you held his hand tighter, clutched the stupid stuffed bear to your chest, and tucked your face against his shoulder as the sky turned pink above the fairgrounds.

You didn’t tell him that night. Not about the nurse idea. Not about the growing idea in your chest that whispered I’ll go with you every time you looked at him.

You just let yourself pretend—for a few more minutes—that the world might leave you alone. That this moment could stretch on forever.

———

The night before he was set to leave, the city felt too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way. Not even in the eerie way. Just… emptied. Like the world already knew something was about to change and was giving you space to feel it.

You and Bucky had spent the whole day together—every minute filled with the kind of soft urgency that comes when you know you’re running out of time. He’d taken you to the pier where the lights blinked lazily over the water, bought you ice cream you barely touched, made you laugh just to hear it. But the weight never lifted.

You both knew what tomorrow was.

The hours slipped too fast.

The sun had dipped behind the buildings before you even realized, the air turning sharper with it. The warmth of the day gave way to the kind of breeze that clung to your coat collar and slipped beneath your sleeves.

You shivered once, and Bucky immediately noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said. “C’mon. Let me walk you back.”

But when you reached the corner near your building, you slowed—and so did he.

You didn’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.

He hesitated, then nodded toward the opposite street. “Or… come back to mine? Just for a little while.”

You looked up at him.

There was no pressure in his voice. Just that same gentle kindness, the way he always asked like you could say no.

You nodded. “Alright.”

He gave your hand a small squeeze, and you walked the rest of the way in silence, your steps falling into sync like they always did. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to remember everything—your face in this light, your hair tucked into your coat, your fingers curled around the sleeve of his.

His house was dark when you arrived, the porch light left on like it always was. He opened the door for you, hand lingering at the small of your back as you stepped inside.

You’d been there so many times before—dinners, quiet afternoons, Rebecca chatting to you about everything possible while Bucky pretended to be annoyed, but listened anyways.

His mother adored you. She’d make that lemon cake you liked without even asking, always wrapping up an extra slice for you to take home.

But tonight the house was silent.

Just you and him. No Rebecca’s laughter. No smells from the kitchen. Just the quiet creak of the stairs and the soft sound of your coat brushing against his arm as he led you up to his room.

He caught your expression.

“My ma and Rebecca are at my aunt’s,” he said, gently. “Just for the night.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

And then it hit you. Slowly.

This was your chance.

Not to rush anything. Not to fix the ache that was caused by his departure.

But to be with him—really be with him—while you still could.

He opened the door to his room, warm light spilling from the lamp on the desk. Familiar. Safe. He let you in first, then closed it gently behind him.

You stood there for a second, arms still around yourself, eyes scanning the same walls you’d seen so many times before. They looked different tonight.

Bucky stepped beside you, watching your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. Not right away—but you did. “Yeah.”

He nodded too, slow and thoughtful. “We don’t have to talk. We can just sit awhile. I don’t mind.”

But you didn’t sit.

You turned to face him. He was standing so close you could feel the warmth of him.

And then you kissed him.

No hesitation. No slow build.

Just you—reaching up, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pressing your mouth to his like you needed to feel something solid before the world split open.

It melted him.

His hands found your waist like instinct, like prayer. He kissed you back with that same familiar heat, that same care that had always made your knees go weak.

But when your hands started tugging at his shirt—unfastening the buttons in quiet, trembling urgency—he pulled back, just a little. His breath hitched.

“Sweetheart—what’re you doing?” he whispered, like it almost hurt to ask. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he did, and that scared him more.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and sure even as your hands stilled against his chest.

“I love you, Bucky,” you said. The words fell out soft but certain, like a vow. “I wanna be yours. Forever.”

He exhaled, shaky. Like you’d knocked the wind out of him just by saying it.

“You don’t… you don’t have to do this,” he said. “Not just ‘cause I’m leaving.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not why.”

His hand rose to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with the kind of gentleness that made you want to cry. He was still searching your face, like he needed to be absolutely sure this wasn’t some dream.

And then he kissed you again. This time slower. Full of every unspoken thing that had been sitting in his chest for weeks. Full of the kind of aching sweetness that could carry someone through a war.

And when he started unbuttoning your dress—his hands warm and reverent—you let him. You let yourself have this. Not because you were saying goodbye.

But because you loved him. And he loved you. And for one night—last night, that could be everything.

His hands moved slowly.

Carefully.

Like he didn’t want to startle the moment—like he was still afraid it might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t gentle enough.

Your dress fell away under his touch, each button undone like a secret being kept between you. His fingers brushed your bare skin, reverent, never rushing. When you shivered, he leaned in, his breath warm against your collarbone.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that? God—you’re so beautiful.”

You smiled, but it trembled at the edges.

It was too much. And not enough. All at once.

When he kissed you again, it was slower than before. Softer. His lips dragged across yours like he wanted to memorize every part of you—how you breathed, how you tasted, the way your hand curled into his shirt when you sighed.

When he laid you down, his palm cradled the back of your head. His eyes never left yours. Not once.

“I got you,” he murmured. “I got you, sweetheart.”

The bed creaked beneath your weight, and the world narrowed down to just him—his warmth above you, his voice in your ear, his hands tracing promises across your skin.

He didn’t say much.

Just your name, over and over again. Like it meant something sacred. Like it was the only word he wanted to remember.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him closer, breathed him in like you could keep a part of him with you.

“I love you,” you whispered and smiled.

His gaze softened. He placed a peck on your lips and pulled out just enough to look into your eyes, cradling your face in one of his hands.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you. Always.”

He moved slow. Like he wasn’t trying to take something from you—he was giving. Everything. All at once. His touch was reverent. Gentle. Like you were something to be worshipped, not ruined.

And when your breath caught—when your eyes fluttered shut and your body arched into his as your orgasm ripped through you—he kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your cheek, whispering,

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You held onto him like he was all you had.

And somehow he was.

You lay tangled together in the quiet, his arms wrapped around you like he was still trying to shield you from the world.

You could feel his breath against the crown of your head—steady, slow. One hand rested at the curve of your waist, fingertips brushing soft patterns against your skin like he didn’t want to stop touching you. Like letting go, even for a second, might break him.

Your cheek was pressed to his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took.

Neither of you spoke at first. There wasn’t much left to say.

But he kissed your hair. Once. Twice. His lips lingered there like it meant something.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

And yes—you were okay. Because what you just shared was something real, something tender and aching and unforgettable. You’d given the most vulnerable part of yourself to the man you loved. The man who was supposed to be your husband one day. You felt safe in his arms. Known. Chosen.

But part of you was still holding your breath.

Because the other truth—the one that lingered like a shadow—was that he was leaving tomorrow.

And no matter how tightly you held onto this night, it wouldn’t stop the morning from coming.

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging as you buried your face a little deeper into him. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, gentle as ever.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered, like it was a confession. “You know that, don’t you?”

Your throat ached. You nodded again.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Not like this. Not now.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I would’ve married you today if it meant I could stay.”

You closed your eyes tight. You didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not when the night had been so soft. So full of love.

So you held him tighter. Clung to him like the sunrise might steal him away.

“I’ll come back,” he said, voice hoarse now. “I swear I will. I’ll come back and we’ll start our life—everything we talked about. All of it.”

You nodded against his chest, trying to hold it in. But one tear still slipped down your cheek, soaking into his skin where it landed.

He felt it. He didn’t say anything—just pulled you closer.

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, holding it there for a long time.

And the two of you stayed like that—skin to skin, heart to heart—trying to make one night feel like a lifetime. Trying to make forever out of the few hours you had left.

You curled in closer to him, face tucked against the warm skin of his chest, and let the silence stretch. He thought you were resting. Maybe even sleeping.

But your mind was louder than ever.

You still hadn’t told him.

About the application. About the idea that had started out as a whisper and grown into something louder, heavier, more stubborn with each passing day.

You hadn’t told him that you’d been reading every leaflet, memorizing requirements, tracing lines under words like nurse, correspondent, volunteer.

You hadn’t told him how it had started as desperation—just a need to do something, be somewhere, get to him.

You hadn’t told him that now… now you were almost sure you were going to do it.

Because what else was there?

The thought of staying behind, of reading casualty lists, of scanning every paper and wondering, hoping, fearing—it made your stomach twist. Made your fingers dig into the sheets a little harder.

He would stop you if he knew. Of course he would.

He’d tell you it was too dangerous. That he couldn’t stand the thought of you near the front, near the chaos, near any of it.

And maybe he’d be right.

But love didn’t make you reasonable.

It made you reckless.

Maybe it was the way he held you like you were something precious.

Maybe it was the way he whispered I love you like it was a promise he meant to keep.

Or maybe it was just the silence afterward, this impossible stillness, where you could hear the beat of your heart echoing the truth you already knew.

You weren’t ready to let go. Not now. Not ever.

———

The goodbye nearly broke you.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was just… final.

He held you tighter than he ever had. His hands shook a little when he cupped your face. You tried not to cry—tried to smile for him, brave and steady—but your lip trembled anyway.

“I’ll marry you when it’s over,” he whispered. His forehead pressed against yours. “First thing. I swear it.”

And then the train doors closed.

And he was gone.

The days that followed blurred into each other like smeared ink on a page. Letters were too far away. Radio broadcasts felt like background noise. The house felt too big, too empty. You tried to fill it—with errands, with Rebecca’s chatter whenever you visited his mother—but none of it settled the ache inside you.

Your heart had never felt more alone.

But the ache eventually turned into something else.

Determination.

You found yourself walking to the recruitment office with your fists clenched in your coat pockets. Not to join the fight the way he had—but to be close. To do something. Anything. To be near the front. Near him.

It started with the pamphlets. Questions. The whispered beginnings of a plan.

You watched Steve try over and over to get accepted, saw that fire in him grow brighter each time he was turned away. You understood it. That need. That refusal to sit still while the world burned.

You weren’t built for waiting, either.

So you started practicing.

Nursing courses. First aid. You kept your hands busy, your mind sharper. You took every opportunity, read until your eyes ached, memorized the requirements. You tried not to flinch at the photos, the training exercises, the worst-case scenarios. You wrote his name in the margins of your notes when no one was looking.

Because you weren’t doing this for the war.

You were doing it for Bucky.

Because if there was a way to reach him—to stand where he might one day stand, to offer help, or hope, or just the chance to see his face again—you’d take it.

You’d take it, even if he’d never forgive you for it.

Because loving him had never been quiet.

And waiting for him felt too much like surrender.

You and Steve got in.

Not right away—not easily—but you did.

After all the questions, the training, the waiting. After the goodbye that had hollowed you out.

You wore the uniform. Learned the rhythms of war. The grueling hours. The bone-deep exhaustion. The way blood didn’t come out of fabric no matter how hard you scrubbed.

You worked as a nurse at first. Long days, longer nights, tending to the wounded and writing letters for soldiers too broken to hold a pen. You were good at it. You didn’t flinch. You kept steady.

You saw things you’d never forget.

You learned how to hold your breath when death passed by your cot.

But then came the serum.

Steve—your brother—who had spent his whole life trying to be enough, trying to be strong enough, was suddenly more than anyone expected. He was tall and fast and powerful, with a shield strapped to his back and America stitched across his chest.

And you were his sister.

You didn’t ask for anything more. But it came anyway.

With Steve’s new rank came your new title. You were still a nurse. Still expected to stitch and clean and steady hands that trembled. But people looked at you differently now.

You were Captain America’s sister.

It meant more respect. More access. Fewer locked doors.

You didn’t waste it.

Every chance they gave you, every clearance upgrade, every mission detail—you used it. Quietly, carefully. Not for advantage. Not for pride.

But because every new privilege brought you one step closer to the front. To him.

To Bucky.

You scanned every roster. Memorized unit names. You requested transfers with polite persistence. You kept your head down and did the work. And somewhere between orders and field kits and mud-stained boots, you began inching closer to the same lines he was fighting on.

Not because you were chasing heroism.

But because you’d sworn to wait for him—and you were never good at waiting.

Steve found you one evening behind the supply tent, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, hands wrapped around a pistol you weren’t supposed to have.

You weren’t aiming at anything—just staring at the weight of it. Feeling the cold metal in your palm like a question you hadn’t answered yet.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but firm.

You didn’t flinch. “Learning.”

Steve sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped closer. “You’re not supposed to carry that.”

You looked up at him. “I’m not supposed to be here at all.”

That made him pause.

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied you for a long moment, something conflicted flickering in his eyes.

“You’ve already done enough,” he said eventually. “You save people. That matters.”

You set the pistol down carefully beside you.

“And what if it’s not enough?” you asked. “What if one day it’s Bucky, or you, and I’m not fast enough to stop it?”

His jaw tightened.

“I don’t want you in the middle of that,” he said. “It’s not—it’s not what Ma would’ve wanted.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But it’s what I want.”

Steve looked at you then. Really looked at you.

You weren’t a kid anymore. You weren’t the girl who watched from windows or waited by the phone.

You were here. Standing in the same dirt he was. With the same war in your eyes.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he asked.

You shook your head.

A long breath left his chest.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Come on. We’ll start with something lighter than that.”

He reached for the pistol and checked the safety like it was second nature, then handed it back to you—his grip slow, steady.

“You hold it like this,” he said. “Keep your elbow loose. And whatever happens—don’t close your eyes.”

You tried. You listened.

You learned how to stand, how to aim, how to breathe when everything in you was afraid.

And Steve watched you the whole time, tight-lipped and quiet, like he was torn between pride and dread.

You weren’t just his sister anymore.

You were becoming a soldier, too.

The training didn’t stay private for long.

You practiced every day—rifle drills in the morning, target shooting during downtime, hand-to-hand with Steve when you could steal ten minutes alone. The bruises on your knuckles faded slower each time. The soreness in your arms became familiar. You didn’t flinch anymore when someone shouted from the trenches.

You were good.

Really good.

Steve stopped trying to talk you out of it. Eventually, he stopped correcting your stance altogether. Just watched from a distance, jaw clenched, that quiet flicker of pride in his eyes he didn’t always voice out loud.

And then—there was Peggy.

Peggy Carter. The woman with fire in her spine and poise sharp enough to cut glass. She looked like she belonged in the field more than anyone—shoulders squared, hair never out of place, red lips daring anyone to question her. She was everything you weren’t yet.

She’d seen you on the field hospital lines, at Steve’s side during briefings, helping coordinate supply runs and sending wounded men home. Always working. Always watching.

And when she watched you shoot one afternoon—calm, focused, three shots to the chest and one to the head of a dummy target—she didn’t just offer a compliment.

She offered you a position.

“You ever think about doing more than patching people up?” she asked casually, like it wasn’t the beginning of something that would change your life.

You blinked at her, unsure how to answer.

“I mean it,” she said, handing you back the target sheet you hadn’t even looked at yet. “There’s room for someone like you in the SSR.”

You stared at the paper in your hands, at the clean circle of bullet holes grouped near the center.

Your heart thudded once—hard.

“I… I’m just—”

“A nurse?” Peggy cut in. “You’re more than that. I’ve seen it. You think fast, you act faster, and you’re not afraid to fight for the people you care about. That’s the kind of person I want beside me. The kind of person this war needs.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it. Before doubt or fear had a chance to rise.

Peggy’s nod was sharp, satisfied. “Good. We’ll talk about the details later. Now we’ve got other things to take care of.”

You barely heard the rest.

Because beneath the thrill in your chest, beneath the steady thrum of I can do this, there was something deeper. Older. Louder.

This was still for him.

Every blister on your hands, every bruise on your ribs, every round fired, every sleepless night—it all pointed back to Bucky.

To the boy who kissed you slow in the dark, who whispered I’ll marry you when it’s over.

To the man you loved enough to chase across a continent.

You didn’t want glory. You didn’t want medals. You just wanted to find him.

And now… now, you were one step closer.

You should be happy, and you were. But still, some part of you doubted your gain of this position.

Was it because you were Steve’s sister?

The thought sat in your chest like a stone.

Heavy. Quiet.

You didn’t bring it up. Not directly. Not when you were still trying to prove yourself. Not when every step you took felt like it had to echo louder than his name.

Peggy didn’t say anything about it, either.

She didn’t need to.

She just treated you like you were supposed to be there. Gave you tasks with weight, not sympathy. Pulled you into briefings, trusted your judgment, tossed you a sidearm like she already knew you’d figure it out.

And over time… you did.

Slowly, you stopped second-guessing her motives.

Started listening more. Watching closer.

And she let you in.

Not all at once but in small, important ways.

A glance across the strategy table when your opinion wasn’t being heard. A shared drink after a long day, when neither of you said much, but the silence wasn’t cold. Even laughter—soft and surprised—when something actually made her laugh.

The first time she called you by your name instead of “Rogers,” you felt it in your chest.

By then, the question that had haunted you didn’t matter anymore because the answer had already revealed itself.

She respected you.

Not because of Steve.

Because of you.

One night you sat beside Peggy on an old crate outside her tent, nursing a tin cup of something sharp. She had a bottle of scotch tucked by her boots, already half-empty, and for once, she wasn’t in uniform. Just a loose blouse, sleeves rolled, her hair let down in waves you rarely saw.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had she.

It was the kind of silence that felt earned.

Then, somewhere between your third sip and the cold sinking deeper into your coat, Peggy turned to you—brows slightly raised, her voice soft but clear.

“Why do you do this?”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“…Do what?”

She tilted her head toward the tents. The guns. The maps.

“All of it,” she said. “Why have you joined the war? You could’ve stayed in Brooklyn. Away from all this mess, safe. Maybe start your own family, or—God forbid—do anything normal.”

You gave a short laugh, half genuine, half tired.

Family.

Well you wanted it. You dreamt of it before the man of your life was stolen from you. Ripped away.

Peggy didn’t laugh with you. Her eyes stayed on yours.

“So why the war, hm? Why keep pushing yourself like this?”

You paused. She waited.

After a moment, she smiled slightly. “Does the determination just run in your family? Is it a Rogers thing?”

That made you huff. You glanced down into your drink, watching it swirl.

“…Maybe. We were both always stubborn.”

You looked up, lips quirking. “You already know that, though.”

She smirked. “Painfully well.”

Then your smile faded. Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

You didn’t look at her when you said it.

“I do this for him.”

Peggy turned her head, just enough to really see you.

You swallowed.

“For my boyfriend. For Bucky.”

Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t shake.

You exhaled softly, eyes locked on the dirt.

“I joined for him. I trained, I fought, I left everything I knew—just to be closer to him… Because I couldn’t just wait back home, wondering if I’d ever get a letter that never came.”

There it was. The truth that sat behind every decision. Every bruise, every mission, every sleepless night.

You finally looked up—and Peggy didn’t say a word. Didn’t doubt it. Didn’t say how reckless it was, how you shouldn’t get yourself involved.

She just nodded, once. Slow and quiet.

And for the first time, it felt like someone really understood.

———

The camp buzzed with energy before you even stepped outside.

Voices rose across the tents—hoots, cheers, laughter. Boots thundered over dirt and gravel. You heard someone shout, “He’s back!” and someone else yell, “Told you Captain never loses!”

You set down the file you were reviewing and stepped outside, squinting against the sunlight. Soldiers were already gathered at the far end of the clearing, peeling away from mess and drills to crowd around the incoming truck.

Steve.

Another successful raid, probably. Another mission with half the odds and none of the sense, somehow ending in a win. That was how things went now. Captain America always came home.

You jogged across the field toward the commotion, dodging a few shouting privates, your boots kicking up dust. You hadn’t seen Steve in days. You figured you’d meet him, maybe hand him a cup of water, maybe tease him for the new tear in his uniform.

But the moment you got closer, you froze.

Because there was someone else behind him.

Gaunt.

Worn.

Shaking, like the ground might give out under him.

Your heart stopped.

Bucky.

His shirt was torn in places. His skin was pale beneath the dirt, his eyes sunken and shadowed. But God—it was him. The shape of him. The set of his shoulders. That mouth. That face.

You didn’t remember moving. You just remember the heat flooding your chest, the sting behind your eyes as your feet carried you forward, faster now, boots slipping in the dust.

He looked up. His gaze swept the camp, half-dazed, half-lost and then it landed on you.

Time slammed to a halt.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not like this. Not real. And now he was standing ten feet away, breathing, blinking, back.

His lips parted.

“…Doll,” he rasped. Like he didn’t believe it.

And your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t realize you were crying until your vision blurred. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, as you ran towards him.

No hesitation. No care for the crowd, or your rank, or the fact that every soldier in camp was watching.

You sprinted across the space between you like your life depended on it.

“Bucky—”

His name tumbled out of your mouth like a sob, like a prayer you’d been repeating in silence for months.

He took a shaky step forward just as you reached him, and you threw your arms around his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his torn uniform, burying your face in his neck.

He staggered slightly from the force of it, but his arms found you instantly. One wrapped around your waist, the other pulled up to cradle the back of your head.

You were shaking.

“Oh, my love…” you whispered, voice cracked and soaked in tears. “I didn’t know If I’ll get to see you again. I thought—I didn’t know if—”

He held you tighter.

“How…,” he murmured. “What are you doing here?”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—his eyes red, lashes clumped with dust and smoke, that tiny crease between his brows you knew by heart.

You blinked back another wave of tears, chest still heaving as your fingers cupped his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His stubble scratched your palms. He looked exhausted. Wrecked. But his eyes—those were still his.

“I couldn’t stay behind,” you said softly. “I tried. God, Bucky—I tried to just wait. To be patient. But every day you were gone, it got harder to breathe.”

Your voice cracked, and you had to look away just for a second to gather yourself.

„I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I wouldn’t.”

He stared at you, stunned—like he hadn’t heard a single thing in the world that made sense until now.

You took a trembling breath and forced a small, broken smile.

“So I did something. I joined as a nurse at first… followed Steve out here when he got promoted, and when Peggy offered me a place in SSR—I took it.”

You swallowed, the words tasting like smoke and steel.

“I did it all for you. To be closer. To find you.”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours like he was still catching up. Like it hurt to believe any of this could be true.

And then he whispered, “You came for me.”

You nodded. “Every step.”

His hands cupped your face now—rough and trembling, like he didn’t trust his grip. Like he was scared you might disappear all over again.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve been safe.”

“I didn’t want safe,” you said. “I wanted you.”

And for a second, the camp disappeared. The soldiers, the noise, the war—it all slipped away.

Just you and him. Holding each other like the world had tried to tear you apart and failed.

Because it had.

Because you found him.

The camp quieted by nightfall.

There had been too much noise earlier—shouts of relief, slaps on the back, Steve’s voice low and careful as he explained what had happened in that Hydra base. You barely heard any of it. You’d stayed close to Bucky, barely letting go of his hand, like if you loosened your grip even for a second, he might vanish again.

Now, hours later, he was finally clean. Someone had found him fresh clothes and you patched up his wounds. He looked a little more like himself, but the shadows under his eyes hadn’t faded. The hollowness still clung to him in places you couldn’t reach—not yet.

You brought him to your tent.

It was small, cramped, and cold—but private. He ducked through the flap behind you, his gaze darting briefly around the space, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to exhale yet.

You lit the lantern, the soft glow casting golden shapes across the canvas walls.

He stood there for a moment, looking at you in the low light. And for once, there was no one pulling at his arm. No orders. No gunfire. No war.

Just you.

You stepped closer, hands reaching for his as gently as you could.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I think… I will be.”

You nodded.

Silence stretched, warm and tentative. Like neither of you wanted to break it.

Then he reached up and brushed his fingers along your cheek. His touch was featherlight. Like he was still afraid you might shatter.

“You came all this way for me,” he said again, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’d do it again,” you murmured. “A hundred times.”

He exhaled, slow and shaking, and then pulled you close. His arms wrapped around you with more strength than before—solid and certain. You rested your forehead against his shoulder and let yourself breathe him in.

“I missed you,” you whispered into his shirt.

He held you tighter. “I thought about you every day. Even when I didn’t know if I was gonna make it. I’d close my eyes and see you. That night before I left… it kept me going.”

Your throat ached.

You lifted your head to look at him, your fingers resting gently on his chest, right over where his heart still beat.

“I was so scared,” you admitted. “So scared I’d never get to touch you again.”

“You’re touching me now,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “I’m here. I’m yours.”

You kissed him then—soft, slow, steady. A promise, a prayer, a thousand shattered pieces falling back into place.

There was no urgency that night. No desperation. Just warmth and closeness.

Just the two of you tangled together on the cot, fully clothed, your legs intertwined beneath the blanket, your hands tracing the outlines of each other like a map you both knew by heart.

He kissed your temple. Your shoulder. The back of your hand.

“You’re my home,” he whispered. “You always were.”

And when you fell asleep curled into his side, your fingers still wrapped around his shirt, you didn’t dream of the front. Or the war. Or the blood.

You only dreamed of him.

And the days passed like dreams too.

Not soft ones. Not perfect. There was still blood, still smoke. Still the groan of tanks in the distance, the cold sting of steel in the mornings. But Bucky was there.

Alive. Whole. Standing beside Steve on front, rifle in hand and grin cocky as ever when they walked back into camp after a raid.

You caught glimpses of him through dust and sunlight—his uniform rumpled, dirt streaked on his jaw, hair tousled under his helmet. Sometimes he’d spot you across the camp, and you’d see it—that little spark that lit his whole face when he smiled at you. And your chest would ache.

Because somehow, despite it all, you got him back.

And now he was close. So close.

You were careful, at first. In your next base he shared a tent with Steve and you did with Peggy. So when the sun dipped below the trees and the sounds of the day faded into the hum of crickets and fire crackle, you’d find your way to each other. Quietly. Always quietly.

Sometimes he’d invite you to his tent whenever Steve was gone—out with Peggy or on a mission that didn’t include Bucky.

Sometimes, you’d slip out of your tent and find him waiting by the fence, tucked in the shadows with that same crooked smile he wore when he first asked you out back in Brooklyn.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he’d say, like it was the most casual thing in the world. Like he hadn’t been counting the seconds until he saw you.

You’d walk, hand in hand, past the edge of the trees, toward the little river that curled behind the ridge. No lanterns. No voices. Just stars above and the sound of water tumbling over stones.

And there—beneath the canopy of quiet and silver light—he made love to you like the war wasn’t happening.

Gentle. Patient. His hands in your hair, your legs tangled beneath your coats. Kisses that tasted like longing and home. Gasps that disappeared into his throat. Promises whispered against your skin.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he’d murmur, again and again, his lips brushing your collarbone, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth. “Gonna make you mine. First thing when we’re home. First goddamn thing.”

You’d laugh, breathless, blinking up at the stars.

“You better.”

And he’d just grin, like he already had the ring. Like it was already done.

Sometimes you’d just lie there afterward, curled up against his chest, the thump of his heart steady beneath your cheek.

Even in the middle of hell, there were moments like these.

Nights where the grass cradled your bodies, and the stars blinked down like they were listening. Mornings where you caught his eye across camp and the world felt just a little less sharp.

Because you still believed—somehow—you might have more than this stolen time.

———

The day started like any other.

The mission had been briefed that morning. A Hydra train—high altitude, high risk. Steve had pulled you aside afterward, jaw tight. “You’re not going,” he’d said. “Stay at camp. That’s an order.”

You hadn’t argued. Not this time.

But something in your chest had already begun to ache. You were always worried when Steve wouldn’t let you go. This time wasn’t any different.

That evening, Bucky found you by the tents just before sundown. He had that look again—the one you’d come to hate. The one that said he was pretending everything was normal.

He kissed you like always. Spoke soft like always. Walked you out past the tree line like always.

But neither of you made a joke this time. Neither of you smiled.

You sat by the riverbank, same place as always. The grass a little damper. The wind a little colder.

His fingers laced with yours.

“You scared?” you asked quietly, eyes on the water.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Not with Steve out there.”

You turned to look at him. He was so beautiful. So unreal.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. The silence stretched.

Then he spoke again—lower now. A little unsteady. „If something happens—”

You sat up fast. “Don’t.”

“Just let me—”

“No, Bucky.”

He caught your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was trying to memorize their shape.

“If something does happen,” he said, “I need you to remember that I love you. That you’re everything. That I would’ve married you with blood on my boots and dirt in my lungs if I had the chance.”

Your chest cracked. Splintered. You shook your head, tears burning.

“Stop,” you whispered. “You’ll come back. You have to.”

He kissed you then—slow and deep and final in a way that made your body shiver.

“I will,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “I will.”

You stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing in the dark. Your arms around each other like the world might steal him if you let go.

That night, you didn’t make love in the grass.

You just held each other. He kissed your hair. You buried your face in his chest.

And god—how you wish you knew this was the last time.

———

It was supposed to be quick.

That’s what they said when they left—Steve clapping Bucky’s shoulder, Bucky pressing one last kiss to your temple and whispering “I’ll see you soon.”

But the sun had moved and moved again.

It was sinking fast. The shadows across camp grew long. The fires hadn’t been lit. The air felt still—too still.

And then the trucks came back.

You were already out of your tent by the time you heard the engines, heart leaping into your throat. Your boots hit the dirt as you ran toward the clearing, eyes scanning desperately over the soldiers climbing down. Dust kicked up. Voices rose. Orders were barked.

And then you saw him. Steve.

But only Steve.

Your steps slowed. Stomach dropped. Heart—stopped. Your eyes searched behind him. Then beside him. He wasn’t there.

Your throat tightened. „Where is he…?”

Steve turned, like he’d been bracing for this. His face told you before his words did. You saw it in his eyes.

You said it again—harder, sharper this time.

“Where is he?”

Steve opened his mouth, but the words caught. „I… I’m sorry.”

Everything inside you snapped. Your head shook violently.

“No.” Your voice cracked. “No, Steve—no, no, no—please—”

He stepped forward, arms reaching for you, but you stumbled back, fists curling tight.

“No, he said he’d come back—he promised—”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again, voice breaking now. “He—he fell. Off the train. I tried to—God, I tried to—”

You didn’t hear the rest.

The sound that came out of you was nothing like a word. A broken, strangled cry that tore up from your ribs and into the open air as you pounded your fists against Steve’s chest, not to hurt him—God, never to hurt him—but because he came back and Bucky didn’t, and you didn’t know where else to put the pain. Because he was your brother, and you loved him, but part of you still wanted to scream that he should’ve kept Bucky safe. That this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

“No, no, no—he was gonna marry me, Steve—he—he promised—”

Steve grabbed you, arms wrapping around your shoulders like a vice, but you crumpled in his hold. Sobbing so hard it hurt to breathe, your voice fraying into gasps, every part of you trembling from the inside out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

But sorry didn’t fix it.

Sorry wouldn’t bring him back.

You stayed there on the cold dirt, collapsed into your brother’s arms, sobbing into the night—because your heart had finally broken in half.

Grief didn’t end when the trucks were unpacked or when the camp returned to routine. It didn’t listen when Steve told you to rest or when Peggy tried to help you fall asleep in your tent, laying beside you all night. It just sat inside your chest—immovable. Heavy. Always there.

You couldn’t sleep at all.

You kept hearing his voice. Kept feeling the echo of his hand in yours. That last kiss. That last “I’ll see you soon.”

He had promised.

And now?

Gone. He was gone.

You stared up at the tent ceiling until the canvas turned gray with morning light. You didn’t cry anymore. You couldn’t. The tears had dried somewhere in your throat, in that aching space behind your ribs that wouldn’t stop throbbing.

You had done everything to get here.

You followed him across the country. Trained. Fought. Risked your life just to be near him. Just to feel his arms around you again. And when you finally had him, when you finally dared to believe in the future he painted with his lips and his laughter—he was ripped from you all over again.

You were supposed to be his wife.

You were supposed to go home with him.

Instead, all you had left was some of his clothes, a half-finished letter he never got to send, and the memory of his hands on your waist the last time he told you he loved you.

You didn’t show up to morning drills.

You sat at the edge of the camp, staring at the trees, arms wrapped tight around yourself like they might hold in the scream stuck in your chest.

Steve came by. Just stood beside you for a while without saying anything. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

Because some part of you still hated him for coming back without Bucky.

You knew it wasn’t fair. That Steve would’ve thrown himself off that train if it meant saving him. But grief isn’t fair. And love doesn’t care about fairness when it’s been torn away.

You wanted to scream.

But mostly—you just wanted him.

And you knew now, with the kind of aching clarity that doesn’t leave that the love of your life was dead. And you would never be whole again.

Days passed.

You were broken. Utterly, completely. You didn’t feel like yourself. The world didn’t feel the same as well. It felt cruel, cold.

You’d find yourself visiting Bucky’s and Steve’s tent more often than you should.

Steve said nothing when he found you there.

Just quietly nodded, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak, and left you alone.

You sat on his cot—Bucky’s cot. Blankets still a little messy from the last night he slept in them. His shirt folded over the end. A deck of cards on the crate beside it. Everything so stupidly normal.

You reached for his jacket. It was still there, hanging from the tent pole, the collar folded just the way he always wore it. When you pulled it into your lap, your fingers curled into the fabric like it might pulse. Like it might breathe if you held it tight enough.

It smelled like him.

Soap and dust and the faintest trace of gun oil. That same scent he carried when he kissed you under stars, when he pulled you into the tent after mission whenever Steve was away and whispered your name like it was holy.

And God, you broke.

It wasn’t the loud kind of breaking.

It was silent.

It was the kind where your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Where the tears slide soundlessly down your cheeks as your whole body folds in on itself. Where your hands clutch fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

You sat there for hours.

Going through everything he left behind. His extra socks. The little tin of mints he kept in his bag. His pocketknife. That photo of you he always carried, folded and worn at the edges. You traced your own face with shaking fingers, lips parted like your breath had been caught halfway and never came back.

You didn’t talk to anyone. You didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep.

Just sat on that cot like a ghost—haunted by someone still warm in your memories.

You dug into his duffel eventually, unearthing the smallest things. A crumpled sketch Steve had done of the three of you years ago. A string bracelet Rebecca had made him. A little note from his ma, worn through at the creases, wishing him luck and reminding him to eat more.

And you wondered—God, you wondered—

If you gathered it all, every piece he left behind…

If you stitched together the laughter, the warmth, the kiss marks still ghosting your neck…

Would he come back?

Could you summon him?

Could love ever be loud enough to reverse time?

But the cot stayed cold.

And the jacket stayed empty.

And you? You just stayed.

Broken and silent and still in the place he left behind—because it was the only place where he still felt real.

Weeks passed.

You got up every morning. Laced your boots. Pinned your hair. Read the briefings from Peggy, nodded at orders, did what was asked of you.

You didn’t complain.

You didn’t speak unless necessary.

You followed orders with the kind of cold, precise obedience they praised—but you didn’t do it for them. You didn’t care about medals or missions or the praise whispered when people thought you weren’t listening.

You did it to move.

Because standing still meant letting your chest hollow out again.

Because if you slowed down, even for a second, you’d remember what the world had taken from you—and that would kill you faster than any bullet.

So you buried yourself in the work.

Every Hydra base you helped map, every mission you coordinated with Peggy, every intel dispatch you sifted through—it was just noise. Just static. Something to fill the hours between dusk and dawn so you wouldn’t have to lie in your cot and see his face every time you closed your eyes.

Steve tried. He stopped by. Sat next to you with food you barely touched, tried to tell you stories to make you laugh, like the old days. You appreciated it, somewhere deep down—but it was like everything had been filtered through thick glass.

You heard his voice.

But the sound didn’t reach your heart anymore.

And Peggy? God, she knew. She didn’t push. She watched you closely, always with that quiet, careful kind of empathy. She kept you busy because she understood—maybe better than anyone—that a woman like you doesn’t fall apart in public. You do it in the dark, in silence, in the stillness between one breath and the next.

You still wore his jacket sometimes.

Not every day.

But on the colder nights, when the wind slipped through the canvas and your chest ached in that particular way, you’d find yourself reaching for it. Pulling it over your shoulders like armor. Like memory.

It didn’t make anything better. Not really.

But for a few seconds, it felt like he was close again.

Like he might walk through the flap of your tent and smile and kiss your forehead and say, “God, I missed you.”

But he wasn’t going to come back.

And you were still here.

Doing the work. Carrying the weight. Going through the motions. Not because you were strong. Not because you were ready.

But because it was the only way to keep going.

———

You woke up feeling sick.

You thought it was stress. You’d barely been eating, barely been sleeping. It made sense. It had to be stress. Or bad food. The camp cook had served questionable stew the night before—you told yourself that over and over as you knelt by the side of your cot, bracing your arms against the ground while your stomach turned inside out.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Mornings became unbearable.

Your period was late.

You kept it quiet. Told no one. Not Peggy, not Steve. Not even the medic when she offered to check on you.

You didn’t want it to be real.

Because if it was…

God.

One night, you sat alone with the calendar. Just staring at the dates. Tracing them with shaking fingers. Counting weeks backward. Doing the math, again and again, like maybe the numbers would change.

But they didn’t.

And you knew.

You knew the second your hand drifted to your stomach and your eyes filled with tears—silent, hot, impossible tears.

You were pregnant.

And that was when it all broke again.

You curled in on yourself, pulling your knees to your chest on that too-thin cot, and you wept. You sobbed, fists pressed over your mouth so no one would hear.

Because Bucky was gone.

And now you were carrying a piece of him inside you—a heartbeat that hadn’t even formed yet, but already beat in time with your grief.

You remembered the way he used to touch you. So gentle. So reverent. Like you were his entire world.

“I’m gonna marry you the second we’re home,” he’d whispered against your neck, voice full of heat and promise.

Well.

You were never going home.

Not really.

Because home was him.

And now… Now you were alone.

You didn’t tell anyone.

Not that day.

Not the next.

The nausea became familiar, a cruel little rhythm you moved around. You learned when to eat something small—dry crackers, water, anything to keep the sickness at bay. You adjusted. You adapted. Because if there was one thing war had taught you, it was how to keep moving, even when everything inside you was breaking.

No one noticed.

You were good at hiding. Good at smiling just enough to be left alone. You brushed off the dark circles under your eyes as fatigue. The quiet as focus. The way your hand sometimes drifted to your belly as a nervous habit.

But inside? Inside you were crumbling.

Because the days kept passing.

And with every morning that arrived, you felt a little more different. Not just sick—but tethered. Grounded to something that hadn’t existed before. Something soft and terrifying and alive.

You laid awake more than you slept, one hand splayed flat across your abdomen like you were trying to feel something—anything. But it was too soon. No movement. No flutter.

Just a silence that wasn’t yours anymore.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, you whispered to it. To them. Told them stories. Memories.

Told them about a boy named James Buchanan Barnes who used to sneak lemon cake off the table before dinner. Who danced with you in his kitchen in socked feet. Who kissed you like the war didn’t exist. Who made promises he meant with his whole heart.

You told them their father was brave. That he was funny. That he would’ve loved them more than anything in this world.

And then you’d cover your mouth with your hands and cry until your body ached, because it was the only way you knew how to survive it.

You weren’t ready to tell anyone.

Because this wasn’t a celebration.

Not yet.

This was a wound that still bled beneath your hands.

This was the part where you carried a ghost and tried to love the baby he left behind.

———

The orders came down faster than expected. Another Hydra base. Another final push.

Another mission Steve had no intention of letting you join.

He didn’t even look you in the eye when he said it—just dropped the intel on the table in Peggy’s tent, jaw clenched, voice clipped.

“I’m going. Alone.”

You knew immediately.

“You’re not serious.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “It’s too risky. You stay here.”

You stood from your chair, heart hammering in your chest.

“You’re not going without me.”

“Yes, I am.”

His voice was firm, eyes avoiding yours like they might give him away.

“You’re not trained for this one. You’re not—”

You slammed your palm against the table. “I’m not letting you go up there alone.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“No, you don’t,” you snapped. “Not this time. You don’t get to shut me out again.”

Steve froze.

His lips parted like he had something to say—but you kept going, voice low, shaking.

“Last time you left without me, Bucky didn’t come back.”

That name still hit like a wound.

And Steve—God, he felt it.

You saw it in his face. The pain. The memory. The guilt he’d never stop carrying.

“I can’t lose my brother too,” you said, softer now. A whisper. A plea. “Don’t make me stay behind and wait to see if you survive.”

You hadn’t cried in front of him since Bucky.

But your voice cracked now. Just enough.

And that was it.

Steve’s shoulders sagged like the weight finally won.

“…Alright.”

You blinked.

“I’ll tell Peggy you’re coming,” he said, voice tight. “We leave at dawn.”

You nodded, throat thick, hands curling over the edge of the table just to keep yourself upright. Because part of you was relieved—so relieved—that he listened. That you were going.

But another part of you, buried under layers of grief and steel, knew something else.

You hadn’t told him the truth.

You were still hiding the one thing that could change everything.

You were still pregnant.

And you were still walking straight into danger.

———

The mission was chaos from the start.

Freezing winds. Heavy gunfire. The kind of adrenaline that numbed everything else—the ache in your limbs, the sting of your lungs, even the nausea that had become your constant companion.

You pushed it all down. You had to.

For Steve.

For Bucky.

For the child growing quietly inside you.

You followed your brother into the Hydra base, heart pounding, hands steady around your weapon. Every room felt like it could be your last. Every echo made your breath catch. But you kept moving.

You kept fighting.

Then came the Valkyrie. You were already aboard it when it started rising.

You didn’t know what it was at first—not exactly. Just that Steve had pushed ahead into the command center, and you’d fought your way in after him, heart pounding, gun still hot in your grip.

The two of you worked fast—shutting down the weapons systems, rerouting controls, disabling the targeting. You thought you had it handled. You hoped you had it handled.

Until Steve went quiet.

You turned toward him, pulse skipping.

“What is it?”

He was staring at the navigation panel.

The altitude.

The trajectory.

And his face said it all.

“…We’re not landing this,” he said.

The floor dropped out from under you.

“What?”

“It’s programmed for impact. Full-speed descent. There’s no override.”

Your chest tightened.

No, no, no. That wasn’t possible. There was always something.

“There has to be another way,” you said, moving toward the controls. “Maybe if we dump the fuel, or trigger the brakes manually—”

He didn’t say anything.

You froze.

His hand landed gently on your arm, eyes shining. “It’s too late.”

And that’s when you knew.

You looked around—at the steel walls, the rows of bombs, the frost blooming on the windows as altitude climbed and climbed.

This wasn’t just a plane.

It was a coffin.

Your heart stuttered once, painfully.

Not for yourself.

For them.

Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it. And the breath caught in your throat.

Oh God.

You were going to die.

Steve noticed. His eyes flicked to your face—then lower, to the way your hand was pressed to your stomach.

He froze. “What—are you—?”

You looked at him, eyes wide and full of everything you hadn’t said.

“I didn’t tell you,” you whispered. “I couldn’t… It doesn’t matter now.”

His face went pale. “It does matter.”

You shook your head, quickly—tears blurring everything.

“It’s too late now.”

Steve looked like he wanted to scream, to break the control he’d been holding onto.

“If I had known—God, I never would’ve let you come with me—”

“I had to come,” you said, voice breaking. “I couldn’t lose you too.”

The plane groaned around you, metal shrieking as the ocean rushed up to meet you. The controls were jammed, the comms silent, nothing left but sky and cold and inevitability.

You sat beside Steve in the cockpit, hand still pressed to your belly, heart hammering in your throat.

His knuckles were white on the lever. He didn’t look at you when he said it—voice low, tight, cracking.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him back to you.”

Your breath caught.

You turned to him, eyes stinging. His jaw clenched, gaze fixed forward like if he looked at you, he’d fall apart too.

„It was my fault,” he said softly. “I know you’ve been mad at me. You never said it. But I know.”

You blinked fast, chest aching.

“It’s wasn’t your fault,” your voice broke. „I just… just didn’t know who else to be mad at.”

Finally, he turned. And you met his eyes—your brother, your best friend. A soldier with too much weight on his shoulders. A boy from Brooklyn who tried to save the world.

“I’m so sorry, Steve.” you whispered.

He reached for your hand and held it tightly between both of his.

Two kids from Brooklyn.

Crashing toward the sea.

🍂 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2

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barnesonly · 2 days ago

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“you’re gonna be good and keep your mouth shut while I fuck you, you hear me?” YES SIR 🤭🤭

“did I say you could do that?” GODSSS IM SO SAT

this is so fucking hot I’m actually pacing around the room reading this

THE SLAPPING FUCKKKK i literally can’t take this i’m drooling

okay sucking the metal arm is the line for me!!! what the fuck i’m so fucking horny!!

okay this was incredibly hot i loved every word of this fic… so fucking great, bri

tension - nsfw bucky barnes

word count: 1.8k based on this ask. disclaimer: rough sex. fully consensual by all parties. a/n: I love u all sm

~~~

“Bucky, goddamnit!" you yell, "you know better by now! you can’t be putting yourself in danger like that!”

you’ve only just retreated to your private quarters, your anger finally boiling over in response to his reckless actions on the field.

“you’re not invincible, you hear me?” you continue to yell at him when he doesn’t say anything, too focused on yanking at his bootstraps, not bothering to respond.

“so, what? you’re just going to ignore me? real mature,” you continue, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand there in wait. after a moment, before you can speak up again, he finally kicks off his boots and stands to face you.

“everything we do out there is dangerous! I know you’re not so naive that you don't know that,” he tries to argue with you. he’s not quite yelling, not yet. not like you are.

“there is a difference between putting ourselves in danger for the greater good and deliberately being reckless in the process!” you reason. does he seriously not get it? does he not understand that you’re worried about him, concerned for his safety?

“you don’t like the way I do things, fine. you don’t have to. but I am still your boss–”

“oh, fuck that!” you interrupt him. “don’t pull the ‘boss’ card on me. we are partners first and foremost. don’t pull that shit with me.”

he sighs in frustration. “fine. yes, fine, you’re right. but–”

you proceed to interrupt him again, still upset. angry. because you love him, you need him to be careful, to realize that it’s not just him anymore.

“yes! I am right! but you’re not listening to me!” you yell out in your frustration. you don’t know what to say, how to get your point across with your mind being dragged in so many different directions.

“I am trying to listen, but–”

“no! you’re not, Bucky!”

he says your name once, twice, a few more times as you continue yelling at him about how he isn't listening, he never listens–

suddenly, all the air is pushed from your lungs, your back being shoved up against the wall.

“I am listening,” he grits in your ear. “now it’s time you listen to me.”

only then do you realize the position you’re in.

his vibranium arm is pressing against your chest, exerting just enough strength to hold you in place against the wall. he’s breathing heavily, eyes staring you down, glaring daggers through you.

he’s pissed, but he’s waiting. he’s looking back and forth between your eyes.

waiting.

you barely give him a nod before he’s grabbing your hips tightly, ripping you away from the wall and dragging you to the floor underneath him. he moves so quickly, you’re hardly even aware of the change as it’s happening.

“you’re gonna be good and keep your mouth shut while I fuck you, you hear me?” he says, glaring down into your eyes. he doesn’t move a muscle, his weight on top of you preventing you from going anywhere. he’s straddling you, hands gripping you with a strength that reminds you you’re not going anywhere.

there’s nothing behind his eyes. they’ve gone cold, grey, lifeless…

it almost reminds you of him.

your whole body shivers.

and then he’s moving again with fervor, reaching for the zippers of your suit and tugging at them to expose you to him as quickly as possible.

“fuck, it's about time you listened,” he grits, all while tugging the fabric out of the way, ridding you of your suit as fast as possible. he never once attempts to remove his own gear.

when you make to reach a hand for the hem of his jacket, hoping to get your hands on him, too, a metal hand reaches out and stops you in your tracks. he holds your wrist so tightly, you can't move.

“did I say you could do that?” he hisses, stopping all of his motions and glaring you down. you’re stunned, once again frozen from the weight of his gaze staring deep into your eyes.

“no,” you whisper, forcing yourself to respond in your trepidation. he lets go of your hand with a careless flick of his wrist.

something about the demandingness of his tone, the forcefulness of his actions makes you crave it, need him to take you, use you–

except the second you open your mouth to say something, you remember what he told you: keep your mouth shut.

you could speak up, piss him off even more, convince him to be as rough with you as possible and relish every second of it.

or you can keep quiet and maybe he won’t spend hours tormenting you before letting you come.

you shut your mouth in the hopes of the latter.

he’s gripping tightly at your flesh, now bared to him in nothing but your undergarments, his hold on you never once letting you squirm away from the cold floor beneath you. his fingers dig into your skin as he brings his mouth to your chest, nipping over your collarbone as he goes.

“so goddamn pretty, and yet you’ve still got that mouth on you,” he comments between soft bites at your skin. “thought I’d fixed that by now.”

something about those words makes you want to beg, plead with him to rail you into oblivion until you can’t speak a single word. you try like hell to stay quiet, but you can’t help the soft whimper that arises from the back of your throat.

“oh, you like that, huh? were you trying to rile me up just so I’d put you in your place?” he asks, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep yourself from moaning out.

“yeah. you're so fucking eager for it, I bet you were,” he continues. at that moment, he yanks the cup of your bra out of place, surging down to wrap his lips around your nipple.

he’s trying to force you to respond, to break his rule, you determine, when he bites down just hard enough to make you gasp out in shock. he wants you to break, wants you to give him all the more reason to be rough with you.

you’re almost inclined to give in.

you let out another tentative moan, louder this time, just to see what he’ll do.

he responds with a sharp slap to your outer thigh, making you gasp at the sting.

“that’s enough of that,” he mumbles, pulling his mouth away from you to watch as he rips your underwear clean off your body. he brings two flesh fingers between your legs, pressing up against your hole, teasing you. “shit, you like it when I slap you around a little bit? hmm? maybe I ought to do this to you more often,” he grits, pulling his hand back and placing another harsh smack to your thigh.

you’re a mess, your mind starting to go cloudy the more he touches you like this. you give it your all to stay quiet, all the while you’re blissfully unaware of the way you begin to drool down your chin.

“think I like you better this way. goin’ all stupid and making a mess of yourself,” he tells you while reaching his metal hand up to wipe your chin dry. “yeah, how about I be real nice and help you keep quiet, yeah?” he taunts as he begins to press his thumb into your mouth. your body responds before you can tell it to, immediately sucking on the vibranium like a lifeline.

your eyes have fallen shut, stuck in a stupor and completely unaware of the pleased expression on his face.

you stay there, focused on nothing but keeping quiet and holding his thumb in your mouth as he pops the button of his cargo pants just enough to shove them out of his way.

“now, baby, you’re gonna be real good for me, aren’t you?” he asks.

you nod your agreement, not once opening your eyes.

“so fucking needy for me,” he mutters under his breath.

and by god, he doesn’t waste another second before brutally thrusting into you like his life depends on it.

it’s all you can do to hang on for dear life as he shoves your thighs further apart, giving him a better view of the absolute debauched sight between your legs. he’s relentless, taking out all his pent-up stress on you and watching the way your cunt opens up for him.

“she’ll take it no matter what, won’t she? any way I give it to you, you’ll beg for it all the same.” his words are clipped, breathy as he lets go of the rest of his post-mission energy.

you’re not even listening anymore, no longer able to keep yourself quiet with the way he's using you. you never even stood a chance.

but he’s clearly distracted, no longer concerned with keeping you quiet as all his focus goes towards taking what he wants from between your legs.

your lower back begins to ache from the force of him repeatedly pounding into you while you’re stuck on the hard floor, uncomfortably stuck and made to just take it over and over again. your jaw grows sore from his grip on you, surely making a mess of yourself once more as his thumb presses down on your tongue.

just as you consider signalling to him I’m done, he pipes up.

“you gonna talk back to me like that ever again?”

you shake your head vehemently no.

“you sure?”

you nod yes.

“good girl,” he says, and with that, you feel him letting go, filling you to the brim with his release. the aches throughout your body begin to relax as he eases his grip on your jaw and your hip, giving you a reprieve from his rough treatment.

“you okay?” he whispers to you, and you nod, still out of it.

next thing you know, he’s helping you off the floor and carrying you bridal style to the bed. once he lays you down, he brushes your hair out of your face and observes your facial expressions carefully as you begin to come back to yourself.

“I was worried about you, Bucky,” you tell him quietly. “I need you to be careful. it’s not just you anymore, okay?” you open your eyes just then to look at him.

he knows. he knows he acted like a reckless idiot, scaring the hell out of you and turning around and excusing his own behavior.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby,” he tells you. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“please, when we’re out there… I need you to remember what we’re fighting for. I need you to remember that I care about you, I love you. I need you to come back in one piece.”

he sees how sad your eyes look, how scared you are that something is going to happen to him.

“I know. you’re right, I know,” he says, leaning in to press his lips to yours.

after a moment, you pull back. “now fuck me like you love me,” you smirk.

“yes, ma’am.”

~~~

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list part 1: (send an ask or dm to be removed)

#iamthatonefangirl #fic rec

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barnesonly · 2 days ago

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me trying to write next chapter of lust… i’m so stuck.

#barnesonly #lust

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barnesonly · 3 days ago

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Will there be more Lust chapters soon? It’s my fav series by you, so beautifully written. Just *chef’s kiss*

yes! it’s in the writing i just need time 💔💔

#barnesonly #lust

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barnesonly · 3 days ago

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Hi, I just read your fic First Time with Bucky Barnes and omg I'm melting away it was everything and so sweet 🥺🫠❤️

THANK YOU🥹🥹🤍🤍

#barnesonly

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barnesonly · 3 days ago

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sorry i'm late i've been logging out of tumblr every other day cause i'm too addicted...

first time was soooo good, its perfect soft bucky

Tysm, love 🥹🤍🫶

#barnesonly

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barnesonly · 6 days ago

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i love them 😭😭🤍

just a thought… a reader helping winter soldier with applying his cunty black eyeshadow on him before going to „work” 😭

dear lord yes I love this sm

typically you wake up and he's just gone

maybe this time you're not in deep sleep so when he gets out of bed, it wakes you up.

it's a little amusing that he's gonna get a shower in and then get in that nasty ass sweaty leather get-up that makes you horny as fuck

so a few mins after the shower turns off, you roll out of bed and walk into the bathroom, barely awake

it's quiet. no need for words between the two of you

you just walk in and see the eyeshadow (he'll die on the hill that it's not eye shadow, it's 'eye black') (you don't care you'll tease him anyway) on the counter and just pick it up and begin to paint it under his eyes

help me why is this so soft in my head

he just lets you and then u kiss him goodbye.

he almost, almost hesitates to leave. it would be so nice to just crawl back into bed with you.

he tells you he'll make this one quicker than usual and kisses your forehead before dipping

i love this ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

#iamthatonefangirl

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barnesonly · 6 days ago

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Before I put all my thoughts and feelings from reading this masterpiece (because it’s so fucking long), I just want to say—loud and clear for anyone reading this review—this might genuinely be the best fanfiction I’ve ever come across on this app. No exaggeration. No empty praise. I was completely mesmerized by how beautifully this is written.

Bri, the way you captured every emotion—the grief, the love, the pain—it felt like being gutted in the most beautiful, intentional way 😭😭 Your words ache!! Every line carries weight. And the way you crafted the angst? It’s not just any angst—It hurt to read this in all the best, most cathartic ways, and I genuinely live for that kind of emotional… unraveling.

I know I say this every time, but I’ll say it again—and I’ll keep saying it: Bri, the writer you are? I aspire to be even 1% as good as you someday. And I mean that. Every damn time I say it. Your talent and creativity are unreal.

———

okay here are my thoughts I wrote down in my notes when reading, as usually…

I’ve been waiting for this one for so long. everyone shut up! My show is ON.

the memory of the funeral stop i already wanna cry. i’m gonna need therapy after finishing this fic i fear

„you would never forget how beautiful his eyes were, his hair, his scars...” That’s it. Tears stinging my eyes and I barely started the fic, fuck me with a knife now, bri, would ya?

„maybe if he had never fallen in love with you, he’d still be here.” hand me your laptop RIGHT NOW.

john my baby oh my god he is so sweet 😭😭 „but he saw what everyone else didn’t: you were losing yourself more and more every day.” john help the girl out i’m begging youuuu

okay im glad he went to go check on her… And i’m glad he told her he knows she is not okay. Girl pleaaase let him help you 💔

“He understood me,” … i feel terrible that I know who is he… crying again.

the italic at „him” and „he” gets me every time, it’s like twisting the knife every damn use of it.

„this is what he would have wanted for you” … my baby.

“today would have been our anniversary. two years. we... we had talked about…” IM A CRYING MESS!!!! crying crying crying!!!

“we had talked about getting married today. like, just going down to the courthouse and signing a piece of paper” i literally had to take a 15 minute break from reading after this. you are SO paying my therapy bills, sis i’m not even joking, actually i might have to be locked up in the padded room after this..

„you were talking about marriage, about not deserving it, shit.” OH. oh. oh no.

WALKER’S SO PATIENT WITH READER I CANTTTT… 🥹🥹

„he could have spared his son from a life of wondering why his father didn’t care enough.” STOP THE PAIN. STOP IT, I SAID STOP… HE IS BETTER THAN THAT. I KNOW HE IS. I BELIEVE IN HIM EVEN IF HE DOESN’T!!!! i scream as they drag me back to the asylum

„the only person who had ever hugged you this tenderly was him.” yeah so… might throw up!!

„how that hollow emptiness in your chest, where your heart is supposed to be, only grows more and more inside you every day.” this is so beautifully written wtf

“every day, I wake up and I can’t stop thinking about how it’s all my fault,” someone please give him a big kiss and tell him he’s enough

THE PANIC ATTACK AND HE’S NOT THERE OKAY IM IN TEARS AGAIN WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!!! WHYYYYY!!!! „but he’s not there.” i’d so turn into wanda just to shift realities and be with him honestly, that would be the start of my villain arc.

„you bury your head into his side of the sheets, clinging to his pillow” …

the way she thinks of offing her herself and goes to walker for help oh my god. „you’re barely even dressed in anything except one of his red henleys.” you keep twisting the knife but im already all bled out.

“I woke up, and I needed him, and… and he’s gone,” 🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂

walker is so good for her he is way too pure for all of this i cant i cant i cant.

HE TAKES HER TO ICE CREAM PARLOR 😭😭😭

„he’s never going to be there ever again.” i don’t even know what to say at this point ☹️

„when he lifts you off the floor, you don’t hesitate to wrap your legs around his waist and let him lay you down on his bed.” WALKER I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH LIKE SO SO SO SO FUCKING MUCH MY BABYYYY😭😭😭😭

SAMMMM!!! my face lit up after all the damage.

„look, I know he and I weren’t exactly on good terms before the accident.” Im actually coming at you for this one.

JOHN COVERING FOR READER!!! Oh he so cares for her.

“what you’ve told me stays between us.” i’m bad down for him.

“I miss him,” i wish you could see how red my eyes are at this point this is fucking torture

“I know, sweetheart,” WHAT THE— ?!?!!!!??? crying, screaming, throwing up??!!!!

„come back.” whatever you say, prince charming!!

“you look beautiful.” […] “last night, you looked… and now, still.” […] he’s looking at you… like… how he…” i— … wow.

„IM NOT HIM AND I NEVER WILL BE” SO WHAT. SO WHAT JOHN. YOU’RE ENOUGH, YOU’RE SO GOOD I LOVE YOUUUUUUU.

“that feel good?” She’s a mess, I’m a mess, in mess we unite.

„not daring to leave a mark. it’s not his place” Oh, wow again.

“can I take these off, sweetheart?” so hot im wet […] „and it’s okay to tell me no, too.” That’s even hotter

„I want to feel you, please. I need you to fuck me,” *insert that one tiktok audio* it wears….get it sexyyyy get it sexyyyy!!

„say my name” oh he’s insecure🥹🥹☹️☹️

“good job, sweetheart,” my thighs twitched

“I’ll give you as many as you need,” SAY WHAT NOW JOHNNNNNNNNNN 😁😊😊😊

she’s going to HIS room now oh god no i just stopped crying.

the pic with sam ☹️ THE DOG TAGS 😭😭😭😭

his scent—fuck im so done with this goddamn fic. I don’t think i ever cried this much during ANYTHING.

„you can’t save him, you can’t tell him one last time how much you love him.” Bro.

THE DOG TAGS STILL ON HER NECK.

„IS IT OKAY IF I WEAR THESE?” he better say fucking yes.

john is literally so fucking good he is such a sweetheart i cant—

„I was so ready to be a dad.” ☹️☹️

„you’ve lost the love of your life. but he’s lost three of them.” ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

Ava being so straightforward 😭😭 i love my unbothered queen.

„what the hell is wrong with you? how could you do this to him? he died, knowing that you were it for him. you were his soulmate, and of course he was yours–” im literally so mad at you for hurting me so much.

the way she blames herself for finally being happy after him ☹️☹️ girly you’re not a traitor you deserve to be comforted…

SHE PUSHES JOHN AWAY NOW ☹️☹️

„we can’t! it’s not right, it’s not fair to him!” ☹️☹️ i just wanna hug her.

THE NAME REVEAL OH GOD. i mean i did KNOW but idk it hit so hard anyways☹️😭

(I literally loved all the signs throughout the fic though, the red henley, the dog tags, sam… the descriptions of him being the leader…☹️☹️)

„I don’t want to lose you like I lost him!” THATS IT AT THIS POINT I’LL JUST SIGN UP FOR MENTAL TREATMENT 😭😭😭

they said i love you…🥹🥹

OH THAT’S THE END HOLY FUCK WHAT A ROLLERCOASTER OF EMOTION IT WASSS… oh my!! thank you for this wonderful experience… (my written down thoughts are so messy but so was my mind when reading this… sorry.)

fill the void - nsfw john walker

word count: 16.4k inspired by fill the void by the weeknd. disclaimer: major character death. strong depictions of grief, trauma, depression, PTSD, unhealthy coping mechanisms, substance abuse, suicidal ideation, homicidal ideation, insecurity, more I can't remember. read at your own discretion. *please note: there is a deliberate repetitive usage of italics in this work. if it bothers you, I apologize, but you'll quickly understand its purpose within the fic. a/n: I hope you all enjoy this. it's my baby that I poured my entire heart and soul into.

fic playlist.

~~~

you never thought you would end up in the bed of John Walker, of all people.

but then again, you never thought you would lose the love of your life.

~~~

of course, that was a naive take. there was always the possibility that this exact thing would happen; every day was another day closer to the end, another leap too close to the sun.

time would run out eventually. it always did.

and yet, it was still too soon. you weren’t ready. you never could have been.

you didn’t have the luxury of living a normal life. you didn’t get to vacation to Mexico or retire to the south of France. you were cursed to this hell from day one; you all were.

that’s the life of a fighter, a soldier. cursed to live in battle and to die a warrior’s death.

the little girl in you didn’t want to believe that. the little girl in you, the little girl you once were...

she had hope. she had dreams of happiness, of having and being something more than the future you now lived.

maybe she thought both you and him had already been through so much that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through the worst of it. that the universe would show just a little bit of mercy on you.

that’s stupid. it’s all so fucking stupid.

that’s what you told yourself when you couldn’t stop your endless crying at the funeral, that you were stupid and idiotic for not being able to hold back your tears in front of everyone.

that’s what you told yourself when you sobbed yourself to sleep for weeks afterward, still picturing the life you could’ve had together in another lifetime.

another lifetime?

you’d both already lived too many lives, and yet the final outcome would never change. no matter how many alternate universes your mind could conceive, universes where you could’ve been happy, it would never work.

you were cursed to a life of war and eternal despair in every universe.

you cried a little harder at the thought.

~~~

you tried everything to move on from your grief.

you tried taking time off, you tried throwing yourself into your work. you tried going to the gym, you tried going to therapy (although you’d never admit that to a single soul). you tried isolating yourself, you tried being in the company of as many people as possible at all times.

you tried drinking, but it didn’t take long before your job was being threatened because of it, so you swore off alcohol real quick. intoxication never worked, anyways, no matter how much you wished it would.

maybe if it did, it would be worth losing your job over. just to not have to feel the loss of him.

nothing worked.

you would never forget how safe you felt in his arms, even though he worried he’d hurt you with them. you would never forget how beautiful his eyes were, his hair, his scars...

you had never loved anyone before him.

anyone.

you let yourself be stupid, naive, and vulnerable with him. you let yourself fall in love with him no matter how bad of an idea it was, and now you’d learned your lesson in the worst way possible.

maybe...

maybe if he had never fallen in love with you, he’d still be here.

~~~

John Walker couldn’t pretend to understand exactly what it was that you were going through, but he could empathize. losing the love of your life was a universal experience no matter how different the circumstances were.

at least you had the opportunity to leave things on a positive note.

he hated himself for thinking that, for trying to compare your situations. what he was dealing with wasn’t the same, didn’t hold a candle to the pain you were feeling. you were distraught, and rightfully so.

no one on the team, other than him, had ever seen you like this. you were always so put together, the perfect soldier who never let anything get to her. you were untouchable, indestructible.

until one of you didn’t come back from battle.

then? then you were a wreck, losing every ounce of the self-composure that you’d trained into yourself, regardless of how you felt inside.

he hated himself for trying to delude himself into thinking that you were the lucky one. he hated himself for trying to reason that at least you had still been in love in the end, that you had been truly happy in your relationship.

he hated that your loss wasn’t your fault.

but, in a way, his faults were also a comfort you didn’t have.

when his relationship was coming to an end, he saw it from a mile away. of course, it didn’t make the truth hurt any less, but at least he knew it was coming. his divorce was inevitable.

your heartbreak had come out of nowhere.

the stab in the gut he felt was far more painful than any injury he’d ever sustained when he realized that unlike you, he at least had the chance to say good-bye.

~~~

he watched as you went through the motions, trying to pretend everything was fine. he watched as you tried to make changes in your life, giving yourself the grace to fall apart to try and let the grief pass. he watched you try to drown yourself in alcohol, and work, and everything else possible to try and move past the all-consuming pain.

everyone else tried to turn a blind eye, because that’s the same thing they would have wanted if they were in your situation. they tried to pretend that everything was normal, that you were fine.

that’s what they thought would help you.

besides, they were dealing with their own grief, too, no matter how different it was from yours.

but Walker knew better. he knew that space was the very last thing you needed, because he’d been where you’d been. he was still mourning the marriage he lost, and as such, he had a semblance of insight into your situation that the rest of the team didn’t have.

the one thing he had, that you yet hadn’t had, was time. he thought that with the passage of time, you’d get better. he just needed to give you the space and privacy to work through it.

so yes, he pretended to turn a blind eye. without your knowledge, he observed you carefully, watching you as though he had inherited you as his to protect.

he did a shitty job of it, he’s sure, but at least he kept you alive.

on top of that, he made damn well sure you weren’t going to lose your position because of your drinking. that was the one time in the three months following the accident that he stepped in.

he had truly believed that letting time go by would help. that by now, you would at least come back to some semblance of yourself.

but he saw what everyone else didn’t: you were losing yourself more and more every day.

~~~

he can’t keep doing this.

he can’t continue to stay out of it and leave you alone like everyone else, the way you want everyone to.

comforting people, getting involved in their personal business...

he tried his best when the situation presented itself. but actually approaching you, trying to have a serious discussion with you about your feelings?

yeah, he knows how that’ll go. you’ll do the same damn thing he would do to someone else, which is to yell at them for being nosey and slam the door in their face.

he lets out a sigh as he stands outside your door. he has to at least try. if not for you, then for your lost love.

it’s late, later than most colleagues would bother each other. but, he argues to himself, he isn’t here as a colleague.

he is going to try to be a friend. if he even knows what that means anymore.

so he summons the courage to knock on your door.

~~~

the majority of the time, when you were needed for any reason, you were notified in a more efficient manner: a phone call, a text, even a blaring siren throughout the building. any of those would have been the expected notification that there was something that required your attention.

nobody had knocked on your door in months. not since him.

you pause for a moment, knowing you can’t avoid whoever is standing on the other side of the door. something serious could be going on, something work-related. so you bite your lip and force yourself to stand from your comfy spot in the bed, pulling a hoodie over your head before answering the door.

when you open the door, you honestly expect it to be anyone but Walker. what does he want from you?

“what’s up?” you ask, trying to remain monotone. you shove your hands into the pocket of your jacket, hiding the way your hands shake in anxiety. your assumption is that something is wrong, something having to do with your position on this team.

you know you deserve it, but you truly don’t want to get let go. you need this, this job, this team. if you lose this, too, after everything that’s happened…

you might not survive it.

he stutters for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. he had this whole plan to come up here and actually say something, do his best to try and offer you some support. and yet it never crossed his mind how to actually broach the topic with you.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” is what he eventually settles on.

you fight with yourself in your head, concerned he’s about to give you the can, while also angry at the fact that he dare ask you that.

is he serious? it’s only been a few months since you lost him, how well can you possibly be doing right now?

no, he’s just trying to help.

a little late for that.

better late than never.

you shove down your anger and elect to return the polite sentiment. now isn’t the time to make things worse, not when you’re still not sure if your job is in trouble.

“yeah, I’m alright, thanks,” you respond.

he notices your attempt to put on a brave face, which normally, you’re so good at. normally, no one would know you had any other emotions than pure confidence and “danger is my middle name!”

he caught you off guard coming up here like this, he knows he did. so he predicts his next words will most likely either send you into a spiral of rage or fear.

“I know you’re not.”

excuse me? you think to yourself.

how dare he? how dare he act like he knows what you’re going through, like your entire life isn’t over, like he knows how badly you want to just end it–

“and before you yell at me, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m just trying to help.”

why the fuck would he think he can help you? he doesn’t get it, of course he doesn’t.

he sees the look in your eyes as you contemplate how you’re going to respond, how you’re boiling with anger as he predicted you would be. he doesn’t blame you for it.

you must stand there seething for a little too long, apparently, because he starts answering every question that you’re quietly asking yourself.

“I know I haven’t gone through the same shit you’re going through, but,” he pauses, trying to gather the will to talk to you openly in hopes that it will encourage you to do the same. “but I did lose my partner in combat, you know that. and you know about... about my wife.”

the words burn his tongue as they leave his mouth, leaving nothing but a rotten taste in his mouth as he’s forced to confront his own wrongdoings. his own past, his own losses.

“I know it’s not the same, but I can understand how you’re feeling. so, you can talk to me,” he gently encourages. it’s a long shot, and he’s still somewhat convinced you’re going to blow up on him. you should, he thinks. he’d do the same if he were in your position.

“he understood me,” you hiss, your voice so low that he may not have heard it if not for his superhuman hearing.

he sighs in acknowledgement. he feels your pain in his chest, in his bones.

“I know,” he quietly tells you.

once again, you contemplate for far too long.

but after silently deliberating for a moment, you step back from the entryway, cracking the door wide enough for him to step inside.

you don’t end up talking much for the rest of the evening. you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring down at your twiddling thumbs while he sits on the edge of the bed, scared to push further than he already has.

“it’s just a lot to deal with,” you mumble, “and nothing seems to help.”

he hums his acknowledgement, resonating with what you’ve just told him. he wishes he had something more he could say to you in this moment, something he could do to aid you more than just sitting here in silence.

regardless, the sentiment went unspoken that evening: you were grateful he was trying.

~~~

the next time he knocks a week later, you’d missed an important meeting in the afternoon. after he had set you straight regarding your drinking not long after the accident, you’d taken every precaution to make sure your work wasn’t affected. you could still be a productive member of this team, and you would prove it. today, though, you let yourself look bad by not showing up.

“what’s going on?” is the first thing he asks you when you open the door.

“I’m sorry. it won’t happen again,” is all you tell him.

there were a lot of things that had fallen to him after the accident. in particular, someone had to step up and fill the ‘leader’ role that your partner had once filled.

irrespective of the leadership position he now assumed in place of him, he now felt a sense of responsibility towards you. even though he’d failed at being there for you in the past few months since the accident, it didn’t stop him from feeling obligated to care for you.

up until now, he thought he was doing what he was supposed to by giving you space. but now it was time for him to cut the bullshit and fucking do something.

“no, come on. I’m not... that’s not what I meant,” he tries to explain, “I’m not going to yell at you. just talk to me.”

talking. wow. now he wants to talk to you? after all this time?

you force yourself to take a pause before throwing around any accusations. knew he wouldn’t have wanted you to be angry with the world, no matter how much you are.

you channel your anger into a productive response, as your therapist once told you.

(clearly, there was a reason you didn’t go back after one session, but you had to at least try.)

“you seriously want to know?” you ask him. you feel weak, and stupid, and you know you should shove down your feelings in place of putting your emotionless mask back on. you’d perfected the art of pretending to be fine before the accident. why couldn’t you do that anymore? had the loss of him truly stripped you of your ability to maintain your composure?

“yes. I want to know,” he clarifies firmly, stepping closer and leaning inside the doorway.

you fucking hate this.

this is what he would have wanted for you.

you reluctantly let him into your room for the second time this week, shutting the door behind him. he takes the same seat on the edge of your unmade bed, looking at you, waiting for you to say something.

“it was a rough day,” is all you can muster up.

he blinks at you, unappeased, expecting you to continue. of course that’s not enough to placate him.

“this is stupid!” you laugh nervously, staring into the distance as you consider your next words. “this is so…” you trail off, getting lost in your thoughts. it’s childish. pointless.

painful.

a moment passes before you take a deep breath.

“today would have been our anniversary. two years. we... we had talked about…”

the memory haunts you. you can’t deal with this, you don’t want to be confronted like this, forced to admit the reality you face. forced to accept the loss of the future you could’ve had.

he just watches you and waits patiently for you to continue.

“we had talked about getting married today. like, just going down to the courthouse and signing a piece of paper. nothing big. we just wanted to make it official. I don’t know, it feels so impossible now, so stupid. like, what was I thinking? that I could get married?” you ramble, beginning to laugh at yourself in your stupidity as you finish, “I don’t deserve to have that luxury.”

you think to yourself for a few more moments, considering the fact that you’d finally said it out loud. saying it aloud made it real, giving existential proof to your thoughts, to your sadness.

you take a few more breaths, all the while he doesn’t yet respond.

you finally look up at him, frustrated with the situation, resting your hands on your hips as you wait to see what he has to say. if he’ll even bother.

except he isn’t looking at you anymore, his head hung as he stares down at your floor.

oh, fuck.

you were talking about marriage, about not deserving it, shit.

“fuck, you know I didn’t mean that,” you try to recover, feeling even more anxious and panicked. he was trying to help you, and what did you do? you went and offended him.

“no, it’s alright,” he says, still not looking up to meet your gaze.

he’s the one lost in thought, now.

what business had he ever had getting married? did he really think that someone like him, a proud military man turned fuck-up Captain America, could hold onto his marriage? his kid?

he would have been better off never getting involved with a woman in the first place. he could’ve spared her, and himself, all that heartache.

he could have spared his son from a life of wondering why his father didn’t care enough.

he finally looks back up to you, noticing the anxious expression on your face. he’s still not used to seeing you look as anything other than put-together.

“how do you do it?” you whisper to him, feeling the way your eyes well up with tears. don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you urge yourself. “how do you deal with the pain?”

he wishes he had an answer for you.

he stands from the bed, makes his way towards you slowly, and embraces you like you’re made of glass.

the only person who had ever hugged you this tenderly was him.

~~~

the next time he knocks on your door, he feels selfish.

it’s only been a few days. although you haven’t missed a single meeting since, still learning to maintain your facade in front of the team, he can tell you’re still stuck. how that hollow emptiness in your chest, where your heart is supposed to be, only grows more and more inside you every day.

he feels like he’s being incredibly self-absorbed showing up at your door like this, making it about him, when you clearly don’t have the mental wherewithal to deal with his issues on top of your own.

he knocks anyway.

this is becoming habit, you think.

you don’t hesitate to let him in this time. as he walks in, you can tell something is wrong. he’s quiet, not inquiring about your well-being the second he sees you. you watch as he proceeds to sit in his trademark spot on the edge of your bed.

“you’re going to hate me for what I’m about to say,” he begins. you prepare for the worst, assuming you’re going to be kicked out, kicked off the team–

“I’m jealous of you. in a way,” he admits.

you’re severely depressed, severely lost in life, all because you lost the one person who meant the most to you. and now Walker is jealous of you?

if you’re honest, you’re more curious than angry.

“why?” you whisper, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed.

“because at least you know what you had was real. at least you don’t spend every day questioning whether he actually loved you. and, fuck, I know this isn’t fair to you,” he rambles, shutting his eyes and shaking his head in frustration.

you don’t know what you’re supposed to do. what the fuck do you say?

“every day, I wake up and I can’t stop thinking about how it’s all my fault,” he admits to you.

you didn’t know John Walker had it in him to be vulnerable, to be honest with you in such a way. sharing his deepest fears to you, someone he barely knows beyond work?

you should question it, but you don’t.

you do the only thing you know to do, and you wrap your arms around him the way he’d done for you days previous.

you let him bury his face in the crook of your neck for as long as he wants, never once letting himself shed a tear in front of you, before excusing himself. you watch him wipe his nose and eyes as he runs out of your bedroom.

your stomach twists when the door shuts behind him, leaving you all alone once more.

~~~

you can’t breathe.

it feels like your lungs are on fire, your throat is collapsing, and your stomach is plummeting, you can’t breathe–

you instinctively reach to his side of the bed. he always knows what to do when this happens. he understands what it’s like to be woken in a panic, fearing that you never escaped, that your past is not in the past after all.

but he’s not there.

and your whole world comes crashing down all over again.

you bury your head into his side of the sheets, clinging to his pillow, praying that your breath doesn’t come back to you.

you pray that your lungs give out, that your lips turn blue from lack of oxygen. you pray that you choke on your own vomit, you pray for anything to let you escape this reality that’s far worse than any nightmare your subconscious could ever dream up.

is this living? is it even worth it to keep going, to keep powering on when your heart died along with him three months ago?

you sob for god knows how long, your chest aching and your nausea increasing as your turmoil never settles.

eventually, your lungs find their breath again. your stomach does settle.

except your heart doesn’t stop hurting. your mind doesn’t stop berating you.

your feet move of their own accord. you don’t know where you’re going, what you’re going to do.

you think about going to a bar, getting blackout drunk, starting a fight, and letting someone beat you until the lights go out forever.

you consider breaking into the med bay, stealing and swallowing as many opiates as you possibly can before your body finally shuts down.

you debate taking one of your knives, going into the bathroom, and slitting your wrists until all the blood in your body has seeped out, the feeling of freezing taking over.

except your feet have other plans, taking you to stand outside a door you’ve never found yourself in front of before.

it’s 3am. you’re a mess of tears and emotions, and you’re barely even dressed in anything except one of his red henleys. you’re not thinking about any of that when you begin knocking on the door.

he wouldn’t have wanted you to end your life. he would have wanted you to do something, find someone to help fill the void inside you.

so you’re pounding on the door, your forehead resting against the wood, sobs wracking through you as you rest your whole body weight against the door.

when it opens, you almost fall.

he catches you.

~~~

when he woke up to the sound of banging on his door, he wasn’t particularly happy.

until he heard the sound of crying from the other side, and he knew something was wrong. there was nobody else it could be except for you.

when he opens the door to see you there, you clearly aren;t prepared for it, and you stumble as you lose the support of the door holding you up.

he quickly wraps himself around you, preventing you from crashing to the floor, and you fall into his arms.

he holds you there for a moment as you cry, unsure of what to say to soothe you. his mouth parts in shock, trying to force himself to wake up and figure out what the hell to say.

every convulsion of your body is like a dagger through his heart, watching as the pain consumes you whole, unable to do anything to help you. he knows that pain, has felt the pain of losing the most important person in the world.

“he’s gone, he’s gone,” you sob into his chest, your hands shaking as you dig your fingers into the skin of his back. he feels tears come to his own eyes as you cling to him, unable to support your own weight as the pain envelops you entirely.

“I woke up, and I needed him, and… and he’s gone,” you whisper, your body starting to relax as the exhaustion consumes you, forcing you to settle. he recognizes the sudden change and finally moves.

“come on,” he whispers back to you, carefully wrapping his hands around the back of your legs, picking you up and laying you down in his mussed sheets. “you’re going to pass out from dehydration.”

you lay there, in a bed that’s not your own, still desperately reaching for a man that’s never coming back.

Walker returns to you only a moment later with a small bottle of water, forcing it into your hands.

“no,” you mumble, burying your head in the pillow beneath you, refusing to accept it.

“yes,” he says firmly, still trying to get you to take it.

you don’t. your face is pressed into the softness of the pillow, muffling your next words:

“I want you to kill me.”

he takes a pause, jaw stuttering as he tries to come up with an appropriate response. he shouldn’t be surprised by your statement, and yet, he is.

“you don’t mean that,” he tries, looking at you with caution.

“I do,” you reply, turning back to face him.

he stutters again at hearing your words.

“listen to me. you have to stop saying that. I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t want to have to report you for this,” he tells you.

the thought stings. the idea of losing you? after they’d already lost him?

“you’re not going to report me, Walker,” you whisper back, voice soft and devoid of emotion.

he knows you’re right.

“you’re right. I won’t. but I won’t have you hurting yourself, either.”

the exhaustion begins to force your body to fall back asleep, your eyes shutting against your will.

he forces the water into your hand again.

“sip. and go to sleep.”

~~~

you wake up a few hours later, in a bed you don’t recognize, all alone.

all alone.

alone.

your eyes are so swollen it feels difficult to open them. you blink a few times, all while beginning to remember the night previous.

in your pain and suffering, you ended up embarrassing the hell out of yourself.

you quickly stand from the bed to bolt, memories of the night before collecting in your mind, a whirlwind of your desperation to just end it all.

you dart down the hall towards the staircase, trying to head back to your own room, when you bump into him coming around the corner.

“fuck, I’m so sorry,” you say, begining to apologize profusely. “for everything. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all that, I shouldn’t have… wait, where did you sleep last night?” you inquire as your thoughts become a conflicted, indecipherable mess in your mind, still half asleep.

“couch,” he says, looking at you, the pinch in his brow and small frown on his face telling you he’s fairly concerned.

it’s then that you realize you’re pants-less and he’s shirtless.

just as he opens his mouth to speak again, you bolt. you can’t stand to hear the lecture.

~~~

he wants to tell you there was no need to apologize, to tell you that you don't need to hide from him.

instead, he lets you go.

except he knows he can’t forget about this. after what you said last night...

you were right: he isn’t going to report you. but he doesn’t trust that you’re not a danger to yourself, that you’re capable of working in the field right now.

Walker was never supposed to be in this position. he was. he was your boyfriend, he was the leader, and now...

he didn’t know what to do.

he always knew.

but he had to do something.

that evening, he knocks on your door sometime in the evening, earlier than usual. you know it’s him, probably here to give you the lecture you narrowly escaped hearing this morning.

let’s get this over with, you think.

when you open the door, he sees the darkness of your room, just now taking in the sight of the windows completely covered by tarps and blankets, the lights turned off. he notes how you don’t appear to have changed your clothes from the night before.

he takes a breath and hopes his plan works.

“get dressed. we’re going out,” he asserts, not giving you any room to protest.

“what? what’s wrong? is there–” you begin to panic, assuming that there’s a worldwide crisis that suddenly needs your attention.

“nothing is wrong,” he clarifies. “just... get yourself together and come downstairs, yeah?”

now you’re confused. where are you going? who else is going? you’ve barely bothered to go out, unless it was absolutely necessary, since before the accident.

by time you think to argue with him about it, he’s already walked away.

~~~

so he takes you to... an ice cream parlor.

“seriously? this is your definition of going out?” you question him. the expression on your face reflects your confusion, yet your tone is teasing.

“oh, shut up. just go with it,” he responds, nodding his head towards the door to urge you inside.

you end up sitting in the corner of the place, sharing a cup between the two of you. you watch as people come in and out, placing their own orders.

families. young couples.

happy people.

it pisses you off.

“why the hell did you bring me here?” you ask him, your anger boiling over. you turn to face him, no longer amused by his choice of outing.

there’s a reason you don’t go out anymore. how, exactly, will it help you to see the rest of the world going on as usual, when your world stopped spinning months before?

you shouldn’t have come.

“you needed out of your depressing room,” is all he says. his response is curt, and to the point. maybe he’s right, but this? fucking exposure therapy? this is no better.

“oh, come on. that doesn’t tell me why we’re here, of all places,” you complain to him. you’re really not happy.

he takes a pause.

“Olivia and I came here the first night we moved to New York, ” he confides in you, all while refusing to meet your eyeline.

oh. you almost feel bad for your sarcastic and unappreciative tone.

except you continue to ponder his response, and realize that technically, his explanation isn’t an explanation at all.

“so you purposefully wanted to relive painful old memories, then?” you pry. “because–”

“I just wanted to get you out, okay?” he snaps back at you, his gaze meeting yours once more. you shut your mouth after his outburst, and he sighs, frustrated with himself. he continues, softer now, “just eat your ice cream.”

you sit in silence for a little while longer before he decides to bring up the night before.

“I need to know that you’re not going to put yourself in danger,” he says. he sounds like your boss right now, not your… whatever you are to each other. friends?

you could roll your eyes. you could scoff. you could curse him out.

you do none of the above.

“I won’t,” you say blankly, shrugging your shoulders.

“except I’m really not inclined to believe you. it’s not just you I’m concerned about. if you get out into the field and do something stupid, any of the rest of us could get hurt. I know you understand that.”

the memory flashes across your mind like a horror film playing out right in front of your eyes. the one you haven’t gotten out of your head in three months. it’s a much needed eye-opener for you, finally hearing what Walker is saying.

“I’m not going to hurt myself, and I’m not going to do anything stupid,” you tell him in earnest.

you think on it for another minute. he’s right: you know better than to jeopardize the safety of your fellow team members. maybe it’s your overconfidence, or maybe it’s your clarity in this moment that encourages you to give him a nod.

“I mean it, Walker. I promise you,” you affirm.

you sincerely mean it.

~~~

a few nights later, you wake up in the middle of the night from another nightmare.

it’s the same damn thing every time: you’re confronted with a terrible memory from your past, you wake up unable to catch your breath, and you reach for him.

except he’s not there.

he’s never going to be there ever again.

what’s different this time is that your first thought isn’t to act rash, or to consider all the ways you can end your life.

you let yourself accept that what you need right now is to not be alone.

you find yourself outside his door again, except your tears are much softer, your body not as shaken as the time before. you manage to stand on your own two feet as he opens the door for you.

“I need you,” you tell him softly, looking into his tired eyes, your own red and watery as the tears continue to fall down your cheeks.

you’re shocked by your own admission. you never let yourself need anyone except him. you thought that the worst thing you could do was open yourself up again, to be vulnerable with anyone ever again.

but he would want you to.

Walker is shocked, too, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach for you, pulling you inside the dark room you almost feel safer in than your own.

you stand there for a long time, clinging to him in the middle of the room as you softly cry into his chest. he doesn’t once let you go, whispering softly into your ear as he massages the back of your head.

your breathing begins to even out. the waterworks soften as your mind calms itself.

before him, you hadn’t known what it was like to feel comfortable with someone enough to be open and honest, to let yourself go in front of them.

if you went back in time and told yourself that of all people, it would be John Walker that you cried in front of, you wouldn’t believe yourself, and yet, it was true. you felt safe, comfortable with him in a way you’d never felt with anyone other than him.

when he lifts you off the floor, you don’t hesitate to wrap your legs around his waist and let him lay you down on his bed.

and when he begins to pull away so you can get some sleep, you only cling to him tighter.

~~~

something about this feels wrong.

no. that’s a lie.

he wants it to feel wrong. to hold his girl, to let her sleep in his bed. to be the only person she trusts with her pain, the only person who can provide her solace?

he wishes it felt wrong.

to hold someone new. someone who wasn’t Olivia, for the first time in…

it doesn’t feel wrong, no matter how much he knows it should.

as you sleep, he watches you. he watches when your face finally relaxes and your tears finally quit as sleep grabs hold of you. he can’t help that he feels something as he watches you like this. he had intended to leave, to sleep on the couch, to not cross this boundary.

but you had held onto him. you didn’t want to let him go.

you didn’t want to be alone.

so no, he isn’t going to leave you here all by yourself. you’d come to feel comfortable admitting to him that you weren’t okay, that you couldn’t be alone.

he knows what it feels like to wake up alone, desperate for your person beside you, only to find them gone and be reminded of the harsh truth: they’re gone.

he isn’t him, and you aren’t her. but he isn;t going to let you wake up the tomorrow morning all alone.

so he holds you as you sleep, one hand rubbing your back, another cradling your head to his chest to keep you close until his own mind drifts off.

~~~

as you wake up the following morning, you feel the heat of a warm body wrapped around yours, a hand in your hair and one around your waist.

for the first time since the accident, you didn’t wake up alone. you always woke up alone.

even when you startled from your sleep, terrified out of your mind and bawling your eyes out, you were alone. you always reached for him, but he was no longer there.

this is the first time in months now that you’ve woken up in a bed that isn’t your own, curled up in someone’s arms, with someone that isn’t him.

it stings, thinking about him. how much you miss feeling him beside you, the feeling of him kissing you awake.

but more than that, it feels nice to be held. it feels nice to be cared for, to not be alone for once.

you bury your head deeper into his bare chest as he holds you, strength uninhibited even in his slumber. you shove down the feeling that you shouldn’t be here, that it’s wrong to let yourself relax into the arms of another man.

you need this.

when he wakes not long after, he glances down to where your face is pressed against him. you look like you’re trying to hide, he thinks to himself.

“you okay?” he whispers, voice rough from sleep. you immediately perk up at hearing him speak, tilting your head upwards to face him. you can almost feel his gentle breathing on your skin as you meet his eyeline.

“I’m alright,” you confirm, voice quiet. your mind is conflicted, distraught.

you miss him. you miss waking up in his arms.

but why aren’t you revolted by the thought of waking up next to Walker?

you’re so close, so entangled with one another, and you’re suddenly made aware of every little touch. one of his hands traces circles over the back of your neck, the other pressed against your back where your shirt rides up, his pinkie finger just barely brushing over the skin of your lower back. you have to take a deep breath.

he’s looking down at you so carefully, as though he thinks you’re about to start crying again.

the feeling of him wrapped around you is too good to be true. you will yourself to gently pull away from him, losing the heat of his body against yours. you suddenly feel as though you’re hypothermic.

“thank you for letting me sleep here,” is all you can muster. you want to thank him for taking care of you the night before, for not letting you wake up on your own this time.

you don’t.

you sit on the edge of the bed for another minute in silence, neither of you quite sure what to say.

the worst part? it should be awkward. it should be tense, uncomfortable, weird...

but it doesn’t feel that way.

you stand and make to leave when you hear him say, “you don’t need to knock next time.”

you don’t let him know you heard him.

~~~

you get a phone call later that day.

there’s a part of you that’s kind of upset that you haven’t heard from him since the funeral, but honestly? you’re just glad he reached out at all.

“Sam!” you say excitedly when you pick up the phone. “it’s so good to hear from you!”

he proceeds to explain he’s been busy, dealing with bureaucratic bullshit, but he’s been meaning to reach out.

“I’m in town. you wanna grab dinner tonight? it’ll be good to catch up,” he offers.

~~~

you have to admit, it does feel good to get out. you end up wearing a dress you haven’t worn in a while.

it’s one he bought for you.

you stare at yourself in the mirror and remember the look in his eyes when he first saw you in it, the way he about cancelled your dinner plans just so he could have you all to himself.

you look away from the mirror and refuse to start crying at the memory. now isn’t the time.

you grab your purse and make your way to the elevator, looking down at your phone as you wait for the doors to open. when they do, John is standing on the other side, covered in sweat from head to toe.

“gym?” you inquire as you trade places with him, stepping into the elevator.

“yeah. but, where, ah... where are you going all dressed up?” he asks. you look more like yourself than you have since before the accident. it’s refreshing to see.

you look beautiful, he thinks.

“I’m getting dinner with Sam,” you tell him.

he wasn’t expecting that.

“have a good time,” he says, but by that point, the elevator doors have shut in his face.

obviously, Sam and John had a rocky start. you’d only ever heard things from his point of view until the whole "New Avengers" thing had happened. and yet, he’d never spoken disrespectfully about John. he may not have liked the guy, but nobody knew better than he did that everyone has their own shit going on.

by time the team formed, he and John had seemed to move on from their issues.

but Sam... John didn’t know where he stood with him.

he just had to pray you didn’t come back from dinner deciding that you hated him.

~~~

“so, how have you been? really, I mean,” Sam asks as you snack on some appetizers.

“that’s a loaded question,” you laugh, trying to brush it off. you knew he was going to ask you that, and you knew he would push you for the truth if you lied and claimed you were fine. “what matters is that I still have a job.”

“you know that’s not all that matters,” he says with his trademark smile, and you know he’s about to say something that makes him sound like a shrink. “you deserve to be happy outside of your job.”

happy. that’s an interesting word to use in this line of work.

“I haven’t gotten myself killed or fired, and I think that’s enough,” you tell him with an obviously fake smile. you take an obnoxiously large drink of your wine.

“look, I know he and I weren’t exactly on good terms before the accident. but I know he would’ve wanted you to move on.”

you have to bite your tongue at hearing that. Sam continues when you don’t respond.

“Walker told me–”

“what?” you suddenly perk up. what the hell? has John been talking to Sam behind your back, telling him things you thought were just between the two of you?

“Walker told me that you were doing just fine, and that I shouldn’t worry about you,” he assures you. “but I think he’s wrong. I don’t think he’s paying enough attention to make sure you’re okay to work, and I need to be sure that you are.”

instantly, you feel the relief sink in. he covered for you. John lied to Sam and didn’t reveal to him a single thing you had said in confidence.

“when did you talk to Walker?” you ask, trying to deflect from the point Sam is trying to make. you knew he would bring this up, but you’re still distracted by the discovery that John put himself on the line to protect you.

you have to force yourself to pay attention to Sam as he continues.

“it was purely a professional discussion. if any of the members of your team aren’t fit to work, including you, you know I have to step in,” he tells you.

“and yet you asked Walker about me before you asked me about me,” you speak up, trying your best not to sound overly accusatory.

you don’t really understand any of the bureaucratic stuff, nor do you care to. you either have a job or you don’t, and that’s fine by you. but the fact that he spoke to John before you?

does he think that little of you?

“it’s just because I’m worried about you,” he excuses, “and I needed to cover all my bases.”

you nod your head, pretending to agree without saying much else on the topic. you don’t want to fight him on this, not here, not now. it’s upsetting, yes; but you’re more concerned with the fact that John protected you.

“so, tell me: is he right? are you safe to work?”

your mind is already elsewhere when you answer.

“yes. I’m safe to work.”

~~~

you walk right to his door when you get back to the compound after dinner.

your mind is all over the place right now. why would he cover for you? you could both get in trouble for this. he could get in trouble for failing to report you for all those destructive things you said. did he just lie to Sam out of spite, because they had a difficult history? or did he actually do it for you?

you needed to know.

you know this isn’t what he meant when he said ‘you don’t need to knock next time.’ he meant you don’t need to knock when you’re in crisis, not when you’re deliberately trying to bust his door down to demand answers.

but you don’t care. you’re uber-focused and desperate at this point.

when his door suddenly slams open, so quickly that it smacks against the wall from force, he’s not expecting it so suddenly, so soon.

when he sees you, he expects the worst. you just had dinner with your close friend, someone who hates him, and he can’t know for sure what went down. what Sam might have said to you to make you come to your senses about him.

is this over? whatever this is, between the two of you? are you done with him?

are you about to cuss him out, yell at him to stay out of your life?

he mentally prepares himself for whatever you’re about to say to him, no matter how bad it’s going to hurt.

“you spoke to Sam,” you assert. the look on your face is one of confusion, and yet, you seem determined. your tone of voice is upset as he had expected.

“yes, I did, but–”

“you didn’t tell him,” you interrupt. it’s just then that you realize his TV is still blaringly loud on the wall, that he’s not wearing a shirt, preparing for bed.

it sends you back into reality, your whirlwind of emotions calming. it makes you want to apologize, run out, and quit being a fucking bother to him.

you can’t do that.

“you didn’t tell him any of it,” you repeat, still stunned.

his jaw stutters as though he’s working on finding the words.

in his head, he’s just surprised you don’t seem angry. you don’t seem like you’re about to freak out on him.

as you walk over to sit next to him on the bed, he clicks off the TV and you give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“it wasn’t any of his business,” is all he says to you. you notice the way he avoids meeting your gaze, the way he stares down at the remote in his hand and fidgets with it.

“it is his business,” you claim, “having suicidal thoughts–”

“it’s not his business!” he reasserts, raising his voice and cutting you off. he takes a breath to calm himself before speaking again, in a much softer tone, “what you’ve told me stays between us.”

“you should’ve reported me. you should’ve... I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be protecting me,” you whisper. “I’m not worth the trouble.”

he sighs in frustration at hearing your words.

“listen to me. we’ve talked about this. I know you’re not going to do anything stupid, okay?” he tells you, resisting the urge to reach out and take your hands in his. sure, you’ve already slept in the same bed together, held one another, but...

he doesn’t know the right thing to do here.

“how do you know that?” you ask, your tone reeking of desperation. normally, those words in this context would sound like a threat, a challenge to what he just said. but your tone of voice conveys the truth: you’re genuinely asking. you want to know why on earth he believes that.

“because I trust you. and I think you trust me enough at this point to just talk to me instead of hurting yourself.”

you go silent.

he’s right. you do know better by now. you know he’s here for you, and something about the way he holds you eases the hurt more than the idea of never waking up again.

you sit together in the silence for a few minutes. you feel his gaze on you, looking at your profile with what you think is a look of concern on his face. you stare down at your lap, fiddling with the hem of your dress. the dress that he bought for you, goddamnit–

the tears start again thinking about the memory of when he bought it for you, the first time you wore it for him.

“John,” you whisper, still staring down at the fabric over your knees, anxiously trying to smooth it over your thighs. your voice is shaky and barely comprehensible, only loud enough to be picked up due to the fact that you’re sitting so close to him. you feel the warmth of your tears beginning to flow down your face, and you try to wipe them away when he finally reaches for you.

he brings a hand to the back of your neck and another to your cheek, turning your face to look at him.

“I miss him,” you whisper.

you let yourself feel the way he pulls you in close, his hand on the back of your neck trailing up to thread itself in your hair and pressing your face gently into the crook of his neck.

you let him move you into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tears falling down your face quicker now.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, rubbing his other hand up and down your back in his best attempts to soothe you. “I know you do. I know.”

~~~

when you wake up in the middle of the night a few hours later, you’re taken off guard. the first thing you register is the fact that, once again, you’re in John’s bed. once again, you’re entirely wrapped around one another.

your brain quickly catches up with the fact that you’re still wearing the dress, and your face feels gross and sticky from crying the night before. you slowly begin to untangle the mess of limbs you’re trapped in so you can get up. the movement must wake him up because his grip suddenly tightens on you.

you freeze in place, your lungs holding in your breath as you anticipate whatever comes next.

“don’t,” is all he says.

he’s awake enough to know better, you’re sure of it. he’s awake enough to know this is dangerous, to be aware of what it is he’s asking of you.

the fact that this had already happened once was pushing it. to become a repeat offender?

“I need to shower,” you whisper back to him. not once does he open his eyes, but even so, you see the way his facial expression shifts as he processes your words.

he doesn’t immediately let go of you, no. he keeps you in place as though he’s thinking about if he’s going to let you go.

“come back.”

fuck.

this is dangerous. you both know it. you both know that you’re hurting, that you’re missing him. you know he’s missing her, too.

you don’t have it in you to say no to him.

it’s the middle of the night, but you’re wide awake. you have no more excuses left in you to explain away why it is you’re doing this, why you’re deliberately returning to his bed, in nothing but your pajamas and dripping wet hair.

you know exactly what you’re doing.

the bubble of guilt in your stomach grows bigger with every step you take back towards his bedroom, slipping inside the door and under his sheets, into his arms.

you still wish that you were being held by him.

and yet you’re glad to be in the arms of the man currently holding you tight, protecting you from your thoughts, protecting you from letting the pain consume you entirely.

~~~

in hindsight, you should have known that it was only a matter of time. your sad, broken heart had never let you think that far ahead, never let you think that there could be a time, a person after him.

how could you possibly move on from losing the love of your life? the man you would have died for, killed for? even now, you still would. you’d fight until your dying breath just to defend his honor, to uphold his good name.

and yet…

the next morning, you wake up in the same intimate position you’d found yourself in the morning before. your arms around his shoulders, your face up against his bare chest, legs intertwined with his. he must be awake, you think, because you feel a hand gently massaging the back of your head. you’re boiling alive, beginning to stir while encompassed by his warm figure.

“good morning,” he whispers to you, watching as you pull your head back in order to face him.

“hi,” you respond, your eyes still blinking themselves open. you’re suddenly aware of how puffy they are, how swollen your face feels from crying once again. you pull one hand away from his skin to dab at your own, diverting your gaze away from his as you realize how red and inflamed your face must look.

he’s still looking at you, though.

“I’m a mess right now, sorry,” you tell him, tucking your chin further into your chest as you lean back, rubbing your eyes.

“you look beautiful.”

your heart stops beating. your whole body freezes in place, his words not processing in your mind. he’s complimenting you, comforting you, it’s

it’s all wrong. this has to be some inexplicable dream you’re having.

“last night, you looked… and now, still.”

he pulls his hand away from where he’s holding the back of your head, bringing his fingers to gently tilt your face back up to his.

he’s looking at you… like… how he…

your breathing restarts all too quickly, rapidly picking up its pace as you realize the position you’re in.

he’s been taking care of you, putting your pain above his own, giving you privileges he would never grant to just anyone. he’s held your hand in your darkest moments, protected you from ruining your career and from taking your own life.

he was never ‘just a friend.’

it was only a matter of time, you think, when you lean forward and press your lips to his.

~~~

you’re soft.

he doesn’t deserve soft.

and you’re hurting.

he pulls away from you, choosing his next words carefully.

“I’m not him,” he whispers to you, “and I never will be.”

“I don’t want you to be,” you whisper back to him.

that’s enough for him.

his lips find yours once more. harsher, faster this time.

you’re being rolled back, splayed over his sheets, laid out underneath him. the way he kisses you is deep and slow, somehow so distinctly John.

not once had you ever imagined this happening, and yet, the way he touches you is exactly what you would have expected from him. a hand in your hair, tugging at your scalp and tangling the strands in his fingers. yet he seems needier, more desperate than you’ve ever seen him.

his other hand at your hip repeatedly adjusts its grip, unable to determine if you’re truly real and underneath him right now. the repeated motion continues to draw your attention, a repetitive movement that his anxious mind won’t let him quit.

you press a hand firmly over it, trying to still the motion and ground him in the moment.

it seems to work.

he never quits kissing you, tasting you through it all. you feel the change as one of his legs slots itself between yours, his knee pressing up against the fabric of your underwear. a choked noise falls from high in your throat, alerting him to what his actions are doing to you.

his fingers keep toying with your hair as he tentatively moves his leg against you, paying close attention to how the action makes you react.

your whole body shivers in response. your lips finally break apart from his as your head dips to face down to where your hips are now mindlessly rutting against him. he gives you another one, once more increasing the pressure against you, and in the same instant, he ducks down to catch your lips with his again. it’s perfectly timed for him to feel the way you gasp as he moves against you, for you.

he does it over and over, his lips gently brushing with yours as you gasp repeatedly with each one of his movements. his eyes are parted just enough to see the way your eyes are shut tight, your whole body reacting with everything he gives you.

“look at me,” he encourages you, “open your eyes.”

you blink your eyes back open, your whole body distracted in experiencing a pleasure you haven’t felt in a very long time. you’re a trembling mess, whining and gasping against him as your hips try their best to keep up with him.

once your eyes have opened, you take in the view of his face just above your own, staring down at you observantly.

“that feel good?” he mumbles to you, pace never once faltering.

you stumble over your words, stuttering like crazy as you respond, “you know it does,” before letting your eyes fall shut again. your head tilts into the pillow as your back gently arches up into him.

he moves his mouth to your neck, pressing wet kisses against your skin, not daring to leave a mark. it’s not his place, not right now.

right now, his priority is making sure you feel so good you can’t think about a single thing else.

a part of him wants to inundate you with praise, shower you in all the compliments he can while he has the opportunity.

but in this moment, it’s peaceful. it’s quiet, save for the beautiful litany of noises coming from your mouth. the part of him that wants to savor this, the part that just wants to let you worry about feeling, keeps him from rambling.

he’s got all the time in the world to say the things he wants to tell you.

“can I take these off, sweetheart?” he whispers to you, his fingers tugging at the fabric of your panties where they’re bunched at your hips. his movements slowly pause, easing away from where he’s pressed up against you.

you let out another throaty whine as he stills. you find your voice once more, reminding him, “it’s been a while.”

his fingers trace over the fabric where it meets your skin. “that’s okay,” he tells you, his voice like honey in your ears, “and it’s okay to tell me no, too.”

he’s trying his best to be careful, you realize. he wants, needs you to be sure of this.

“go ahead,” you whisper.

the pressure between your legs ceases entirely, followed by the feeling of both his hands hooking fingers beneath your underwear. he slowly drags them down your hips, your thighs, past your knees until they’re completely off.

you gulp, trying not to let the nerves set in.

you haven’t done this with anyone since him, since before the accident.

your jaw goes entirely slack the moment you feel his fingers brushing between your sensitive folds, already slick with your desire for him, having gone untouched for so long.

and in that moment,

it finally stops.

the constant whirring inside your head, your thoughts reminding you of your loss, every second of every day. it all stops as your mind goes blank with John’s touch.

he sees it. he sees the moment your mind finally quits berating you, lets you give in to something more powerful than the pain. your body releases its tension, your hands blindly reaching for any part of him to hold onto. he leans in to kiss you, dragging you out of the fog and into the light, back into this moment with him where it doesn’t hurt anymore.

his fingers press deeper, pushing inside you as he positions his hips strategically to keep your thighs spread for him. you wind up with both your hands in his hair, tugging, playing with it as he licks into your mouth. you whimper against him as his hand pulls back, only to push inside you once more, deeper, twisting inside you with each withdrawal.

he works you like this for a few long minutes, lazily kissing you and enjoying the way you toy with his hair, relishing every noise you make for him. you’re so warm, so inviting, so good for him.

he pulls back from the kiss, just for a moment. “you okay?” he mumbles quietly. he can distinctly hear the wet noises coming from between your legs, noises that would probably embarrass you if he brought them up to you.

it’s music to his ears, same as every sound that falls from your lips.

he could spend forever listening to you.

“yeah, fuck,” you respond, the sound high-pitched and desperate. “more? please?”

you’re irresistible, impossible to say no to.

“you want more, hmm? what do you want?” he mutters, pace holding steady as he continues the motions of his fingers.

“I want to feel you, please. I need you to fuck me,” you whisper back.

he can’t deny the attractiveness of your words.

he has to take a pause.

“say my name,” he instructs, looking at your face more urgently now. his bows cinch together as he waits.

“John,” you whisper back. your eyes are glazed over when you look into his.

“one more time, can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“I know you’re not him,” you whisper, holding his eyeline as you say it. “and I’m not her.”

he lets out a breath of relief before repeating, “I know. I know you’re not her. I want you,” he responds back.

“I want you, John, please… I’m okay. I’m ready.”

his hand slowly retreats from its spot between your legs, his fingers coated in you reaching for the hem of the shirt you’re wearing. he watches as more and more of your skin is revealed to him, each and every mark that you would consider an imperfection only drawing him in. he wants more, wants to touch, wants to feel you.

most importantly, you trust him. you trust that he understands, trust him to be the one after him.

you never expected that there would be, never wanted there to be someone after him.

and yet here you are, willingly sharing a part of yourself with someone who isn’t him.

“please,” you whine as he sheds his shorts, “please, please, please…”

he calmly hushes your begging, assuring you, “I’ve got you. I’m gonna give you what you want, I got you.”

you’re distracted, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you grow impatient. you grit your teeth, trying to hold on, trying your best to wait.

and then you finally feel him against you, finally pressing inside.

your eyes roll back in your head, your entire body going lax underneath him. you haven’t felt this full, this good in a long time.

he sees how your mind shorts, his own sense of self-control melting away just as yours is. there’s not a thought in your head as he stretches you open so beautifully, all for him.

“say my name,” he whispers into your ear one last time, when your mind is empty, when there’s only one thing you can think of–

“John,” you whine out in your stupor.

that’s the confirmation he needed to hear.

“good job, sweetheart,” he whispers.

next thing you know, he’s moving against you, putting all his efforts into taking you apart one piece at a time. after a few tentative thrusts, your warmth absolutely decimating his reserve, he brings his fingers back between your legs to rub your clit.

except he’s already got you worked up, nearing the edge. you haven’t orgasmed in months, and your body is rapidly falling apart under his touch.

“I’m– you gotta slow down, or I’ll…” you plead with him, a part of your mind telling you to be embarrassed, telling you you’re going to scare him off.

“I’ll give you as many as you need,” he tells you, “go ahead.”

with his affirmation, your mind and body let go. your breathing stops as your brain focuses on nothing but how it races through you, the feeling intense and overwhelming.

he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t fail to continue providing you with the stimulation between your legs, the only thing you’re consciously aware of in this moment.

he can’t hold himself back anymore from running his mouth, sharing with you every thought that populates in his head.

“doin’ so good for me. I bet you don’t even know how goddamn pretty you look when you come for me, sweetheart… wanna watch you do that forever,” he rambles, all while holding his pace constant.

he means every word of it.

~~~

you lay in bed with him afterwards, the afternoon sun shining in through the blinds. you stare at the rays of light as they come through the window.

you’d practically boarded up your own windows after the accident, refusing to let the positivity into your depression room.

it’s nice, though, you think. the heat on your face, the brightness waking you up for the day.

he’s laying on his side while you’re on your stomach, holding yourself up by your elbows, your head tilted the opposite direction from him as you look towards the window. his fingers trace over your skin, drawing random patterns into your hip as you lay there in the quiet.

you haven’t run away yet, and you have no intention of doing so.

the physical pain that’s lingered in your chest since the accident has finally dissipated, the headache you couldn’t shake finally easing.

you finally feel a kind of peace inside, a peace you didn’t know you could find with someone other than him.

~~~

over the course of the next week, you begin to feel better, closer to normal than you’ve felt in a while.

you spend most nights in John’s room, sleeping in John’s bed, wrapped up in John’s arms. he never fails to whisper soft praises in your ear as you drift off to sleep, telling you how grateful he is for you, calling you his sweetheart. neither of you push any further than lazily kissing in the comfort of his sheets.

you feel loved in a way you’ve only felt once before in your lifetime.

you still miss him. you can’t go more than a few minutes without being reminded of something you used to love doing with him, something personal about him that he only ever shared with you. you’re surrounded by the memories of him in everything you do, everywhere you go.

as you peel away the coverings you’ve hung over the windows in your own bedroom, desiring to feel the light filtering in, you’re reminded of something that hasn’t crossed your mind in a while:

his room remains untouched.

you freeze in place, still holding the blankets in your hands as you look through the glass and onto the lively city, beautiful weather blessing the people below.

you haven’t been in his room since about a month after the accident.

you stand there, your fingers fidgeting with the soft fabric in your hands as you contemplate whether or not you should go.

except the decision was made for you before you even considered it.

a few minutes later, you find yourself standing outside of his room. the door is slightly ajar just as you had left it the last time you were here.

the last time you were here.

the last time you set foot inside his room, you’d been clinging to his sheets, bawling into his pillows with the pain still so fresh in your heart. you had spent every night and day in his room after the accident until you considered the idea that being there was only hurting you.

you had retreated back to your own bed, assuming that it would help you somehow.

of course, it didn’t. but by then, you had made up your mind that it would only hurt more if you ended up back in his space, surrounded by him.

thus, you haven’t been back since.

you will your hand to move, to reach for the knob, to push the door open. you barely work up the courage, almost convinced you should just walk away–

you shove the door open before you can change your mind.

you shouldn’t be surprised that everything is exactly the way you left it. the sheets mussed, the blinds drawn, his pillow on the floor. the room is cold and empty.

stepping forward into the space, you take a shaky breath in and wipe your nose when you hear yourself sniffling. you manage to maintain your composure as you walk further inside.

you walk by his dresser, littered with various objects: a picture of him and Sam. a handful of photo strips the two of you took while out for date night. a few polaroids of yourself posing in a dark blue lingerie set he had bought for you, smiling at him on the other side of the camera.

there’s a bottle of cologne next to the messy pile of pictures. a small mirror hangs on the wall above the dresser. you see a book you used to pass back and forth between each other about overcoming PTSD.

on top of the book lay his dog tags.

with shaky hands, you reach out to pick them up. the metal is cold to the touch. you trace your fingers over the indentations in the metal, over the numbers imprinted: 32557038.

as you stare down at the tags in your hands, your eyes get warm, threatening tears.

you direct your gaze up towards the mirror before the waterworks start, holding eye contact with your reflection as you pull the chain over your head. you fidget with the tags for a minute as they lay on your chest before turning towards the bed.

the sheets are all over the place and his pillow is still laying on the floor where you’d unceremoniously dumped it the last time you walked out. you had told yourself that coming back wasn’t an option for you if you had wanted to heal.

look how well that turned out for you.

you stand near the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up the pillow and clutching it tightly in your arms. it’s fluffy, and it’s soft, a luxury he never thought he deserved to have.

it had been important to you that he got to have those luxuries, to remind him that he could enjoy them. no way in hell would you ever let him go without only the best.

you set the pillow down on the bed with the rest and adjust them to look presentable. you reach to pull the sheets and comforter back into place, but before you can, the urge to lay down overwhelms you.

the sheets are soft on your skin, the pillow comfortable under your head.

and then you sense it:

the overpowering scent of him on the sheets fills your nose, tripping every alarm in your head.

it’s only a matter of seconds before you’re sobbing your eyes out, burying your face into the pillow, dragged right back into the crippling pain that you’d felt the instant it happened.

the instant you watched his life get taken away.

except the moment you inhale against the pillow, the scent is intensified, the pain made inexplicably worse than it already is.

you force yourself out of the bed, away from the terrifying reminder of the worst day of your entire life. your feet trip over themselves with how quickly you move, how suddenly you run out of the room, barely able to keep yourself upright.

the only semi-comprehensible thought in your head is to get the smell off me. get away from the reminder as it clings to your clothes, your skin, lingering in your nostrils no matter how much you pinch and pull at your nose. you’re stuck, trapped in the worst moment of your life even as you try to run.

tears continue falling from your eyes as you finally end up back in your bedroom, tugging at the fabric of your clothes. the sound of ugly sobs fill your ears as you rip your shirt over your head, trying not to fall flat on your face as you run to your bathroom. you’re trembling from head to toe. your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves as you struggle to breathe through your crying.

the nightmare is real. in this moment, you’re there: on the field, falling to your knees, wailing out at the realization that he’s gone.

you slam the door shut behind you, once more falling over yourself as you make for the shower. if you can just turn on the faucet, feel the hot water on your skin, then maybe it’ll go away, maybe–

there’s a knocking at the door, followed by the sound of your name being called out from the other side. “sweetheart? are you okay?” he asks you.

“fine,” you call back, except it’s a sorry excuse for a lie. your voice comes out as nothing but shaky and squeaky, and it’s obvious that you’re still sobbing even as you say it. you finally get in the shower, pressing one of your hands up against the ice cold tile and using the other to reach for the shower faucet. you press your forehead up against your hand on the wall, trying to calm yourself.

the water just needs to get hot. just let the water get hot, and it’ll all go away.

you shiver under the cold spray, pleading with it to get warm.

“can I come in?” he calls out, his concern all too obvious.

you don’t respond. the water finally heats up, finally gets hot enough to burn your skin and hurt so bad that it should distract you from the scene that continues to play inside your head.

it doesn’t work. it doesn’t fucking work.

you let out a wail, trapped in your own mind with the vision of the love of your life dead, in your arms, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. you can’t save him, you can’t tell him one last time how much you love him.

your cries are so loud that you don’t hear it when the bathroom door opens and shuts. you don’t even process John’s presence in the bathroom, stepping into the shower behind you until you see him turning the water temperature down out of the corner of your eye.

in your rush to strip yourself of your clothes, the dog tags around your neck somehow managed to stay in their place.

“he’s gone,” you cry out, tilting your head to the side as you feel his arms wrap around you. “he’s gone. he’s gone, he’s dead, and he isn’t coming back to me,” you cry out, your sobs almost loud enough to drown out your pained words. your free hand finds its way to the chain wrapped around your neck, frantically tugging and pulling at the tags in your desperation.

“I know,” he whispers, curling himself around you from behind. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

you don’t know how long you stand there, leaning against the shower wall, bawling your eyes out and feeling sick to your stomach. John never once lets go of you.

~~~

by time the exhaustion takes over, your crying has stopped and your body is slumped, no longer capable of supporting yourself.

“come on,” he whispers to you, turning you to face him. “I got you.”

the next thing you know, you’re waking up in your bed with a bath towel wrapped around your figure, his arm draped over you.

“what happened?” you begin, disoriented and struggling to speak with how dry your mouth is.

“I found you in the shower, crying. and then you fell asleep,” he tells you lowly.

your fingers come back to your chest, feeling for the chain around your neck. you fidget with it for a moment while still facing away from him.

“do you wanna talk about it?” he offers.

a month ago, when he first approached you, you were reluctant. you were angry at the world, as you still are now, and a part of you was angry at him for trying to involve himself in your business.

you’ve come a long way in your relationship in the last month.

you nod, sitting up and accepting the glass of water he hands you.

“I went into his room,” you begin, nursing the drink in your hands, “I thought I was ready. I… I spent the first few weeks sleeping in there after it happened, but I haven’t been back since. I laid down on the bed, and it just sent me into a panic. all I could see was that day, John, the day he died. I couldn’t escape it, and… and I lost it.”

he doesn’t say a word, just rubs your arm softly as he listens.

you take another sip of water, the tags around your neck jingling as you move. it catches your attention.

“John,” you say quietly. he looks up to meet your eyes and waits for you to continue.

“is it okay if I wear these?” you ask him, indicating to the dog tags around your neck. “it won’t… it won’t upset you, will it?”

he’s surprised that you could ever think that.

“of course, you should wear them,” he reassures you, sitting up next to you and cupping your face in one hand. “why would it upset me?”

“because they belonged to him,” you explain, “another man. and now, we’re…” you trail off, unable to come up with the words you mean to say.

what are you to each other?

you’re certainly more than friends, and you’re certainly not just fuck buddies. you’ve only slept together once, and it’s more than obvious that something real is happening here.

that word stops you dead in your tracks: real. there’s something real between you and John, a connection, a trust that you’ve only ever had with him before.

you’d still be with him if he was still here. nothing other than this, than death, would have broken you up.

you were never supposed to end up with anyone else.

which gets you to thinking:

he’s only been gone for four months now, which in the grand scheme of things, is barely any time at all.

is it too soon?

is it wrong for you to let yourself have whatever this is with John?

“I’ll never be upset with you for that, sweetheart,” he assures you, reaching to brush his thumb over your hand as it fiddles with the metal chain.

he’s genuine, sincere. you know he understands what it means to lose your soulmate and be forced to keep going. he knows what it’s like to be left with a million questions regarding what the hell you do after losing your person, the one you never should have lost.

he’s lost his person, the same as you have, and now?

you’re both the person after. the person who was never supposed to exist.

you nod your understanding and lean in to give him a kiss, all while your hand still clutches the chain on your neck.

a pit begins to develop in your stomach, then.

what if this is wrong? you’re not supposed to be happy, not with the things you’ve done, not after losing the most important person in your life.

how could you replace him like this?

~~~

regardless of your hesitance, you continue to find yourself spending all your time with him, in his room.

you’re lying on your back on top of him in his bed, food wrappers from the take-out you ordered covering the surface of the nightstand. the sun outside begins to set, the room overtaken by darkness as the light fades. it’s quiet.

“I was so excited when I found out Olivia was pregnant,” he says, breaking through the silence of the room.

you can tell he’s deep in dark thought, saddened by what he’s just shared with you, based on the sullen tone of his voice. you turn your back to look at him as he continues.

“I was so ready to be a dad, you know? it just… it felt so right. I wanted to be able to be the dad I never had. I was going to break the cycle, and be there for him, and then…” he trails off, shaking his head at the reminder. “clearly, I’m not cut out for that.”

“hey, no,” you begin, “don’t say that, you–”

“how am I supposed to keep a kid safe in this world? with all the crazy things that happen, alien invasions… I couldn’t even keep my own partner safe.”

“John, no,” you say more firmly now, taking his hand in yours and adjusting your body to face him better. “Lamar’s death was not your fault. it never should have happened, but it’s not on you that it did, okay?”

he sits there in silence, contemplating your words. he stares down at where your hands are connected.

“well, he’s better off without me. and even if I wanted… it’s my fault I can’t see my own son,” he says, voice cracking.

you hate seeing him like this, forlorn and hopeless.

“don’t say that, please. it’s not too late. your marriage may… it may be over, but he’s still your son. you can still be there, you can be his dad,” you tell him. you’re trying your best to be supportive and opportunistic, but you have no clue if it’s even helping.

“I can’t. there’s court orders, I’m actually not allowed to see him,” he confirms, and you can see his eyes grow watery. “being… an Avenger, or whatever we are, doesn’t look good on papers. and my history…”

you squeeze his hand a bit tighter.

“they think I’m reckless, dangerous. so I don’t get to see him.”

his words break your heart. everything he’s done, everything that’s happened is what he was conditioned for, trained to do, and now?

you’re out of words to reassure him.

you lean forward and wrap yourself around him, stroking his hair while he begins to softly cry against your shoulder.

you’ve lost the love of your life.

but he’s lost three of them.

~~~

after the next team meeting, Yelena approaches you when you begin to head back to your room.

“how are you doing?” she asks you tentatively. “you seem better.”

you can tell she’s trying her best, knowing she’s no good at this. none of you are, truly, the lot of you emotionally constipated from years of shoving everything down and pretending like your trauma doesn’t bother you, like you’re completely fine.

“I am starting to feel a bit better, yeah,” you respond with a soft smile.

“you’ve been spending time with Walker,” she says. nothing about the way she says it sounds like an accusation, or like she’s teasing you. she’s simply mentioning an observation she’s made.

“yeah, he’s… been helping me, I guess,” you say, the nerves rising up again.

does she know? does she know that he’s grown to be someone you care about, someone you can depend on?

does she think it’s too soon? has the rest of the team made the same observation that she has?

do they think you’re being unfaithful to him?

“well, Ava and I would like to take you out for drinks sometime, if you feel up to it,” she offers.

a part of you is hesitant, as is the nature of trying to cope with your grief. but in truth, it sounds fun. you should get out and socialize. it will be good for you.

“yeah, I’d like that,” you tell her.

~~~

a few drinks in, and you realize why this was a bad idea.

“so, what the hell do you see in Walker?” Ava yells to you over the noise of the bustling crowd, the overwhelmingly loud music.

up until this point, the evening has been nothing but pleasant. you’ve finally been able to spend time with the other members of your team, friends, if you’re allowed to call them that. the conversation never once veered into personal territory, never asking you about him.

the sudden change in topic, especially while tipsy, isn’t doing you any favors.

“well, he’s just been helping me,” you say, trying to keep up your positive demeanor even as your mood falters. “I can talk to him about… you know.”

“his death,” she says. it’s obvious she’s had more to drink than you have, that the only reason she’s speaking so bluntly is due to intoxication.

you try your best to swallow down your feelings as you respond.

“yeah. that,” you acknowledge, your voice coming out more softly than you intended.

“do you, though? see something in him?” Yelena asks you, taking another sip of her drink and looking at you intently.

you know it’s just conversation. they don’t mean any harm.

but it’s getting to you. the words are tearing at the walls you’ve built around your guilt, forcing your fears to come to light inside your head.

“but he hated Walker, didn’t he?” Ava pipes up.

“no, no,” you say urgently, your heart racing faster. “he didn’t hate John, he–”

you cut yourself off mid-sentence. you’re nervous. you feel like you’re on trial, being forced to explain yourself. explain how the hell you could end up in the arms of someone he hated–no, that’s not what’s happening here–

“did you sleep with him?” Yelena asks you suddenly.

it’s harmless. they’re just asking, just trying to…

you can’t handle it anymore.

your heart is beating way too fast, your anxieties surrounding the situation spiking.

what the hell is wrong with you? how could you do this to him? he died, knowing that you were it for him. you were his soulmate, and of course he was yours–

so why the hell are you doing this?

why are you getting yourself involved with John?

you’re a terrible person. how dare you ever think you could be worth his love, worth more than the sum of the terrible things you’ve done, the lives you’ve taken.

“can we get the bill and head back? I think the alcohol is getting to my head,” you say, narrowly avoiding tipping over your glass, your hands shaking while you try to reach for your purse.

you don’t deserve to be happy, to fall in love again.

you never even deserved him in the first place.

~~~

you don’t go to John’s room. you can’t.

seeking out his presence, the comfort you find with him will only worsen your mental state. letting yourself feel better when he is dead is nothing more than cruelly turning your back on him.

how could you ever do that to him?

you don’t shed a single tear when you slip under your sheets. your mind is moving too fast, berating you for letting yourself move on.

for letting yourself fall in love again.

is that what this is? are you in love with John Walker?

you tell yourself you’re not. you try to convince yourself that you’re just hurting, you’re latching onto him in his absence. it’s not real, it absolutely cannot be real, because then it means you’re a traitor.

a traitor to the love of your life, your fucking soulmate, the only man you’ve ever held so close to your heart.

it hurts. it hurts every fiber of your being to know that you do love John Walker, that you have another shot at being happy. that you’re finally learning how to move forward.

except to you, it just feels like moving on. like you’re leaving him in the past.

you’re in love.

and you despise yourself for the excitement that builds up in your stomach at the realization.

~~~

the next morning, you wake up early. way too early, early enough to see the sun begin to light up the sky as it rises.

you don’t bother getting out of bed. sleeping on all of your conflicting thoughts didn’t help, it only intensified your fears. you woke up in a daze of despair.

you still miss him, that’s a given. you’ll always love him, until the day you die.

but now you’re in love with someone else.

and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with yourself.

at that moment, your bedroom door quietly opens and shuts. you look up to see him sneaking in.

“sorry,” he whispers, laying down next to you, “I tried to be quiet, didn’t mean to wake you.”

he cuddles up behind you, wrapping an arm around you and settling in. you don’t move, don’t bother to get any closer to him.

“you didn’t come to my room last night. missed you,” he whispers, sleepy.

“now isn’t the time, John,” you say bluntly, beginning to retract yourself from his hold and getting out of the bed. you find yourself standing in front of the window, staring through the cracks in the blinds.

“sweetheart, what’s–” he starts, but you interrupt him. you’re angry, and confused, and you can’t stand to hear the term of endearment from him right now.

“don’t,” you hiss, “don’t fucking call me that. don’t.”

now he’s confused. what’s going on? did he upset you somehow?

he sits up, his mind waking up with the abrupt shift in the air.

“would you… would you look at me?” he asks you.

you shake your head. you won’t. you can’t.

when you don’t turn to face him, you hear the shuffling of the sheets behind you indicating that he’s standing up. you see him come into your field of view as he walks up next to you.

“talk to me,” he says, sounding more like an order than a request. “tell me what’s going on.”

“we can’t do this,” you say flatly, refusing to meet his gaze. “we’re not doing this. whatever this is, it’s over. we’re done.”

“no,” he protests as he begins to get upset. “you don’t get to just tell me out of nowhere that we’re done without giving me an explanation. so tell me, what is going on with you?”

you exhale, frustrated, anger boiling up inside you. you finally turn to face him.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snap, no matter how much it hurts to say to him. you don’t want to push him away, you don’t, but what else can you do at this point?

this is your only option.

he takes a deep breath to calm his own anger before he continues. “you’re upset, and something is wrong. tell me what’s wrong.”

“we can’t do this!” you cry out, “we can’t! it’s not right, it’s not fair to him!”

“sweetheart–” he tries, but you don’t let him get the words out.

“no, you can’t call me that. you can’t–” you say, your voice breaking with every word. your heart and mind are both tearing at the seams, trying to compensate for the gaps in the other’s feelings.

John pipes up, his own anger coming to surface. “goddamnit, would you listen to me? he would’ve wanted you to be happy! B–”

“don’t. don’t you dare say his name!” you scream back at him, seething.

“Bucky would have wanted you to be happy!”

everything stops.

your mind stops.

not a soul has said his name since the funeral. you haven’t said his name since the funeral.

you feel like you’re going to lose control of your breathing, your lungs practically frozen. your anger morphs, turning back into sadness. this is too much, it’s too much–

“can you honestly tell me that he wouldn’t have wanted us to be happy together?” he asks you, his tone pleading, begging you to try and understand where he’s coming from.

you can’t help the way your lip begins to quiver, and your eyes heat up. fuck.

“he would’ve wanted me to protect you. he would’ve wanted you to be looked after.”

you can’t help but protest against him. “John, you don’t get it. I feel like I’m betraying him–”

“–I know, sweetheart, I know, but listen–”

“–but the worst part is that I know I’m not. I know we’re not betraying him. I know that you’re right, I just…”

you pause. you don’t know what you want to say next.

“I know,” he whispers. “every day, I wake up, and I hope that she’s going to call me, but she’s not. I know that she’s not going to. I know that she’s gone.”

he inhales as he takes in your sulken appearance, the sight of tears falling down your face once more.

“they’re gone. we lost them, and that’s it. but that doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy without them!” he tries to reason with you, raising his voice once again.

he doesn’t get it. why doesn’t he get that your relationship is doomed, the same as yours was with him? this was all a mistake, the whole time. the two of you were doing nothing but setting yourselves up for more heartbreak. why can’t he see that?

you can’t hold it in any longer. your resolve breaks as you yell back at him, “I don’t want to lose you like I lost him!”

your words hit hard. the thought of that happening to you, of you dying on the job, is the worst thing imaginable.

but it’s an excuse.

it’s an excuse coming from the part of you that’s still heartbroken, still traumatized from the accident. anything could happen to any of you, at any time, regardless.

“so you think you’d be better off by yourself? not letting yourself have what you want, sacrificing your own happiness because you think it might save my life? news flash: it doesn’t work like that!” he responds.

you go silent, his words reaching into your heart and yanking at each and every one of your heartstrings.

“you deserve to be happy, sweetheart,” he pleads with you, taking another step forward, bringing his hands to rest on your arms. “let me make you happy.”

you’re quietly bawling by this point, unable to control how your body silently shakes over and over again. John moves closer, wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and embracing you while you cry.

“I love you,” you say between sobs. “I love you, John, I love you so much. I can’t lose you,” you tell him, baring your entire heart and soul to him once more.

“shhh… you’re not going to lose me,” he whispers to you, rubbing your back. “that’s not going to happen.”

of course, neither of you can know that for sure. the life you both lead is one of fighting, defined entirely by nothing other than tragedy.

but you both believe it when he says it.

“look at me,” he whispers, pulling back and leaning down to look at you face to face. he takes in your red face, wipes your tears as you sniffle.

“I love you, sweetheart. I love you, too.”

you nod vehemently.

“I love you. and I know you think it’s not right, like you’re forgetting him. but you’re not. he’ll always be a part of you.”

as you take in his words, letting them soak into your mind and your heart, you begin to settle. you nod once more.

you watch as a small smile crosses his face when you nod.

“let me make you happy,” he repeats to you.

you want that. you want to let yourself be happy.

you can be happy with John without forgetting about him.

you can let him fill the void in your heart.

~~~

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barnesonly · 6 days ago

Text

First Time

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you tell Bucky you’ve never had sex before and he makes it his mission to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.

word count: 4,3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. established relationship, curse words, first time, dirty talk, praising, fingering, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

The bar was warm with low amber lighting, the kind that made everyone look softer. You were curled into the corner of a booth, half a drink in front of you, half-listening to the hum of chatter and clinking glasses all around. Bucky was beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, fingers resting loosely along the back of your seat like they always did when he was comfortable. At ease.

He’d made some comment about 80s music—how it was too synth-heavy for his taste—and you’d rolled your eyes, laughing into the rim of your glass. “You still think Sinatra’s the peak of civilization, Barnes. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

He grinned, that lazy, lopsided thing he did when he was trying not to smile too much. “I just think music went downhill when people stopped writing love songs you could slow dance to.”

You tilted your head at him. “They didn’t stop. We could slow dance to this, you know.” The song playing was barely more than a mellow indie track, not at all meant for dancing, but you saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He didn’t challenge it. He just looked at you like he always did—quietly, like you were a question he wanted to take his time answering.

Conversation shifted the way it always did with him—effortless. Somewhere between funny stories and half-serious dreams about leaving the city for a week, you found yourself fidgeting with your straw, heartbeat starting to tick faster for no real reason except that you wanted to tell him something. Something real.

You hadn’t planned to say it. It just… slipped out. “I’ve never done it, you know? Sex, I mean.”

The words landed between you like a stone dropped into still water. Not loud, not dramatic—just there. You looked down immediately, as if you could take it back, embarrassed for reasons you couldn’t fully explain. But Bucky didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything, not at first.

He turned his body slightly toward you, his hand slipping down from the booth to rest gently on the back of your neck—thumb brushing just beneath your hairline in a way that was so instinctive, so him.

“You’ve never?” he asked, voice low, cautious but not judgmental. Just surprised. Curious. “Is that something you meant to tell me tonight?”

You let out a breath, shaky but sure. “I just… I wanted to. I didn’t want you to think I was waiting for the perfect moment or anything. It’s not a big moral thing, or a promise I made. I’ve just never felt ready. Or safe. Not with anyone.”

That was when he moved his hand from your neck to your knee beneath the table, his palm warm through your jeans, grounding. He nodded slowly, like he’d made a silent vow to himself in that moment.

You swallowed, throat a little tight, heart a little loud in your ears. But it wasn’t nerves this time. Not fear. It was something steadier—like the quiet edge of a leap you’d already decided to take.

“I want to,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked back to yours, sharp but careful, like he was making sure he’d heard you right.

You wet your lips, not breaking the gaze. “I want to do it—with you. I trust you. And I’m… I’m ready.”

For a second, he just looked at you. Like he was cataloguing everything about this moment—your expression, your voice, the slight tremble in your fingers as they rested near your drink. You could feel the shift in him, subtle but powerful, like the way the air changes before rain. Like he’d been holding something back and now he didn’t have to anymore.

But even then, he didn’t rush it. He didn’t move closer or tighten his grip. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was holding back something he didn’t quite have words for. Then he gave you the softest smile—one that curved just a little at the corner, crinkled faintly near his eyes, and made your chest ache with something full and warm.

“Okay,” he said simply.

And the way he said it—it wasn’t just about sex. It was about you. About the kind of care that didn’t ask for permission once, but every step of the way.

He brushed his thumb over your knee, slow and tender, and then he leaned in just enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “Thank you for trusting me.”

———

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight through the blinds. You slipped your shoes off by the door, the muffled thump of Bucky’s boots following close behind. Neither of you said anything right away. It didn’t feel like it needed words.

You moved through the space slowly, deliberately, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the calm that had settled between you. Bucky’s hand brushed the small of your back as you passed him, and it lingered for a moment longer than usual—just enough to make your breath catch.

When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you. His eyes were darker in the low light, softer too. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly you were in front of him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as his hands rose—one settling against your waist, the other brushing your jaw.

“I want you to tell me,” he murmured. “Every step of the way. If you change your mind, we stop. If something feels wrong, we stop.”

You nodded, and your voice came out quiet but clear. “I’ll tell you.”

His hand slid up to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing the curve beneath your eye. Then he leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed you. Not hungrily. Not with any urgency. Just… tenderly. Like he meant to memorize it.

The kind of kiss that made everything else fade.

When he pulled back, your foreheads touched. His breath warmed your skin.

“Bedroom?” he asked softly.

You nodded again.

He didn’t rush you. He let you take his hand, let you guide him there. The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp left on by the bedside. You stood together in the stillness for a moment, your hands resting over his heart.

“I’ve thought about this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” he said, and you could hear the emotion tucked behind it. “For a long time.”

You reached for the hem of your shirt, but his hands covered yours gently.

“Let me,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

You let him.

He undressed you slowly, reverently—like each piece of clothing was a layer of something sacred. And when you stood bare in front of him, you didn’t feel nervous. You felt seen.

Bucky’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry, but not in a way that made you feel exposed. In his gaze, you weren’t something to consume. You were something to cherish.

“Christ,” he murmured, voice thick. “Look at you…”

You felt heat bloom across your chest, your neck, down your stomach, but before the self-consciousness could settle in, his hands were on you again—gentle and grounding. He cupped your face first, tilting it up so your eyes met his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a truth carved in stone. “You hear me?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, but deeper this time. His tongue brushed yours just once, just enough to steal your breath before he broke away and trailed his mouth down your neck, nipping lightly at your skin until you gasped.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispered against your throat. “All of you.”

One hand slid down your spine, the other cradling the curve of your waist as he lowered his head. His mouth found the swell of your breast and he kissed it—softly at first, then again, slower, more deliberate. His tongue flicked against your nipple and you let out a soft sound you hadn’t meant to make, and that made him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to your face. “That sound—don’t hold it back. I wanna hear you.”

He took your nipple into his mouth then, sucking gently, one hand squeezing your hip like he was trying to stay grounded. The warmth of his tongue, the slight scrape of his teeth—it sent a sharp pulse of heat down between your thighs, and you shifted instinctively, pressing closer.

You felt his breath hitch against your skin. Felt the way his body reacted to yours—the tension in his grip, the hardness growing against the front of his boxers. He wanted you, badly, but he still held himself back, still moved slowly.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you again, lips wet and swollen.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He smiled at that. “Good.”

Then his hand slid down, gliding over the curve of your hip, across your thigh, and back up again—like he was mapping you, learning the lines of your body by touch alone. He leaned in and kissed your stomach, just below your navel, then a little lower, lips brushing hot against sensitive skin.

“You tell me when you want to stop, okay?” He murmured, breath warm against you. „I want to make you feel so good, baby.”

You felt his breath ghost lower, his lips barely brushing the inside of your thigh—and still, your heart was racing. Not from what he was doing. From what he wasn’t doing yet.

“Bucky…” you said, barely louder than a breath.

He lifted his head immediately, eyes searching yours. “You okay?”

You hesitated, your hand reaching out to touch his hair, his cheek—just to keep him close.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, trying to explain. “It’s just… I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

His brow furrowed gently, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

You swallowed hard. “I’ve never… I mean—” Your voice caught, but you forced it out. “I’ve never even touched myself before.”

You felt his breath hitch.

He blinked, stunned into stillness for just a second. “Never?”

You shook your head. “I Just—I didn’t know what to do. What I was supposed to feel. I didn’t want to do it just to…do it.”

His expression changed—something between disbelief and awe. His gaze swept over you again, slower now, deeper, like he was seeing you in a new light. Reverent. Almost wrecked by how much he wanted to be the first to show you any of this.

“Baby…” he whispered, and there was a rasp in his voice now, something thick with emotion. He leaned in, kissed you again—first your lips, then down your jaw, your neck, your chest—before murmuring against your skin, “Can I show you?”

Your breath caught and you nodded.

“I need to hear it,” he said softly, fingers brushing your thigh, inching inward. “Tell me I can touch you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Please… I want you to.”

He groaned—quiet but guttural—and kissed your stomach as his hand slid between your thighs, parting them slowly, gently, like he was unwrapping something fragile and sacred. His touch was warm, callused, careful.

He cupped you first, his palm resting over your heat, not moving—just holding you there, letting you adjust to the weight of it. His thumb stroked lightly over your mound, and the touch sent a jolt through you—shocking in its softness.

“You’re already so warm,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So soft…”

Then his fingers moved lower, finding the slick wetness gathering there. He exhaled hard through his nose, groaning low. “Fuck, baby—this all for me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He found your clit with the lightest touch of his thumb, barely circling it, just enough to make your hips twitch. He smiled against your skin when you gasped, kissed your thigh again as he worked slow, teasing little motions.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice rough, eyes never leaving your face.

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, overwhelmed by the sensation.

“Good. I wanna make you feel even better.”

He slid one finger lower, gathering your slick before gently slipping it inside—just a little, just enough to make you moan softly. Then he pulled out, circled your clit again, watching your reactions like they were the most important thing in the world.

Your hips moved without thinking, chasing his touch as your body began to burn in places you hadn’t even known they could. His finger slipped in again, a little deeper this time, and he added another—a slow, careful stretch as his thumb resumed its tender circles on your clit.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice wrecked with how much he wanted this for you. “So fucking good.”

Bucky worked his fingers in slow, careful strokes—just two of them, deep and curling gently, finding that spot inside you that made your breath stutter. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, just the lightest pressure, building something you hadn’t ever felt before.

You gasped, hips twitching as your thighs began to shake, but he kept you grounded—his body half draped over yours, his mouth near your ear, his hand steady between your legs like an anchor.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You feel that? How close you are?”

You whimpered, nodding—eyes fluttering shut as pleasure pulsed tighter and tighter in your core. It was overwhelming and new and dizzying, like your whole body was being rewired under his touch.

“Don’t be scared of it,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go. Let me have it.”

Your hand gripped the sheets. The muscles in your thighs were trembling now, your breath hitching as his fingers moved faster—not rough, just sure. Perfect.

“You’re right there,” he coaxed, voice thick and low and soothing even as you writhed beneath him. “Come for me. I’ve got you. I won’t stop. Just feel it—don’t fight it.”

You didn’t even know what your body was doing anymore. Everything tightened at once, your belly curling in, your back arching, and then the heat snapped—a blinding wave crashing through you that left your mouth falling open in a broken cry.

Bucky didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, but didn’t pull away—his thumb still tracing slow, lazy circles as your orgasm rolled through you like a tide. His other hand cradled your cheek, grounding you through the aftershocks.

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “That’s it, baby… fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.”

You were shaking—your thighs still twitching, chest heaving—but you’d never felt more cared for, more safe in your own skin. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at you like you’d just shown him something holy—it all made the moment feel bigger than just release.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“You did so well, baby,” he whispered, voice warm and a little breathless. “Did you like it?”

You nodded quickly, your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Yeah… I—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, proud and reverent. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and finally hovered just a breath from your mouth.

“You want more?” he murmured. “You want me now?”

Your breath hitched again—less from nerves this time and more from the deep, aching yes in your body. It pulsed through you, full of need and trust and that dizzying high he’d just given you.

You met his eyes, and your voice was quiet—but steady.

“I want you.”

He searched your face, checking one last time—his thumb brushing your cheek, his eyes soft but darkened with want. “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And something in him melted. Or maybe snapped. His mouth was on yours in the next second, kissing you deep, like he needed to taste those words again. His body pressed flush against you, his skin so warm, his chest solid as your fingers slid over the ridges of muscle down his back.

You felt the hard line of him through his boxers—hot and thick and undeniable. It made you tremble all over again, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was need. You wanted him, all of him, and you didn’t want to wait anymore.

Bucky pulled back just enough to whisper, “Lay back for me, sweetheart,” as he slid off the bed, only long enough to tug his boxers down and kick them aside.

You saw all of him then—broad shoulders, scarred skin, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. He was so beautiful and most of all—yours.

And he looked at you like you were everything.

He climbed back onto the bed slowly, settling between your legs with his hand sliding up your thigh, his lips brushing your jaw as he whispered, “We’ll go slow. You tell me if you need anything. If it’s too much, if you change your mind… anything. Okay?”

You nodded again, heart in your throat.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Every second.”

You reached for him, pulling him into a kiss as he lined himself up. You felt the head of his cock brush against your entrance—hot, firm, and so much—and you gasped, hips twitching involuntarily.

“Easy,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He slid in slowly. Inch by inch. His jaw clenched, his brows furrowed, but his eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time. You felt the stretch—unfamiliar and thick and deep—but never painful, not with the way he held you, the way he kept whispering against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good—taking me so perfect…”

He bottomed out with a soft groan, burying his face in your neck as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close.

“Just breathe,” he whispered. “We’ll stay right here. Let your body get used to it.”

And he didn’t move—not at first. He just held you, kissed your collarbone, brushed your hair back from your face. Let you feel the fullness of him inside you, the stretch slowly easing into something warm, something grounding.

Then, when your body began to relax around him—when your hips lifted slightly, seeking more—he pulled back just an inch and rolled his hips in slow, shallow thrusts.

You gasped. His name tumbled from your lips without thinking.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You feel that? That’s us, baby.”

Each stroke was tender, deep, steady. He kissed you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your cheeks—like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop feeling you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrapped around his waist. Every sound you made—every breathless moan, every whispered more—drove him closer to the edge, but he never lost control. He stayed right there with you.

“This is what you deserve,” he murmured, fucking you just a little deeper. “Every time. Every single time, I’m gonna love you like this.”

You arched beneath him, overwhelmed by the pleasure, the emotion, the connection. It wasn’t just sex. It was him. It was you. And it was everything you didn’t know you needed—wrapped up in sweat and whispered promises, and the soft sounds of your name on his lips.

Bucky was still moving slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was afraid to break you, even as his hips rolled deeper, pressing into that spot inside you that made your legs tremble and your breath catch every time.

“Bucky—” you gasped, voice already wrecked.

He lifted his head, looked down at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His hand slid between your bodies again, and his thumb found your clit—slick and swollen and so sensitive—rubbing soft circles in time with his thrusts.

Your back arched off the bed as a cry slipped from your lips.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders. “It’s too much—I don’t know If I can—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice dropped, husky and warm and so gentle. “Let go for me. Just let it happen, I’ve got you.”

His thumb kept working, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every slow grind of his hips, and it built fast this time—tighter, hotter, your body clenching down around him as your climax rose like a wave you couldn’t outrun.

Your thighs squeezed around his waist. Your mouth fell open, but the sound came out broken, breathless, as the orgasm took over—ripping through you like heat and light, making you shake under him, every nerve set on fire.

Bucky groaned, loud, when he felt you come around him. “Fuck, that’s it—feel so good, sweetheart—so tight—so perfect—”

He kept thrusting through it, chasing the edge now, his control unraveling with every ragged breath. You were still fluttering around him, your body trembling, and he buried his face in your neck with a growl as his hips jerked one last time.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You felt him stiffen, heard the deep, broken moan that tore from his throat as he spilled inside you—hot and deep, his cock twitching with every pulse. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when it passed—when the air settled again and the world stopped spinning—he stayed right there. Buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard in the quiet.

He kissed your jaw. Your shoulder. The corner of your mouth. Then whispered, breathless and wrecked, “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed, your fingers brushing back through his hair.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m really okay.”

He smiled against your skin. “You were incredible.”

“So were you.”

He pulled the blankets up around you both, still inside you, still holding you like you were something fragile and precious. His lips pressed one last kiss to your temple.

You weren’t sure when the room got quiet again. When the haze of your orgasm faded and your body finally relaxed into the bed. Bucky stayed close the entire time—still half over you, one arm around your waist, the other brushing tenderly through your hair.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple. His breathing was still uneven, but he was coming down too. Letting the moment settle. Letting you settle.

“You okay?” he asked softly, lips barely moving against your skin.

You nodded, but your voice came out faint. “Yeah. Just… processing, I think.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his hand still cupping the side of your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No. Not too much. It was good. Really good. Just… a lot.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh at that, something between relief and affection. “Yeah. It was.”

You watched him for a second, then whispered, “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to trust me like that. But I’m really… really fucking honored you did.”

That made your chest ache. You reached out, fingertips brushing his jaw, still not used to the feeling of touching him like this.

“I didn’t know it could feel this…good,” you said.

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours, voice low. “You deserve to feel good. Always.”

You laid there for a while, breathing him in. Letting your body calm, your mind go quiet. He didn’t rush to clean up or move away. Just held you, skin against skin, his fingers tracing idle, soothing shapes along your arm and hip.

Eventually, he murmured, “Are you sore at all?”

“A little,” you admitted.

He nodded, pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Want me to grab a towel? Or water?”

You smiled, tired but soft. “Both?”

“Coming right up, sweetheart.”

He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. You watched him pad into the bathroom, moving quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet between you.

When he came back, he wiped you down gently with warm water, murmuring little apologies when you flinched, then handed you a glass of water.

You drank it slowly, still tucked into the covers. When he slid back into bed beside you, you turned into him without thinking.

His arm came around you easily. You laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Safe. Warm.

“Are you okay?” you asked, quieter now.

He looked down at you, brows lifting slightly. “Me?”

You nodded.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m more than okay. I just don’t know if I deserve any of this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just let your fingers trail over his skin, the scar near his ribs, the faint shiver that went through him when you touched it.

“You do,” you whispered. “I wouldn’t have let you this close if you didn’t.”

He looked at you for a long time then—eyes soft, unreadable. And then he pulled you in closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

„I love you,” Bucky whispered back. „More than anything in this stupid world.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

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