mandoloriancookie

[mandoloriancookie]

My mental health has rapidly declined in the past 24 hours. I did get myself some dunkin' and am going to take an hour long bath. I can't fucking do this.

I did start the laundry and clean the kitchen.

[mandoloriancookie]

Feel free to delete this so so fast if it's not something you'd envision or simply dont like!! Would totally get that.

So...mafia!Stucky where one of Steve's enemies touches her wrong or tries to kiss/touch her at an unguarded moment and she really struggles with intimacy and closeness after it because she was so scared something else was going to happen. So Steve and Bucky just help her heal slowly until she can accept their touch again.

⁀➷ Taking Myself Back // Mafia!Stucky x F!Reader

Summary: You’re the heart of a dangerous mafia empire, but when someone violates that safety in a sinister way, the men who would burn the world for you must learn to hold you gently while you heal.

Requested by: Thank you for your request! I've tried to be sensitive with this request, so please read with caution, as lots of discussion regarding non-consensual kisses, the guilt and trauma that comes with this, etc.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, poly relationship, angst, non-consensual kiss, off-screen murder, discussion of trauma, slowburn recovery, therapy, panic, emotional healing, comfort, domestic bliss, emotional sex, size kink, slight pain kink, reader in control, aftercare

Words: 5.5k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The party sparkled like sin dressed in silver. It was hosted in one of Manhattan’s oldest, most prestigious hotels, where the walls were white marble, and the ceilings stretched so high they couldn’t have brushed the heavens. 

The chandeliers dripped crystal like champagne bubbles. The music was live, seductive and loud. Power hummed beneath every clink of glass, every sharp laugh, every hushed deal made between men in designer suits and women with diamonds heavier than their morals.

And in the centre of it all, you were one of the most protected partners, simply because you were theirs.

You could feel it in the way eyes turned when you passed. Not just because you were beautiful, though Steve always said you were. Not just because your dress shimmered like poured mercy – Bucky’s pick. No, it was because you were theirs. Claimed in every way.

Everyone here knows to whom you belonged. Not to approach a risk to their lives.

Steve Rogers, the name that’s been whispered around the room since you all arrived at the party. Leader of the most powerful Mafia groups on the East Coast.

Sharp jaw, sharper mind. In a black on black suit tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders commanded every room he entered. Golden hair slightly longer than usual, just about curling at the nape of his neck, blue eyes calm, for now.

Then, there was the man at his side. James Barnes, Bucky. Second in command and Steve’s shadow, enforcer and best friend since childhood and lover in their adulthood. Where Steve was calculated, having a powerful aura, Bucky to his enemies was chaos in a leather jacket. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Hair shaved to a buzzcut, stubble rough and eyes like winter, cold and brutal unless they were looking at you. Then they softened along with his entire personality.

To the world, they were terrifying. To you, they were just Steve and Bucky.

The men who made you tea just right. The men who let you curl up in bed between them with a book, crying about the latest plot twist. They were gentlemanly and always had you as their priority, even more than the job.

They had blood on their hands, so much of it, but never, ever yours.

So when you excused yourself for a drink that night, you weren’t afraid. You told Sam, your bodyguard and best friend, and he gave you a quick nod, eyes constantly scanning. He already had the guest list and names of every security guard in the building; it was supposed to be a safe event. 

But a crash came from behind the curtains near the far hallway. Sam swore under his breath, a hand on your shoulder giving a reassuring squeeze before darting off to see what was going on. Just for a second. Just enough. 

You never saw the man coming. One moment, you were reaching for a champagne flute. Next, a voice slid over your skin like oil.

“So this is the girl who made Rogers go soft.”

You turned abruptly, instincts flickering. Tall, Armani, Snake’s smile. You recognised him faintly, something about a gun shipment Steve had shut down last month. A name Steve refused today, always followed by ‘he’s nothing but a pest’.

You stepped back, trying to look out of the corner of your eye for Sam, Steve or Bucky. “I’m not interested.”

He followed your movement, now crowding you back against the wall. “I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. He lets you walk around unchained? Must not care that much.”

His hand snatched your waist. You gasped, trying to jerk back, but he was already leaning in.

“Don’t–”

“Relax, babe. You might just enjoy it.”

He kissed you. Slamming his chapped lips to yours, brutal and in a way to own. You tasted and smelled alcohol, cigarettes, and his cologne, stinging your nose. Then–teeth. Pain bloomed as he bit your bottom lip hard enough to split skin. 

You shoved at him, hands trembling, but he only smiled, licking his lips as he backed off.

“Bet they don’t kiss you like that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until his footsteps disappeared and you were left standing, stunning, body trembling from head to toe. You’d always thought, if ever in a situation like that, you’d be able to fight someone off, punch them, kick them, but it was over in seconds, before your brain was even able to comprehend what was happening; he was already biting your lip. It was only the pain that had brought you back to the disgusting moment. 

And now, you didn’t know what to do.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice pulled you back.

He was walking toward you, leather gloves on, suit unbuttoned, tie loose from him, pulling at the discomfort of it. His smile faltered when he saw your face.

“Hey, baby girl.” Steve was beside him, standing just as tall, a steady behemoth of a man. “I’ve been looking for you. You okay?”

You blinked at them, hands by yourself, neither of them noticing the broken champagne glass behind you that you’d dropped during the altercation.

“I.. I was kissed.”

You meant to shout it. Yo, you barely whispered. The music swelled, some jazzy, smoky song, and they didn’t catch it. Bucky tilted his head. Steve stepped closer, his hand just starting to lift to your cheek, when he froze.

His eyes caught it—the blood.

“Your lip,” Bucky growled, his entire posture changing.

Steve’s whole body locked. He set the glasses down on a passing tray without breaking eye contact. “Who did that?”

Not a question. A death sentence.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out—just a shallow breath. Steve’s hand slipped into yours, his thumb stroking gently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Bucky lowered his tone, already flanking your other side. “Let’s get you home and safe.”

They moved like shadows, swift and terrifying. No one stopped them, no one would. You barely registered their arms wrapped around your back as they pushed through the crowd. White noise was ringing in your ears so that you couldn’t hear them shout for Sam.

The car was already waiting. You barely registered the click of the locks before you were inside. Steve knelt in front of you in the cramped space. Bucky took the seat beside you, tense but tender. You were still frozen.

“What happened?” Steve’s voice held a gentleness that drew you in, making you feel safe. He never sounded like this for anyone but you and Bucky.

You looked down at your lap, vision blurring. “He cornered me. Said… said you didn’t care because I wasn’t leashed. Said he wanted to know what all the fuss was about to make you so soft.”

Bucky swore under his breath, his grip on the door causing the metal to grind as he bent it in his fury.

“He bit me,” you whispered, feeling nauseous all of a sudden. “When I didn’t kiss him back.”

Steve’s hands closed around yours, calloused, big and warm. “You’re safe now. I promise you, baby.”

“I didn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. I didn’t even react until he pushed me. What is wrong with me?”

“Oh, baby…”

Bucky leaned in now, cupping your face between his gloved hands. “You did nothing wrong at all. You were in shock.”

“I didn’t stop him–”

“You got away. That’s all that matters now,” Steve said firmly. “Sam is going to take you home, okay? He’ll stay with you and Dodger. We’re going to take care of it. Unless you want us to stay with you?”

You shake your head, finding comfort in just being with Sam and needing to get as far away from this place as possible. A part of you also wanted them to take care of him, knowing what it meant, and for once, you didn’t want to stop them.

You sat up front with Sam, the heater on full, Bucky’s blazer over your lap. You ignored the drive home, only noticing when you got home.

The gates to the house opened, a soft glide of steel and security, letting the car through before they shut again with a cold, final thud. No one got in unless Steve Rogers authorised it.

Sam, sleeves rolled up, gun visible at his hip, still scanned the driveway as he approached the door, rolling the car to a stop. He jumps out of the car first, noticing you aren’t making any attempt to leave, so he dashes to the front door, opening it to let your fur baby out, Dodger. 

Your Rottweiler child ran to your side of the car, pawing against the door and whining to get to you. The moment the car door opened, Sam moved.

You didn’t remember getting out. You barely felt your heels touch gravel before your knees buckled slightly, and then there were strong arms around you. “Whoa there, Boss Lady,” Sam encourages gently, with a hint of worry. “I got you.”

He picked you up as if it were nothing, his strong arms supporting your body as he carried you into the house—your safe space. With guards lined up properly, even in the shadows, the camera tracked every angle, and steel shutters could lock down the windows at the tap of a button. 

But inside, it was filled with soft, warm lighting, polished wood, pillows, and throws on every surface. Family pictures cover the walls and countertops, and the faint scent of vanilla and pine fills the air from the numerous candles.

Sam nudged the door open with his foot and carried you straight to the oversized couch in the lounge. Dodger padded alongside, whimpering softly, knowing something was wrong. He rested his big head on your knee the moment Sam laid you down.

“There we go,” Sam said, crouching to slip off your heads. “These heels look like medieval torture. You need a new stylist. Don’t tell Bucky I said that.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared ahead. He took the pins and clips out of your hair next, his hands slow and unthreatening. One by one, they clinked into a bowl on the table. 

“Let’s get this fancy armour off, huh?” Sam asked in a vice-feather-light voice. “Can’t fight a war in sequins. Would you like me to grab your robe? Or hell, I’ll just cut this thing off. I’ve seen you wear Steve’s shirts before. Man’s got a closet the size of a panic room.”

Still no reply. Sam paused. His smile flickered, but he didn’t push.

He draped a soft throw blanket around your shoulders, smoothed it into place, and finally sat beside you, one hand rubbing Dodger’s ears, the other loosely resting on the back of the couch near you, just in case you needed to hold it.

“You’re safe now, y’know,” he tried to point out gently. “You got two pissed-off monsters with hearts of gold out there painting the city red for you. And me. Your favourite. Your handsome, emotionally available bodyguard. I mean, really, you got a dream team.”

You blinked, barely moving or acknowledging him.

Sam sighed, softer now. “You don’t have to talk yet. I'm not going anywhere.”

The silence that followed was deep. Too deep. It stretched between the flickering firelight and the long windows that overlooked the garden beyond, where shadows moved with the wind.

You didn’t cry or shake. You just sat there, blank and silent, your hands in your lap like you didn’t know how to move them anymore. 

It wasn’t long before the front door opened again. You didn’t hear it. But Dodger did. He lifted his head and let out a soft boof–not a bark—a greeting.

Sam looked up as the footsteps approached, heavy and slow. Steve appeared first, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up. His knuckles were scraped raw, blood drying at the cuticle. His face was unreadable. Controlled. But his eyes were burning blue.

Bucky followed close behind, sweat evident on his temple, the vein in his neck thick and pulsing.

“Hey, baby,” Steve said softly, crouching in front of you. Bucky knelt beside you, metal hand twitching once before curling into a loose fist. You blinked at them both.

They were so beautiful, and here they were covered in someone else’s blood. “Are you–” Bucky started.

But the moment Steve reached out to brush his fingers against your arm, you flinched. Not hard or with a scream, just a tiny jerk of your body. The movement had Steve freezing on the spot and Bucky’s mouth closing as his jaw tightened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, pulling his hand back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You looked at them both, wide-eyed and hurting, mouth slightly open like you wanted to speak but didn’t know how. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, and god, your voice broke around it. 

Sam stood quickly, as if he was struggling with his own emotions in the situation, but trying not to make it about himself. “I’ll give you guys some space.”

“No,” you say, panic rising for the first time. “Stay.”

That stopped them all. Sam nodded slowly, sitting right back down again. “Right here, Bossy Lady. Got nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Steve and Bucky stayed where they were, kneeling, hands still, hearts breaking.

Dodger nudged his head under your hand. You stroked him without thinking, fingers clutching his fur. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve said fiercely, and then softer, “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to heal.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Bucky confirmed firmly. “You don’t have to touch us until you want to. Just let us stay close. Let us keep you safe.” 

You looked at them both at the softness beneath all that blood. And you nodded, just once. That was enough.

~~~~~

It didn’t go away. The blood washed off. The lip healed. The bruised echo of his grip on your waist faded. But the way it felt, it stayed.

It crept in every time you looked in the mirror. When you felt their eyes on you. When you would suddenly remember his hand on your body, your body tensed like it was waiting for something, whether it be pain or shame. 

Every time Steve reached out to pass a glass. Every time, Bucky moved too suddenly from behind. Every time a hand brushed too close to your skin, you flinched, froze, or fled. You hated it. You hated the silence that lay between you, the warmth you could no longer reach.

And worst of all, you hated that they still looked at you like you were soft and good and theirs, even when you felt like a broken person that they should’ve thrown away.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Steve's voice is quiet, spoken from across the long, sunlit kitchen where he was slicing apples. He hadn’t looked up; he didn’t have to. He always knew what you were thinking before you could say it. 

“I let him,” you say, barely audible, staring into space.

The knife stopped. “You didn’t,” Bucky said firmly from the breakfast table, where he was sorting through files. His voice wasn’t cruel, though. “You froze. That’s not consent. That’s survival, Doll.”

“But–”

“Sweetheart,” Steve said, crossing the room now. He leaned down, not touching, just crouched enough to meet your eyes. “If it were me, or Bucky, if someone hurt us, would you think we’d asked for it?” 

Your throat tightened. “No. Of course not.”

“Then don’t do that to yourself,” Bucky assured.

Later that night, you stood at the doorway to your shared bedroom, staring at the bed like it was a trap. “I can’t,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I want to, I do. I just feel wrong. Like if I sleep next to you, I’ll ruin everything.”

Steve stepped forward, calm and warm, and so tall, but never threatening. “You don’t have to explain, baby. If you need space, that’s okay.”

“I want to sleep alone,” you whispered, then added quickly, “but I don’t want to be without you. I just– I don’t want to wake up and not know where you are.”

Steve didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll sleep here, right next to you. We won’t go anywhere,” he said, nodding to the floor beside the bed.

“Guys, you don’t have to–”

Bucky was already grabbing pillows. “Yeah, we do. Trust me, the carpet is a hell of a lot more comfortable than some of the shit holes me and Stevie used to sleep back in the day, isn’t that right?”

Steve nodded along, grabbing a couple of blankets. “Absolutely. Why do you think I picked the thickest carpet available? I want to be able to sleep comfortably anywhere in our house.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Steve was now taking off his jacket, preparing himself for bed. “You’re not alone, baby,” Steve continued. “Not for one fucking second.”

Dodger padded in, tail wagging as he jumped up onto the bed like he knew this was where he was supposed to be. His head rested near your feet, his body a silent comfort. 

You climbed into bed slowly. It felt too big without them beside you, but not empty. You looked over the edge.

Bucky was on his back, one arm behind his head. Steve was curled into his side, hand resting atop Buckys waist, looking in your direction.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, even though you weren’t sure for what anymore.

Steve’s eyes softened as he gave you a reassuring smile. “Stop apologising for healing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You’re doing this your way. We’re just along for the ride and to catch you when you’re ready.”

Your heart twisted. “I think I need help,” you finally admitted. “Like, real help. Not just from you. A therapist, maybe.”

Neither of them moved. Then Steve nodded once. “Okay.”

“That’s good, Doll. We’ll find someone. Whoever you need,” Bucky added.

“We’ll be there every step,” Steve nodded. “Even if we’re just waiting in the car. Even if you never want to be touched again, we’ll still be yours.” 

You bit your lip, tears welling.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank us for loving you,” Bucky said softly. 

That night, you fell asleep with your hand dangling over the side of the bed, not even realising when Bucky’s metal fingers slowly curled around yours. He never squeezed or pulled, just held on. Just stayed. 

Maybe it was the fact that it didn’t feel like flesh that didn’t have you flinching and pulling away. But for the first time in days, you didn’t dream of being alone.

~~~~~

The car ride home was silent. Not awkward or cold. Just quiet. You stared out the tinted window, cheek resting against the cool glass, the therapist’s voice still swimming somewhere in your mind.

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault. You’re allowed to feel angry. And sad. And scared. You can take your power back in small ways. Let’s find what safety looks like for you.” 

You hadn’t cried. Not during the session. But now? You were so tired. Your bones ached in ways they shouldn’t. Your chest felt heavy. And as Sam pulled the car into the long drive, the right of the house, tall and bathed in the soft green of the massive garden, made something in you twist.

This was your home. You were supposed to feel safe here. Sometimes, you even did, but today, it felt too quiet.

Until you opened the door, the scent hit first: vanilla and cinnamon, the candle Steve always lit when you had a bad day. You blinked, confused for a moment. You hadn’t texted them yet. They didn’t know you were back.

Except, of course, they did.

Steve stood at the kitchen island, his sleeves rolled up, his hair a little messy from running his hands through it too much. He wasn’t pretending to be calm, you could tell. His jaw was right. His eyes were on the door the moment it opened.

Bucky was sitting at the breakfast table, tapping a pen against his knee, posture stiff with worry. His leather jacket was draped over your usual chair.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

“His,” you said, voice tentative.

Steve smiles just a little. “Hey, baby girl.”

Bucky moved first, but stopped a few feet away. “How’d it go?”

You dropped your bag. “Hard.”

“That’s okay,” Steve said gently. “It's supposed to be. You're doing the hardest part.”

“I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Then we won't,” Bucky said quickly. “Want tea? Food? =you want us to leave you alone or…?”

You stepped closer, “Just sit with me?”

They didn’t hesitate.

You sat on the couch with Dodger curled beside you, his weight a comfort against your thigh. Bucky sat on the floor, back against the couch, his hand resting on the rug near your feet but not quite touching. Steve brought you tea, your favourite, and then joined Bucky on the floor too.

None of you spoke. The fireplace crackled softly. After a few minutes, you reached out. Not much, just a few inches. But your hand brushed against Steve’s shoulders, and instead of freezing or pulling back, you let it rest there. Bucky saw it. His eyes softened, and he did not say a word.

The next few days came in waves. You started reclaiming control in little ways. You chose your own clothes again, rather than just oversized old shirts, and you began to wear their clothes for comfort.

You asked Bucky to cook your favourite breakfast. You asked Steve to walk with you through the garden. You even took Dodger out to the back grove one afternoon.

Each time, they praised you without smothering. “So proud of you. That was brave. You’re doing so good.”

And you were. You were building a version of yourself again, one that didn’t feel dirty or fragile or broken. You even held Bucky’s hand through a movie. His warm hand, the callused one that trembled when you reached for him, like he didn’t want to believe it was real.

But then, the kiss sent you right back to the start again.

It was small. It was supposed to be. You were sitting on the porch swing with Steve at sunset. The sky was bleeding gold, and he’d just made you laugh, a soft, breathy thing that felt unfamiliar in your mouth.

He turned to look at you, grinning, and you didn’t think. You leaned in—a small kiss on the cheek.

But before your lips touched his skin, something snapped. Your chest locked. Your stomach lurched. You recoiled so fast the swing creaked behind you.

“Shit–” Steve started, but stopped the moment he saw your face.

Bucky was at the door in an instant, coming to you, but not too close. You were breathing hard, hands shaking. You couldn’t stop blinking.

He didn’t even look like the man who hurt you. But your body didn’t care. Your brain had screamed, Don’t touch him, and you’d obeyed.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I thought I could. I wanted to–”

“Hey,” Steve said slowly, crouching low. “Look at me. No apologies. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was trying–”

“And you will,” Bucky said gently. “When you’re ready. Not because you feel like you owe us anything.”

You felt tears prick your eyes.

“I hate this,” you admitted, your bottom lip wobbling. “I feel like I'm taking two steps forward and ten back.”

“You’re not,” Steve said firmly. “You’re surviving. And something that means stumbling.”

“You don't have to be perfect ot be ours. We love you no matter what,” Bucky added.

You looked between them, both crouched at your feet like you were a queen on a throne and not a shattered girl in a t-shirt and slippers, trembling from a failed kiss. You nodded slowly, and they stayed.

~~~~~

They laughed, surprised even you. It slipped out, light and sweet, as Bucky cursed at the flour exploding across his shirt. He stood frozen, hands mid-whisk, apron now streaked in white. Dodger barked once in alarm before sneezing in the cloud of dust.

“Oh my god, Buckaroo,” you wheezed, hands on your knees. “You look like a piss-off Pillsbury ghost.”

Steve leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with the softest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“You laughing at me, Hot Mama?” Bucky teased, shaking out his shirt, using his favourite nickname for you.

“I'm absolutely laughing at you.” It felt good. It felt normal.

~~~~~

Therapy was still hard. Some days left you hollow, some made you cry, others filled you with a strange kind of peace. But the difference now was that you always came home to light. To warmth. To men who didn’t need you to be healed to hold space for you.

You’d startled letting them in again, piece by piece.

That afternoon, you reached for Steve’s hand first while walking through the garden. The way he looked at you, surprised, then relieved, made your chest ache in the best way.

That night, you curled into Bucky’s side on the couch whilst a film flickered softly across the screen. His arm slipped around you with care. You didn’t flinch or freeze. You just melted into his hold. 

He kissed the top of your head for a long second, “You’re doing so good, Doll.”

You still have bad days. But today wasn’t one of them. Today, you made jokes in the kitchen. You wore your favourite socks. You kissed Dodger’s nose and didn’t cry when Steve gently kissed your knuckles afterwards. You were starting to feel like you again, and for the first time in weeks, you believed it would get better.

~~~~~

The lights were all on. Warm with no shadows, no dark corners, no flickering candlelight to hide behind. Just the steady glow of the bedroom lamps, the faint hum of jazz through the speakers, and the quiet sound of your breathing as you stood in front of them.

Steve and Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on their hips. Neither of them moved. Neither spoke. They just looked at you, not hungry, not impatient, but waiting.

You had asked for this.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow touches, long talks, and safe distance. Therapy sessions that left your chest raw and your hands shaking. Nights when you fell asleep wrapped in their arms, fully clothed but safe.

But tonight, you wanted more, you needed to feel them, to see them. To let your body remember that their touch wasn't something to fear. You knew these men better than yourself; you knew there was only trust and love from them.

“Don’t touch me,” you asked quietly. “Not unless I ask.”

Steve nodded instantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky’s voice was steady, “Anything you need.”

You stepped forward, fingers slipping beneath the he of your oversized t-shirt. Slowly, you pulled it over your head, your bare skin heating under their intense gaze, but not shrinking.

You wanted them to see you. They stayed perfectly still, their eyes wide, their chests rising with restraint. You turned to Bucky first.

“Lie back.”

He obeyed immediately, spine against the pillows, arms loose at his sides. His cock was already half-hard under his sweats, thick and straining, but he didn’t reach for it. He just watched you climb onto the bed and straddle his waist.

Your knees framed his hips. Your hands braced against his chest.

His skin was warm, familiar, real.

“It’s you,” you tried to reassure yourself, ignoring the tremble in your fingers. “It’s just you.”

He sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, Doll. Always me.”

You reached between you and pushed his sweats down just enough. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, and god, it had been a long time. He was huge, the veins bulging, the tip darker than the rest of him, and already leaking.

You took him in your hand. He groaned.

“Don’t move,” you warned again.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, arms twitching with restraint. “I won’t.”

You sank slowly. The stretch was instant. You gasped, thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pished into you. Your body fought the intrusion, the slick heat of him forcing your walls wide.

“Fuck–” you whimpered, halfway down, frozen.

Your breath stuttered. Your pussy fluttered, struggling to adjust.

“You okay?” Bucky rasped, voice tight.

You nodded, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it hurt good. The pressure, the burn, the delicious fullness that bordered on overwhelming, it grounded you.

You looked down at him. His face was wrecked. His fingers fisted in the sheets like he was in pain from holding back.

“You’re so big,” you gasped. “I forgot how much you stretch me out.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re perfect. You take me so well, baby. Always did.”

You breathed in deep, the scent of him, clean sweat and soap and safety, and slowly lowered yourself the rest of the way.

“Fuck,” you cried as your thighs met his hips, fully seated. “Oh my god.”

You stayed there, unmoving, cock pulsing deep inside, until the pain eased into need. And then, you started to move.

Slowly. Grinding more than bouncing. Just enough to feel the drag of him along your walls, the fullness that made your head spin.

Steve watched silently from the edge of the bed, eyes dark, jaw tight, his cock hard under the soft grey of his pants. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

This was your moment.

“Don’t stop,” Bucky panted. “You feel– fuck, you feel so good.”

You rocked harder. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every motion, sparks dancing up your spine. Your thighs trembled. Pleasure coiled in your belt, high and hot and close–

“Bucky–”, you mewled. “Please. I need your hands.”

His restraints snapped. Bucky sat up fast, arms wrapping around your waist, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between you to press firm, perfect circles against your clit.

“Cum for me, Doll,” he growled into your neck. “Let go.”

And you did. You shattered in his arms, body locking tight, pussy pulsing around his cock as you sobbed out his name, not in pain but in relief. 

He held you, thought it, rocking you gently, kissing your shoulder as he found his own release. “You’re okay. You did so well.”

You rested for a while. Tangled in his arms, heat slowing, hands twitching.

You kissed his cheek, soft and slow. And then, when your breath had returned, you looked to Steve.

“Your turn.”

Steve sat up slowly, eyes soft but blazing. His cock was bulging, hard and straining visibly under his sweats. You crawled over to him, chest flushed and thigh sticky with your orgasm and Bucky’s.

He let you climb into his lap. Let you kiss him deep and slow.

“I want you inside me,” you said softly. “But I need time. Our boyfriend has made me sensitive.”

Steve chuckled, voice strained. “We can take all the time you want, baby.”

Easing him from the confines of his sweatpants, you finally were able to lower yourself onto him.

The stretch was just as intense; your breath caught, your body resisted, and your legs trembled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, his hand twitching where it rested beside you.

“DOn’t move,” you panted. “Not yet.”

He was patient. Letting you take him inch by inch, Bucky’s cum helps to lube your cunt to take him more.

“You’re so fucking big, Steve.”

Steve groaned deep in his chest. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So fuckign tight around me. Taking me so well.”

When you were finally fully seated, he let out a strangled breath. “Fuck–look at you. So fucking brave, taking my cock all the way.”

Yu rode him slowly, lifting and lowering your hips with shaky precision, feeling everything—the drag, the fullness, the pressure building again.

And when you couldn't take it anymore–

“Please,” you begged. “Touch me. I need you.”

His hands snapped to your hips, guiding you down harder, his thumb pressed to your clit, sending you spiralling.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Give it to me.”

You came again, falling forward into his chest, shaking, crying out against his skin. Steve held you close.

“You’re safe. You’re ours and you're safe.”

It took several long minutes to catch your breath. Then they both cleaned you up gently. Bucky fetched water, and Steve wrapped you in one of his shirts. They didn't say much; they just touched you, held you, and breathed with you. 

Dodger returned to the room and curled around your feet at the bottom of the bed. 

You lie between them under soft blankets, your head on Steve’s chest, and Buck's arm wrapped around your waist. 

“I want to sleep here tonight. With you both, in our bed.”

Steve kissed your forehead. “You're home, baby. We aren't going anymore.”

Bucky kissed your shoulder, “We love you,” and for the first time since it happened, you believed them. 

[mandoloriancookie]

They stand there, don't they? With their perfect lives and their easy answers,

looking at you with that blank, uncomprehending stare, that infuriating, infuriating question in their eyes:

"Why. Are. You. Still. There?"

Like it's a choice you made on a Tuesday afternoon.

Like you woke up and thought, "Yeah, I fancy a bit of this."

"Why don't you just leave?" they chirp,

their voices like nails on a chalkboard to your shredded nerves.

"Why don't you just report it?" as if reporting it is a magic wand that makes everything disappear.

They see the bruises...maybe.

They hear the whispers.

But they don't see the heart-wrenching abuse that's a constant current

running through every single goddamn moment of your existence.

Mental.

Physical.

It's all the same to you now, just different flavors of acid.

And they call it loyalty.

Can you believe

the audacity?

This twisted, grotesque parody of devotion, born not of love, but of gut-churning desperation and the soul-deep rot of absolute exhaustion.

It's a dance, they say.

A bizarre, macabre ballet.

But you're not dancing.

You're just trying to survive in a cage where the only person who appears to save you is also the one meticulously, ruthlessly, actively, violently, destroying you.

Every single damn day.

Then come the vultures with their "advice."

Oh, the advice.

Dressed up in fake concern, but you see the judgment, raw and unmasked, in their eyes.

"It's so easy," they drone, their words a mockery of every shattered dream, every whispered prayer.

Easy? Easy?!

Have they felt the dread of an angry approaching step?

The terror of a raised voice?

The sickening lurch in your stomach when you know you've uttered the wrong words?

No. They haven't.

And unless you've been drowning in this particular hell, unless your skin has crawled with this specific kind of terror, you don't understand any of it.

NOT the burning, scalding embarrassment that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and vanish.

NOT the pervasive, relentless, grinding hurt that lives in every cell, every breath.

NOT the suffocating, crushing loneliness that wraps around you even in a crowded room, a loneliness born

of secrets too ugly to share, too painful to bear alone.

NOT the constant, lingering fear

that tightens your chest until you can barely breathe, the fear of the next blow, the next word, the next accusation.

NOT the insidious, venomous guilt

that spatters in your ear that speaks of how you deserve this, that it's your fault.

NOT the paralyzing regret

for every choice you didn't make, every chance you missed because you were too broken, too afraid.

And certainly, God help them,

NOT the screaming, relentless, physical pain that is as real as the air you breathe, as constant as your pulse.

Why would you understand?

Why should you?

How could you understand the sheer, soul-crushing weight of it all?

You haven't woken up every single morning with a knot in your stomach,

wondering if today is the day the mask slips completely, the day your fragile existence shatters into a million violent pieces.

You haven't learned to read the subtle shifts in their eyes, the way their voice tightens, the micro-expressions, the sighs, the clenched fists, that signal

the coming storm, the impending doom.

You haven't had your self-worth systematically dismantled, brick by agonizing brick, until you believe the monstrous lies they feed you.

You haven't been forced to smile, to nod, to pretend, while inside you are screaming, bleeding, dying a thousand tiny deaths.

A million flinches.

Ten million tears.

Don't ever presume to know the depths of this abyss I'm forced to navigate.

You haven't walked this path with the monster I know.

[mandoloriancookie]

During dinner, that I made. He started to pick a fight with me because apparently the trash got full to fast.

I'm hiding out now.

[mandoloriancookie]

I still don't want to go on vacation with him.

Yesterday I was bringing down clothes to declutter. He thought I was actually showing I wanted to go.

[mandoloriancookie]

I think my husband realizes I'm actively avoiding him for the past 3 months.

Not engaging. At least I got a job.

[mandoloriancookie]

I know I'm a good cook. But definitely feeling the burnt out. I almost always get put down.

I'm like week and 3 days out. The lip and bruises healed. But my ankle is still so painful and tight.

[mandoloriancookie]

I like how the lack of spacing here implies that the helpline is there for those addicted to eating raw flour, dough, or batter, like a gambling helpline or something

[mandoloriancookie]

My friend house burnt down.

[mandoloriancookie]

It's not your job to manage other people's feelings. You do not have to anticipate other people's responses to you or their general mood in order to establish any sort of feeling of safety for yourself.

[mandoloriancookie]

I dont want people to tell me, they love me after they hit me.

I can't do this anymore.

[mandoloriancookie]

flesh arm? no thank you, give me the metal one

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Fluff - Angst - Reader hurt - Lies  Word count: 1888 Summary: Bucky spent years feeling guilty for what he was and what he did. Y/N, his girlfriend was the only thing that reminded him how good life can be. Having a metal arm was difficult and when he accidentally hit her, his world collapsed. Y/N found a easy way to make him change his mind

The common room echoed with laughter. You were curled up at one end of the couch, half-covered by a thrown blanket, giggling at something Sam had said while Bucky sat beside you, a rare grin stretched across his usually guarded face. His vibranium arm was slung lazily across the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.

Now alone, you were teasing him—something about his outdated music taste—when he chuckled, leaning back and waving that metal arm in mock offense. And then it happened. A sharp but light tap on your upper arm. You didn’t even register it at first. It wasn’t painful. Just surprising, like bumping into a doorknob you hadn’t noticed. Your laughter barely faltered. But he did. Bucky went still. Utterly, terrifyingly still. His smile faded instantly. His eyes locked onto your arm, wide and full of alarm. He pulled back like he’d touched fire.

“Bucky?” you asked, tone gentle, brows furrowing when you saw his expression.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t see where you were-God, I didn’t mean-did I hurt you?”

You blinked, confused at first. “What? No-wait, is that what you’re-?”

But he was already retreating, both physically and emotionally. That wall he worked so hard to keep down around you started building itself back up brick by brick. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face and muttered, more to himself than to you, “Damn it. I wasn’t paying attention.” You reached for him.

“Bucky. Hey. Look at me.” He didn’t. So you scooted closer, placing your hand carefully over the one he kept clenched in his lap. “It didn’t hurt. I swear. It was barely anything.”

He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have—Y/N, I hit you. Even if it was by accident. Even if it didn’t hurt.” His voice cracked on the last word. You could feel his guilt radiating off him in waves. It made your heart ache. “Bucky,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. You startled me. That’s all. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t scary. You’d never hurt me.” He finally looked at you then, and God, the look in his eyes broke something in you—because he wasn’t looking at you, not really. He was seeing a past he couldn’t escape, one you knew he carried like chains around his wrists. So you brought his metal hand to your lap, cradling it gently. A soft breath of laughter escaped him, almost involuntarily.

You smiled. “Come on, Barnes. You really think I’d let you off the hook if you’d actually hurt me? You think you’d still be sitting upright?” That made him huff, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “There he is,” you said, leaning into him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to have fun, Bucky. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to be human.” He swallowed hard, then whispered, “I’m always scared I’ll slip. That I’ll forget how strong this thing is.” You squeezed his hand. “Then we figure it out together. Okay?” He didn’t answer with words but when his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, you knew he believed you.

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The incident in the common room was small. Barely a blip in the timeline of your lives at the Tower. But something shifted after that. Not between you two at least, not in a bad way. If anything, you were closer. But Bucky noticed how you started asking him for things. Little things. Specific things. It was always something simple. Something harmless. And always something that meant he had to use his metal arm.

It started with the jar. “Hey, could you open this for me?” you asked one lazy afternoon, handing him the stubborn pesto jar from the fridge. He took it without a word and popped it open with a smooth twist of his metal hand. “Wow,” you said, eyes wide with mock awe. “My hero.” He snorted, handing it back. “You loosened it.” You shrugged, grinning. “Still counts.”

Next came the bookshelf. You stood in your room, frowning at the towering wooden shelves like they’d insulted your ancestors. “Hey, Buck?” you called, and he was there in a second. “Can you help me move this? It’s too heavy.” He gripped the side of the shelf with his metal arm and lifted it like it weighed nothing. “Where do you want it?” he said, holding in the air the bookshelf. You blinked. “Seriously? You didn’t even grunt.” He smirked. “That was me being polite.”

Then there was the couch incident. You apparently choose the heaviest couch in the shop, but when you first bought it that wasn’t a problem. So now you were going to use it for your purposes; movie night in your room while all the avengers were out. You were stretched out across half the couch with your legs draped over his lap, blanket tucked under your chin. The remote slipped behind the cushions with a dull noise. “Ugh. It fell under the couch,” you mumbled. “Mind grabbing it?” Without missing a beat Bucky slid your legs off his lap, stood up and reached the floor with his arm founding the remote, then casually lifted the entire couch just enough to retrieve it. You gawked. “Did you just… lift the couch?” He handed you the remote like nothing happened. “You wanted it, didn’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “I could have reached for it myself, you know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” You didn’t answer. He raised an eyebrow. And then it clicked.

That night, while you brushed your teeth, Bucky leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror. “You’ve been doing it on purpose,” he said. You spat out your toothpaste. “Doing what?”

“The metal arm thing.” You shrugged innocently. “Have I?” He stepped closer, his voice softer now. “You’re trying to make me use it more.” You glanced up at him. “Trying to help you stop flinching when you look at it.” There was a pause, just the faint buzz of the bathroom light between you. Then he slipped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you gently toward him, the cold plates warming slowly against your skin. “Did it work?” you whispered. His voice was low, steady, full of something quiet and sacred. “Yeah. It worked.”

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You continued the following days, lifting your suitcase or handing him your favorite mug, trusting him not to crush it when your hands were full. One night, during movie night, you shifted the bowl of popcorn into his left hand without even looking up from the screen. Every time, you smiled like it was nothing. Every time, his chest tightened a little.

You were tucked into his side on the couch, his vibranium arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders like it belonged there (because it did). His flesh hand rested lightly on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth as the movie flickered on in the background. He’d been quiet tonight, but not the tense kind of quiet you used to worry about. Just… settled. At peace. That peace, of course, was exactly why you decided to stir the pot. You turned to him, completely straight-faced. “You know, your real arm is starting to give me the ick.” His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?” You gave an exaggerated shiver. “Yeah. I dunno. It’s just so… skin-like.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You mean human?” “Exactly!” you gasped, as if it was the most horrifying concept in the world. “It doesn’t even glow. No shiny parts. No dramatic sound when you move it. Honestly? It’s a little boring. Kinda scary even.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky groaned, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re impossible.” You leaned into his side, tapping his metal bicep. “This one, though? Top tier. Looks cool, feels cool, opens jars, moves furniture…what doesn’t it do?” you said smirking.

“It doesn’t feel,” he said quietly, without bitterness. Just stating fact. You looked up at him, your teasing fading into something softer. “That’s not true.” He met your gaze, puzzled. “It holds me,” you whispered. “That’s all I need it to feel.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at you like you hung the moon then, “You’re the worst. You know that?” You grinned. “And yet, here you are. Letting the ick arm touch me.”

“Okay, first of all-” He tackled you gently onto the cushions, rolling you beneath him with a laugh. “If anyone’s getting the ick, it’s me. You’re obsessed with this arm.” You giggled, running your fingers down the smooth, dark plating. “Maybe. But can you blame me?”

“No,” he muttered, dipping his head to press a kiss to your neck. “Not one damn bit.”

You were perched at the kitchen island in one of Bucky’s Henleys and a pair of sleep shorts, nursing your second cup of coffee while half-listening to Tony rant about someone leaving the toaster dial set to 7. Nat was calmly buttering toast. Steve was flipping through a newspaper like it was still 1943. Sam was already on his third protein shake.

Bucky entered quietly, looking almost shy, until he spotted you and immediately softened. He padded over and, without a word, slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You leaned into it like it was second nature, pressing your cheek to the cold metal with a content little sigh. None of this was unusual anymore. What was unusual was that Steve had apparently just noticed the pattern.

He tilted his head and frowned a little. “Hey, Buck… I’ve been meaning to ask.” You glanced up lazily from your mug. Steve pointed between the two of you with his spoon. “Why do you always now touch her with your metal arm?” Bucky didn’t miss a beat. With the most deadpan expression, he said, “Oh. She’s afraid of my real arm.” There was a pause. Tony blinked. “I’m sorry-what?” You sipped your coffee. “Yeah. It gave me the ick.” Bucky nodded solemnly. “She said it’s boring.”

“I never said boring…” you added casually.  “Yes you did” he replied. Nat choked on her tea. Sam nearly spit his shake across the counter. Steve looked between the two of you like his brain had blue-screened. “You… you’re kidding. Right?” You finally grinned, nudging Bucky’s stomach with your elbow. “Obviously.” Bucky chuckled, eyes bright. “She’s not afraid of me, punk. Not even a little. She’s the reason I don’t flinch when people look at this thing anymore.” He flexed the vibranium fingers gently, still resting them over your shoulder. Steve softened. “Well… good. I just noticed it and thought…well it’s nice.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Steve, he literally wraps her in an arm made of Stark tech every morning like a human weighted blanket.”

“Jealous?” Bucky asked with a smirk. Tony sniffed. “Please. If anyone touched me before noon, they’d be dead.” You laughed softly, leaning further into Bucky’s embrace. His metal thumb rubbed slow circles into your upper arm. And as the kitchen filled with laughter and snark, Bucky just looked down at you safe, warm, alive in his arms and thought, Yeah. I trust myself now. Because she did first.

[mandoloriancookie]

I stood up for myself on Friday. He went after me.

I'm just so tired.

[mandoloriancookie]

Omg. I need to finish my library book first.

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 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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[mandoloriancookie]

I get to read this after I work out

Think fast I'm a random girl

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis Bucky Barnes gets kissed by his own girlfriend...

Who immediately claims to be a stranger. It was supposed to be a TikTok trend.

Now it's an Avengers-level crisis.

Word Count 3.5k

Themes + Warnings Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss (but make it affectionate) , TikTok trends gone too far , Confusion-based humor , #bucky deserves better , #bucky also kissed a stranger and that’s on him , poor Bucky

— Think fast I'm a random girl WHY ARE YOU KISSING A STRANGER

It was a quiet afternoon. Dangerous, really — the kind of quiet that made Bucky lower his guard. That rare kind of domestic peace where the dishes were done, the laundry was drying, and the only sounds in the apartment were the soft hum of the A/C and the occasional “mmhm” from Bucky, who was deep into scrolling cat videos on your couch.

He was blissfully unaware of the absolute feral energy vibrating off you from the other end of the cushions.

You’d seen the TikTok trend. You’d watched it at least twelve times. Memorized it. Practiced the tone. And now… the mission was go.

You sat up suddenly, eyes locked on him like a predator spotting prey.

“Okay. Think fast. I’m a random girl.”

Bucky looked up slowly, one brow raised. “You’re a what?”

You launched yourself across the couch and kissed him. Hard and dramatic — not a peck, not sweet, but movie-scene level commitment. You even did the little sigh at the end, for authenticity.

He kissed you back without thinking, hand coming up to your waist—

And then you pulled away just as fast, blinking innocently. “Hey. You kissed me.”

Bucky’s lips were still parted, pupils dilated. “Yeah? So?”

“I’m a random girl.”

His brain short-circuited so violently you could see it in real-time. He blinked once. Then again. “Wait. No. No, you’re not.”

You gasped, scandalized. “Oh my God. You just kissed a stranger.”

“What—what are you talking about?” he asked, half-laughing but visibly spiraling. “You live here!”

“Broke in,” you said solemnly, backing away. “Picked the lock. I’m a criminal.”

“You were literally in my bed this morning.”

“Oh no,” you whispered, horror-stricken. “I drugged you.”

“WHAT?!”

He stood up so fast the couch groaned. His whole face was a mix of betrayal and fear. “Did you hit your head? Are you pranking me? Is this one of those hidden camera things? IS SAM HERE?”

You were doubled over laughing.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, pacing now. “Steve warned me. He said women in the future were different. He said they were smart and powerful and terrifying. I thought he meant, like, in an empowering way—not a goblin chaos agent way.”

You lunged again, lips puckered. “C’mere, stranger—”

He sidestepped you like you were a flying brick.

“DON’T TOUCH ME,” he shouted, actually looking panicked now.

You full-on collapsed to the floor, howling with laughter, wiping away tears.

“WHO EVEN ARE YOU,” he demanded, flailing his vibranium arm like it might detect lies.

“Help!” you called dramatically from the floor. “This man is harassing me! I don’t know him! He has a metal arm!”

“YOU BOUGHT IT FOR ME! It was a birthday present, it had a bow on it!”

You crawled backwards like you were being cornered. “He’s in my house! Someone call the Avengers!”

“I am the Avengers!”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “…Is that what you tell people?”

Bucky ran both hands down his face. “What do you want from me? What’s the goal here? Is this revenge for eating the last waffle?”

You made a break for him again, and he reacted purely on instinct — scooping you up bridal style mid-lunge.

“WHY ARE YOU PICKING ME UP?” you screamed. “I DON’T KNOW YOU.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” he yelled back. “MY MA SAID DON’T HIT WOMEN BUT THIS FEELS LIKE A TRAP!”

He started spinning in a slow circle like he was trying to find the nearest exit. “Do I… do I put you outside? Do I just… release you into the wild?”

“I’M CALLING THE COPS.”

“YOU CAN’T. YOU DON’T HAVE A PHONE. YOU’RE A STRANGER.”

You were sobbing with laughter now, kicking weakly in his arms. “PUT ME DOWN. I’M NOT HOUSEBROKEN.”

He groaned loudly and dropped you onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. “I cannot believe I thought you were the love of my life.”

“You kissed a random girl,” you wheezed.

“You tackled me with your mouth!”

“I feel violated,” you said, flopping dramatically onto a pillow. “I don’t even know your name.”

Bucky squinted. “Don’t. You live here. You know my full name, my trauma history, and the weird little noise I make when I eat too fast.”

You perked up, smirking. “Okay, so what is your name?”

He blinked. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Sounds fake.”

Bucky looked straight at the ceiling. “I’m calling Sam. He’s gonna talk me through this.”

“Tell him a strange woman broke into your apartment and started making out with you.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, sitting back down, burying his face in his hands.

You leaned in, beaming. “But do you love me?”

He grumbled something that sounded like “unfortunately,” but it was muffled by his palms.

You kissed his cheek. “Kissing a random girl again. Bucky, your morals are slipping.”

He peeked through his fingers. “You are the worst.”

You snuggled up beside him. “You kissed me first.”

“You—you literally ambushed me!”

“And you fell for it.” You smirked. “Must be love.”

The next day, Bucky still hadn’t recovered.

You’d gone about your morning like nothing had happened. You made waffles. Stole his hoodie again. Kissed his cheek when he tried to protest. He looked at you like you were a mirage that might vanish if he blinked too hard.

He didn’t trust anything anymore. Not waffles. Not kisses. Definitely not you.

So, naturally, you invited Sam and Steve over.

“I need witnesses,” you said cheerfully, setting out coffee mugs.

“I need therapy,” Bucky muttered from the corner, arms crossed like a storm cloud.

Soon, Steve and Sam arrived. Sam immediately looked suspicious. Steve looked… well. Steve looked like a golden retriever who’d just been promised a picnic.

“What’s the emergency?” Sam asked, eyeing Bucky. “Why do you look like someone just told you jazz is outlawed again?”

Bucky pointed at you dramatically. “Her. She’s a menace.”

You blinked innocently. “I’m a random girl.”

Sam’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh my God. You did the trend, didn’t you?”

Steve: “What trend?”

Sam: “THIS trend. Where you fake being a stranger and mess with someone until they lose their grip on reality.”

Bucky turned to Steve like he was his last lifeline. “She kissed me and then told me she was a stranger, Steve.”

Steve’s brow creased. “Wait, but you’re dating.”

“That’s what I thought!” Bucky cried, waving his hands. “And then she said she broke in and I drugged her! I almost called the cops on myself!”

Sam had fully sat down with popcorn. “Oh this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Steve looked deeply concerned. “Did… did you really say he drugged you?”

You nodded, sipping coffee. “I was committed to the bit.”

Steve’s face twisted into pure 1940s disappointment. “You kids call this fun?”

Sam grinned. “Yes. Yes we do.”

“I’m traumatized,” Bucky muttered.

“You kissed a random girl,” you said, poking him in the ribs.

He pointed at you. “You climbed me like a tree.”

“You dodged me like a dodgeball!”

Sam choked on his drink. “Wait—he dodged you? Bucky Barnes? Mr. ‘Yes ma’am’ Bucky Barnes dipped on a kiss?”

“Full side-step,” you confirmed. “Tactical. Military-grade evasion.”

Steve looked at Bucky like he’d broken the Geneva Convention. “Buck. You don’t just leave a lady hanging.”

“She said she didn’t know me, Steve!”

You turned to Steve with big, tearful eyes. “He touched me. I don’t know this man.”

Steve immediately straightened up, all business. “Sir, please step away from the lady.”

Bucky actually staggered back like he’d been hit.

“STEVE.”

Sam was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

“Sam, back me up here—”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Nope. I’m with her. You kissed a stranger. Your morals are gone.”

“I hate all of you,” Bucky growled, running a hand down his face.

You got up slowly, dramatic, like a villain in a soap opera. “I’m leaving. I can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

Bucky turned. “Where are you gonna go?”

You gasped. “So you admit I live here?!”

“AH-HAH!” Sam shouted, pointing.

Bucky groaned so loud it might’ve cracked the window. “Steve, make her stop.”

Steve blinked. “I—honestly I’m not sure I can. I think she’s in charge now.”

You crossed your arms proudly. “I am.”

Sam stood. “As you should be.”

Bucky buried his face in his hands.

You leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “You love me.”

He mumbled something indecipherable.

Sam translated. “He said ‘I regret everything.’”

“I heard him,” you said sweetly, ruffling Bucky’s hair.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back. “You picked a feisty one.”

“She picked me,” Bucky groaned. “With a prank.”

“Sounds like love,” Steve said, entirely serious.

“I’m a random girl,” you whispered.

“I’m calling Nat,” Bucky threatened. “I need a spy extraction team.”

It had been three days since The Incident™.

Three days since you had completely dismantled Bucky’s understanding of reality with nothing but a TikTok trend and a kiss.

He’d been on edge ever since. Not like “threat-detected” Winter Soldier mode — no, this was worse. This was “paranoid boyfriend who thinks his girlfriend might be a shapeshifter or prank demon sent by Loki” energy.

He slept with one eye open.

And you?

You were planning Phase Two.

The Setup:

It started with a group text.

You:

Hey :) wanna emotionally destabilize Bucky Barnes for fun?

Nat:

Always. What’s the mission?

Wanda:

Are we doing costumes? I vote yes.

You:

No costumes… yet. Just follow my lead. Be natural. Gaslight him gently.

Nat:

“Gently” is not in my vocabulary but okay.

Location: Avengers Compound, Tuesday afternoon

Bucky arrived thinking it was a training day. He wore joggers and a scowl, hair tied back. Tired. Wary. A man who had been kissed by a “stranger” and hadn’t emotionally recovered.

Nat and Wanda were already in the lounge, drinking tea and chatting like they hadn’t both agreed to enter psychological warfare ten minutes ago.

You greeted him sweetly. “Hi, Buck.”

He flinched. “Is it you?”

“…Yes?”

“Okay. Just checking.”

You sat beside him and placed a soft hand on his knee. He looked suspicious but let it happen. So far, normal.

Then Nat leaned forward.

“So, Bucky,” she said casually, “who’s your friend?”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Nat gestured to you. “The girl. You two… dating?”

His soul left his body.

“I—Nat. That’s my girlfriend. You’ve met her a hundred times.”

Nat tilted her head. “Hmm. I don’t know… she looks different. Are you sure?”

Bucky turned to Wanda. “Please. Help me.”

Wanda smiled sweetly. “I thought she was a new recruit.”

Bucky stood up like the chair had caught fire. “NO. No. Do not start this again. You know her. You live with her. She made cupcakes at Clint’s birthday. She’s been here since—WANDA, YOU GOT DRUNK AND TOLD HER YOUR CHILDHOOD TRAUMA.”

Wanda gasped. “I would never do that with a stranger.”

Bucky spun to Nat. “We did karaoke night. You made her sing Britney Spears.”

Nat raised a brow. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She cried during ‘Everytime.’”

You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh.

“Okay,” Bucky said, pacing now. “This is a conspiracy. You’re gaslighting me.”

Wanda: “What does that mean?”

Nat: “Is that a stove thing?”

“OH MY GOD,” Bucky yelled.

Steve walked by with a protein shake, paused, and pointed at you. “Hey, isn’t that the girl who broke into your apartment?”

Bucky froze.

“STEVE, NO. NOT YOU TOO.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m just saying, you did tell me she said she was a stranger.”

“THAT WAS A BIT. SHE’S A MENACE.”

You waved. “Hi.”

Bucky whirled on you. “ARE YOU EVEN REAL?!”

Nat stood. “Bucky. Breathe. Let’s just ask Friday. She keeps visitor logs.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Thank you! Sanity!”

Nat turned toward the ceiling. “Friday? Has this woman ever been here before?”

Friday’s voice chimed cheerfully: “No registered data. Identity unknown.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘UNKNOWN’?!” Bucky screamed.

You fell over on the couch, howling. Wanda wiped fake tears. Nat high-fived you.

“Friday, I introduced her to you! I programmed your empathy matrix with her voice profile!”

“Sorry, Sergeant Barnes,” Friday said calmly. “Would you like me to report this intruder?”

“I—YOU—NO!!”

Steve leaned over to Sam, who had wandered in with snacks. “So, uh… how long do you think it’ll take for him to realize Friday was in on it too?”

Sam smirked. “I give him another 45 seconds before he starts interrogating the toaster.”

Forty seconds later:

“FRIDAY TURNED AGAINST ME. I DON’T TRUST THE LIGHTBULBS.”

Eventually, you approached Bucky — gently, like someone approaching a feral cat. He was sitting in the corner, hoodie over his head, muttering something about betrayal and toasters.

“Hey,” you whispered, sitting beside him. “It’s me. Really me. It was a prank.”

He looked up at you, betrayed and wounded. “…You made Friday lie to me.”

You held his hand. “I make everyone lie to you. I’m amazing.”

“…I don’t know if I love you or fear you.”

You kissed his cheek. “That means it’s working.”

Bucky was so close to stability.

After the Nat-Wanda-Friday Incident™, he’d sworn off trusting anyone under 5’9” with “girlboss tendencies.” He’d even started sleeping with a knife under his pillow again—not for danger. For pranks.

You’d promised to stop.

He did not believe you.

But the real downfall came three days later, when Clint and Peter accidentally got involved.

The Scene of the Crime

It was supposed to be a normal movie night.

Just you, Bucky, Clint, Peter, and popcorn.

Bucky almost felt safe again. He sat with his arm around you, cautiously relaxed, sipping root beer like a man who had survived a war and thought it might be over.

That’s when Clint whispered something to Peter.

Peter nodded.

And then they stood up.

“Hey, Buck?” Clint said.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “…What?”

Clint pointed at you. “Who’s this?”

You gasped. Peter gasped. Everyone gasped.

Bucky blinked. “We are not doing this again.”

Peter tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Wait, you brought a stranger into Avengers Tower?”

“She’s not—”

“She’s sitting on your lap,” Clint added.

“I know,” Bucky said, slowly losing his mind. “She lives here.”

Peter leaned over, whispering just loud enough. “Should we call security?”

Bucky stood up so fast you nearly fell off the couch. “I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You looked up, doe-eyed. “Security? That feels extreme. I just met him on Craigslist.”

Clint choked on his drink. Peter covered his face. You winked.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Bucky muttered, pacing like a war general. “My nervous system is fried. I wake up every night in a cold sweat to make sure you still have a toothbrush in the bathroom.”

“I don’t,” you said softly. “I’m a stranger.”

Clint fake-screamed. “OH MY GOD. SHE’S OFF THE GRID.”

Peter stood on the coffee table. “This is a level seven security breach!”

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” Bucky yelled.

You opened your phone and typed something. A second later, Friday’s voice returned:

“Alert: Unknown woman detected. Engaging lockdown protocol.”

Bucky physically collapsed to his knees. “Not again.”

Peter ran to the door and slammed it. “Nobody in or out! We contain the threat!”

Clint: “We neutralize!”

Bucky: “WE DON’T NEUTRALIZE MY GIRLFRIEND!”

You leaned toward Peter. “He kissed me.”

Peter gasped. “You kissed a stranger?”

Clint crossed himself. “Not very 1940s of you, man.”

And then—because the universe has perfect comedic timing—Tony Stark walked in mid-chaos, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, already disappointed.

“What the hell is going on in here? Why is Peter on a table? Why is Bucky having a nervous breakdown? Why does Friday sound like she’s preparing to tase someone?”

“Bucky brought a stranger into the Tower,” Clint said solemnly.

Tony turned to Bucky, smirking. “A stranger, huh? What, she knock on the door and you fell in love with her eye color?”

“She’s my girlfriend!”

Tony sipped his coffee. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“OH MY GOD.”

You looked at Tony, deadpan. “He keeps touching me. I feel unsafe.”

Tony snapped. “That’s it. FRIDAY, deploy the safety nets.”

Metal doors started to close over the windows.

“I’m moving into the woods,” Bucky muttered, slowly walking toward the hallway like a ghost. “I’m gonna grow a beard. Befriend a deer. Never speak to another human again.”

Tony called after him. “Make sure the deer’s real, Barnes. You’ve got a thing for imaginary people.”

“TONY.”

The Aftermath

Two hours later, the Tower had returned to normal.

Peter apologized. Clint said he’d do it again.

Tony sent Bucky a fruit basket labeled “For Your Breakdown <3”.

You found Bucky sitting on the roof, hoodie up, staring into the New York skyline like it had personally betrayed him.

You sat next to him.

He didn’t look over. “If you say you don’t know me, I’m jumping off this roof.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“…Do you?”

You kissed his cheek. “I do. Even though you kissed a stranger.”

He groaned so hard his soul left his body.

“Hey,” you added softly. “When you go to the woods, can I come?”

He looked over at you — tired, mildly traumatized, but hopelessly in love.

“…Only if you promise not to tell the deer you’re a stranger.”

“No promises.”

Bucky sat hunched over a cereal bowl like a man who had seen too much. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. The spoon in his hand trembled like a horror movie protagonist.

You walked in, kissed his head.

He flinched.

“I’m your girlfriend,” you said softly.

“Are you?” he whispered. “Or are you a paid actor hired by S.H.I.E.L.D. to destroy me from within?”

You kissed his cheek. “Do I seem like I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“…That’s exactly what someone who works for S.H.I.E.L.D. would say.”

Before you could respond—BOOM.

The door slammed open.

Thor marched in dramatically, wind in his hair despite no wind existing inside.

“I HAVE HEARD A STRANGER LIVES AMONGST US,” he bellowed.

Bucky stood up like a man about to be executed. “Thor. Don’t do this.”

Thor pointed directly at you. “STATE YOUR NAME, MYSTERIOUS MAIDEN!”

“…I’m your friend’s girlfriend?”

“WHO IS YOUR FATHER?! WHAT IS HIS LINEAGE?!”

“Sir this is a Wendy’s.”

Thor gasped. “She mocks the old ways. This is dark magic!”

“You’ve MET HER!” Bucky screamed.

Thor blinked. “Have I?”

Bucky launched his spoon across the room.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

Scott Lang appeared from nowhere. Literally. From under the table.

“Hey guys, what’s up?”

Everyone froze.

Bucky: “Where the hell did you come from?!”

Scott shrugged. “I’ve been small for, like, three hours. There were donuts.”

He looked at you. Then Bucky.

“…Wait. Who’s this?”

Bucky screamed. It was wordless. Primal. Ancient.

“I AM BEING HAUNTED. I’M IN A SIMULATION. I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M REAL ANYMORE!”

You doubled over laughing. Thor looked impressed. Scott pulled out a cookie.

And then—because the gods hate Bucky Barnes—Nick Fury walked in.

Of course he did.

Fury didn’t even say hello. He looked at Bucky like he was a problematic file on his desk.

“We’re launching an internal investigation.”

Bucky blinked. “Into what?”

Fury crossed his arms. “Into your emotional stability.”

Thor nodded. “I fear he has been bewitched.”

“I’VE BEEN GASLIT,” Bucky yelled.

Nat, from the hallway: “More like girlbossed.”

Wanda, sipping tea: “And gatekept.”

Peter: “And publicly humiliated.”

Tony, on speakerphone from Malibu: “Also you fell for it. That’s on you, buddy.”

Bruce Banner slowly walked in with a tablet. “We’ve reviewed the footage. There are over 17 instances of psychological stress. He starts talking to a toaster around timestamp 00:42:17.”

Fury sighed. “We’ll need to wipe his memory. Again.”

“WHAT?!”

Bruce: “Kidding. Probably.”

You wrapped your arms around Bucky from behind as he just… stood there. Processing. Emotionally wrecked. Physically betrayed.

“Hey,” you whispered. “Want to move into that cabin in the woods now?”

He didn’t respond for a long time. Then:

“…Only if there’s no internet. No AI. No Avengers.”

You smiled. “Just me?”

He hesitated.

“…Are you sure you’re real?”

You took his face in your hands.

“I’m real,” you said, kissing his nose. “But if it makes you feel better, I can come with a birth certificate and three forms of I.D.”

“I’d prefer a blood test and a lie detector.”

“I’ll have Wanda conjure one.”

Bucky groaned into your shoulder.

One Week Later, Bucky disappeared. Moved into the woods. Built a cabin.

You went with him.

He installed three security cameras, a landline, and demanded Friday “never speak again unless it’s an emergency or a pizza delivery.”

He still flinches every time you say “Hey, think fast—”

But he smiles through it.

And the deer?

They love you.

(It was only temporarily. And when I say temporarily i mean like a week or two.)

(You’ve got mail!) bro I’m lwk going through a writing crisis cause I feel like nothing is gonna be as good BUT IMMPUSHING THROUGH ITT I have so many ideas down in my notes I’m really just waiting til I get that one. AND THEN I COULDNT FIND THE RIGHT PHOTOS FOR THIS SO FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER FOR A BUCKY FANFIC IM GOING AESTHETIC-LESS. I KNOW. I’ll still post but yesss I hope you enjoyed cause this was a little funny to make. And I also really want to do the college sports Bucky agenda LIKE SO BADLYYYY.

Tag List (For Mr.James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[mandoloriancookie]

if you haven’t, i hope you fall in love with life again. i hope you wake up with a happy sigh, hope you feel like doing things you enjoy, hope you are surrounded by people who make you feel safe, hope you smile at yourself in the mirror.

[mandoloriancookie]

told you i’d come

oneshot: you send him one wet, towel-clad pic while he's away on a mission. next thing you know? you're waking up to his tongue in your pussy and his cock buried so deep you’ll be walking funny for days.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+). 3.2k words. SMUT. feral yearning. phone sex. video call tease. sex on phone. creampie. post-mission bucky who books a damn flight just to ruin you. fingering. oral sex f!receiving (waking-up edition). overstimulation. raw dogstyle & missionary bc he needs it that deep. listening to earned it by the weeknd will be the cherry on top of this filth. minors dni.

You shouldn't send it.

Oh, darling, you really shouldn't. This is a reckless, deliciously terrible idea—teetering on the edge of moral ambiguity and an international scandal wrapped in a single, impulsive click.

And yet.

Here you are, standing before your mirror, a vision of damp locks and wet skin, the towel clinging to your curves like a lover's desperate grasp. Droplets of water trail down your neck, catching the light. There's something wild in your eyes, something about your heavy lids and parted lips, like you've unlocked a secret angle of yourself that only a front-facing camera could capture.

And you? You're going to send it.

Because Bucky Barnes—your Bucky, with his storm-blue eyes and that vibranium arm that hums with quiet power is a thousand miles away.

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl. 

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets. 

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

"I am so in love with you," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "'And I'm not going anywhere."