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ggukivrse · 18 days ago

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THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 03

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, pov switches (1), jk is an acts of service king and a pathetic simp for oc, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.5k

notes: i procrastinated the shit out of this chapter omfg, i’m so sorry for the wait. tysm to my bae isa @page-isa for beta-reading and providing me with concerts on call while i wrote lolol. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated!! enjoy reading my loves <33

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⤷ chapter three — ivy

i could hate you now / it’s quite alright to hate me now / but we both know that deep down / the feeling still deep down is good

The knife makes a soft thunk against the cutting board as you slice through the last of the strawberries, bright red, juice bleeding out onto the wood. You scoop the pieces into a bowl with the others — kiwi, pineapple, blueberries, a few slices of watermelon. Colourful. Easy to share. Refreshing enough for the heat outside, you hope.

A headache throbs behind your temple. It’s been sitting there since you woke up, dull but insistent. Usually, you would've had a few painkillers in your purse for this exact situation, but you had been certain that you'd be fine on the trip.

You let out a soft sigh. If it weren’t for your own spectacular decision-making.

You tilt your head back gently, reaching up to rub your forehead with the back of your wrist, careful not to smear fruit juice across your skin. The cool tile under your bare feet helps. A little.

From the kitchen, you can just about make out the voices outside.

Laughter and chatter carries faintly. Someone shouts something you can't quite make out, and there's a burst of response.

You should be out there with them. You would be, on any other day. But you’re not risking it — not with your head pounding like this, like your brain is bruised beneath your skull. One hour under that sun, and you know you’ll spend the rest of the day curled up in the dark, miserable.

Well... at least, that’s the excuse you went with.

You haven’t talked to Jungkook since last night.

Not after you walked away, leaving him with nothing but the weight of his own words and the silence you wrapped yourself in.

'I figured… you’d be here.'

Like it was obvious. Like he still knew you. Like he hadn’t made the choice to not be part of your life anymore.

Last night, your anger had been sharp. You’d felt it in your jaw, your chest, your hands. But now, it’s dulled into something muddier.

You’d been telling yourself he’d moved on — that whatever the breakup had done to you, it hadn’t touched him the same way. That he was fine. Probably relieved. Probably already halfway into his next chapter, while you were still here, trying to rewrite your ending like it didn’t hurt. And maybe that assumption had made it easier. Easier to be mad. Easier to hate him a little.

But then last night… he said he came here for you. Like he missed you. Like you still mattered.

And that? That messed with things.

Because how are you supposed to stay angry at someone who walked away, then looked you in the eye like they never wanted to? How are you supposed to keep the space intact when he was the one reaching across it — gently, quietly, like he didn’t know he was doing it?

You’d built your resentment around the idea that he let go easily. That he wanted out more than he wanted you. But now, with the weight of his words still sitting heavy in your chest, the whole picture feels harder to hold. Blurrier.

Turns out, hate’s a lot easier when you think the other person never looked back. And you're clearly a weak link.

The sound of the sliding door pulls you out of your thoughts, and you don't have to look to know exactly who it is.

There’s a soft pad of bare feet on tile, a steady, unhurried rhythm you’ve heard a thousand times before. You keep your eyes on the bowl of fruit in front of you, pretending to rearrange a few pieces like it matters.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice calm.

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to feel it.

”You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you answer, automatic. Then you exhale, conceding a little. “Just a headache.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him move closer. He’s wearing black swim shorts that cling slightly at the waist, water still darkening the edges. A loose white t-shirt hangs off his frame — a little translucent from where it’s stuck to his chest.

His hair’s damp, curls pushed back from his forehead like he ran his fingers through it and let it dry that way. He smells faintly like sunscreen and chlorine and the heat outside.

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks.

A laughing breath tumbles from your lips before you can stop yourself. You shake your head, mostly to yourself, and glance at him over your shoulder.

He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows why you're laughing.

“You say that every time,” you say.

“Because every time, it’s true,” he says, not missing a beat.

His tone is easy, but his eyes search your face like he’s still trying to make sure. You give him a look — not annoyed, just tired — and sip from the water bottle already in your hand.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ve had water. It’s probably nothing.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the counter beside you, one hand bracing the edge. A droplet of water slides down the inside of his veiny forearm.

You pretend not to notice.

“You take anything for it?” he asks eventually.

You shake your head. “Didn’t bring any.”

He scoffs, low and amused. “Oh, so smart.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks. Really helpful.”

He grins — not wide, not smug. Just soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of grin he probably doesn’t realise he’s making.

He reaches into the drawer next to you without asking, pulling it open with a scrape of wood on wood. You glance sideways, eyebrows pulling together.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if this place is stocked like a normal rental or if we’re screwed,” he says, sifting through half-empty tea boxes, a roll of foil, batteries, and a mostly dead flashlight. “And… yeah. Screwed.”

You exhale through your nose, more of a puff than a laugh. “Should’ve figured.”

“You know what you need?” he says, straightening up. “Cold compress. Or a wet towel.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, stepping away and heading toward the sink. He grabs a dish towel from the rack, runs it under cool water, wrings it out with practiced ease.

He turns, holding it out to you — not pushing it into your hands, just waiting, giving you the option.

You hesitate.

You want to say no. You should. But your head throbs again, dull and pulsing behind your eyes, and maybe your pride’s not worth it right now.

You reach out, take it from him.

His fingers brush yours, just for a second. Your grip's not as steady as you’d like.

You fold the cloth once, press it to the side of your head, and close your eyes for a second. The coolness helps. Not enough, but it’s something.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still there, simply watching.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, but no further words leave your mouth.

He leans a little heavier into the counter, arms folded, eyes flicking over the kitchen like he’s killing time — like he knows you well enough to wait you out.

The kitchen settles into a soft hush, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional burst of laughter from outside.

You keep your eyes forward, focused on nothing, the damp towel warming slowly in your hand. You can feel him looking — not staring, but thinking. Sitting on something.

He shifts his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest. Then finally, he says, low and cautious, “Hey.”

You glance over, just barely. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to brace yourself.

“About what I said last night.”

You blink, eyes flicking back to the counter.

Jungkook keeps going anyway. “I didn’t mean to… dump that on you, or say it like that. I wasn’t trying to make things harder. I just… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think.”

You let the silence hang a moment, long enough for the words to settle.

“It’s fine,” you say eventually, quietly. “I’d already forgotten about it.”

He nods, lips pressing together. “Still. I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer this time. Just give a small shrug, like it’s not worth talking about.

Another hush washes over the kitchen, this one heavier.

You both sit in it for a moment, like neither of you knows exactly where to go next, but he shifts slightly and clears his throat.

A beat passes. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he squints at the counter.

“So...” he says, dragging the word out just enough to be obvious. “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the bowl, or do I have to guess?”

The question is stupid. It’s clearly fruit. But it works. It’s light enough to crack the silence without pretending it wasn’t there.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just press the cloth a little firmer to your temple and exhale, slow.

“Fruit,” you say. "Strawberries, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple. Some other stuff."

Jungkook leans over to peek into the bowl, then reaches for the spoon. You slide it away before he can grab it.

He blinks at you, a beat of surprise. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t say you could have any.”

“Since when do I need permission?” he asks, brow raised.

You give him a flat look. “Since always. You just never listened.”

He grins like that’s not even close to a deterrent. “C’mon. I kept you from passing out on the kitchen floor. That’s at least worth a bite.”

You shift the spoon just slightly further out of reach, not smiling — not fully — but your mouth twitches like it’s thinking about it. “One bite.”

“I’m starving.”

“Should’ve thought of that before cannonballing off the deep end for an hour.”

He steps closer — not too close — but enough to peer over your shoulder again, dramatic and exaggerated. “You’re telling me I generously helped your migraine and you’re gonna gatekeep the fruit bowl?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine,” you mutter, sliding the spoon toward him with one finger. “You can have some. As long as you take the rest out to the others.”

He grabs the spoon like it’s a prize, already scooping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth. “Deal,” he says around it.

He chews slowly, gaze still fixed on the bowl, like he’s giving the fruit his full concentration.

Then he nods once, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s good.”

You say nothing, just shift the towel slightly against your temple, adjusting it where it’s starting to lose its chill.

He takes another bite — slower this time, as if he’s savouring the taste.

You glance over at him, just briefly. The light from the sliding door paints a soft sheen across his skin, catches in the damp ends of his hair. His profile is calm, unreadable. You know that look. He’s thinking about something he won’t say.

“You gonna take that out?” you ask eventually, nodding at the bowl.

He looks up like he forgot it was in his hands. “Yeah. Right.”

Jungkook lingers for a second longer than necessary, still holding the spoon. Then, finally, he turns toward the door.

Just before he slides it open, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“If you still feel bad later… I can run into town, grab something.”

"I can take care of myself, Jungkook.”

"I— right. I didn't mean it like that." He lets out a sigh. "Just don't die, yeah?"

You nod, and the door slides open again, letting in a gust of sun and the very distant echo of your friends yelling over music.

You let out a slow breath and rest both elbows on the counter, head still heavy.

And even though the ache behind your eyes is still there — stubborn and dull — it’s softened now. Just a little.

Your headache is mostly gone.

Not completely — there’s still a faint buzz behind your right eye — but it’s somewhat bearable now. The dull kind of pressure you can forget about if you keep still and breathe slow.

What really helped, you think, was the nap. A quiet hour stretched out on the couch with the curtains drawn halfway closed and the cold cloth still folded gently against your forehead.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute, you were lying there, your arm slung over your eyes to block the light, and the next, you were waking up to the distant sound of laughter outside, the ache in your head a few degrees cooler.

The towel was still cold when you stirred. Not freezing, but fresher than it had any right to be after an hour against your skin.

You hadn’t put it back in the freezer.

You’re almost sure you didn’t move at all.

Which means… someone had to have changed it amidst your slumber.

You’re not sure how you feel about it. If it even happened. If it means anything.

It shouldn’t. You tell yourself that. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But something about it sticks in your chest.

You’d asked for space — not out loud, not exactly, but in all the ways that mattered. In how you walked away, in how you haven’t reached for him since. And yet… here you are. Picking apart the temperature of a towel like it holds any real weight.

You’re trying not to read into things.

Really, you are.

But it’s hard when the lines keep blurring.

Pretending in front of the others is one thing. A mutual act, a lie with rules and boundaries. But the quiet moments are harder — the ones where no one is looking. Those feel like the truth, leaking out in small, inconvenient ways.

And now here you are.

The beach is stretched out before you in all its sleepy, golden haze. You’ve only been out here for ten minutes; just long enough to settle on your towel and feel the sun warm the backs of your legs.

When you stepped out of the house, the last serve of a makeshift volleyball game had just hit the sand. Taehyung and Hoseok stood dramatically with their arms raised like they'd won the Olympics, while Jimin fell to his knees with an exaggerated groan, sand puffing up beneath him. Seokjin declared the whole thing rigged.

Now, the energy has dipped.

Yoongi is passed out with a bucket hat covering his face. Seokjin’s sitting near the cooler, sipping something canned and cold with his arm lazily slung around Haeun’s waist. Everyone else lies scattered across the sand

The air smells like sunscreen and salt. The ocean hums steady in the background, lapping up against the shore.

And beside it all — Jungkook is somewhere behind you.

You haven’t looked directly at him since you laid your towel down, but you can almost feel his presence.

You shift on your stomach, resting your cheek against your folded arms as you watch Ari walk toward the water, her ankles sinking into the wet sand with each step. The back of your neck is starting to warm. A little too much.

“You're gonna get sunburnt,” comes Jungkook’s voice, low and close behind you.

You don’t lift your head. Just let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, not unkindly. “Do you really wanna deal with a migraine and a sun burn at the same time?”

You squint forward, not at anything in particular. The sun is still high, still hot. That tell tale sting is starting to spread across your shoulders, the heat clawing at your skin.

But still, you don’t move.

“I’m too comfortable,” you mumble into your arms.

Behind you, there’s a pause. A quiet snort. The soft click of a bottle opening.

“Then don’t move,” Jungkook says. “I’ve got it.”

You could say no. Could roll away, wave him off, insist on doing it yourself. But you don’t. Whether it’s the heat, the sleep still clinging to your limbs, or just the fact that resisting feels like more effort than it’s worth — you stay where you are.

You hear him kneel beside you in the sand, shifting his weight until his shadow falls across your back.

A second later, the first touch of sunscreen lands cool and smooth on your skin, right between your shoulder blades. His hands follow, spreading it across your back with steady, practiced pressure.

You tense at first, your body instinctively stiffening beneath the weight of his palms. But it’s not like you don’t know how he touches. You do. That knowledge is in your bones, no matter how much time has passed.

He’s methodical about it. No lingering, no hesitation — just slow, firm strokes. Across your shoulders. Down the curve of your spine. It doesn't feel like anything more than it is. It shouldn't.

Still, you keep your face turned away, your sunglasses hiding the part of you that can’t stop reading into this.

He’s just doing it to show the others.

His hand drags slightly higher, toward the back of your neck — just above where your bikini strap cuts across your skin — and slows.

His fingers brush lightly over the spot where your tattoo is inked into your skin: small, fine-lined, nothing dramatic. Just a single, understated flower.

His birth flower. A small tiger lily.

He’s quiet for a beat. Long enough that you notice.

It was years ago. You’d gotten them together after a night out with the group — a bit drunk and feeling impulsive. You’d been walking past a tiny tattoo studio near campus while on the way home, a place you’d both seen a hundred times but never gone into. And for some reason that night, you did.

It was an idea that made sense at the time.

He has your birth flower on the back of his neck too, low enough to hide beneath the collar of a hoodie. Yours a mirror of his, but a small bit higher.

You never talked about what they meant. Not out loud. They weren’t anything too special. Just... markers of time. Of who you were to each other then.

And now here he is, brushing sunscreen over it like he’s trying not to think about the fact that it’s still there.

You feel his fingers hesitate — just for a second — right over the ink. His thumb grazes the edge of it, subtle enough that you almost miss it. But you don’t. You feel everything.

Then he clears his throat softly and moves on, his hands smoothing down the rest of your back with the same quiet efficiency as before. Like nothing happened. Like it didn’t matter.

And maybe it doesn’t.

But the tension in your jaw says otherwise.

By the time he’s finished, your skin feels slick and protected, the burn averted. But something else lingers — not on your back, but under your ribs. Low and restless.

"Thanks," you mumble.

He lets out a small hum in response, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. For a second, you think he's going to say something, but instead, he scoots over to his own towel placed a few feet away from yours.

Minutes slip by in a blur of warmth and white noise.

You stay there, cheek pressed against the crook of your arm, letting the sun soak into your back. The sounds around you start to flatten — laughter, crashing waves, the thump of footsteps on sand — all melting together into something distant and slow. You’re not sure how long you lie there, half-awake, thoughts drifting somewhere between now and then, between what was and what isn’t anymore.

You don’t notice the shape that settles beside you until it casts a shadow across your towel.

“Wow,” Kiara says, dropping onto the sand with a dramatic exhale, “you’ve been so boring today.”

You lift your head slightly, squinting at her through your sunglasses. “Rude.”

“I’m serious,” she says, unbothered, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re usually all over the place. But today?” She sighs. “Nothing. It’s been tragic.”

You snort, the sound muffled by your arm. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging your leg lightly with hers. “You’re throwing off the group dynamic."

You laugh for real this time — small, but genuine — and lift yourself slightly off your towel. Your head feels better, the pressure dulled to a faint hum. Manageable.

"You are good though, right?"

“I’m fine,” you say, rubbing at your temple with the back of your hand. “Just needed a break.”

“Well,” she drawls, sitting upright, “if you’re feeling human again, please tell me you’ll play one more round of volleyball.”

You blink. “Volleyball?”

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “We need even teams, and I’m tired of getting stuck with Taehyung. He's genuinely a lost cause.”

You hesitate, and she watches you closely. Then, with a tilt of her head, she adds, “If you're feeling well, that is. Jungkook said that you had a headache earlier. He told all of us to keep it down when he saw you walking out, so I figured you were dying or something.”

“Oh,” you say, voice a little thinner than you’d like. “Right.” You force a breath through your nose. “I’m okay now. The nap helped.”

“Good,” she grins, bright and unbothered. “Because I refuse to lose to Jimin and this asshole again." She glances over at Jungkook with narrowed eyes, and you hear him chuckle. "My dignity can’t handle it," she adds, voice dropping a tiny bit.

You laugh and push yourself upright, brushing sand from your arms. “Fine. But Kiara, if someone spikes the ball at my face, you'll be the one that ends up dead.”

She beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet. “No promises, but sure.”

She lets go of your hand as soon as you’re steady, then turns and jogs toward Hoseok to try and convince him to play too.

You dust off your legs with a sigh, flexing your toes in the warm sand. The heat radiates up through your soles, grounding. The sun is relentless now, painting everything in gold and glare.

You glance sideways toward the towel a few feet away.

Jungkook is still there, stretched out on his back with one arm slung across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. From here, he looks peaceful. Like the ocean and the warmth and the quiet are all he needs.

You hesitate, then step closer.

“You playing?” you ask, voice light, careful.

Jungkook peeks one eye open, blinking up at you. “Nah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Too tired.”

You pause. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. Maybe push. Maybe say something along the lines of 'Scared I'll beat you?'

But you don’t.

You open your mouth, but the words dry up before they form. Instead, you just give him a simple, “Alright.”

You turn toward the lazy line drawn into the sand (their version of a volleyball net), pretending you don’t hear the voice in your head asking why you even bothered in the first place.

It's not like you care.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, ankles skimming the surface, the pads of your feet just brushing cool water. There’s a half-empty glass of something fruity beside you on the tile. Hoseok’s cracking up mid-story, animated like always, throwing his arms out as he re-enacts some tragic college memory that has you clutching your stomach with laughter.

You’re glowing. Not in the cliché way — not some poetic, golden-hour kind of glow — but in that real, visceral way you used to around him. Like the air is lighter in your lungs when you’re surrounded by the people who get you. Like joy just leaks out of you without asking for permission.

And Jungkook?

He sits beside you. A little too close. Not close enough.

His legs are in the water too, knees bent, toes flexing every now and then as Namjoon speaks beside him, something low and thoughtful and typical of Namjoon — philosophy or music or that book he never shuts up about. Jungkook nods, murmurs something back, throws a quiet smile when Namjoon teases him for zoning out, but his attention never really leaves you.

You.

Laughing like you used to, shoulders shaking, head thrown back.

You reach out mid-laugh, fingers curling instinctively around Hoseok’s arm as you recover, and Jungkook’s heart does this pathetic little stutter in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. He knows that. Hoseok is family — your friend, his friend, everyone’s friend — and nothing more. But it’s the way you touch. So easy. So natural. So unguarded.

Like the version of you that still belongs to everyone else hasn’t changed.

The version of you he gets, though?

Guarded. Quiet. Careful.

And he deserves it. He knows that.

But still, it hurts.

It’s stupid, really. How he sits here, nodding along to a conversation he’s not even hearing, all while tracking your every laugh like it’s the air he breathes; like he’s parched and it’s the only thing that could quench it.

He doesn’t mean to do it. He tries to stop. But it’s been a month — just a month — and already he’s forgotten how to breathe in a world where your joy doesn’t belong to him.

Your fingers swipe at your eyes, wiping away tears from the laughter, and Jungkook can’t help but notice how your guard drops when you’re surrounded by them. How you’ve drawn a clear line around him, and only him.

You talk to everyone but him with that voice. The one that dances. The one he used to fall asleep to on long nights when sleep wouldn’t come unless your words wrapped around the edges of his mind first.

Now?

You barely look at him unless you have to.

Even now, you’re angled slightly away. Just enough to remind him that he lost access to something no one else even realises is sacred.

And he let it happen.

He chose this. And fuck, does he regret it.

It’s a strange kind of punishment — being near you like this. Close enough to hear your laughter, to count the freckles on your shoulders, to smell the sunscreen on your skin — and still feel completely shut out. He’s sitting in the middle of everything, surrounded by friends, summer heat, fading sun — and yet all he can think about is how badly he wants to reach for you, and how he can’t.

A splash breaks Jungkook out of his thoughts, followed by a sharp, familiar voice.

“Jimin, seriously, if you drop that in—”

“I’m not gonna drop it!”

He twists just slightly enough to see Jimin in the pool, chest deep, both arms stretched upward to keep Yasmine’s baby pink digital camera above the water. The strap is wrapped twice around his wrist, but he still moves like the thing’s made of glass, carefully navigating the shallow end of the pool.

He’s grinning, eyes curled into crescent moons behind the camera as he wades closer.

“Smile!” he shouts, voice echoing a little off the tile.

Jungkook barely has enough time to throw up a casual peace sign before the shutter snaps.

Jimin squints at the screen, adjusting the angle slightly before lifting the camera again.

“One more! The lighting’s really good right now.”

The sky is washed in that honey-orange haze that only happens for a few precious minutes before dusk. The pool reflects it all — golden ripples catching light, soft shadows stretching across the deck.

You sit still beside Jungkook, your laughter cooling into a smile. Your hand brushes your hair back absently, and it takes everything in him not to follow the movement.

Jimin lowers the camera again, brows lifting. “Wait, I wanna get one of just you two."

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Jungkook for the briefest second. He meets your gaze and he can see the hesitance swimming in your mind.

But before he can open his mouth to tell Jimin that the picture isn't needed, you adjust your legs, turning slightly so your shoulder brushes his.

It’s not much. But it’s not nothing.

Jungkook lifts an arm, pausing for half a second, then lets his hand settle at your waist, fingers just grazing the curve of your side.

You lean into his touch, your shoulder slipping under his arm, your hand moving to rest on his knee, and Jungkook's heart trips. No warning, no rhythm. It just skips — sharp and stupid and immediate.

Because this feels familiar. And fuck, he’s missed this.

“Okay,” Jimin calls. “Say cheese!”

You smile.

Click.

He turns his head ever so slightly to sneak a glance at you, and his breath catches.

Your smile isn’t fake. Not forced. Not the stiff, polite kind you’ve been tossing his way when the group’s looking. It’s real — soft and bright, with your eyes crinkling at the corners and your nose doing that little scrunch it always does when you’re genuinely happy. Your eyelashes catch the light, casting faint shadows on your cheeks.

Click.

The sound barely fades before something reckless flickers in Jungkook.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s grounding himself, or maybe trying to stop himself from doing exactly what he’s about to do. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s not entitled to moments like this anymore.

But God, you’re right there. Glowing. Laughing like you used to. And it’s killing him.

He watches the way your lips part slightly after your smile, the way your eyes dart to the camera and then away again. You look happy — not with him, but still. And it’s that exact version of you he aches for. The one that used to look at him like that on purpose.

He should look away.

He should remember that you're not his anymore. That whatever you're doing right now — playing pretend, leaning into the role for the sake of everyone else — isn’t real.

He tells himself not to do it.

Tells himself to breathe. To sit still. To just let this moment exist without taking anything from it.

But he doesn’t listen.

He never could, when it comes to you.

So before he can think twice — before reason has a chance to claw its way back in — he leans in, slow and quiet and aching.

And presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. A touch more than a breath, less than a second.

His lips barely linger, but it’s enough. Enough to remember. Enough to want

Click.

To his surprise, you don’t flinch or pull away.

You just… sit there. Letting it happen.

Jimin chirps something about the photo, already moving on, flipping the camera around to show Taehyung and Yasmine as they ask him to take a similar picture of them too.

But Jungkook barely hears them.

He can’t hear much over the pounding in his chest, anyway. Can’t think beyond the feel of your skin under his lips, the way your shoulder fit under his arm like it still belongs there. Like nothing’s changed.

Maybe that’s why his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Habit.”

You don’t look at him. But you don’t move away either. Your hand stays on his knee, almost as if you know that the second either of you move, the moment is over.

The air goes still between you. And for the first time all day, Jungkook lets himself breathe.

Not fully. Not the kind of breath that fills your lungs and clears your head. But something. Something real enough that it almost feels like hope.

Then you shift.

Just slightly.

Your hand slides off his knee, fingers brushing the fabric of his shorts as you pull away.

You stand up slowly, brushing the back of your hand across your cheek where he kissed you, like you’re wiping away sweat — or maybe just trying to reset the moment.

You don’t say anything. Just pick up your drink, half-finished and watered down by melted ice, and move toward Haeun and Ari near the deep end who welcome you with a small wave of their fingers.

Jungkook watches you go.

He should feel stupid. Regretful. Humiliated, even. But he doesn’t. Not really.

Because for one second — just one — you didn’t pull away.

You let him exist beside you. With you. Like maybe some part of you remembered, too.

And maybe that means nothing.

Maybe it was just muscle memory.

But maybe — maybe — there’s still something left to hold onto.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it’s only for one more week.

Even if all he gets now are seconds.

And he’ll take them.

Because when it comes to you, he always would.

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dangerousstrawberryshark · 30 days ago

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My brain is going haywire from seeing Jason duval in the trailer… SO HERE IS A DRABBLE WITH HIM! (He calls you a faggot in this btw. Just once, maybe more lol)

So imagine being a gay stripper in one of the many strip clubs in Vice City— called vice for a reason. You’ve seen many men come in and gave them your services but nothing else. Just a repeat of grinding on their laps and satisfying their needs.

Then you noticed him.

You could tell he was new to the club, especially a gay one. Maybe exploring? He was muscular with a trimmed beard; he looks like a hot gym bro. Working out in the sweltering hot Florida sun, shirtless as his muscular drenched in sweat. You could feel yourself becoming turned on from the thought.

He then makes eye contact with you.

Not a few minutes later, one of the servers notified you that a customer has requested your services. Without hesitation, you got off strange and walked to the back rooms. You were never this eager before.

Opening the door revealed Jason sitting on the bed, naked. You admired how well built the other man… chest hair covering his pectorals before trailing down to his pants. “First time doing something like this…” was all Jason said.

You decided to give him the best night of his life.

Jason was curious about having sex with another man. Was it the best idea going to a gay strip club and starting there? Definitely not. Would’ve it been better to find someone naturally? Yeah. Did he care? Nope.

Once he laid his eyes on you, he felt a tug and gestured for one of the servers to notify you. Now here he is, sitting on the bed with your mouth wrapped around his cock.

Jason let out breathy grunts and moans as he feels your hot mouth. He moans as he holds your head guides you on his cock. He was slightly above average but made up with thickness.

“F-fuck… baby… so good.” Jason moans as his grip on your head tightens, thrusting his cock deeper into your mouth. He could hear you gagging and slurping boosting his ego and cockiness. “Sucking my dick so good… better than any blowjob I’ve had.”

Your face was buried in his pubic region, his heavy, hair balls slapping against your chin as he throat fucks you. The room filled with wet audible slobbering noises and the moans of a highly satisfied man.

“Love my sucking cock, boy? Love it when I fuck this fag mouth? Fucking faggot…” Jason groans as he pulls his glistening cock out of your mouth. He grins while slapping his throbbing piece of meat against your cheek.

It felt heavy against your skin as he smears your saliva. You began whining and moaning, sticking out your tongue to lick it. Jason didn’t stop there as he buried your nose in his heavy balls, letting you smell his musky, manly smell.

“Like the smell, boy? Long day at the beach!” Jason laughs, breathing heavily as he feels you fondling and sucking on his heavy nuts. He was enjoying this more than he anticipated. He was loving this! Loving the dominance.

“On the bed”

Xxx

TAGLIST: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived

#x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #male reader imagine #smut #x male reader smut #dangerousstrawberryshark #dangerousstrawberryshark speaks #gta 6 #jason duval #Jason duval x male reader #gay #jason gta #x m!reader #m!reader #gay smut #i’m so gay #drabble #Jason duval x reader

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aquasoftware · 2 months ago

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★ SOAK OPERAS!! ☆

Snippet | “Don’t go acting all shy on me now, Mrs. Geto.”

FT║ Fem!Reader ✘ househusband! Suguru.

Desc | If dealing with students who think your classroom is a WWE match wasn’t enough, now you’ve got a mountain of work waiting for you at home. Overworked and underfùcked, you finally snap ➜ so your doting, dangerously hot househusband decides it’s time to step in.

Cw║ (Proceed with caution 18+ ⚠️) Househusband!Suguru, Teacher!Reader, lots of petnames, tons of praīse, Suguru has a huge thing for legs, màssages, bėgging, bràt tàming, dīrty tàlk, soft/service dom! Suguru, bràtty sub! Reader, fīngerīng, multi big o’s, usage of good gīrl (sorryyy,) overstím, sqūīrtīng, fīnger súcking, cūm eating, spānking, prōne bōne, bréédīng, pússy drúnk! Suguru, créámpīe, lots of kisses, “love you’s,” + aftercare.

WC ➜ 3.8K ➜ ML

Estimated 17-20 minute read & Oneshot.

Preparing students for huge exams that’d determine whether or not they’d graduate, grading endless assignments, lesson planning all night, and on top of that dealing with those combative students who made you question why you ever pursued being an educator in the first place?

It was all weighing on you.

And one of these days? You were going to snap.

Nevermind, that was today.

Specifically when you came home, after breaking up a classroom fight.

You huffed, kicking your heels off at the porch, tossing your heavy bag and keys onto the bench using way more force than usual, even after stepping through the door, an absurd heftiness of the day clutched onto you. And the worst of all? You still had a shit ton of work to do.

If wishes were real, you’d have a vacation paired with Pink Whitney in your hand by now, but you intensely sighed brushing off the thought.

“When’d you get in?” Suguru drawled, raising an eyebrow, manspreading on the couch–pink apron still tied around his waist from preparing dinner.

Even through your exhaustion, one sight of your husband soothed something deep in your spirit.

“Few minutes ago…” You muttered, eyes semi-lit up from seeing him, yet your pitch cascaded with dryness.

He noticed immediately–the short reply, lack of emotion in your tone, the tension in your shoulders. He quickly felt a profound urge to fix it all for you.

“C’mere baby.” Suguru commanded, reaching for the black remote to pause the dramatic soap operas he’d been super-glued to all day.

You trudged toward the leather couch, sitting beside him as he rubbed slow, warm circles across your back.

“You okay?” He tried to check in, invested on why you were upset, maybe it was the wrong time to ask though, because you didn’t mean it, you really didn’t want to take it out on him.

But something about that question made you snap completely.

“Suguru, do I look like I’m fucking okay to you?” Scowling at him, you folded your arms, crossing your legs.

Damn. Okay, he knew that was a stupid question with an obvious answer, he hadn’t expected that though. But the stress in your voice, the way your lips poked out? He knew better than to take it personally.

Instead, your husband exhaled softly, his hand never stopping its slow strokes against your back.

“I get it, baby. It’s alright.”

His voice caressed you, low and smooth–like thick honey melting on your skin, unbothered, unshaken by your moodiness, fully consumed by so much patience you were sure he’d secretly be in the Guinness world record for it.

He spoke once more “Let me take care of you, yeah?” Taking your hands into his welcoming ones.

Your heart tremendously twitched at the offer, nodding. Allowing his warm palms to knead into your calves like dough, leisurely working out the tension that had built up from being on your feet all day.

“You work too hard, Y/n.” he angelically whispered, thumbs pressing unhurried, firm circles against your aching muscles.

“It’s not my fault, I have to.” You mumbled back, head sinking farther as you leaned into the couch cushions that were decorated among a plethora of pillows, funky designs adorning them.

His hands didn’t falter, massaging so deliberate and comforting, it felt as if he put you under some sort of spell–day’s load swiftly dissolving under his fingertips. His presence became a strong yet silent reminder that you weren’t alone in this.

The scent of dinner still lingered, mingling around faint traces of his baccarat cologne. The almost professional rhythm of his touch, it was all rapidly numbing your mind.

And if you were being honest, your panties began to get extremely sticky–slick clinging to the middle part of the fabric. You were too far gone to pray he wouldn’t notice though.

He only hummed in response, but his focus gradually started to drift as he kneaded higher up your luscious legs.

It was supposed to be an innocent little massage, but it was stupidly impossible to ignore how the red pencil skirt hugged your figure, the delicate stretch of skin-colored tights underneath had his breathing irregular.

The fabric was sheer enough that he could see the beautiful shape of your legs perfectly–the curve of your calf, and the freckles on your thigh that he was obsessed with?

Your husband found himself growing rock-hard already, except he swallowed Adam's apple bobbing as he forced himself to keep his touch controlled.

Then, you shifted, letting out a breathy moan, the movement causing your skirt to ride up a little too high for him to just keep this as an innocent stress relieving massage.

Shit, he was even able to see your pretty lace panties through the tights.

His fingers dragged up, moving to your inner thigh attempting to soothe any sore muscles there too, perhaps he squeezed too hard though, because he felt it.

The way your body shuddered as tiny goosebumps trailed all over your skin.

And the way your thighs clenched a little bit, your core pulsing faster than a marathon, even through the miniature barrier of fabric.

Suguru stilled for a moment, demeanor noticeably changing. His jaw locked while his long fingers tweaked where they rested.

“Oh? I see, work isn’t the only thing making you moody huh?” his lips purred, as he smirked amused he wasn’t the only one affected since the tent in his pants was beginning to become a nuisance.

Your face grew more heated than an oven at the observation “Suguru!” you squealed eyes widening like balloons at how promptly he caught on.

You hadn’t been fucked in months due to how much duties you had after coming home, so there was barely any time for that. And having a stressful situation on top of a stressful situation? This is all you wanted right now, to be touched by your man.

He breathlessly chuckled, pale hand squeezing your thigh tighter.

“Don’t go acting all shy on me now, Mrs. Geto.”

Unfortunately for you your pride wouldn’t let you admit you needed him that easily though…

“It’s not even like that,” you blurted, rolling your eyes, shifting your legs closed as if that could stop him from detecting how hot and bothered you were.

“Are you sure?” His hand slid further, over the curve of your thigh, stopping just short of where you needed him most. “So if I touched you here…” His fingers traced the seam of your tights, scarcely grazing over your clothed cunt—“I wouldn’t find you soaked?”

A whimper fled your lips, hips jerking instinctively toward his hand.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice dripping pure elation. “Didn’t sound like a no.”

“Shut up Sugu,” you grunted sheepishly, body burning anticipation.

He clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, a little bratty today, huh?” His other hand came down sharply against your thigh—a warning smack that made you jolt.

His fingers hooked into your tights, pulling the fabric off and the panties aside. The moment cool air hit your slick folds making it glisten, Suguru let out a low groan.

“Shit, baby. You were gonna sit here and lie to me when you’re this messy?” your man was hardly able to contain how turned on he was.

Your body shivered when his wedding band contrasted–slender fingers sliding between your warm folds, gathering your arousal.

“Mmph, so needy. My poor wifey.” He teased, brimming friskiness not pushing in yet solely to hear you whine for him.

“S—Suguru, aah please…”

He flashed a toothy grin, long jet-black hair dangling over his shoulder as he turned his head to press a tender sensual kiss on your inner thigh. “Hm, please what? you can do better than that, love.”

You squirmed, manicured nails gripping his lean muscular arm. Shortly folding, you begged “Please, just touch me, I want your fingers, anything please, I just need you.”

That was all it took. Suguru plunged two digits inside you, his ring still on, gently stretching you out. Your mouth fell apart, followed by a lengthy drawn-out moan, sprinkling into the air—evidence of how badly you desired this.

Then you spread your legs wider, just enough to let him treat you like royalty.

“Mmm, there you go,” he crooned, nudging his palm against your clit as he curled his large fingers inside, your gummy walls inviting him in.

“That’s my good girl.”

You couldn’t help but lift your hips up to meet his hand at his words, desperate for more, your slickness smearing across his palm as your body moved on instinct—hungry, mindless, wanting him deeper.

He shook his head feigning disappointment, dimples forming as his lips curved into a crooked smile.

“You could’ve just told me this was what you needed, angel. I would’ve taken care of you the second you walked in.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to focus on anything that was said. Glasses askew, cheek smashed into one of the couch pillows, your back arched as your legs trembled from overwhelming pleasure—narrowly keeping it together.

He set a fast rhythm calculated, every stroke purposeful—dragging out euphoria until your toes curled and breathy hitches swept past your lips.

But the second he hit that spot—the one that made your body judder as you flung your forearm across your face like a shield?

That’s when he started really enjoying himself, watching your reactions intently like one of his soap operas, knowing you were close.

“Mmm, That’s it, baby… Right there!” You gasped, as your body shook under his hand, pliant, attuned to every saccharine stroke he gave you.

He zeroed in on that precious g-spot, rubbing in a “Come here” motion, unrelenting and precise.

The pressure caused your walls to flutter, clenching with each back and forth gesture.

Your moans climbed higher, melting into siren-like whimpers—loud enough to have angry neighbors complaining, not that you could bring yourself to care anyway.

That coil began to build briskly, difficult to escape. Your stomach tensed with every breath, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern, thighs quivering as you teetered right on the edge of your orgasm.

“Oh my god, hah Sugu… t—that feels s’fucking good”

“Yeah? I know it does.” His other hand pressed down on your stomach, firm but not rough, keeping you in place as he continued to plant more kisses on your leg. “C’mon, let me feel it princess, cum f’me.”

His fingers picked up speed, rough and unforgiving, tapping that sweet spot as his palm grinded on your aching clit with every motion stoking the fire emerging in your belly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Was all you could manage to frantically spew out, voice growing hoarse after every word.

Pleasure seized you all at once—cutting like knives, immensely electric, it stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your cunt spasmed as a mewl freed itself out of your throat as your release burst free, gushing down Suguru’s wrist—inked with your initials in cursive—and drenching his apron in the process.

And still, he didn’t stop.

His fingers worked you through the high, prying wave after wave from you, each convulsion coaxing out more wetness as the lewd squelch of your arousal grew louder, filthier.

“Love you,” you heaved between shaky breaths.

The couch beneath you was damp. His tattooed wrist gleamed. And your husband’s lips twisted into that smug, knowing smirk—so sure of himself, so proud that he could always make his wife fall apart.

“I love you too, baby,” he mouthed, sewing a kiss to your thigh. “So much.”

You cried out, legs trembling violently, the aftershocks leaving your body in tatters. The pleasure lingered like an echo, so intense you instinctively reached down to push his hand away—sensitive, overstimulated, gasping for mercy.

But Suguru caught your wrist with ease, gently guiding it aside.

“Ah ah, ah, don’t run from it, love,” he cooed, voice like velvet dipped in sin—low, smooth, savoring your unraveling. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Then another wave slammed into you—abruptly. Your hips bucked, more wetness spilling over his palm in a stream so obscene it made his jaw drop.

“Damn,” he growled, forehead resting upon your thigh as he beamed, teeth grazing your skin. “That was a pretty one.”

You couldn’t speak. Could scantily breathe. Your body was limp, boneless, nothing more than a ruin draped across the couch, mind foggy with bliss.

Suguru only exhaled, before lifting his soaked hand into the dim light—watching the way your slick spread between his fingers, shining like a trophy.

“You made such a mess,” he mentioned in awe, voice tainted glee.

You twitched in response—body still quivering from overstimulation, thighs spasming gently as aftershocks coursed through your spent frame.

Suguru chortled, before grabbing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“You gonna clean up what you did, sweetheart?”

Your lashes flittered. Eyes glossy. Lips parted as you tried to draw in breath.

He smiled, going feral at your current state.

“Open up, baby.”

His thumb teased your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and the moment you did, he slid two slick fingers into your mouth, one garnished in his wedding band—soaked in your release.

The taste of yourself coated your tongue, hot and decadent. You whined around him, his fingertips greeted your tongue forcing you to slurp away your fluids.

“That’s it,” he silkily rasped, gaze pinned to your mouth. “Suck for me.”

You obeyed without question—lips stretching, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as you cleaned him with moderate, reverent spins.

His pupils dilated, hunger bleeding into every inch of him.

“Mmm. Good girl.” His voice dropped an octave, thick with lust. “Tastes perfect right?”

He pulled his fingers out achingly slow, dragging along your tongue so you could feel every inch, leaving your mouth empty and your core pulsing with need again.

A soft squeak escaped you, leaning into his warmth, thighs squeezing together as your body betrayed you—already aching for more.

Suguru leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips—each one reverent.

“Told you I’d take care of you, baby.”

You were still shaking, on top of the couch, but his body was taut with restraint—his cock straining beneath his apron that he untied straight away along with unbuckling his belt pulling his pants down, sure he’d die if he didn’t empty his balls.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous when you’re all wrecked for me.” His hand slithered down your jaw, tilting your face toward him again, the edge of his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Think you’ve got one more in you pretty girl?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, batting your lashes, thighs pressing together.

That’s all he needed. He wasted no time grabbing you by your waist flipping you onto your stomach.

Your cheek pressed into the pillow, you took your glasses off holding them to be comfortable. You felt the couch dip as he knelt behind you, palms sliding up the backs of your thighs before spreading them apart.

“So fucking wet,” he expressed to himself, dragging two fingers through your folds, watching how easily you parted for him. “God, you’re perfect.” Suguru claimed, happy he’d be the only one making you like this.

You let out a shaky exhale as he stroked the head of his cock along your entrance, catching on your clit just to hear the way your breath hitched again.

“Don’t tease,” you shot, voice muffled into the cushion.

He chuckled low, bending down to kiss the dip of your spine. “Don’t be impatient princess, I’m giving it to you.”

Then he pushed in—sluggish, all the way to the hilt.

Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. The stretch had your eyes rolling, back arching faintly under him as he bottomed out.

“Oh my god—” you choked, free hand gripping the armrest like it was the only thing anchoring you to earth.

He stayed there for a moment, letting you feel his girthy eight inches.

“Fuuuck, nghh, you’re tight,” he hissed through his teeth, one hand smoothing over your back, before caging you using both arms.

Then he started to move.

His hips rolled into you easy at first—deep and controlled, letting you feel every inch grind against that oversensitive spot inside you.

The pace was intimate, each stroke snatching a breathy moan from your lips.

“You take me so well,” Suguru hummed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed flush against you. “This pussy was fucking made for me.”

Your thighs wobbled as his pace built, heavier now, slapping against your ass with each thrust. You sing-song moaned, swearing you could feel him in your guts—forehead pressed into the cushion, body rocking with every deep stroke.

He used one of his veiny hands to spank your ass, biting his lip when it jiggled. Your walls clamped down around him at the action allowing a groan to leave his throat.

“C’mon, Y/n,” he panted your name divinely, mouth at your ear gently nibbling it. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

Your legs kicked faintly, unable to handle the stimulation—his tip snapping on your g-spot just right.

It was too much.

And it was dragging you toward the edge again.

Your body had hardly recovered, but Suguru didn’t give you a chance to come down. Not when you were this heated, this snug, this perfect around him.

He found that angle directly—already knowing your body like the back of his inked hand. His strokes were deep, precise, his hips flicking against the curve of your ass with a tempo that left your lungs aching.

Your moans turned into broken sobs, face smushed into the couch cushion, drool pouring out your lip as your thighs shook uncontrollably.

“Shhh, I know, baby,” he cooed, kissing the back of your neck while he fucked you through the overstimulation. “I know it’s a lot—but you’re doing so good.”

You didn’t even have the words to beg him to slow down. Or to keep going. You were somewhere in between delirium and heaven, your body tottering under every harsh drag of his dick.

And when he found your g-spot again? Pounding into it ruthlessly you screamed.

“Aah! Sugu I can’t—fuckk” you babbled, voice caught between a cry and a whimper.

“You can,” he purred against your shoulder, fingers rolling tight circles against that overstimulated bundle of nerves. “C’mon. Give me another one, sweetheart. Wanna feel you gush on me again.”

His words broke something in you.

The coil snapped brutally in how hard it hit you. Your entire body locked up before you convulsed around him, cunt squeezing so tight it knocked the breath out of him.

A wet gush spilled from you, soaking both of you again—your thighs, his shaft, and the couch beneath.

“Shittt,” he animalistically growled, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, the slap of skin and the wet squelch of your orgasm impossibly obscene. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your vision went white for a second. Fingers clawing uselessly at the cushion, a high-pitched whine spilling from your lips.

Suguru eventually halted, letting you ride out the tremors. Letting your body melt into the couch, limp and pliant. And still, those fuzzy white bunny slippers were on his feet.

Suguru couldn’t take it anymore.

Not when your cunt was pulsing like that around him, clenching down on him like you didn’t want him to ever leave.

His grip tightened one hand resting on your hips, fingers digging into the plush of your waist as his flow grew sloppier, rougher. His forehead dropped to your neck, breath hot against your skin as he groaned deep—feral.

“Fuuuck—Y/n, you’re gonna make me cum,” he rasped, voice gruff, needy. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight.”

Your only response was a soft, broken mewl into the pillow, your body shuddering with every thrust.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” he panted. “Gonna give you all of my cum—fuck, wanna knock you up.”

He was gone, entirely pussydrunk.

His hips snapped forward with a final thrust, burying himself to the hilt as a groan tore from his chest, raw and guttural. His cock twitched deep inside you as hot ropes of cum spilled into your cervix, thick and endless.

He stayed buried there, holding you tight, grinding in slow circles to push it deeper, watching his cum drip back out around his manhood.

“Look at that,” he uttered, astonished, breathless, one hand sliding down to thumb at your swollen clit again. “So full of me, think… I put a baby in you.”

You whimpered helplessly, hips rocking from aftershocks, and he finally leaned down, kissing your spine, your shoulder, your cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, still buried deep inside, body draped over yours, voice so soft and satisfied it made your chest ache. “M’never letting you go.”

And from the floor, those ridiculous bunny slippers peeked out—innocent, stupidly soft, in total contrast to what he’d just done to you.

Suguru didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed there for a moment—buried deep, draped over you, chest rising and falling against your back, his arms curled around your middle like he didn’t want to let go. His length still nestled inside your cozy, messy cunt,

“You okay, Y/n?” he finally whispered, voice hoarse but gentle, showering kisses to the back of your neck. “Talk to me.”

You nodded, your cheek still squished into the pillow. “M’okay,” you mumbled, dazed. “Think you fucked the thoughts outta me.”

He laughed low in his chest, one hand coming up to smooth out your clothes, fingers grazing your temple.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he said, easing out of you with a soft hiss, watching your cum-slick pussy flutter around nothing before his eyes softened. “Shit. Made such a mess in you, huh?”

You could only brashly pant trying to catch your breath.

Suguru scurried into the bathroom nearby for a warm towel coming back to gently wipe between your thighs, murmuring praises as he went.

“There we go, angel. You did so good for me. So, so good.”

He lifted you carefully, tucking you into his chest as he sat back on the couch, pulling a blanket over both of you. His palm rubbed lazy circles into your thigh as he kissed your forehead.

And even with your legs still weak, your lips parted in a sleepy smile.

“You wore the bunny slippers the whole time??” you slurred, still dazed.

Suguru smiled. “Of course I did,” he said, his voice full of smug love. “You think I’d take these off? Absolutely not.”

You wheezed a little giggle against his collarbone, letting your body melt into his.

And he held you there—until your heart dwindled slowly, and your breathing softened.

By tomorrow morning, you’d be strolling into work like nothing happened—students staring at you, creeped out by your unshakable mood and bright, unnatural pep at 8 a.m. Not knowing you’d been thoroughly destroyed the night before by your husband in bunny slippers.

Tags 🔖 @sophistication-as @imnot-adoll @lacey-blog @hal0g3nz @cyberzpace @dreamerofstarlight @jup1tersuccubus @rheawritessometimes @suguboos @latencygirl @hopefulpeachcolor @kunanuts @tiredvlovely @rotteneyess @11thlife02 @xoyumiqls

Divider/Boarder creds | hyuneskkami, elleisdesigning, + animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

I appreciate comments, likes, reblogs. THANK YOU if you really sat down and gave this a read mwah, mwah, mwah.

A/n : Had huge Suguru brainrot and wrote this, I was not expecting the brainrot to make this end up at 3.8K whew… + I also wasn’t expecting so many peeps to wanna be tagged 😅 I hope I fulfilled your expectations!!

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bunny-jpeg · 11 months ago

Text

baby fever

capt. john price

cw: smut/pwp, dirty talk, breeding/pregnancy, filthy, husband!price, slight age gap (reader is early 20s, price late 30s), military formal wear, oral (m receiving), doggy style, unprotected

bunny says: i thought about built/chubby price and him in his military formals and my brain turned off. this was the end result.

price wasn't beating the bear allegations. while he wasn't a gay bear, he knew that there were a lot of women who loved his physique. dusting of hair, built but enjoyed a good sunday roast. thick fingers and broad tongue. he was a built man after his years of service.

but if price had to pin you as an animal, it would be his little chickadee. small and fragile with a cute little song. the most loveliest thing he had ever laid his eyes on. no wonder within a year of dating, you were already engaged.

price knew when he had a good thing going and didn't want to ruin it. you were still in university, but he'd never make his darling girl quit school for his sake.

"'ey, love." he said as he walked past you on your laptop. he leaned in and kissed the side of your neck, "studyin' well?"

you looked over and smiled at him, "of course, big bear." you took him by the face and kissed him on the cheek. your engagement ring gleamed in the light of the living room.

but even the brightest university students could easily crumble against a man like price. it didn't help that there was a spike in your baby fever. it was almost embarrassing when you watched price in the living room, shining his uniform boots. it also didn't help when he was making sure that formal attire still fit.

he noticed you staring, you didn't try to hide it.

he stood there in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom. the beret, the jacket, the medals. hands on his hips as he looked at you. he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the sight of your jaw almost on the floor.

"tryin' to see if everythin' still fit. need to go back to the gym, your cookin' is gonna be the death of me, love." he chuckled. he dragged his tongue across his top teeth and said, "now that i know, why don't ya help me get out of it."

maybe a man in uniform was your (not-so) secret kink. you've seen him in everything under the sun, but every time it still made your throat dry. you were in your sunday pajamas, paired with fuzzy slippers.

he reached out for you, "ya like when i'm dressed like this, huh?" he chuckled as he tilted his head down to kiss the top of your head.

"i mean." you said, "you look good." you blushed a little bit more and looked away from him, but he took you by the chin to look at him. those blue eyes peered into yours.

"don't be shy, love." he said, "i like when ya stare."

you held onto the front of his jacket, the thick material felt heavy in your grasp. you could feel the wetness between your legs. damn price. you said, "you look good, big bear."

he reached down and took a handful of your ass, "and you look even better, my chickadee. now c'mon, undress yer man." then licked his top lip at the sight of your delicate hands trying to undo the formal jacket. he then took you by the head again and said, "pants first." then helped you onto your knees.

you swallowed and looked up at him. if anyone looked inside, they'd see a weird power dynamic. but all price saw was an eager little birdie trying to get her hands on her husband.

"those medals look nice." you said as he reached for his belt.

he chuckled, "not as nice as your lips on my cock." then dragged a hand through your hair. the belt soon came off as his pants were unzipped. he was thankful that he knew how to get any stains out of his uniform, because he knew you were a messy girl.

you took his cock out of his slacks. it stood was full attention and even after all this time together, the sight of it was still arousing. cut, thick, a deep pink (not quite red) and almost eight inches in length. you once joked it was a "porno dick".

you kissed the underside of it with such warmth that it made the man shudder. then started the slow, small licks against the shaft. you chuckled to yourself at the feeling of his cock under your tongue. he felt like a dream.

"that's a good girl. my darlin' girl." he said with a hint of pride in his voice. he loved the sight of you on his knees. even if the sweat down his back was making the heavy jacket more uncomfortable.

you stroked the base of his cock with one hand while you put your mouth fully on the tip. you teased it with wet strokes of you tongue. you could hear the gruff noise your husband made.

you squirmed a little while on your knees and could feel a dull throb between your legs. price's cock was an impressive sight and a task to fully get in your mouth.

"ya got a small mouth, love.' he remarked jokingly, "too small for all of this. but i know you'll do your best.' he combed his fingers through your hair once more before it rested on the back of your head.

he supported your head while you continued to orally pleasure him. he loved his woman on her knees in front of him. while he held you in high regard, he thought you were the sweetest things since strawberries on cake, but there was something about seeing HIS woman like this.

you looked up at him and a groan got caught in his throat. you gave him a cute little wink before you continued to stroke him off. your other hand was on his strong thigh for support as you pleasured him.

"oh sweet fuck." he groaned.

you knew you'd never take all of him in your throat but you made the most of what you could. his cock was heavy in your mouth as you continued to move your head.

he gripped the back of your head, he felt hot all over as pleasure pumped through his veins. he loved his girl, his darling sweet angel. yeah the age difference was to raise an eyebrow at. but if they knew the angel he managed to get a ring on, they'd understand.

his little chickadee.

you looked up at him once more. the way he looked down at you with a guiding hand on the back of your head. you pulled your mouth off his cock and looked up at him with your tongue out of your mouth.

"fuckin' doll eyes." he said, "get back to what you were doin', i want to see you take every last drop."

you once again went back to orally pleasuring him. your hand dug into the meat of his thigh as you tried to take more of his cock in your throat. the noises that came from your husband made your core ache.

the bright pink in his cheeks made you smile as he messed up with hair with his broad hands. he felt so big next to you. his little precious wife doing everything in her power to get him off.

with a few more thrusts of your head with his cock nudging the back of your throat. you moved to keep the tip against your tongue as he came down your throat. you didn't want to choke on his cum but you savored every last salty drop.

maybe a man in uniform did things to you.

when you pulled away, you looked up at him. "i want you, john." you said as you licked your lips and wiped your chin with the back of your hand, "i want to have your babies." the baby fever was thrumming in your veins, "fuck me, big bear."

he raised an eyebrow, "babies, huh? i thought you wanted to be a working woman." he said cheekily.

you rose to your feet, your legs were shaky as you grabbed him by the front of his uniform jacket and kissed him deeply. you almost toppled over him but he held you by the middle for support. when you pulled away, you panted as you said, "breed me price, or i'll find someone else to do it."

his expression darkened, "don't be sayin' things like that, love." he pulled you close to him. his cock was still hard between you two, "you better not run off with some runt." he kissed your heated cheek, "now face down, ass up, chickadee."

you pulled away from him and turned towards the bed. you shredded your clothes and almost threw yourself onto the large mattress. your face against the pillow with your back arched and hips raised.

you felt the bed sink soon after with your husband's large hands on your hips and his cock rested against your ass.

"your uniform." you squeaked.

"i'll iron it tonight." he replied, "right now, my darlin' girl needs her pussy fucked." his vulgar language made a shiver run through you.

when he bottomed out into your pussy, you felt the air escape your lungs. you clutched onto the pillow. he got a perfect view of your backside, his gaze felt hungry against you.

"please."

"my darlin' girl." price said softly. he leaned in and kissed you on the shoulder. you felt like a tight heat around him. "my beautiful wife." price adored that you were his wife. that you decided to marry him, now he got to feel up your beautiful figure every moment.

"god, john." you moaned, "was it always this damn big?"

he chuckled lowly, "you make me hard, love. i see ya and i just go wild." he then started to kiss at your shoulders and neck.

you held onto the pillow and panted in the pillows. you felt the sweat at your back as you were fucked. you panted into the fabric and felt your husband thrust into you.

"sweeter than jam and more fuckable than a toy." he chuckled lowly as he began to pick up the pace. he could feel your heat under him, you were a dream in his eyes.

the precious wife to be a beloved captain, almost twenty years her senior. the bed creaked under your movements and the sweet sounds of your sex filled the air. it was also joined by your sweet noises that encouraged your husband to keep fucking you.

you felt hot all over as the man fucked you. the pleasure rolled through your body as you moved against the bed. you panted and moaned into the pillow and let your husband thrust into you.

"my sweet girl." he purred.

"please, john." you whined.

the sex between you two felt hot, like you were on a knife's edge as he rutted against you. you could feel the heat pool in your gut as he moved against you. sweat clung to your chest and neck. your hair stuck against your skin.

"that's it." he murmured. his cock throbbed inside of you.

your love making continued, you pushed the hair out of your eyes the more he fucked you from behind. your hands were deep in the pillow as you moaned into the fabric.

price loved the sight of you. he just thought that you looked amazing, HIS girl was like this under him. he was your big strong bear and he loved the sight of you under him. just a dream to him. his heat raced in his hairy chest as he placed more weight on you.

"shit, john." you groaned.

"I got ya. i'll be finishin' in ya soon. give ya all the babes you want." he chuckled as he kissed your heated cheek. his thrusts were quick and made you see stars behind your lids.

you were heated all over and your head was swimming. you panted wildly into the bed and with a few more strokes of his cock, you came around him.

price groaned at intense heat around his cock. he went as fast as he could and felt the sweat down his toned back. he pressed himself further into you and finished.

his cum shot to the back of your cunt and you let out a pleased noise. his pace slowed down until he stopped and pulled out. he wiped the sweat from his forehead and scratched his hairy chest, "how's that, love?"

you laid fully flat on the bed and nodded your head, "we're going to have to keep goin' though, big bear. you've done so much damage to yourself that your swimmers aren't as strong as they used to be." so you rolled onto your back and reached for him, "c'mon. fuck me again."

he chuckled as he leaned back on his heels and stroked his cock, "of course chickadee. anythin' for ya."

#bunny writes #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #reader insert #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader #price mw2 #captain john price #john price #captain john price smut #john price smut #price smut #cod modern warfare #captain price #price #john price x reader #price x you #captain price x reader #price x reader

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artemisia-musings · 3 months ago

Text

A Broken Man Can Love Again

Minors DNI! 18+ only

Summary: Leon is tasked with training a new agent. He vows to protect her, but doesn't expect to fall for her.

Tags/Warnings: Fem reader, no use of Y/N, suicidal thoughts, violence, protective Leon, smut, trauma dumping lol.

Note: I've been super depressed lately so this fic has been kinda therapeutic to write. Protective Leon makes my heart flutter. Also this is my first time writing smut! Hope you like it <3

Leon Scott Kennedy worked best alone. It was easier that way, safer. He found it was often easier to work if he didn’t have some soft-hearted inexperienced rookie trailing along after him. He couldn’t stand to get attached to them, only for them to perish. He had seen far too many good men and women die at the hands of evil. The weight of every death hung heavy on him, a reminder of his failures to do what he had long ago promised to do. Save everyone. If he can’t even save his goddamn team, how is he expected to save the world?

Seven years since Racoon City, seven years since his autonomy was stripped away. He supposed it was for the best, although Leon couldn’t help but feel jealous of those who had to choose what to do with their lives. Claire was never given the choice between death or service, no, she got to run off and play humanitarian. He gritted his teeth, knowing he was being unfair. Of course, if Claire had known leaving him and Sherry would have resulted in them being kidnapped she would have helped. He tried not to hold it against her. He tried to remind himself that at the very least, he was still helping the world, saving it from those who would seek to destroy it. But as he walked down the halls of whatever government agency he was aiding that day, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hatred for those who had been given a choice to be there.

Most people he came into contact with at work didn’t even believe in B.O.W’s. And why should they? The government wiped the slate clean every time, burying the events so that the world wouldn’t panic. Very few government agents knew the horrors of the bio-weapons, and even fewer were properly trained on how to deal with them. The survival rate for agents like himself was low, to say the least. Hell, Leon felt like he had seen most of them die himself. Ripped apart, crushed like a bug, necks bitten and torn. He had become so desensitized to gore and violence over the years that it hardly even phased him anymore. Leon worked best alone, so his annoyance when it was announced he would be training a new rookie was astronomical.

“Hunnigan, you have to be joking right? I’m the last guy they want training someone,” he argued, pacing the office of perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend in the government.

Ingrid Hunnigan, ever the level-headed individual, merely shrugged. “They thought your experience with B.O.Ws, along with the recent success of your Spain mission, made you the best candidate to train her.” Hannigan paused from clacking at her keyboard.

“If things go well, they will most likely make her your new partner.” She said it so casually as if this wasn’t a tremendous update.

Their relationship was one built off of duty. Ever since his mission in Spain last year, he had taken a liking to the no-nonsense woman. She let him complain and whine about his job; about his loneliness. And while she couldn’t do anything to help him, she was able to provide him with a small amount of validation and comfort. The field support agent was perhaps the only person aside from his higher-ups who knew of his forced involvement in the agencies.

“If she lasts that long,” Leon grumbled under his breath. Hannigan cast him a sour look but Leon shrugged it off, knowing he didn’t get a say in the situation- he never did. Choice wasn’t something in his job description, if he had a choice he wouldn’t be here at all. Or would he? For the past seven years, he had been trained to be an agent, trained to be the perfect weapon against eldritch abominations created by capitalistic psychopaths, and before that he had spent years at the police academy, training to serve. All his adult life he had been taught to serve and obey, and he was pretty damn good at it too. An obedient little soldier, ready to die for his masters. If Leon had a choice would he still be here? He couldn’t fathom the possibility of a normal life anymore, not with the knowledge that the world was so corrupted and ugly, ready to implode at any moment. Leon never had the option to choose this career, why anyone would be beyond him?

Mumbling a goodbye, he left his friend before returning to his own office. He slumped down in the chair, booting up his computer. Might as well figure out who his partner is anyway. Leon knew it was a bad idea to get attached, but curiosity killed the cat. Pulling up her file, he was surprised to see how young she was, not even past her early twenties yet. Most recruits tended to be older, and more experienced in military combat and whatnot. An unease washed over him as he read her file closely, a pang of anger sparking in his chest. The girl was in a similar boat as him. Wrong place, wrong time. Welcome to the club, kid. She had been present during an isolated virus outbreak at a University football game and had the unfortunate accolade of being one of the few survivors. Anyone with the capability to stand up to an infected tended to capture the attention of the government. Leon gritted his teeth, trying to calm the rage that brewed inside him. Had they blackmailed her into agreeing to join? Threatening her family, her own life, if she didn’t comply? He hadn’t even met her yet and he was already miserating over her.

Leon looked closer at her photo, taking in the saddened but hopeful spark in her eyes. Was she trying to see the bright side of the situation? Did she think she would get to be a hero? Leon let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair as he tried not to dwell on the potential of losing another person, another partner, another friend; the heart can only handle so much. “I’ll try and keep you safe” he murmured to himself, glancing back up at the photo on his screen. This time it would be different. It had to be.

_______

It was a sunny day when he met his new partner. Leon stood in the training room, rays of light beaming through the windows as a suit-clad man escorted the young woman in, no doubt her handler. Leon sucked in a breath, remaining stoic as they approached, trying to calm his racing nerves. Despite what he might tell others, Leon wasn’t exactly well-versed in talking to women. He used to consider himself a smooth talker in college, but ever since he left the academy, his exposure to flirting opportunities had been limited, to say the least. The closest he had gotten to flirting was with Ada last year in Spain. Can it be called flirting when you have a knife to their throat? However, one night in seven years was still a losing streak in his eyes.

The nameless suit briefly introduced the woman, whom upon hearing her name called, hesitantly reached out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Agent Kennedy,” she greeted awkwardly.

Leon huffed a chuckle, an eyebrow quivering in amusement as he slowly reached for her hand. “Please, just call me Leon,” he insisted, shaking her hand. It was soft, not yet hardened by callouses, and her grip was weak. Hands that had not seen battle. They shouldn’t see battle at all. She shouldn’t be here to begin with.

As the agent departed, Leon took in the sight of his new trainee. He had been told she had been put through basic military training, but it would be up to him to prepare her for the unpredictability of bio-weapons. Without hesitation, he unsheathed his knife, slashing it toward her and she yelped in surprise, arching backward to avoid the blade.

“What the hell?!” she protested, dodging yet another attack from him. Her movements were clumsy, but fast- he could work with that.

“You think a bio-weapon is gonna give you a heads up when it’s about to kill you?” He retorted, his knife nicking her cheek. “You think a corpse is gonna ask permission to bite you? That a mutated beast is gonna wait for your turn?” The girl grits her teeth, dodging and weaving his slashes. “You have to be ready for anything because these things will not hesitate to kill you.” His blade came into contact with her arm as he knocked her down and she fell with a grunt, glaring up at him. Leon bit back his tongue, ignoring the way her frustrated look pained him. It was for her good, he couldn’t let her training be easy, not if she expected to live through the next few years. As much as Krauser was a psychotic sadist, Leon couldn’t help but admit that his brutal training methods had been useful. He reached out his hand, the young woman hesitating before taking it.

“ That’s one hell of a hello,” she grumbled, and a smirk formed on Leon’s mouth. He pulled her up to her feet, giving her a pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t take it personally,” he chuckled softly. “Now, let’s go get you bandaged up.”

____________

The seasons start to change and Leon starts to dread going to work less. Despite the colder nip in the air, he feels warm, and eager at the prospect of seeing his rookie. She has acclimated well to her new role, and while Leon wishes he could punch the son of a bitch who forced her to enlist, he can’t help but feel a spark of gratitude that she was here.

The rookie isn’t overtly chatty, and Leon can tell she still doesn’t fully trust him. He can see it in her eyes, like a deer eyeing a wolf. She’s polite and respectful, dutifully calling him honorifics and obeying commands, but Leon isn’t fooled.

There is snow in the air as he makes her run through an obstacle course. After all, not every mission she’s sent on is going to have pristine weather. She’s miserable, he can tell even from afar. She trudges through the snow, hauling herself over wooden walls, leaping over logs, and swinging from a rope. By the time she practically collapses over the finish line, her ears and nose are tinged red from the cold, and he can see her breath in the cold winter air.

“You took too long,” he said plainly, checking his stopwatch. “You took nearly five minutes, you can’t pass unless you do it in under two.”

The girl is panting, trying to regain her breath. She glances at Leon, a look of annoyance plastered clear on her face. “Fuck off” she wheezes, and a bead of sweat rolls down her forehead.

Leon can’t help but laugh at her crass words. He remembers how difficult it is, trudging through the snow or mud through the finish line. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this over the years, how many times Krauser pushed him until he was at wit's end. Leon doesn’t want to be a cruel footnote in the history of her life. He doesn’t want her to look back on this chapter of her life with disdain as she remembers him. Leon isn’t sure of what he wants, or what he needs to give up to admit what he suspects deep down. He shakes his head, trying to push any conflicting feelings down deep inside him, burying this fleeting hesitation along with the rest of his hopes, dreams, and suppressed emotions. Leon isn’t here to get sentimental, he’s here to make sure this rookie doesn’t get murdered on her first mission.

“One more time” he orders, looking away from her and back over to the snow-covered course. “After that, you can take a break,” Leon adds, almost hesitantly. He shouldn’t be soft with her, but as her face lights up at the prospect of being able to rest, he can’t help but feel his heart flutter with a palpitation of happiness. He watches as she takes off once more, a newfound sense of energy overtaking her as she maneuvers the course. Leon can’t help but feel mesmerized as he watches her in a trance-like state, a surge of pride washing over him as she sprints over the last obstacle, gasping for breath as she crosses the finish line.

“One minute and forty-six seconds,” he said, stopping the timer as she smiled triumphantly.

“Nice to know your reward motivated, perhaps from here on out I’ll carry a little bag of treats for you,” he snarks, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Woof” she responds dryly, “Now I believe I was promised a break?”

Leon nods, smiling to himself as he leads her towards the concrete building. “Let’s go rookie, I’m pretty sure the dining hall made hot chocolate,” he says.

“Is it good?” she asks, trailing after him.

“Not at all,” he admits. She laughs, throwing her head back as she does so. Leon can’t help but stop in his tracks, admiring her beauty as the snow falls around them.

__________________

It’s a quiet night, far too quiet for Leon’s liking. It’s the kind of silence that puts him on edge, reminiscent of a calm before the storm. He knows deep down he’s safe in this military facility, that there is no monster lurking in the dark shadows of his room, but he can’t bring himself to fully believe it. He tosses and turns in a light slumber, waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing and mouth agape. Nights like these aren’t uncommon; he's used to waking up in a panic. Not even in sleep can he escape the ghosts of his past, the terror that has plagued him for years. The line between nightmare and reality doesn’t exist for him, and he dreads the prospect of sleeping again. He pushes himself out of bed, his body aching from the thin mattress as he throws on a random t-shirt. He ran out of his hidden liquor supply a few weeks ago, but perhaps the kitchen has something that could calm his nerves. Leon feels weak admitting that alcohol is one of the few things that allows him to temporarily forget his trauma. He’s a man on a mission as he slinks through the halls of the base, careful to be quiet. He’d hate to have to explain to a commanding officer why he was out at this time. Sorry about that General, I was just looking for some spare booze cause I had a nightmare! That’d go over well. The kitchen is unlocked and seemingly abandoned as he peeks his head in, making a beeline to the cupboards. Lady Luck is on his side as he finds a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Bingo. The sound of sniffling startles him, shooting his head up to see the rookie curled up by a window, moonlight pouring down over her as she meets his gaze.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Leon asked, trying to keep a fragment of authority in his voice. It comes out cracking, his voice still husky from sleep and raw with emotions.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “You?”

“Tried to sleep, didn’t go over well,” he mumbled, grabbing two glasses. “Care for a glass?” he asks, already pouring one for her. He knows the answer.

“Please” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. Leon knows this look all too well. He pours them both a hefty shot, placing a glass in front of her as he takes the opposing seat to her. The rookie grabs the glass, swirling its contents around as she drinks deeply.

“I can tell you want to say something, might as well get it off your chest,” he offers, drinking from his cup. When he was in the academy Leon used to hate straight liquor. It burned his throat and made his eyes water, stinging on the way down. Now, Leon enjoyed the burn, it reminded him he could still feel. He didn’t even flinch any more as he drank it.

“You wouldn’t understand,” the rookie sighs. Leon can see that her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, with heavy bags under her eyes.

“I might be the only one who does,” he countered.

The rookie doesn’t say anything at first, just looking at him with a haunted expression. “I had to shoot my friend,” she said, turning her gaze to the window. The moonlight shines down on her, casting her in an ethereal glow. “One of those infected bit her, tore a chunk right out of her arm. She swore up and down that she was fine, but after a little bit she had to sit down,” she paused, pursing her lips as she got lost in the memory. “I was holding her hand when she died, was with her to the end. But then she came back, thought maybe I was going crazy, that maybe God was looking out for me. Then she looked at me with those pale dead eyes and lunged at me. Had to put a bullet in her head.” The girl tensed, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“You did the right thing,” Leon assured her. The rookie doesn’t look very convinced, just shaking her head. “I had to shoot my boss,” he murmured in exchange. “First day on the force back in ‘98, I was wandering the halls of the Racoon City police department when I found him. Never even got a proper chance to meet him, everything had gone to shit by the time I had arrived,” he paused to chuckle dryly. “His name was Marvin, only knew him for a few hours, but he died saving me. I wouldn’t be here without him.” Leon paused, feeling a lump in his throat. He quickly took a sip of his whiskey, not wanting to cry in front of her. “He turned too and came back as one of those creatures. Had to shoot him, right in the head,” he sighed, feeling his eyes dampen with tears.

“Sometimes I think about all the ways I could have helped him, how maybe if I had just done something differently he would still be alive. God, maybe if I had gotten there sooner I could have saved more people..” he trailed off, realizing he was rambling.

He clears his throat as he notices she is staring at him, a pitiful look on his face. No, it wasn't pity. Leon was far too familiar with pity, he faces it damn near every day. He can hear their hushed whispers in the office as they huddle around the water cooler, casting glances at him as he passes by. His story is infamous in the agencies he visits. Leon isn’t some fabled hero or even a person. He’s a tragedy that people love to revisit. He can’t let the past die, not when it’s become so woven into his sense of self. The girl doesn’t regard him in pity, but rather a look of mutual sorrow and misery. She doesn’t try to dab at her tears as they begin to fall more freely.

“It was my fault my friend died,” she said, her voice thick with choked-back sobs. “I was the one who had dragged her to that game, where they released the virus,” she sniffles. “It was chaos, the stampede to leave the arena must have been worse than the infected. All you could hear was screaming, an endless roar of it. All I could focus on was her hand, gripping it to make sure she didn’t get lost in the sea of people. We were both so hopped up on adrenaline we didn’t even notice she had gotten bit,” she had to pause to take a deep breath, and regain her composure.

“Swat team had come, every police officer in the county too,” she shakes her head as if trying to get rid of the memory. “Not that it made much of a difference, pretty sure most of them perished in the end. I grabbed a gun off of a fallen cop, and the two of us managed to get away from the crowd.” Her face scrunches up as she recounts the night. “If I hadn’t made her go, she’d maybe still be alive.”

“It’s not your fault she died,” Leon said softly, hesitating before reaching his hand out to grasp hers. “We can’t ponder on the what-ifs, at least that’s what I read in one of those psychology magazines.” This makes her chuckle, her lips curling into a small smile as their eyes meet. It’s a strange way to bond, trauma dumping in the middle of the night, but it feels as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, making it a little easier to breathe. Moonlight drapes over them and Leon wishes he could freeze time.

______

Gunshots cut through the silence as Leon observes the rookie shoot. Her brow is furrowed with determination, a scowl on her lips as attempts to shoot the targets in the head. Body shots at best might stun an infected, and probably won’t do jackshit against a larger mutated beast. Headshots guarantee damage to some extent at least. Her posture is perfect—confident, determined—but there's a flicker of something else in her eyes, something that catches his attention. Anger, maybe? Or frustration? The gunshot rings out again. Another headshot. The cluster of bullets digs deep into the skull of her target, her scowl morphing into a satisfied smirk at the small victory.

“Not bad,” Leon said, a strange sense of pride welling in his chest. “You know your way around a gun.” She pauses, lowering the weapon as she turns to look at him. Her expression shifts into something he can’t quite place.

“Thanks, the only thing my dad ever taught me,” she said, huffing a dry laugh. “Hated it at the moment, but I suppose I’m thankful now.” Her words are flippant although her body has tensed up.

“Didn’t get along so well I take it?” Leon questioned, cocking an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall. He can feel a familiar pang in his chest, the tug of commissary.

“That would be an understatement,” she rolls her eyes, Leon watches her carefully as she clicks the safety on and places the pistol on the table, her fingers lingering on the cool metal for just a fraction of a second too long.

“He was better than some fathers... but looks like I got served a helping of daddy issues anyway. He died a few years back, sometimes I’m almost thankful he passed before..” she trails off, gesturing to the room. Her words hang in the air between them, far more intimate than she probably intended. Leon stays silent for a moment longer than usual, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he’s unsure if he should say anything. There's a softness in her voice he didn’t expect. He struggles to remember his father, his family was taken from him when he was little. Sometimes if he tries hard enough he can see flashes of his face and feel the warmth of his embrace. But that’s all they are. Flashes of his past.

“I get it. Doesn’t always go the way we want, does it?” Her gaze flickers over to him, catching his eyes for just a moment, and that’s when Leon feels the change in the air. The weight of the conversation lingers, and the quiet moments stretch longer between them than either of them is comfortable with.

“It never does,” she says at last, sighing as she combed her fingers through her hair. “What about you? You close with your old man?”

“Old man died along with the rest of my family when I was a kid,” Leon says with a shake of his head. He pauses, searching through the distant memories as he tries to recall what his father was like. “I don’t have any bad memories of him, but don’t have many good ones either. He’s more of a feeling that haunts me.” The rookie just looks at him with an unreadable expression, as if she’s scanning his face.

“I guess we’re both haunted,” she says at last, breaking the silence between them. Leon can’t help but feel his lips tug into a smile. Vulnerability is not something that comes easily to him these days. It’s a weakness, something that can be used against him. Open yourself up too much and people are bound to steal bits and pieces from you. However, around the rookie, Leon can’t help but feel his walls weakening, baring his scars to her. He knows he should feel terrified to let anyone see the broken pieces of him, but all he can feel is relief that someone can see the real him.

_________

Leon can feel his heart in his throat as he sits down in Hunnigan’s office. It’s like a lump he can’t swallow, his esophagus tightening as if he’s about to choke. He knows why he was called here and it’s a moment he has been dreading since the rookie was assigned to him. He watches silently as his friend and colleague flips through the reports that he has provided on her, updates on her training and progress. The decision to send her into the field. To risk her life, to trust her on missions that could end in bloodshed or worse. He watches, almost disassociated, as Hunnigan flips through the reports on her progress.

“Everything looks good. Excellent, even,” she says, her voice smooth, confident. She adjusts her glasses, casting a rare smile in his direction. “You must feel proud.”

He just shrugs, unable to calm the nervousness swelling in his stomach. “I’m ecstatic,” he grumbles gruffly. He knows he’s being rude, she’s congratulating him on doing his job. He trained her and turned her from a survivor to an agent deemed worthy of missions. But Leon hates the idea of her out there in the field, risking her life. Too many what-ifs float through his mind, the unpredictability of their line of work fueling doomsday scenarios in his head.

Hunnigan doesn’t miss the bite in his tone. She glances up, her brow furrowing in mild concern, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she returns her focus to the papers in front of her, her fingers tapping lightly against the desk.

“I’m sure she’s ready,” he mutters under his breath, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself. Leon’s hands twitch, itching to grab something—anything—to release the frustration building inside him. He can feel his stomach twisting into knots, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Leon, you did everything you could,” she says, her tone more measured now. “You trained her. You gave her the tools. Now, it’s up to her.”

Leon huffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw clenches. “Yeah? And what happens when it’s not enough? When the situation’s too much for her? You know how unpredictable this job is. I know how unpredictable this job is.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing in front of her desk, every step fueled by the tight knot of anger and fear in his gut. His voice rises, rough with emotion. “ I didn’t sign up to watch her get torn apart, to watch everyone I fucking care about die!” hd snaps. “I did it…to protect people, to save lives. How many lives have been lost because of me? Because of my failures?” His voice trails off, the anger morphing into bitter sorrow. Finally, he grits his teeth and mutters, “I’m not letting her get killed out there.”

Hannigan smiles faintly, but it’s not one of triumph. More like understanding. “Then trust her, Leon. She’s ready. And she’ll prove it to you.”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue again, but something in her expression stops him. With a sharp exhale, he takes a seat again, tension still coiled in every muscle. It will be different this time.

________

It’s a quiet night, one of those rare peaceful moments that Leon always savors. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, a recognition of the hard work and training that had earned her a spot among the rest of them. She had passed, she was ready for missions, ready for the chaos and carnage that came with this job. And yet, all Leon could think about was the heavy weight of what that meant: ready to die. He takes another gulp of whiskey, the burn settling somewhere in his chest. He had taken her to a nearby bar, and it by no means was an elegant establishment. The decor was dated and dusty with the patrons even more so. Leon couldn’t help but find it charming, however.

She’s sitting across from him, smiling, talking about the future, trying to hide her quelling nerves. The dim lights of the bar cast shadows over her face, her body swaying slightly as she tapped her finger along to the beat of the old jazz music that permeated from the dusty jukebox in the corner. She sips at her beer, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes as she notices him staring at her.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious as her hand rises to dab at her lips.

He shakes his head, his lips tugging into an easy smile. “Do you want to dance?” he asks suddenly, his voice low and steady, almost like he wasn’t giving himself the chance to second-guess it. Her eyes widened a fraction in surprise. He hadn’t been one to make impulsive moves, especially with her. Still, there’s something in the way she holds her gaze that makes his stomach flutter. A chuckle escapes her, and she leans back slightly in her chair, putting on a dramatic sigh.

“Smooth,” she teases, but she doesn’t hesitate. She slides her palm into his, letting him pull her up with a small, amused shake of her head. “But I guess I’ll accept.”

“I’m hurt,” Leon says, gasping in mock offense as he pulls her gently toward the dance floor.

“And here I thought we had something special!” He spins her around as he pulls her close to him, hands resting on her waist as they sway to the beat. A soft laugh bubbles out of her, warm and light, before she looks up at him, the playfulness in her eyes softening for just a moment.

“We do,” she says quietly, her voice taking on an almost shy edge. “I don’t think I’ve been able to properly thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

The words hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Leon pauses, his heart skipping a beat. “Don’t mention it,” he says with a smile. His hand tightens slightly around hers, but he doesn’t let go. “You’re a damn good agent. You’ve earned everything.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes are focused on his face now, as if in a trance. His breath catches in his chest, and for a moment, the music around them seems to fade into a dull hum. It’s just the two of them now, dancing slowly, the rhythm of their steps matching the thudding pulse in his own heart.

Her hands slide up his arms, fingers brushing the edges of his shoulders as she pulls him into an embrace, He can feel the warmth of her body, the soft thumping of her heart against him. Leon’s own heart picks up speed, not used to such physical displays of genuine affection.

The distance between them feels like it’s finally being bridged. Something unspoken lingers in the air, a fragile tension that neither of them can ignore anymore. His hands find her waist, and he pulls her just a little closer, feeling the slight hitch in her breath as she melts into him.

She stays quiet for a moment, her body moving gently with his, the music guiding their movements.

“Leon,” she whispers, her voice low but sincere, “I don’t think I ever said it, but… I trust you. More than anyone.” A lump forms in his throat, and he closes his eyes for a second, steadying himself. He pulls back just a bit, enough to look into her eyes.

“You don’t have to say it,” he says, his voice soft. “I know.” The space between them, once filled with the unspoken tension of their roles, seems to vanish. And in that moment, Leon realizes that it’s not just trust they share—it’s something deeper, something neither of them had been willing to acknowledge until now. Her hand rises to his chest, pressing against his heart as their faces draw nearer. The soft glow of the bar lights paints everything in shades of amber, casting them in a haze of fleeting warmth.

“Leon,” she murmurs again, her voice barely a breath against his lips. He doesn’t need her to finish the sentence. He can feel it in the way her body trembles just slightly as she leans in, her lips so close to his that he can almost taste the moment. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them, the kiss soft and gentle, all things Leon isn’t used to. It’s a slow realization, a gradual unfolding of something neither of them had anticipated—but something that feels right. The world outside this quiet moment fades away. All that’s left is the warmth that Leon has been seeking for so long.

_________________

Everything has gone to hell. It started decently enough, a typical case of a B.O.W that had been released into the public, stirring up terror. It all went wrong so fast. An explosion rattles through the air, and Leon can feel the heat from the flames, the force pushing him back, falling onto the pavement. The pain from the impact is forgotten as he hears her scream. His heart stops beating as he forces himself up, finding a new sense of adrenaline as he races to where the creature has her cornered. It's one hell of a genetic fuck-up, a big hulking beast with withered skin that looks like it’s been burnt. Elongated limbs drag on the ground as it skulks toward her, bony claws decorating the tips. Its gnashing teeth are aimed at ripping into her throat, the beast's mouth is already stained with blood. Leon can’t think straight, the only thing in his mind is her. He races as fast as his strained legs can carry him, a wild frantic look in his eyes as he raises his gun to aim. The creature has her in its grip, its mutated hand grabbing her by the throat, threatening to crush her windpipe as it dangles her above the pavement.

“No!” Leon cries out, feeling as though his entire world might shatter. Her legs are twitching and kicking, eyes bulging out of her skull as she opens her mouth in a vain attempt to suck in even a breath of air. Leon aims and sends a cluster of bullets towards its skull. The beast roars in pain, flinging the girl against the pavement as it lumbers towards him. Leon grits his teeth as he sends more bullets flying toward it, and by some sheer luck, one manages to go right through its eye. He breathes out a sigh of relief as it finally stumbles forward, succumbing to the fatal blow. His victory is short-lived though, his eyes falling on the rookie. She still hasn’t moved, remaining limp on the cold cement. Leon kneels beside her, ignoring the pain from his own aching body as he gently cradles her in his arms. She is pliable and unmoving, like a ragdoll in his arms as he brings her to his chest. Her lips are tinged blue from lack of oxygen and her neck is inflamed from the strangulation, but Leon breathes out a sigh of relief as his fingers find her pulse, a steady thump emanating from her. As the chaos fades away, reinforcements finally arrive at the scene, Leon holds her in his arms, unwilling to let go. A medic approaches, trailed by a pair of agents.

"Please," he bemoans, trying to quell the fear in his heart as the medic kneels down beside him, gently taking the girl from his arms. He watches intently, trying to ignore the growing tightness in his chest. She was hurt. He hadn't been enough to protect her and she had gotten hurt. He feels tears prick in the corners of his eyes and he has to remind himself that he is being watched and judged right now. Leon forces himself to remain stoic, however on the inside, he can't help but lament that he failed her.

____________

The days following the mission were quiet. Leon had invited her to rest in his apartment, not trusting those bastards to give her the proper time to recover. It was strange having another person in his space, hell, he wasn’t used to having his own space. The apartment was a place he felt he hardly spent time in, being shipped around at the government's whim. It was nice to have something in his name though, and even nicer to have someone share it with him. The rookie made his sterile apartment feel more like a home than it ever had before. Leon fell into the role of caretaker quickly, letting her rest in his bed as he brought her tea for her throat and helped bandage her wounds. She would lament, saying she wasn’t dead yet and could care for herself, rolling her eyes playfully whenever he poked his head in to check on her. He couldn’t help himself though, part of him was still in shock that she was alive, that she had come out of that mission with her heart still beating. Leon knew his feelings weren’t strictly platonic, not after the kiss they had shared at the bar, not after the soul-sucking fear he had felt after cradling her limp body amidst the aftermath of the chaos. Feelings were a luxury he hadn’t let himself indulge in in years. This isn't lust, he knows that much. Lust is like a quelling fire that burns in his gut, one that’s hot and heavy and must be put out lest he be driven mad. No, how he feels is not a burning passion, but a steady flame, like laying by a crackling hearth and letting the warmth wash over him. As he looks into her eyes, he feels as if he is home. Leon isn’t sure if he has ever experienced love, but he imagines that this is what it feels like.

One evening as they are sitting on the edge of his bed, only half paying attention to a movie he had rented, he turns to look at her, feeling his chest swell with that warm fuzzy emotion again. He doesn’t have to put up a facade of strength and bravery, a performance of a loyal government agent. With her, she sees him for what he is. A scared broken man. Leon can’t afford to be vulnerable very often, neither of them could, but perhaps for now they could both step out of their protective shells and be who they are.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, mesmerized by her. She turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide in surprise. She doesn’t say anything at first, the silence deafening as Leon starts to wonder if perhaps this was a mistake.

“I love you too,” she finally admits, her hand reaching for his as he meets her halfway, tenderly holding hands as if they were a pair of schoolchildren in the playground. Leon can feel his heart swell, his mind growing fuzzy as he tries to wrap his head around this feeling. Relationships are impractical in this line of work, and he can’t be certain of his future, much less one he could have with her. To calm the flood of emotions that are coursing through him he does the only thing he knows that can calm him. He lurches forward like a man possessed, crashing his lips to hers as his hand comes up to clasp his face, her palm gently grasping his cheek as if he was a piece of treasure that might slip through her fingers less she is too rough. It’s an odd feeling, to be cherished Leon thinks to himself as he kisses her. He doesn’t think of himself as worthy enough to be cherished, to be loved at all. In his mind, he is unworthy, just a broken man who isn’t sure of what exactly he is doing, not used to making his own choices in life. But as the kiss grows more heated, Leon can only think of one thing he wants to do. To worship the woman he loves.

Leon falls to his knees before her. He doesn’t believe in God, not anymore at least. But as he looks up at her angelic face, he imagines this is what God’s love must feel like; warm and comforting, ever-present as he feels the adoration inside of him, seeping into his bone marrow. She spreads open her thighs and Leon doesn’t hesitate to close the gap between them. His tongue is pressed flat against her core, licking a steady stripe up her slit. He can’t tell if it's her musky sweet scent that makes him feel as though he has been electrocuted or the way she parts her lips and moans, but the feeling shoots straight to his groin.

“Don’t hold back angel, I want to hear you sing” he murmurs into her folds, pressing kisses to her clit as she arches her back as he wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He buries his face into her core, her legs twitching as they wrap around his head, pulling him in closer. She’s whimpering and moaning as Leon has his mouth around her clit, tongue swirling around it as he slowly sinks a finger into her. The tightness is warm and wet and Leon can’t help but groan at the feeling. He sinks his finger into the knuckle before pulling out, slowly easing another one into her. He pauses as she adjusts to the feeling, holding still to simply bask in the way she looks. Mouth open, frozen in wanton pleasure as she starts to squirm, a silent plea for him to continue. Leon happily obliged, building up a steady pace with fingers, the room echoing with a mixture of her moans and the squelching of her arousal. His fingers thrust into her at an angle, finding that special spongy spot as her breaths came out in pants. Leon couldn’t help but feel a smirk tug at his lips as he began to repeat his motions, watching in awe as her chest heaved and her stomach tightened. A few quick kitten licks to her clit had her throwing back her head, her fingers entangling themselves in his hair. As she comes undone, he continues to work her through her orgasm, fingers finally slipping out as he pulls his face back, his chin glossy with her arousal. He crawls up her body, running a hand along the curves of her face as he presses his lips to hers and he can’t help but melt into her. She is everything he is not, and he feels as though he has found a missing piece of his soul.

“I love you,” Leon murmurs, breaking away to gaze into her eyes. He can’t bring himself to care about the ramifications of his actions, the potential discourse of his admission of affection. At this moment, he is not an agent, he’s just a man in love.

“I love you too,” the rookie whispers back, reaching up and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Leon groans softly, feeling all too aware of his growing desire. The rookie reaches up, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulls him back to her.

“I’m ready if you are,” she says, her lips ghosting over his ear. Leon suppresses a shudder as meets her lips in a kiss, his free hand grasping the base of his cock as he runs in through her slick folds. With a groan he slowly sinks into her, the warmth enveloping him as he loses himself to her. He stills for a moment, the pair basking in the feeling of becoming one before Leon slowly starts to thrust, pulling out before gently thrusting back up into her. A whine leaves his mouth before he can stop it, the pleasure is all-consuming as he keeps up a gentle thrust. Her arms cling to him, a hand trailing down his back. Leon can’t tell where he ends and where she begins, all he can feel is the tightening of his stomach, his pace becoming more erratic as the coil inside him grows taut. He raises her thigh, pulling back slightly to worm a hand between the two of them, his calloused finger on her clit as he massages it, building up the pace until he can feel her clench around him, her whines and moans growing to a high pitch. Leon watches as her body begins to shake against him, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead as he waits for her to finish. It’s a beautiful sight to watch her come undone against him, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. With a final grunt, he pulls out, his hip bucking upward into his hand as cums on her stomach, his body shaking from the feeling.

He falls beside her, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his chest heaving from exertion. His arms wrap around her, pulling her close to him as he closes his eyes and presses a kiss to her temple. There are no words to be said. The night will soon end and it will be a new day. Leon isn’t sure what the future holds for them as their lives are not theirs to control. If he could freeze time he would spend an eternity like this, pressed up against her, frozen in a kiss until the end of time. Leon couldn’t think of a more beautiful existence.

Note: I hope you've enjoyed this! Posting makes me nauseous lol. If there are any errors I apologize!

Tag:@tarantulasnot

#Leon Kennedy #leon s kennedy #Resident Evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fic #leon kennedy smut #resident evil smut #leon kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy #re4r leon #resident evil x reader

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vunblr · 5 months ago

Text

To Mend a Soldier

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ (Masturbation). Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.

Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

Word Count: About 20k.

note: Yeah… it’s a long one. This has been sitting in my folder for a while, and I couldn’t figure out where to split it, so here we are. Please don’t hate me! 😅 If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate it if you could share or leave a comment, it means so much.

After everything he’d been through -Hydra, Zemo, Thanos, Steve’s departure, and now therapy with Dr. Raynor- Bucky still couldn’t seem to find peace. The nightmares remained, the guilt festered, and every glance he got on the street reminded him of who he used to be, not who he was trying to become. Trusting people felt impossible, and his defenses were built like steel walls.

Sam, however, refused to let him slip further into isolation. Over the past few months, he’d watched him struggle silently, shrugging off every attempt to help him open up. But The Falcon wasn’t one to give up easily.

One evening, while they were returning from a brief mission on a plane, he finally brought it up again.

“You ever thought about alternative therapy?” he asked casually, pressing a cooling bag over his shoulder.

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he was unlacing his boots. “What, like yoga?” His voice was flat and unimpressed. “I don’t bend that way.”

“No, not yoga.” Sam’s tone was patient like he was explaining something to a stubborn child. “It’s something some veterans are trying. Heard about it from a guy at the VA.”

“Right.” Bucky snorted. “Modern mumbo jumbo. What is it? Journaling? Crystals? Hugging trees?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s called rent-a-mom.”

That got Bucky’s attention. His head snapped up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Rent-a-what?”

“Rent-a-mom,” Sam repeated, biting back a grin at Bucky’s incredulous expression. “It’s this service where someone -usually a nice, older lady- comes to your place for a couple of hours a week. She cooks, chats, and keeps you company. Some guys use it to feel normal again, you know? A little comfort or emotional support, whatever you need, with no judgment.”

Bucky stared at him for a beat before deadpanning, “So you’re telling me to hire a prostitute.”

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. “What is wrong with you man? No! That’s not what this is.”

“You sure? Because whatever I need, with no judgment sounds like you’re telling me to hire someone to-”

“Stop!” Sam cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not like that, okay? She works with vets all the time. You know, people like you who don’t trust anyone and think the world’s out to get them.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Sounds like a scam.”

“It’s not a scam. I know a guy who uses her services. He says it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded some weeks. And it’s not just him. A lot of vets partaking on the program swear by it.”

Bucky grumbled under his breath, something about “modern nonsense” and “people these days.”

Sam sighed, leaning forward. “Look, man, I’m not saying it’s gonna fix all your problems. But what’s the harm in trying? One session. Worst-case scenario, you don’t like it, and you never call her again.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t need some stranger poking around in my life.”

“She’s not gonna poke,” Sam insisted. “She’s just there to help. And let’s be real, you could use it. You’ve been holed up in that apartment for weeks. When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t me or that Raynor bitch?”

Bucky didn’t answer, just tightened his jaw.

“Exactly,” Sam said, leaning back with a smirk. “Plus, you owe me for Redwing. That little stunt you pulled last week? Yeah, I’m still mad about that.”

“Cheap shot,” Bucky muttered, glaring at the floor.

“Call it whatever you want. You’re doing this.”

After a long, heavy pause, Bucky sighed. “Fine. One session. But if this is a waste of my time, I’m blaming you.”

Sam grinned, already pulling out his phone. “You’re gonna thank me when it works. Just wait.”

----

Bucky sat on the edge of his couch, glaring at his phone like it had personally wronged him. Sam had texted him the woman’s contact information a few hours ago, with an obnoxious winky face at the end. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be reassuring or not but either way, it made his skin crawl.

“Just one session,” he muttered, running his hand down his face. Sam’s words echoed in his head: “It’s not what you think, man. She’s just… good at what she does. People trust her.” Trust. Bucky scoffed. That wasn’t something he handed out easily anymore, but after the Redwing incident, Sam wasn’t going to let him live it down unless he followed through. Grimacing, he tapped out a message.

Hi. This is James Barnes. Sam Wilson gave me your contact information. He said you… help people. I’m interested in setting up a session. Let me know if you’re available.

He stared at the screen for a good minute before hitting send. The second the message left his phone, he regretted it.

What the hell am I doing?

His internal spiral was interrupted by a response. That was fast.

Hi, James! Thanks for reaching out. I’d be happy to help. How does Tuesday at 5 PM sound?

He frowned. No small talk? No questions? Just… straight to the point. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he appreciated it.

Fine, he replied, then immediately felt like a jerk. Then he added a Thanks.

----

Thursday came too quickly. Bucky paced his apartment, tidying up out of sheer nervous energy. He wasn’t sure what to expect. What was this woman going to do? Make him tea? Lecture him on proper nutrition? Sam had called her a “mom-for-hire,” but the idea still sounded absurd.

At exactly 5 PM, there was a knock at the door. Bucky froze. For a split second, he considered pretending he wasn’t home. But he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door, noticing two things:

First, this Mom was not an older lady. Either Sam left out that critical detail, or she was some kind of evil witch who sucked the life force out of her victims to stay young.

Second, she was… nice to look at. He quickly chastised himself for the thought.

“Hi,” she said, in a warm but professional tone, like she’d done this a hundred times before. There was no hesitation in her posture, no uncertainty in her eyes. She shifted the bag on her shoulder and offered a small smile. “You must be James.”

“Bucky.” he corrected gruffly, crossing his arms and leaning slightly against the doorframe. “You’re not what I expected.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Let me guess. You were expecting someone older? Maybe with glasses and a knitting basket?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, not confirming but not denying either.

She lets out a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

The silence stretched between them, and then he realized he was just standing there, blocking the doorway like an idiot. He stepped aside, muttering a “Come in.”

She entered the apartment, glancing around the living room as she set her bag down, taking in the stark, utilitarian setup. A couch, a small TV on a stand, and little else. The dining table was non-existent, replaced by a counter with two bar stools. “This is… cozy,” she said diplomatically, gesturing at the space.

Bucky’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “It works.”

She hummed in response, her gaze falling to the small stack of books on the coffee table. A couple of dog-eared crime novels sat next to a remote. There wasn’t much else to indicate anyone truly lived here. No photos, no clutter, just the bare essentials.

He folded his arms again, hovering near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to close it or bolt. “Look, I don’t need the whole... whatever it is you do. Sam talked me into this, so don’t feel like you have to stick around for too long.”

She didn’t seem fazed by his awkward brusqueness. Instead, she just nodded and set the bag down on his counter. She began unpacking a few items, ingredients, it looked like.

“So,” she said, turning to him with an easy smile. “What’s on the agenda for today? You tell me what you need, and we’ll go from there.”

What he needed? Hell if he knew.

“Uh…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t… really know how this works.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “We can start small. How about I make us something warm to eat while we talk?”

Talk. Right. He could handle that. Probably. And the food didn’t sound half bad either.

“Sure,” he said, with a softer tone now. He hesitated before adding, “Thanks.”

She smiled at him again and reached into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded apron. Without hesitation, she slipped it over her summer dress, tying the strings behind her back. The casual way she moved threw him off; she already seemed at ease in his space, which was more than he could say for himself.

“Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen.

Bucky blinked at her like she’d just asked him if he believed in unicorns. “Anything I don’t like?” His eyebrows lifted, clearly baffled by the concept.

“Yes,” she replied with a small laugh, looking back at him as if to say she was serious.

He gave a short huff, leaning against the counter, his lips twitching with faint amusement. “Doll, I grew up in the Depression. You ate what you got and licked the plate clean.”

She froze mid-step, her hands moving to her hips as she turned to face him fully. “Okay, first of all, you don’t ‘doll’ your mother,” she said, her tone firm but with a playful edge. “So let’s make it clear: that won’t be a thing between us.”

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly in mild surprise at her sudden, slightly commanding tone.

“And second,” she continued, crossing her arms as if daring him to argue, “we’re not in the Depression anymore. So, humor me and tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk appearing as he quirked an eyebrow at her. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not even close.

“Guess I’ll have to think about it,” he muttered with the faintest trace of amusement.

She rolled her eyes, tying the apron snugly around her waist. “Well, then tell me what you do like, so I can see if I can pull it off with what we’ve got.”

He hesitated, darting away his gaze as if the question required more thought than it should. Finally, he mumbled, “Potatoes?”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “Lucky for you, I brought some with me.” She nodded toward another bag she’d left near the door.

Bucky watched as she moved around his kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into drawers. It was strange seeing someone else handle his things like they belonged there.

She moved to his fridge next, tugging it open, and froze. For a long moment, she just stared, her head tilting slightly. “Huh.”

Bucky frowned, leaning to the side to see what had caught her attention. “What?”

She stepped back, gesturing inside with a wooden spoon she’d plucked from the counter. “The two plums are fine, but that sad, dried-out lemon is holding on by a thread, and…” Her nose wrinkled as she peered at a container shoved in the back. “I don’t even want to guess what’s in that tupperware.”

He shifted as his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s probably still good.”

“Bucky.” She turned to him, one brow arched and her tone matter-of-fact. “We’re going to have to make a shopping list if these visits are going to continue. Unless you’re planning to survive off potatoes and mystery leftovers?”

His lips twitched again, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“I’ll take that as agreement,” she said, grabbing the potatoes she’d brought with her and setting them on the counter. “For now, I’ll work some magic with these and whatever’s actually edible in here.”

He smirked faintly, leaning against the counter as he watched her sort through his kitchen again with an air of efficiency like she’d done this a thousand times before.

At some point, she straightened up and caught his gaze. “You didn’t say anything yet,” she said, leaning a little on the counter. “but I assume you have questions about what I do?”

He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck as if buying time. “Sam told me something… about cooking and talking,” he muttered hesitantly. Then he glanced away, subtly implying that he didn’t expect much beyond that.

She didn’t rush him, waiting patiently for him to finish. When he fell silent, she let out a soft chuckle and grabbed a cutting board from the counter. “I have a proper job, you know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “At a bookstore. This…” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the room, “is just something I’ve been doing for a couple of years now. It started when a lady from the program came into the shop looking for books to read to her son before nap time.” She paused, her lips curving in a small, amused smile. “The thing is, this lady was, well… let’s just say she was quite old to have a little kid. She must have seen the look on my face because she told me about this initiative she was part of.”

Bucky tilted his head, curiosity tugging at his otherwise guarded expression. “And you signed up?”

“Eventually,” she admitted, peeling one of the potatoes with practiced ease. “I kept running into her, and she’d stop by the store to chat about how the reading sessions were going, how much her ‘kid’ enjoyed them.” She made air quotes with her fingers, smirking. “Turned out, her kid was a Vietnam vet. He was struggling with some things, and she was helping him feel more grounded.”

Bucky arched his brows.

“Exactly,” she said, laughing softly. “I thought it was strange at first, too, but the more I learned, the more I realized how much of a difference it can make for some people.” She paused, setting the peeler down and turning to fully face him, with a softer expression now. “There’s something about the kind of comfort a mother gives, something other roles just… don’t quite reach.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow.

“You’ve probably seen it,” she continued, “Soldiers in their last moments, calling for their moms. Or when they’re delirious with fever or pain, their minds go back to a time when they felt safe, protected, and cared for. It’s not about the specific person, it’s the feeling. That deep-rooted need to know someone’s there for you, no matter what.”

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before flicking back to her. She didn’t miss the shift in his expression, a flicker of recognition, a shadow of memory.

“I’m not saying I’m trying to be anyone’s mother,” she added quickly, offering him a gentle smile to lighten the mood. “But sometimes people just need a little bit of that energy in their life, you know? A chance to feel… safe.”

Bucky’s mouth pressed into a thin line, stiffening briefly before he exhaled, his relaxing his shoulders just a fraction. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of her words lingered in the air between them.

He had to admit it sounded... nice. Having someone to turn to when things got… when you couldn’t breathe. When the world felt too heavy and every corner of your mind was filled with noise you couldn’t escape. But just as that thought settled in, his defenses kicked in, sharp and automatic.

He scoffed, the sound coming out a little too rough, a little too biting. “And then what? You cuddle on the couch, singing a lullaby?”

Her hands stilled, and she turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. There was no annoyance in her expression, no judgment. Just a calmness that made him feel even more off-balance.

“If that’s what you need,” she said simply, “then yes.”

For a moment, he was stunned into silence, caught off guard. There was no sarcasm, no condescension, just a sincerity that felt almost disarming.

His eyes darted away as he shifted his weight, the corners of his mouth twitched in an effort to form a response. But for once, words failed him, leaving only the quiet hum of the kitchen and the soft clatter of her returning to the potatoes.

“There are some info sheets and forms in the bag,” she said, nodding toward her tote. “If you want to read and complete them while I do this.” She gestured as she resumed working on the potatoes.

Bucky hesitated, flicking his gaze between her and the bag. “What’s the payment?” he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice casual. “In case… in case I might be interested.”

She paused for a beat, then glanced over her shoulder with a small smile. “I don’t charge veterans,” she said simply.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Finally, he managed, “Sam didn’t… didn’t tell me that.”

“Well,” she said, setting the knife down for a moment and turning fully to face him, “to be fair, Sam told me a little about you.”

At the slight stiffness that crept into his expression, she quickly added, “Just… basic things.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m already working with someone who’s… retired now, and I wasn’t sure about having two ‘sons’ in the same department, so to speak.”

She hesitated, studying his face for a moment before continuing. “But when he told me who you were… I didn’t doubt it for a second. You’re a hero, you know?”

He seemed surprised by the statement, his brows knitting together as if trying to make sense of her words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. Finally, he grumbled, “Don’t know about that, but thanks.”

She smiled softly, “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. I’m just stating the obvious.” With that, she turned back to the cooking, leaving Bucky standing there, uncomfortably aware of the unexpected swell of gratitude threatening to creep past his defenses.

He then opened the tote bag and pulled out a neatly organized folder. Inside, there were several documents, each clipped together in its own section. He skimmed over the first page, a set of “basic rules” clearly outlined at the top.

His brow furrowed slightly as he read. Boundaries: He would only call her “Mama” or some other variant, never her name, an instruction that immediately made his stomach twist with both unease and an odd sense of reassurance. The point was clear: this wasn’t a friendship or anything else ambiguous. It was meant to define their dynamic firmly.

Further down, he saw a list of do’s and don’ts regarding acceptable forms of touching. The wording was straightforward but gentle, ensuring the rules were understood without feeling restrictive. A clause about privacy caught his attention: Everything discussed during their sessions would remain strictly confidential. Nothing said between them would be disclosed, ever.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, flipping to the next section. The forms included a series of questions: What would you expect from these sessions? What would you prefer not to happen? What are your favorite comforts? Least favorite?

The questions made him uncomfortable. What did he expect? Hell if he knew. What would he even put down for “favorite comforts”? He tapped the pen against the counter, unsure where to start.

When he finally glanced back at her, she was chopping the potatoes with practiced ease. “And what happens after I fill this out?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

“Once the forms are completed and signed,” she said without turning around, “I’ll be in charge of the dynamic.” She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder with a small smile. “After all, Mama knows best.”

Her tone was light, teasing, but the words landed heavier than she might have realized. Bucky stared at the form again, feeling the faintest flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe trust. Maybe just exhaustion. Either way, the weight of his pen didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” she said, washing her hands and wiping them on a towel. Turning back to him, she added, "Maybe wait and see how this goes first?" then, she walked toward the living room and perched on the edge of the couch patting the spot next to her. “Sit. You can tell me about your week while the potatoes cook… if you want.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the couch like it might be a trap. Finally, he crossed the room, lowering himself onto the seat beside her. The couch dipped under his weight, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. The silence hung between them, save for the faint sound of traffic through the window. After a moment, he started to bounce his knee.

She noticed the motion and glanced at him, her gaze drifting lower. That’s when it hit her, the long-sleeved henley and the glove on his hand. The room wasn’t exactly cold. In fact, with the oven going and the potatoes roasting, it was comfortably warm.

Her brows knitted together. “Bucky,” she started carefully, with a light tone, “you know by now that I knew who you were before I knocked on your door, right?”

He turned his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes but acknowledging her words with a small grunt.

“So… don’t you want to change into something less... suffocating?” She gestured loosely at his shirt. “I mean, it’s hot in here.”

His knee stopped bouncing. He straightened slightly but didn’t respond right away. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was weighing his next move.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice gruff. He didn’t sound angry, just… uncertain.

“It’s not fine,” she countered gently. “You’ll overheat sitting here like that. Besides, I thought we were working on this whole... trust thing since you know… the mom thing?”

Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a deep breath, Bucky pushed himself to his feet, heading toward the hallway. He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but the slight hunch of his shoulders told her he was uncomfortable. Still, he disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the sound of a drawer opening.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was wearing a soft, dark gray T-shirt. He paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking to her briefly before he sat back down, this time leaning into the couch instead of perching on the edge.

“Better?” he asked, his tone dry but not harsh.

“Much better,” she replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction. The oven timer went off in the kitchen, breaking the moment, and she stood, giving him a reassuring pat on the knee as she passed by.

As she checked the food with her back turned to him, she spoke casually, “Sam said you’ve been having a rough time lately.”

Bucky frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Sam talks too much.”

Her lips quirked in a small smile, though she didn’t turn around. “He’s worried about you.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Bucky muttered.

“Maybe not. But he is. And from what I can tell, he’s the kind of person who acts on that worry.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m not here to pry.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly, and his jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?” The question came out sharper than he intended, his voice low and clipped, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, and finally faced him.

“Why am I here?” she echoed with a calm tone. “One, because you texted. And two…” She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet from the couch. Her gaze softened, her head tilting slightly. “Sometimes, it helps to have someone around. Someone who’s not a therapist or a friend who knows too much. Just… someone.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His expression was unreadable, but she could see the gears turning in his head. She approached the couch and sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him but close enough to offer her quiet support.

Bucky shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together tightly. The silence between them stretched, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like an invitation for him to speak if he wanted to, no pressure, no expectations.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said finally, almost in a grumble.

“I know.” Her reply was soft, almost instinctive. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time that evening, he glanced at her directly. There was a hint of something vulnerable in his expression. Hesitation, perhaps.

“It’s just…” he started, his voice trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a lot lately. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just where you feel like it, I’ll be here to listen. And if you don’t want to talk, that is fine too, one doesn’t tell everything to their mom, hm?” she assured gently.

The timer beeped from the kitchen again, cutting through the moment. She reached over, giving his forearm a brief, reassuring squeeze before standing. “Let me get that before the potatoes burn.” As she moved toward the kitchen, she glanced back at him with a small smile. “Think about it, Bucky. No rush.”

He watched her retreat, his chest feeling a little lighter, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

When she called from the kitchen, cheerfully announcing that dinner was almost ready, he found himself answering without thinking. “Smells good.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt and crossed the short distance to the kitchen in a few long strides. Without a word, he started opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out a couple of plates and utensils to set up at the counter.

“Oh, such a good boy!” she teased warmly.

He paused, shooting her a look over his shoulder, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and embarrassment. “It’s just the right thing to do,” he muttered gruffly, his ears tinged faintly pink.

She bit back a smile as she pulled the tray of potatoes from the oven, the aroma filling the small kitchen. As she set the tray down, she reached for the fridge and produced a small bowl of creamy dip, placing it on the counter beside the potatoes.

Bucky quirked a brow with evident curiosity.

“What?” she asked playfully. “These aren’t your Depression potatoes. They’ve got a little twist.”

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “A twist, huh?”

“Just a little sour cream, and the spices are courtesy of your kitchen,” she said, ladling the potatoes onto a serving dish with practiced ease. “Trust me, they’ll still taste like home. Just… a little fancier.”

Bucky glanced at the bowl again, his lips twitching in faint amusement. “Fancy potatoes,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Hey,” she countered, setting the dish in the middle of the counter with a flourish. “Even tough guys like you deserve something nice now and then.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as he pulled out a stool at the counter and sat, there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. “Guess we’ll see if they live up to the hype.”

She handed him a fork, with a widening smile. “Challenge accepted.”

For the first time that evening, the atmosphere in the room felt less heavy. The clinking of utensils and the scent of roasted potatoes mingled with the faintest hum of unspoken understanding.

“Not bad,” Bucky admitted after his first bite, begrudging but carrying a hint of approval.

“Not bad?” she echoed, raising a brow. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, it almost looked like he might smile.

They made small talk while they ate, keeping the conversation light. She asked about the crime novels on his side table, and he asked -grudgingly- what kind of twist she had planned for the next meal, implying she might want to poison him. Despite himself, Bucky found the interaction strangely… normal. He wasn’t used to normal, but he didn’t hate it.

When they finished, he stood and began gathering the dishes. She protested at first, but he waved her off. “It’s what my Ma would have expected anyway,” he said matter-of-factly.

He’d just started scrubbing the first plate when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen, then at the clock, letting out a soft sigh. “Well, Buck, it seems our two hours are up.”

Bucky froze and his hand gripped the plate under the warm water. Then he nodded once. “I see…”

She leaned against the counter next to him, watching him carefully. “So, um… what do you want to do? Will you read the forms and consider starting this little journey together, or would you rather not see my face again?” She smiled softly. “Which I’d totally understand if that’s the case.”

He didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on rinsing the plate and setting it on the drying rack. For a moment, the only sound was the rush of water and the faint hum of the fridge. It was as if he was battling with himself, his tension was visible in the way his shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned to face her. His hand raked through his hair.

“I... I want this, I think,” he stated. Then, almost immediately, he added, “I can step out whenever I want, right?”

Her smile softened as she reached for his vibranium hand, her fingers resting lightly against the cool metal. “Yes, Bucky. You can step out whenever you want. No pressure, no expectations. This is for you, on your terms.”

He nodded slightly, his eyes flicking down to where her hand rested on his before shifting back to meet her gaze.

“Just take your time filling out the questionnaire, think the answers carefully” she continued, warmly but matter-of-fact. “and, whenever you’re ready, snap a picture and send it to me. No rush.”

“Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Also…” She tilted her head. “How many days a week do you want me here?”

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He shifted slightly, glancing away as if considering his answer. “Uh… two, I guess?”

“Two it is,” she said with a small nod, releasing his hand and grabbing her bag from the counter. “You’re calling the shots, Buck. You just let me know if that changes.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the door, he called out in a low tone. “Thanks.”

She paused, glancing back at him with a smile. “Anytime.”

As the door closed behind her, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring at the now-empty space she’d left behind.

Almost three minutes after she left, his phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. He didn’t have to check to know who it was. Sure enough, the preview of the text confirmed it: Sam. The string of emojis accompanying the message made Bucky’s scowl deepen as he stared at the screen.

🤔💪👍👵🍲

“What the hell does that even mean?” he muttered to himself, swiping the phone off the counter and locking it without reading the full message. The last thing he needed was Sam’s smug commentaries right now.

He set the phone down a little harder than necessary and decided to distract himself the only way he knew how: by scrubbing himself clean. Grabbing a towel, he headed to the bathroom, peeling off his T-shirt on the way. The promise of a hot shower sounded like the closest thing to clarity he might find tonight.

But as the water beat down on his skin, his thoughts drifted back to the folder she’d left behind. The questionnaire seemed simple on the surface, but for a man like him, answering those kinds of questions wasn’t easy.

What comforts you?

The question alone made him bristle. Comfort wasn’t something he’d thought about in decades. Comfort was… a luxury, a distraction, a weakness. At least, that’s what they always told him and he still couldn’t shake that feeling.

The thought of filling out that damn paper felt heavier than any mission he’d been assigned. He’d rather face a bullet in his leg than sit down and figure out what he wanted.

He leaned his head against the shower tiles, the warmth of the water doing little to ease the tension coiling in his chest. Maybe he’d give himself a day. Or two. Hell, maybe a week. She’d said no rush, after all.

And if he didn’t send it? Well, it wasn’t like she’d show up uninvited. He could still back out.

He turned off the water with a sharp twist, the sudden silence leaving him alone with his thoughts. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing toward the closed door of his bedroom where the folder waited.

----

It had taken Bucky two weeks to fill out the forms. Two long, painstaking weeks of sitting at his couch, pen in hand, staring at questions that felt more like traps than prompts. He’d forced himself to be thorough, thinking carefully about each subject.

What makes you feel safe? What comforts you? What do you need from me?

How do you want to be called as an endearment?

He’d tried to approach it with an open mind, though the process made him cringe more than once. Admitting what he needed -or even what he was willing to permit- felt like baring himself in a way that left him raw.

But he finished. He signed the papers, scanned them with his phone, and sent the file off with an unceremonious text:

Here. Let me know if it’s fine.

Her reply had been immediate and cheerful: Got it! Looks perfect. See you Tuesday.

----

When Tuesday came, she arrived at his building, juggling a tote bag filled with what she liked to call her “comfort supplies.” A neighbor leaving the building had held the door open for her, a kind but overly trusting gesture.

Not a very safe thing to do, she thought as she stepped inside. But I’m not going to complain.

She reached his door, knuckles rapping lightly against it. “Bucky? It’s me.”

No answer.

She frowned and knocked again, a little louder this time. “Bucky, you there?”

Still nothing.

She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick message: Hey, I’m here! A moment later, her phone buzzed with the dreaded notification: Message failed to deliver.

Her frown deepened. She tried calling, but the call went straight to voicemail. A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.

Nothing. No footsteps. No muffled noises. Just silence.

She sighed, leaning back against the wall. Maybe something had come up. Maybe he’d changed his mind and didn’t know how to tell her.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed, and she still hadn’t heard a peep from him. With a reluctant shake of her head, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet hallway.

-----

A couple of hours later, Bucky dragged his feet through the corridor. His nose throbbed painfully, a reminder of the last few days he’d spent dealing -again- with enhanced assholes who seemed to have gotten their hands on some variant of the serum.

The faint metallic scent of dried blood clung to him, mingling with the sweat and grime of too many hours spent in the open. His brows furrowed, eyes heavy-lidded as he scanned the hallway out of habit. That’s when he spotted it, a small bag made of cloth sitting neatly at his doorstep.

He paused, taking a moment to connect the dots through the haze of exhaustion.

Fuck.

He let out a slow, frustrated exhale, running a hand over his face and wincing as the dried cut on his cheek tugged painfully. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he’d mess this up right out of the gate.

Bending down, he picked up the bag, holding it gingerly in his hands like it might scold him. The fabric was soft and patterned with small flowers, something that felt almost absurdly out of place against his bloodstained hands and the concrete walls of the hallway.

He peeked inside, and his chest tightened. A handful of sugar babies’ packages into view, the bright yellow being a jarring contrast to the dull exhaustion weighing him down.

What were your favorite sweets as a child?

The questionnaire echoed in his head, and his stomach twisted. He hadn’t even realized he’d written those down until now.

Straightening up, he glanced down the hallway toward the elevator, tightening his grip on the bag. What kind of impression was this supposed to leave? Forgetting the session entirely, not answering the door, not even leaving a message…

He groaned, leaning back against his door and glaring down at the bag like it held all the answers to his failures.

After a long moment, he nested the bag into the crook of his arm, fumbled with his keys, and let himself into the apartment.

The silence inside was deafening. He placed the bag of candies on the counter and reached for his phone, dead as expected. He plugged it into the charger with a sigh, running a hand through his hair before peeling off his ruined clothes. The bloodstained shirt landed in a heap on the floor as he pulled his knives and gun from their holsters and set them down on the counter next to the flower-patterned bag.

The juxtaposition was almost laughable. The hard edges of his weapons, worn and familiar, sat starkly against the soft, cheerful fabric of the bag.

It didn’t feel right, to see them in the same space.

But he was too tired to care for the moment.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky leaned against the counter, lingering his gaze on the bag of candies. He reached inside and pulled out one of the packages, turning it over in his fingers like it was something fragile. For a moment, he just stood there, as the weight of the past days pressed down on him.

Finally, he tore the wrapper open, popped one caramel into his mouth, and let the sugary sweetness dissolve on his tongue. It wasn’t much. But somehow, it tasted like a small piece of something he’d forgotten he needed.

-----

It was late afternoon when her phone buzzed with a message. She picked it up from the table, brushing across the screen to read it.

Just one word: Sorry.

She stared at the message for a moment, tightening her grip on the device. Well, at least it didn’t seem like he’d changed his mind entirely. That was something.

Are you okay?

The reply didn’t come right away. The minutes stretched, and she found herself glancing at the screen every few moments. Finally, the phone buzzed again, and she read his response:

I don’t know.

Her chest ached at the honesty of those three words. Biting her lip, she typed her reply carefully.

Do you want me to come over?

The dots indicating he was typing blinked, disappeared, and then reappeared. His answer came back after what felt like an eternity.

You don’t have to.

She frowned, her thumbs flew across the keyboard.

That is not what I asked, Bucky.

Another pause. This one was longer. The late afternoon sun painted her walls in streaks of orange and gold, but she barely noticed, since her attention was fixed on the phone in her hands.

Finally, he replied.

Yes.

Her shoulders relaxed as she exhaled. Without hesitation, she grabbed her bag, slid her phone into her pocket, and headed for the door.

-----

Her gaze widened when she saw Bucky’s face as he opened the door. A nasty cut marred the already purpled skin of his cheek, his nose looked bruised, his lower lip was split, and scrapes littered his flesh arm. His expression and the slump of his shoulders only added to the picture of someone who’d been through a lot.

He must have noticed her stare because the first thing out of his mouth was, “You should see the other guys.”

She clicked her tongue in exasperation, her hand motioning firmly toward him. “Move. Let me in.”

Bucky stepped aside, his expression hovered somewhere between guilt and defiance. She entered without waiting for another invitation, her sharp eyes already scanning the room. “Did you clean the wounds?”

He shrugged nonchalantly as if it weren’t worth mentioning. “I took a shower…”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. “That’s not… no. That doesn’t count. Where is your first aid kit?”

He looked at her like she’d grown another head. “Doll, all this is going away in three days, tops. Courtesy of the serum.”

Her gaze snapped to his, sharp enough to freeze hell over. “Where. Is. It. And how did you just call me?”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then shut, and he swallowed audibly. “M-ma,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to the floor like a chastised child.

“That’s what I thought.” She folded her arms, with a tone that brooked no argument. “I assume you have that thing in the bathroom.”

“I told you, it’s not neces-”

That look again. He stopped mid-sentence, his shoulders slumping as he relented. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said briskly, already heading toward the bathroom without waiting for further direction. “Stay put. I’ll handle this.”

Bucky stared after her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. With a quiet groan, he leaned against the counter, muttering under his breath, “You should really see the other guys…”

But even as he said it, he found himself oddly relieved that she was there.

“Sit on the chair so I can see you better”, her voice came calm but firm from his side as she gestured to the single chair against the wall.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before complying, dragging the chair forward slightly and lowering himself onto it.

She knelt slightly in front of him, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruised and battered skin of his face. “This surely must hurt,” she said softly. “You don’t have to act all rough with me.”

He didn’t answer, clenching his jaw ever so slightly. Not to brush off the pain, not to admit that it hurt. He just stayed silent, with his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder.

With gentle care, she dabbed at his cheek with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sharp, chemical smell hit the air immediately, and Bucky flinched, pressing his lips into a thin line.

She paused, knitting her brows in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

Her gaze stayed patient but unyielding. “Bucky.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes flicking away from hers before returning. “I don’t like the smell,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

She stilled, hovering her hand in midair. “Why?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze grew distant, and his expression went clouded as if he were somewhere else entirely. When he finally spoke, his voice was even quieter, tinged with something raw and broken.

“Spent a lot of years smelling that shit,” he said, with words that carried too much weight. “Couldn’t drink a glass of water without a command. Couldn’t… do anything. And that smell… it was always there. Always.”

Her heart ached at the admission, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, she lowered the cotton ball, letting him see her hands move it out of the way. “Okay,” she said softly. “We’ll rinse the cuts with water instead. No more of this stuff.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly as he looked at her. “You don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t,” she interrupted gently. “But I’m here to help you, honey, not to make things harder.”

He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

By the time she finished tending to his wounds, Bucky was leaning heavily against the chair, with drooping eyelids. The tension in his frame had loosened ever so slightly, his exhaustion was clear in the way he blinked sluggishly at the floor.

She stood and began gathering the supplies, placing them neatly back into his first aid kit. “I’m going to make you something to eat,” she said firmly, already planning a quick meal to get something nutritious in him.

“Not now,” he murmured, barely lifting his head.

She turned toward him with a frown. “Bucky, you’ve probably gone days without eating anything that isn’t complete garbage. You need-”

“I just…” His words came out with difficulty, like they were being dragged out of him. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face “I just want you close.” his voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

Her expression softened instantly. Nodding, she stepped closer, reaching for his vibranium hand. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let’s sit on the couch.”

She guided him the short distance toward the living room and he followed with slow, dragging steps. Once they reached the couch, she looked at him with patience. “What do you need?”

Bucky hesitated and his throat worked as if he were trying to swallow his pride. His eyes flicked to her, then away again, his mouth opening and closing like he was fighting himself. Finally, he let out a soft, almost defeated sigh.

“I… I want to lean my head on your lap, Mama,” he admitted almost shakily.

She smiled softly, not saying anything that might make him feel more self-conscious. She just nodded and sat at one end of the couch, patting her thighs gently to indicate he should lie down.

Bucky followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as he eased himself onto the couch. He stretched out his long torso, his head tentatively resting on her lap. He stayed tense for a moment, as if bracing for something, though even he wasn’t sure what.

She started running her fingers through his short hair, brushing the strands back in slow, rhythmic motions. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

The tension in his shoulders began to melt, and his breathing slowed as her fingers worked through his hair with careful, deliberate strokes. He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as his body finally surrendered to a comfort he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

-----

After two months of visits, she was surprised one day to find an old oak dining table in Bucky’s apartment. It was small but sturdy, with matching chairs tucked neatly under it. The single chair he’d once had was nowhere in sight.

She stepped closer, running her hand along the smooth wood. “This is lovely,” she said, her tone genuinely appreciative.

Bucky stood nearby, with his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight slightly. He glanced at her, then at the table, mumbling, “It was time for me to have one.”

She turned to him with a smile. “Well, it makes the place look more like a home now. You know,” she added thoughtfully, “I have a tablecloth about this size at home that I don’t use. I could bring it next time, if you’d like.”

Bucky hesitated, furrowing his brows slightly as if considering her offer. “About that…” he started, a little unsure.

She waited patiently, giving him time to express what he wanted to say.

“I want to start…” He paused, searching for the right words. “making this place more... like someone is living here.”

“Like a home?” she prompted gently.

“Y-yeah.” He looked down, scratching at the back of his neck. “Besides that hut in Wakanda… it’s been a lifetime since I had a place to… a… a home.”

Her heart ached at his admission, but she didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and gently rested her hand on his arm. “That sounds very hard, sweetheart.”

Bucky didn’t deny or confirm her statement, just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“I was wondering…” he began, his voice steadier now. “If next time, we could schedule an earlier time to see each other. And maybe…” He hesitated, glancing at her as if bracing for her reaction. “Maybe you could come with me to help me buy some things?”

Her smile widened, her hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That sounds great, honey.” Then, she added warmly but firmly, “Just remember, this is your home. You have to choose what you think suits you.”

Her words were a reminder of the boundaries they’d set, of the balance they were working toward. Still, they carried enough warmth to let him know she’d be there for him.

After discussing the table and his plans to make the apartment feel more like a home, she glanced around the space and tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know,” she said lightly, “a good table deserves a little cleanup around it. How about we tidy up a bit?”

Bucky frowned, sweeping his gaze over the room. “It’s not that bad.”

She gave him a pointed look, walking toward a pile of mail and random odds and ends stacked on the counter. “It’s not terrible, but a little organizing wouldn’t hurt. Come on, help me out.”

He followed her reluctantly, muttering something under his breath about bossy moms.

She smirked but didn’t rise to the bait, handing him a small stack of papers. “Sort these, bills, junk, whatever doesn’t need to be here,” she instructed, already reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter.

As they worked, the task settled into an easy rhythm. She asked him about the books he’d been reading, and he surprised her by asking if she had any recommendations. It was small talk, but it felt comfortable and natural like it had been almost since the beginning.

After the living room and kitchen looked noticeably tidier, she wiped her hands on her jeans and glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. Motioning toward the door, she said, “Alright, let’s check out the bedroom next.”

Bucky froze, tightening his shoulders visibly. “Bedroom’s fine,” he said quickly, the edge of reluctance in his voice was unmistakable.

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m already on a roll, Buck. Might as well see the whole place.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he reluctantly trailed behind her. “It’s not much to look at,” he muttered, more resigned than defiant.

“Then it won’t take long,” she quipped, throwing him a reassuring smile before disappearing through the doorway. Her brows furrowed at the sight before her. The bed was buried under a haphazard pile of boxes, and scattered clothes dotted the floor. The mattress didn’t even have sheets on it, and the faint layer of dust on the headboard told her it hadn’t been used in a while.

She turned to him, crossing her arms. “What’s going on here? Where do these boxes go?”

Bucky shifted awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding her gaze. “They’re fine where they are.”

“Bucky…” Her voice softened, concern creeping into her tone. “Where are you sleeping?”

He clenched his jaw, and after a long pause, he mumbled, “On the floor. In the living room.”

Her eyes widened. “The floor?

He nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She stepped closer, keeping her voice calm but firm. “Why?”

His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The bed’s too… soft.” He paused, struggling with the words. “It doesn’t feel safe,” he continued, with a low voice. “When I’m on the floor, I can feel the room. Hear things better. I… know what’s going on and can act in case something happens.” His gaze dropped to the pile of boxes on the bed. “And the bed… it’s just not right. Too soft, too confining. It feels like a trap.”

She nodded slowly, her expression a mix of understanding and quiet sadness. “That makes sense,” she said gently. “But, honey, that’s no way to live. I get why you feel that way, but you deserve to rest somewhere that doesn’t hurt your back.”

He gave her a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth pulling downward. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good for you,” she replied, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly on his arm. “How about we start small? Let’s clear off the bed today. No pressure to use it yet, but maybe we can make it feel a little less… wrong. Less like a trap.”

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes flicking back toward the cluttered bed. She could see the hesitation in his face, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was fighting an internal battle.

Finally, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Good. So, where do these boxes go?”

“Closet,” he muttered, stepping forward to help her.

Together, they cleared the bed, tucking the boxes away and folding the stray clothes. She didn’t push or prod, keeping the conversation light as they worked. She mentioned ideas for making the bed more comfortable, maybe firmer pillows or a thinner mattress topper to make it feel less suffocating.

By the time they were done, the room already looked less like a storage space and more like a place where someone could rest.

“There,” she said, dusting her hands off and turning to him. “A step in the right direction.”

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, staring at it like it was something foreign. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess so.”

“You don’t have to use it right away,” she gently. “But when you’re ready, it’ll be here for you.”

He nodded again, loosening his shoulders slightly.

As they returned to the main area, she expected Bucky to suggest starting dinner, but instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Can we… sit for a bit? On the couch?”

“Of course,” she said with an easy smile, leading the way. She settled into her usual spot at one end, patting her thighs lightly.

Bucky sat and shifted, lying down until his head rested on her lap. When her fingers began threading gently through his hair, he let out a quiet exhale. They stayed like that for a while, the stillness of the apartment punctuated only by the soft rhythm of her fingers against his scalp and the occasional hum of traffic outside.

“Anything you want to talk about?” she asked softly, not wanting to break the moment but leaving the door open for him.

Bucky closed his eyes, his voice low and drowsy. “Not yet. Just this. This is… enough.”

After a while of lying on the couch, Bucky's body had grown heavier against her lap. His breathing became slower, and his voice was groggy when he finally spoke. “Hey… can we go shopping on Saturday instead of Friday?”

Her fingers stilled briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “Saturday?”

“Yeah…” He trailed off, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling. “I’ve got some stuff to deal with on Friday. Nothing big. Just easier if it’s Saturday.”

She hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at him. “I can’t,” she said gently.

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to meet her gaze.

“I have a date.”

The weight in the room shifted immediately and his body stiffened under her touch. “Like… with your other ‘son’?” he asked, the words tumbling out awkwardly before he could stop himself.

She blinked, then laughed softly. “No, Bucky. Like with a man. A real date.”

Her fingers resumed their lazy rhythm through his hair, but she could feel the way his shoulders tensed further, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t respond right away, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Sensing his unease, she chuckled. “Don’t worry. You won’t meet him, and you definitely won’t have to call him Dad.”

Bucky let out a faint huff, something caught between a snort and a sigh, but he didn’t relax. “Didn’t say I was worried,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair again with deliberate care. He closed his eyes again, letting her touch ground him as the weight of the day slowly ebbed away.

After a moment of silence, Bucky shifted slightly against her lap. His lips pressed together like he was trying to hold something back, but finally, the question slipped out. “Where… where did you meet this guy?”

Her fingers paused briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “At the bookstore,” she said lightly. “He comes in pretty often. We’ve had a few nice conversations over the past couple of months.”

Bucky frowned, his brows knitting together as he stared at the ceiling. “You’ve gone out with him before?”

She shook her head, smiling softly. “No, this will be the first time.”

He mulled that over, his gaze flickering with something unreadable before he glanced up at her. “So… what do you like about him?”

The question came out gruff, almost begrudging, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity -or maybe hesitation- in his voice.

Her lips twitched with amusement as she considered the question. “Well,” she began, “he’s polite, for once. Always says hello and takes the time to ask how my day is going.”

Bucky huffed lightly, a soft sound of dismissal.

“And he’s thoughtful,” she continued. “One time, he brought me coffee because he noticed I was swamped with a shipment of books. Didn’t even stay to chat, just handed it to me and said he thought I might need it.”

“Sounds like a Boy Scout,” Bucky muttered, his tone laced with faint skepticism.

She chuckled softly, brushing her fingers lightly over his temple. “Maybe. But I like that he pays attention. He’s kind without expecting anything in return.”

Bucky stayed silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on some invisible point far away. Finally, he murmured, “So, you’re serious about him?”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “It’s just one date, Buck,” she said gently. “I’m not planning a wedding.” Her voice carried a reassuring warmth, softening the weight of his question. “I don’t even know if there’s anything there yet.”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his tone softer now, though the small frown on his face lingered. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“I guess I will,” she replied. After a pause, she added with a playful glint in her eyes, “But no matter what happens, it won’t change anything between us. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

Bucky’s lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile breaking through his lingering tension. “Yeah… I remember.”

Her fingers slid through his hair again with deliberate care, and the corners of his mouth relaxed, even if his eyes remained shadowed. Whatever the storm in his mind, her presence was enough to keep it at bay for now.

“Speaking of dates,” she said, lightly but curious, “you didn’t tell me how your date went with the woman from the grocery store. The one you told me about the last time we saw each other.”

Bucky shifted against her lap, suddenly looking a lot less relaxed. “I… kind of left in the middle of it,” he admitted, uncomfortable.

“Oh, you didn’t,” her eyebrows lifted in mock reproach as she tugged softly at his hair, as a playful reprimand.

He huffed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “She was… noisy,” he started, his voice tinged with frustration as he struggled to explain. “Talked too much, and it wasn’t even about anything interesting. Kept asking questions, but…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “She didn’t actually care about the answers. Just wanted to fill the silence.”

Her fingers paused briefly, then resumed their soothing rhythm through his hair. “That sounds exhausting,” she said softly, her tone full of understanding. “But that’s not the whole reason, is it?”

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away. “She was touchy,” he said finally. “Kept leaning in, grabbing my arm, laughing like… like it was supposed to make me feel good or something.”

“Did it?” she asked gently.

“No.” His response was firm, and his hands flexed at his sides as though the memory left him uneasy. “I wasn’t comfortable with her being so close. I don’t even think she noticed. Or cared.”

She sighed softly, her touch steady as she brushed her fingers through his hair again. “You’ll find someone who gets you. Someone who’ll respect your pace and what you need.”

His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile but wasn’t quite sure how. “What if there’s not?” he muttered, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t catch it.

“There will be,” she reassured him. “You just have to be patient. And picky. Nothing wrong with that.”

For a moment, he was silent, the tension in his body softening just a little under her touch. Then, almost shyly, he murmured, “Thanks… Mama.”

She smiled warmly, leaning back into the couch as her hand continued to comb gently through his hair. “Anytime, honey.”

-----

Time had a way of slipping by, and before he knew it, Bucky found himself sitting across from another date. This one wasn’t noisy or overly touchy, and the small brewery they’d chosen wasn’t bad, either. He nursed a beer in one hand, his vibranium arm hidden beneath the sleeve of his Henley, as the woman across from him laughed at something he’d said, a low, cautious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Her eyes drifted to his wrist, where the dark leather bracelet he always wore peeked out from his sleeve. “I like that,” she said, nodding toward it. “The bracelet. It’s nice.”

He glanced at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks. My mom gave it to me.”

Her expression faltered slightly, the smile on her lips growing a bit stiff. “Oh, that’s… sweet,” she said, tilting her head. “Do you, uh, live with your mom?”

Bucky furrowed his brows, looking at her like she’d just asked if the sky was purple. “No. Why?”

She shifted in her seat, her fingers toying with the edge of her glass. “Well, then you must be very… close to her. Are you the youngest son?”

“No.” His tone was sharper now, though he didn’t mean it to be. “Why?”

The woman hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her drink. Finally, she gestured vaguely toward him, her voice dropping as though she were trying to be delicate. “Well… you’ve brought her up a lot. And, no offense, but it’s kind of… weird for a man your age. On a date, I mean.”

Bucky froze, his beer halfway to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing, his blue gaze narrowing slightly as he processed what she’d just said. Then, slowly, he set the bottle down, and his fingers tightened slightly around the glass. A familiar sense of unease churned in his chest, accompanied by the ache of frustration.

“Right,” he said finally with an even voice, though there was a subtle edge to it. “I guess that is weird.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably, her awkward smile faltering completely. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, leaning back in his chair. His expression was blank, his tone cool, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

For the rest of the date, the conversation limped along, each attempt at salvaging it falling flat. Bucky found himself withdrawing, offering short, polite responses but little else. The spark of curiosity or connection -if there had ever been one- had fizzled out entirely.

When the check came, he paid for their drinks, refusing her offer to split it with a quiet but firm “Don’t worry about it.”

As they stepped outside, he offered a polite goodbye, but his tone was distant, and he didn’t wait for her to respond before walking off into the night.

He didn’t bring her up that much, did he? The thought came gruffly as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, but deep down, he already knew the answer. Should’ve just stayed home.

His gaze fell to the leather bracelet again, and he sighed, slowing his footsteps.

‘Mom’ wouldn’t have made me feel like that.

He shook his head as he entered, the faint metallic clink of keys landing in the small ceramic bowl echoed through the quiet space. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze lingered on it. The damn bowl she picked because I couldn’t decide. He let out a low, frustrated growl, kicking off his boots near the door and running a hand through his hair.

His nose wrinkled as a faint scent clung to him, cigarettes, from his date. She must have smoked earlier, and now it lingered in his jacket, his shirt, even his hair. His brows furrowed. He didn’t like it. The realization was sharp, irritating, and only added to his foul mood as he stripped off his clothes while walking toward the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life, steam filling the room as he stepped under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over his shoulders. He rested his palms against the tile wall, hanging his head forward, dampening his hair.

The date replayed in his head in vivid detail: her awkward comments, the tight smile when she’d tried to backpedal, the judgment laced in her words. Weird for a man your age. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening against the slick tiles.

She wasn’t wrong, he did bring up Mama more than he realized. But was that a crime? She was one of the few constants in his life that didn’t feel… hollow.

The thought only made the pit in his stomach grow heavier. The way she’d looked at him like he was some awkward, broken man who couldn’t function properly… it stung.

Before he knew it, his thoughts wandered to her instead. Not the woman from the date, but the one helping him put his life back together piece by piece. The one who’d picked out that damn bowl. The one who had sat on his couch, combing her fingers through his hair when he’d been too exhausted to speak.

His breathing hitched slightly as he remembered her touch, soft and unhurried, calming him in a way no one else ever had. He could almost feel the ghost of her fingers brushing through his hair, skimming over his temple with a care he didn’t deserve.

His hand slid down his chest, trailing over the wet planes of his torso, and he exhaled shakily, furrowing his brow. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. It was wrong -so wrong- but his body didn’t seem to care.

His grip tightened on himself, and his head thunked lightly against the tile as a groan slipped past his lips. The hot water beat against his back, but it couldn’t drown out the traitorous images flooding his mind. Her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way she’d called him “honey” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his strokes becoming sharper, more desperate as if he could exorcise the feelings clawing their way to the surface. He shouldn’t be doing this, he admonished himself again. Not with Mama. Not the one person who made him feel safe.

And yet, the warmth of her imagined touch, the thought of her fingers tracing the scars on his skin or resting lightly against his jaw, was enough to push him over the edge. His release came with a choked groan, and his forehead pressed harder against the tile as his body shuddered.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the water and his ragged breathing.

And then the guilt hit him.

His hands clenched into fists, as his chest tightened. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking under the weight of his self-reproach.

He braced himself against the wall, shaking his head slightly. He felt disgusting, his stomach twisted as shame crept in his mind. She trusted him -cared for him- and this was how he repaid that?

With a low, bitter laugh, he reached for the soap, scrubbing furiously at his skin as if he could wash away the evidence of what he’d just done. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the storm of emotions raging inside him.

It was wrong. He was wrong. And yet, deep down, a part of him couldn’t stop wanting.

Goddammit.

-----

When Sam hinted that week about needing him for a little thing in Kuala Lumpur, Bucky didn’t hesitate. It didn’t seem like something Wilson could handle solo, and besides, a mission was the perfect way to blow off some steam. Anything to quiet the thoughts that had been clawing at the back of his mind since the date -and especially- since that shower.

He sent a quick text to Mama, keeping it short and simple, their usual code for missions.

Taking a vacation this week. Won’t make Friday.

Her reply came quickly: Take care of yourself. Don’t engage in crazy fun.

Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he stared at the screen. Ok, Mom, he typed back, his lips twitching faintly despite himself.

Her response came almost immediately: I mean it, Jamie.

Fuck. His jaw tightened, and he locked the phone without answering. She always had a way of cutting through him, even with a couple of words. He shoved the phone into his pocket and headed to pack, grumbling under his breath.

When Sam picked him up a day later, Bucky was already in mission mode: focused, stoic, and bracing himself for whatever chaos Wilson was about to drag him into. But despite his best efforts to push her words aside, they echoed faintly in his mind.

Take care of yourself.

He’d try. For her.

-----

Things went slightly fine the first day, if you ignored the shooting, falling from a 15-story building into a trash container, and the broken shower in the safehouse. Bucky stood shirtless in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, grimacing as he splashed cold water over his chest and shoulders. The sink barely worked, sputtering like it might give up entirely, and the dingy tiles on the walls didn’t do much to make him feel clean.

“Man, this place is a dump,” Sam said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Better than the street,” Bucky grunted, grabbing a threadbare towel to dry off.

Sam hummed noncommittally, watching as Bucky fumbled with the faucet. “So, how’s it going with her?”

Bucky froze briefly before answering. “Things are good.”

“Glad you finally listened to me.” Sam’s voice carried just a hint of smugness. “I mean, you’re still a pain in the ass, but at least your mood’s improved a lot these past months.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You want me to thank you or something?”

“Nah,” Sam replied, grinning. “But I’ll take it as a win anyway.”

Bucky muttered something unintelligible under his breath and pushed past him, heading to the small, creaky bed in the corner of the cramped space.

That night, like most nights, sleep evaded him. He lay on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the safehouse, while his mind spun with too many thoughts. Missions were supposed to clear his head, burn off the restlessness that kept him awake. But tonight, even exhaustion didn’t help.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat up and grabbed the disposable phone Sam had handed him earlier. He knew it was a bad idea, knew he should just put it away and try to rest, but his fingers moved on their own, pulling up her profile.

Her social media was usually quiet: cozy book displays from her job, pictures of the plants she was trying to keep alive, and the occasional funny meme. It was soothing, like a peek into a normal life that he could never fully touch.

But tonight, it wasn’t soothing.

His stomach dropped as he stared at the most recent photo, uploaded just a few hours ago. It was a close-up of two hands holding Sharpies, coloring a detailed mandala. One of the hands was hers, he recognized the delicate curve of her fingers, and the faint scar near her thumb. The other one was clearly male, broader and rougher.

The tags hit him like a punch to the gut:

#SoProudOfYou #AlmostAllByYourself

Bucky stared at the screen, and his chest tightened as the meaning sank in his brain.

Her other son.

It had to be him, the other veteran she worked with, the one she’d mentioned months ago. The one responsible for her being “unsure” about taking him in when Sam first approached her.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor. He could still picture the hands, the caption, the pride in her words. And it twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable, raw feeling he couldn’t shake.

He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning softly. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

It shouldn’t matter. She wasn’t his. She’d never been his, not in that way. He told himself that over and over, but the ache in his chest didn’t care. The idea of her giving someone else that same care, that same warmth, felt like a betrayal, even though he had no right to feel that way.

With a frustrated growl, Bucky tossed the phone onto the nightstand and dropped his head into his hands. For all the chaos of the mission, for all the bullets and explosions and pain, nothing had hit him harder than that damn photo.

And he hated himself for how much it hurt.

-----

The mission wrapped up in a flurry of controlled chaos. The intel had been secured, the enhanced assholes neutralized, and while Sam emerged with only a few scratches, Bucky sported a fresh bruise on his jaw and a deep gash on his forearm, not that he cared.

The flight back was quiet, the hum of the jet’s engines filling the cabin as Bucky sat slumped in one of the seats, staring a blank point in front of him. His vibranium fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the only outward sign of the storm brewing in his head.

Across the aisle, Sam noticed. He always noticed.

At first, he let it be, figuring Bucky’s mood would even out once they hit the ground. But as the hours dragged on, and the Winter Sulker stayed silent, Sam couldn’t help himself.

“You’re quiet,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat.

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze kept fixed on the clouds outside.

Sam tried again, his tone a little sharper this time. “You gonna sit there brooding the whole way, or are you gonna tell me what’s eating you?”

Still, nothing.

Sam let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. But let me guess: You’re pissed off because someone scratched your arm? Or wait, maybe you’re mad because someone didn’t say ‘thank you sir’ after you saved their life?”

Bucky’s fingers stilled on the armrest, tightening his jaw.

That was all the opening Sam needed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, man, I’m not blind. You’ve been sulking since day one of this mission. You want to talk about it, or do I have to guess some more?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “Just drop it, Wilson.”

“See, now you’ve got me curious,” Sam said, grinning in a way that only made Bucky’s irritation spike. “What’s got the great James Buchanan Barnes in such a mood? Did Mama scold you over text?”

That did it. Bucky shot out of his seat, towering over Sam with a scowl. “I said drop it!” he barked, his voice echoed in the small cabin.

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He just stared up at Bucky. “So it is about her.”

Bucky froze, clenching his fists at his sides.

“Man, you’ve been walking around like someone kicked your dog,” Sam continued, with a softer tone. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you’ve got to get it out before it eats you alive.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before sitting back down with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and muttered, “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Sam pointed out.

“It’s fine,” Bucky snapped tiredly.

Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and leaning back. “Alright. Keep it to yourself if you want. But I’m telling you now, whatever’s got you in this mood, you better work it out before it gets worse.

Bucky didn’t answer, turning his gaze back to the blank point. The rest of the flight passed in tense silence, as the weight of Sam’s words pressed down on him more than he wanted to admit.

----

He entered his apartment, dragging his feet like every step took more effort than it should. The mission had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, though it wasn’t the physical strain, it was the weight in his chest that seemed to grow heavier every time he returned to this quiet, empty space.

He grabbed his dead phone from the counter and plugged into the charger, barely glancing at the notifications, and made his way to the bed. The mattress was thin, and the pillows hard, as she’d suggested. “A good way to transition from the floor,” she’d said, and damned if she hadn’t been right. He’d hated it at first, but now… now it felt like his.

He dropped onto it without bothering to change, his eyes closing almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was so tired. So fucking tired.

That night, the nightmares came back.

And the next night.

And the next.

-----

Several days later, she was pacing her living room, phone in hand, staring at the screen with her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Whatever Bucky was into, it must have been over by now. She was sure of it, or at least, she hoped so. The radio silence was starting to worry her.

He wasn’t one to check in often -God knew that- but after all these months, she’d learned his rhythms. This wasn’t like him, not entirely. Not answering her, staying quiet this long? That wasn’t just distance. That was something else.

Finally, she typed a quick, casual message:

Still at the resort, hun?

His reply came faster than she’d expected, but it was curt.

No.

Her brows furrowed. Oh, okay, she thought, frowning at the screen. Something felt off. She typed again.

Everything alright? Did you have more fun than intended?

The dots in the chat appeared, blinked, and then disappeared.

Okay, she thought, waiting. Then they blinked again. And disappeared.

Bucky, are you hurt? she finally wrote with concern.

This time, the message was read almost instantly, but no reply came.

She sighed, deepening her frown. She knew this pattern all too well. When Bucky didn’t answer, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it was because he didn’t know how.

“Alright, Buck,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. “Time for a visit.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, dropping everything to pull him out of whatever dark place he’d retreated to. He’d let her in, little by little, trusting her with parts of himself no one else saw. She’d told herself it was about helping him, being there for him in the way he needed.

But it was more than that.

The truth, the one she kept swallowing down, was that her care for him didn’t fit neatly into the boundaries of their arrangement. It wasn’t maternal, not entirely. It was something more, something deeper. She shoved the thought aside, tightening her grip on her bag. Principles, she reminded herself firmly. Getting involved with him like that would be wrong. He deserved better.

But she couldn’t stop herself from caring.

She grabbed the key off the hook by her door and headed out. Not answering the door wasn’t going to be an option this time.

Not for her.

As expected, her knocks were met with silence. She sighed with resignation and slipped the key into the lock.

The door creaked open, and she wrinkled her nose as the stale, charged air of the apartment hit her. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen it, but it was far from the neat, semi-organized space they’d worked on together. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor and a small pile of takeout containers on the counter.

At least he’s been eating, she thought, a small relief in the face of the mess.

The faint sound of water running led her to the source: the bathroom. The shower.

She turned her focus back to the living room, her lips pressing into a line as she slid the window open to let in some fresh air. The cool breeze offered a small reprieve from the heaviness of the space.

Spotting a roll of garbage bags near the counter, she grabbed one and started tidying up. The crumpled clothes went into a hamper, the empty takeout boxes into the bag. She wiped at the counter absently, and her mind drifted to the last time he’d gone radio silent like this.

Whatever this is, we’ll get through it, she told herself.

She was so focused on her task, that she didn’t notice when the sound of the shower stopped, or when Bucky emerged from the hallway.

He stood there, quiet and guarded, with a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to his skin, rolling down the faint scars on his flesh arm and chest. His stare was intense and unreadable as he watched her move around his apartment as if she belonged there.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice startled her, low and edged with exhaustion. She turned sharply, the garbage bag crinkling in her hands as her eyes met his.

“Oh,” she said, recovering quickly. Her gaze flicked briefly over him before landing firmly on his face. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.” She gestured toward the bag in her hands. “Figured I’d help you out a little.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” she replied evenly, setting the bag down and crossing her arms. “But I wasn’t about to leave you stewing in here like this.”

His jaw worked as he shifted his weight. “I’m fine.”

She raised an skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah? Because this,” she gestured to the room, “doesn’t exactly scream ‘fine,’ Buck.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“Good,” she shot back, her tone soft but firm. “Because I’m not giving you one. I’m here because I care about you, and you clearly need someone right now. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, and his guarded expression wavered slightly. Then, with a tired sigh, he stepped further into the room, slumping his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted with a soft gaze. “But I’m here now. So let me help.”

He didn’t respond, but the fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders loosened, and he dropped into a chair near the counter, fixing his gaze somewhere on the floor.

She picked up the garbage bag again, resuming her quiet cleanup. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to coax him out of his own head, and she suspected it wouldn’t be the last. But as she moved around the room, she noticed the faintest crack in his armor, proof that he was letting her in, even if he didn’t have the words to say it yet.

“So… what’s going on?” she asked, as she picked up a wrinkled pair of boxers from one of the chairs.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the offending garment, then back to her face. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. He was tired, tired of pretending, tired of holding back.

“I’m… jealous.” he admitted reluctantly.

She paused, her fingers tightened around the fabric before dropping it into the laundry pile. “Jealous?” she echoed, her brows furrowing. “Of who?”

His jaw tensed, and his gaze darted away before he muttered, “I saw it. The Sharpies picture.”

Her lips parted slightly in understanding. “Oh,” she said softly. “And?”

“And…” He sighed again, the frustration etched into every line of his face. “You never did that with me.”

“Coloring?” she asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t think you’d be into it, babe.”

“Not coloring,” he said sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again. Then his voice softened, but his words carried a heavy weight. “The… the picture.”

Oh.

“Well,” she started gently, “you’re not exactly a fan of social media. And you always grump when I try to take one of us.”

“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. His blue eyes finally met hers, raw and vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten. “It’s… I forget sometimes that I’m not your only son.”

Oh.

He leaned back in the chair, running his hand over his face as if to hide the emotions flickering across it. “I don’t like the idea of sharing you,” he admitted, in a low, almost bitter tone.

She swallowed hard. “Well, it happens all the time,” she said cautiously, trying to keep her tone light. “Brothers usually don’t like-”

“He’s not my brother,” Bucky interrupted firmly, snapping his gaze to hers.

The air in the room shifted. His next words came softer, but they hit like a thunderclap.

“And you… you’re not my ma.”

The room seemed to still, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge in the background.

She stared at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Bucky…”

“I hate it,” he said, dropping his hands to his lap as he looked at her with a mix of anger and desperation. “I hate that I look forward to seeing you more than I’ve looked forward to anything in years. I hate that I can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting what I get. And I hate that I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed as she searched for the right words. “Bucky,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “this… this doesn’t have to be something you hate.”

“I know,” he said, his voice was raw and strained. “But I can’t manage my feelings toward you.”

Her breath caught, and her heart twisted painfully as she absorbed the weight of his confession. She leaned back slightly, clenching her hands together in her lap and sighed.

“Bucky,” she started softly, “this bond we’ve built… it’s compromised. It’s not what it’s supposed to be anymore. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to continue mothering you.”

His head snapped up, his blue eyes went wide and glassy with panic. The look on his face made her chest ache. He looked utterly wrecked, his lips parted as if to argue, but no words came at first.

“No,” he finally stammered, his voice shaky and uneven. “No, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I’ll stop. I’ll never bring it up again, I swear.” His breath hitched, and he shook his head as if trying to find the right words. “Just… don’t leave me, Mama.”

He reached for her hand, firmly but also trembling. His vibranium fingers brushed against her wrist, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. “I need you,” he said, his voice breaking.

Her heart shattered at the sheer desperation in his voice, in the way his thumb nervously rubbed over the back of her hand like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

With her free hand, she reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek, softly brushing her thumb over a scar near his jawline. His breath hitched again, and his eyes fluttered shut momentarily, as though her touch was calming him.

“This ordeal isn’t right, sweetheart,” she murmured. “It’s not fair to you. Or to me.”

“But-” His hand tightened around hers, his body leaned closer to her as though proximity alone could keep her from slipping away. “I’ll do better. I’ll keep it together. Just… please, don’t go. Don’t give up on me.”

“Bucky,” she whispered, tracing soothing circles on his cheek. “It’s not about giving up on you. It’s about what’s right. What’s healthy.”

“I don’t care about right,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I just… I can’t lose you too.”

Her hand trembled slightly where it rested against his cheek, but she steadied herself with a deep breath.

“Bucky,” she began softly, tentative but growing steadier as she continued, “I also have feelings for you. I’ve been having them for a while now.”

His breath hitched, his wide eyes searching hers desperately, but before he could speak, she pushed forward.

“I was never going to act on it,” she said firmly. “Because it would mean taking advantage of you.”

His brows furrowed deeply, and he shook his head, rising his voice with frustration and disbelief. “I’m a grown man. You can’t take advantage of me.”

“You know that’s not true,” she countered gently but unyieldingly.“You trust me, Bucky. You let me in, more than anyone else. And that’s why we can’t do this dynamic anymore.”

Her words hit him like a physical blow. His grip on her hand tightened, and his shoulders hunched as his head dipped forward slightly. For a moment, he was silent, breathing heavily as he tried to process her words.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head, his voice broke as he looked back up at her with unshed tears brightening his eyes. “No… Ma… you can’t just-”

“Bucky,” she said softly, cutting him off with a tenderness that nearly undid him. Her fingers brushed his cheek again, tracing soothing circles as her heart ached at the devastation written across his face. “The contract we made, the boundaries we agreed on, it doesn’t fit us anymore. I can’t keep pretending to be something I’m not.”

His breath hitched, the knot in his throat tightened as he struggled to find words. “But you’re not-” he started, voice trembling.

She shook her head gently, stopping him again. “I’m not your mom, Bucky. You said it yourself.” Her voice wavered just enough to betray the conflict she felt.

His lips parted, but no sound came as he searched her face, desperate for something -anything-that might keep her close.

“That being said…” she murmured after a beat, her thumb still brushing gently against his cheek. Her eyes softened as they searched for his. “We can try… dating. To see how and where this might go, because that’s something completely different.”

His mind blanked for a moment, as her words hit him. Dating?

The word echoed in his head, feeling too big and too small all at once. He blinked, his mouth opening slightly as he struggled to process what she’d just said. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out, his breath caught somewhere between confusion and longing.

Dating… her?

His heart twisted, caught in the crossfire of disbelief and a yearning he’d buried for so long it felt foreign. She wasn’t pulling back. She wasn’t brushing this off or deflecting like he’d feared. Instead, she was offering something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

Does she mean it?

For so long, he’d kept his feelings locked away, hidden in the shadows of his mind where they couldn’t hurt him -or anyone else-. But now, here she was, standing in front of him, dragging those feelings into the light with words that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

“…What?” he finally managed, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was rough, strained, tangled somewhere between confusion and desperation.

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a faint glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, just enough to make his chest ache. “Dating, Bucky,” she repeated. “Not as your mom. Not as anyone else. Just… as us.”

Us.

His throat tightened, and his hands flexed against hers. The knot in his chest twisted painfully, caught between fear and something that felt dangerously close to relief.

Could there even be an us?

“Bucky, you’re doing the staring thing,” she said softly, her voice tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained serious as if willing him to believe her.

The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint huff of air escaped his nose as he ducked his head slightly. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I thought it was just me. You’re… sure about me?

Her thumb brushed gently along his jaw, and a small, reassuring smile tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t be here saying this if I wasn’t sure, Buck.”

He glanced at her lips, the desire to close the space between them was almost overwhelming, but he hesitated. “You’re not… scared?”

“Of you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Never.” Her smile grew just a bit, as she added, “You’re not as intimidating as you think, you know.”

That earned a faint chuckle, though it was weighed down by the uncertainty still lingering in his chest. “I just… I’m not exactly easy, you know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m complicated. Messed up.”

She shook her head, squeezing his hand gently. “Bucky, all these months I’ve been coming here to be with you, you’ve opened up to me in ways I don’t think you’ve done with anyone else. You’ve trusted me with parts of yourself that I know aren’t easy to share.”

Her voice softened, her thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “I know what I’m dealing with. And I can promise you, you’re not a mess. Not to me.”

His chest tightened at her words. He exhaled slowly, his blue eyes flicking between hers as if searching for any trace of doubt but all he saw was warmth. “Then,” he began, his tone was low but went higher as he steadied himself. “Let’s-let’s go. On a date.”

Her lips twitched, and she glanced down briefly, with a playful glint dancing in her eyes. “Well, to go right now, you should probably put some clothes on first, don’t you think?”

For a moment, he blinked, caught off guard by the shift, until her words sank in. His gaze darted down to the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and the faintest flush crept up his neck.

“I didn’t mean right now, Ma-” He caught himself, his jaw tightened as he quickly corrected, “Doll.” The word came out gruff, almost embarrassed, as he scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away for a second.

Her brow arched at the slip, but she didn’t comment, though the faint smile tugging at her lips didn’t go unnoticed.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders, and for once, the knowledge that she wanted this too -wanted him- settled something inside him. The usual discomfort of being caught off guard wasn’t there. Instead, he felt a spark of confidence, small but growing.

She leaned back in her chair, deciding to give him the space to take the lead. Considering his old-fashioned upbringing, it felt right to let him set the tone, not just to give him control, but to help him feel steady.

“So,” she said lightly, playful but encouraging, “pick a place and a time, and we’ll see.”

He nodded slowly, flexing his fingers against his knee before leaning back slightly in his seat. The movement shifted the towel around his hips just enough to make her painfully aware of the fact that he was still half-naked.

Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, and the slight curve of his jaw as he glanced down in thought. Then her wandering gaze dipped against her better judgment, tracing the line of his chest, the faint curve of muscle at his stomach, and the scars she’d never quite let herself linger on before.

When her eyes flicked back up to his face, his sharp blue gaze was already on her, a flicker of amusement sparking in his expression. His lips twitched into a faint smirk, “Okay,” he said, more confident now. “I’ll… figure it out.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she quickly forced a smile, hoping it would cover her flustering. “Take your time, Bucky. Just not too long.”

He tipped his head slightly, and his smirk deepened with an easy confidence in his posture that was now unmistakable. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

----

True to his word, her phone buzzed with a message a couple of days later.

Dinner? Friday at 7. That place you mentioned once, Marcellino’s.

She blinked at the screen, parting her lips in surprise. Marcellino’s? The Italian place she’d mentioned months ago, almost offhandedly, as a “bucket list” spot she’d love to visit someday? How had he even remembered?

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard before she typed back.

Seriously? I’ve been dying to go there. How’d you manage reservations so fast?

On the other side of town, Bucky stared at her message, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he reclined on his couch. It had been a pain finding a reservation on such short notice; apparently, Marcellino’s had been booked solid for weeks. But hacking into their system had been child’s play, a few keystrokes, some backdoor access, and voilà: table for two, Friday at 7.

She would never know, of course.

He typed back simply.

I’ve got my ways.

Her reply came quickly, punctuated with a laughing emoji.

Mysterious, huh? Alright, Bucky. I’ll see you on Friday.

Bucky exhaled slowly, setting his phone down and leaning back against the couch. A small, quiet sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. It wasn’t just the date, it was the effort, the planning, and the decision to put himself out there in a way he hadn’t in decades.

Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

----

When the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted him immediately. He was standing just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark suit pants. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was distracted, fixed on something across the street.

She rarely saw him out of his usual Henleys and jeans, but God help her, he cleaned up well. The suit was perfectly tailored, the dark fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and tapering at his waist. His hair, usually left to its own devices, was slicked back neatly, the sharp lines of his jawline even more striking under the glow of the streetlights.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

Bucky, oblivious to her arrival, shifted his weight slightly, his vibranium fingers flexing in his pocket as his flesh hand adjusted his tie. She smiled to herself, taking the opportunity to appreciate him while his guard was down. He was so effortlessly striking, yet she knew he’d put thought into it. He really wanted this to go right.

Finally, she stepped out of the cab, and her heels clicked softly against the pavement. “Hey, handsome,” she called out.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his distracted expression melting into something softer. His lips parted slightly, raking his gaze over her from head to toe. “Wow,” he murmured, low and rough. “You look…” He trailed off, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t find the right word.

“Good?” she offered with a smirk, stepping closer.

“Better than good,” he corrected, “Way better.”

Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, but she managed to keep her tone casual. “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Buck. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you do this sort of thing all the time.”

He huffed a small laugh, scratching the back of his neck, though the faint pink dusting his ears didn’t go unnoticed. “Guess I clean up okay.”

“Okay?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Try amazing.”

He ducked his head slightly, a rare but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he muttered, holding out his arm. “You ready?”

She looped her hand through his, letting him lead her toward the entrance. As they stepped inside, she couldn’t help but think this was already shaping up to be the best first date she’d ever had.

The table was in a prime spot near a window overlooking the city lights. Bucky pulled out her chair smoothly, motioning for her to sit confidently, making her heart flutter.

He settled across her with fluid movements. Despite the nerves buzzing in his chest, they were the good kind of nerves, normal ones. The kind that came with wanting to impress someone without feeling like he had to prove his worth.

He already knew her.

That made everything easier. There was no need to rack his brain for icebreakers, no awkward pauses to fill, no second-guessing every little thing he said. Instead, he could focus entirely on her: the soft curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the way she twisted her hands together on the table when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And, maybe, on seducing her. Not aggressively, but in the easy, intentional way he remembered from a lifetime ago. A brush of his fingers here, a lingering glance there, the kind of thing that built tension without needing words.

If he was rusty, it didn’t show.

She, on the other hand, was a wreck.

Her posture was perfect, her smile warm, but underneath the table, her knees bounced faintly, betraying the swirl of emotions coursing through her. This was -and wasn’t- her Bucky.

The man sitting across from her wasn’t the grumpy, guarded man she’d coaxed out of his shell with patience and care. This Bucky was confident, deliberate. The way his piercing gaze lingered just a second too long, the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he caught her fidgeting, he wasn’t shy about letting her know she had his full attention.

And it was overwhelming. Not in a bad way -it was thrilling- but it left her feeling completely off balance.

She wasn’t in charge anymore.

The realization sent a wave of warmth through her body, leaving her acutely aware of every little detail: the way he leaned forward slightly when she spoke, the way his hand rested on the table, close enough to brush hers if she dared to reach out.

God help her, she thought faintly, swallowing hard. If this was Bucky now, she couldn’t imagine what Sergeant Barnes of the 1940s must have been like. A menace, no doubt. A walking, talking heartbreaker wrapped in charm and good manners.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his again, and he gave her a slow, knowing smile, one that sent her pulse skittering.

She tightened her grip on the edge of her napkin, trying to will herself to relax. This was Bucky. And yet, sitting across from him like this, with the weight of his attention focused entirely on her, it felt like seeing him for the first time all over again.

When the food arrived, Bucky’s face was a masterclass of self-control. His expression remained completely neutral as the waiter arranged the plates with what could only be described as an air of reverence. He nodded politely when the man finished, even offering a quiet “thank you,” though inside he was already questioning his life choices.

Once the waiter walked away, he let his eyes shift to her, raising a brow to see if she was thinking the same thing he was.

Her lips twitched, struggling to suppress a laugh as she glanced down at her plate. The elegant presentation might have fooled someone else, but all she could see was what appeared to be a tiny portion of gnocchi, barely enough to feed a toddler.

Bucky’s plate wasn’t much better: three perfectly arranged sorrentinos, sitting proudly in the center of an artfully swirled sauce. It was the most stylish and inviting minimalist plate he’d ever seen.

He glanced back up at her, his lips twitching as her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“This…” she started, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle a giggle, “…this is it?”

Bucky huffed, leaning back in his chair as he gave his plate a long, scrutinizing look. “Guess we’re supposed to savor it,” he said dryly.

She bit her lip, trying and failing to stifle another laugh. “It seems they’re encouraging portion control.”

He scowled. “Didn’t know I’d be eating an appetizer disguised as dinner, goddammit.”

“I’m… I’m sorry! I didn’t know… they have such great feedback!” she groaned still chuckling.

“It’s my fault,” he muttered, spearing one of the sorrentinos with his fork and eyeing it as if it had personally insulted him. “For not checking the place out better.”

He couldn’t believe he’d hacked their system for this. He’d spent nearly an hour working around firewalls and reservations, all to secure a table at this supposedly renowned spot. It hadn’t even occurred to him to scout the menu or check the portion sizes.

This wouldn’t have happened to the old me, he thought bitterly, chewing slowly on his second overpriced sorrentino. His jaw tightened as the familiar ache of inadequacy crept into his chest.

She must have noticed the subtle shift in his expression because, without a word, she reached across the table and rested her hand over his.

“Bucky,” she said softly, her voice laced with gentle authority. “Don’t you dare take a ride on the self-deprecation train.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers with surprise, before relaxing his features.

“This,” she continued, squeezing his hand lightly, “is just an anecdote. Something to laugh about later, hm? It doesn’t mean anything except that we picked a fancy place with tiny portions. That’s it.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, flexing his fingers slightly under hers. Then, reluctantly, his lips twitched into a faint smirk. “An anecdote, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling now, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. “Something to tell people one day, how you bravely faced off against a plate of minimalist pasta. Now finish your last bite so we can leave and find something less fancy but more substantial,” she stated with amusement.

Bucky poked at the last piece of pasta with his fork, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Even the breadbasket was sad,” he grumbled, as he signaled for the waiter to bring the bill.

The waiter approached, and with a politely confused expression, he noted their early departure. “Would you like to see the dessert menu, perhaps?” he offered, his tone gracious but hoping to redeem the situation.

“No, thank you,” Bucky replied smoothly, his voice polite but final. He slid his card across the table before she could even think about reaching for her wallet.

“Bucky-” she started, but he cut her off with a quick shake of his head.

“Don’t even try,” he said firmly but light enough to soften the refusal.

She huffed but didn’t argue further, leaning back in her chair as he settled the bill. Once it was taken care of, Bucky stood and offered her his hand, helping her up with ease.

As they made their way toward the exit, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the door he opened for her.

“Such a gentleman,” she teased, as she stepped outside into the cool night air.

“Only for you, doll” he murmured, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk as he shifted slightly to shield her from a passing breeze.

She stepped beside him, automatically taking the inner spot on the sidewalk as he steered her toward it and slipped her hand easily onto his offered arm

“So,” he said after a moment, “Any ideas where we’re finding this substantial food? Or am I winging it?”

She laughed softly, squeezing his arm. “Let’s see what’s nearby. Maybe we’ll find a place with a breadbasket that doesn’t make you sad.”

“That’s a low bar,” he muttered, earning another laugh that made his chest feel lighter than it had all night.

They ended up at a small, no-frills pizza place, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The neon sign in the window flickered faintly, and the smell of melted cheese and fresh dough hit them the moment they stepped inside.

Sliding onto the high bar stools at a tiny plastic table, they both seemed keenly aware of how out of place they looked. Her dress shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights, and his perfectly tailored suit drew more than a few curious glances from the other patrons, who were clad in hoodies and jeans.

Bucky sat a little stiffly at first, as he glanced around. The contrast between this place and the upscale restaurant they’d just left wasn’t lost on him, but the casual atmosphere somehow felt more... right. Still, the attention made him uneasy, and he shifted slightly, brushing his vibranium hand on the edge of the table.

But then he looked at her.

She had a slice in her hand, the cheese stretching almost comically as she took a bite. Her shoulders relaxed as she chewed, and then she closed her eyes, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, locking his gaze on her as a faint flush crept up his neck. He watched her savor the bite, her fingers tapping lightly on the table to emphasize her approval.

In that moment, every awkward glance from the other patrons, every thought about his appearance or how ridiculous they looked, melted away.

All he could think about was her.

“Good?” he asked, unable to stop staring.

She opened her eyes, blinking like she’d momentarily forgotten where she was. “So good,” she said, curling her lips into a satisfied smile. “I needed this.”

“Glad I could deliver,” he teased, taking a bite of his slice after winking at her.

She shook her head with a small laugh, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “You know… I don’t get it. How did all your last dates go so bad, Bucky?”

He paused mid-bite, chewing slower as the thought crossed his mind. Maybe because I couldn’t stop bringing up my ‘mom’ in conversations like some kind of creep.

“Because they weren’t you.”

The answer came easily, effortlessly, but the way her eyes widened told him she hadn’t expected it.

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in his voice. For once, she was the one scrambling for words, the usual balance between them tipping in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Bucky…”

He held her gaze. “I mean it.”

She blinked, the teasing light in her eyes dimming as something warmer and softer, replaced it. Slowly, her lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, fiddling her fingers with the edge of her napkin as she tried to gather herself.

“Well,” she murmured playfully, “I guess they didn’t stand a chance, huh?”

“Not even close,” he agreed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back slightly on the barstool. The suit jacket he wore pulled just enough to highlight the sharp lines of his shoulders, and for a brief moment, she found herself really looking at him. The paper napkin in his hand felt absurdly out of place against the polished, confident image he presented, but somehow, it only made him more endearing.

She reached for another slice of pizza as if that would help her steady herself. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t, because what could she possibly say to that? Instead, she glanced down quickly, busying herself with her plate and hoping he didn’t notice the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

When her eyes flicked back up, he was still watching her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It wasn’t teasing or overconfident, just… him.

As they finished their meal, the buzz of the restaurant began to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in their little corner of the world. Bucky leaned back, draining the last of his drink before standing and adjusting his jacket. He offered her his hand, his vibranium fingers catching the soft light. “Come on,” he said in an inviting voice.

“Where?” she asked, slipping her hand into his.

“Just… a walk,” he replied, almost tentative “Unless you’re in a hurry to call it a night.”

“Not at all.” She promptly answered as she rose to meet him.

They wandered down the sidewalk unhurriedly as the night wrapped around them. The streetlights cast long shadows, and their conversation flowed easily, punctuated by the occasional laugh or lingering glance. For a while, neither seemed to notice the passing of time. But then a cool breeze rolled in, and he felt her shiver slightly beside him.

He stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Alright,” he murmured reluctantly, “I’m calling you a cab.”

She blinked, furrowing her brow . “What? Why?”

“You’re cold,” he said simply, his tone firm despite the regret in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she argued, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her words.

“Doll,” he said, shaking his head with a faint smile, “you’re shivering. I’m not letting you walk around all night freezing.”

Her lips curved into a teasing smirk. “You could just lend me your jacket, you know. Like they do in the movies. Then I’d nuzzle into it because it smells like you, the usual cliché.”

He quirked an eyebrow, and his smirk widened into something distinctly playful. “You know, if you want to smell me, you can do it whenever you want.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, her cheeks burning as her witty comeback disappeared from her brain.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with her reaction, but his expression softened as he continued. “You’re shivering,” he repeated. “I’m not about to let you freeze out here.”

She folded her arms, attempting to regain her composure. “I’m really fine.”

“Trust me,” he said, pulling out his phone, “if I gave you my jacket, I’d have to carry you home. You’d drown in it.”

She let out a small huff, quirking her lips into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she relented. “But only because I don’t want you giving me that sad, guilty look all night.”

“Guilty?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow as he tapped at his screen.

“Yeah,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “Like you’re already blaming yourself for the weather.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished ordering the cab. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

-----

As they waited, he guided her toward the side of the building, resting his hand instinctively on her lower back as he steered her out of the breeze.

“Thanks for tonight, Bucky,” she said softly, leaning slightly into him, guided by the warmth of his hand.

Bucky froze for half a second, as the closeness of her body sent his heart into overdrive. She tilted her head to look up at him, and she smiled, not quite shy but not entirely bold either.

For a moment, he struggled. His old-fashioned nature tugged at him, warning him to hold back, to wait. He wasn’t sure how these things worked anymore, not when it came to her. Did he ask? Did he wait for her to make the first move?

But then her gaze dipped just for a second, to his lips.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned down, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t, parting her lips ever so slightly, and it was all the reassurance he needed.

Their lips met, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was soft, tentative, but filled with all the emotions he hadn’t known how to put into words. His vibranium hand slid gently up her upper back, steadying her, while his flesh fingers brushed the curve of her jaw.

She leaned into him, resting her hands lightly on the lapels of his suit jacket and the kiss deepened, just enough to send a pleasant warmth humming through them both before they slowly pulled back.

Her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile played at her lips as she whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He huffed out a low laugh as his hand lingered at her back. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”

“Not bad for rusty,” she teased, curling her fingers slightly against his jacket.

He sighed as he raked a hand through his hair. “You’re good for me, you know that?”

Her smile widened, and she nudged him gently. “I try.”

He bit his lip, glancing down briefly before meeting her gaze again. “Even without trying, these past months, they’ve been…” He paused, the words catching in his throat as he searched for the right way to say it.

“Good… in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Because of you.” He managed to finish the best he could.

Her heart swelled at the raw honesty of his voice. She leaned closer, brushing her hand lightly against his chest. “You’ve done a lot of that yourself, you know,” she said softly. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile. “But you were there. That made all the difference.”

She smiled, her thumb brushing over the lapel of his jacket. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he murmured, “Because I’m not letting you.”

They just stood there, the hum of the city fading into the background. The night was cool, but the warmth between them was enough to keep the chill at bay. Finally, he tilted his head. “Ready to go?”

“No,” she pouted softly, looping her arm through his with a playful glint in her eyes.

Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, dipping his gaze to her lips again before he acted on impulse. His hand slid around her waist, gently pulling her closer as he leaned in.

This kiss was different, more sure, deliberate. His lips pressed against hers with a tenderness that made her knees feel weak, and she melted into him without hesitation.

When he finally pulled back, he let his lips brush against her cheek, trailing softly upward until they rested near her temple.

“Don’t make it difficult, Ma,” he teased lowly against her skin.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, as she leaned into him. “Not my fault you’re irresistible, sweetheart.”

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile against her temple before he sighed softly, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. With an easy motion, he guided her toward the waiting cab at the curb.

When they reached it, he opened the door for her without a word. She stepped in, pausing briefly to glance back at him. Her lips were still curved, and her warm smile made his chest ache in the best way.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” she said softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, a little rough around the edges. His gaze lingered on her, flexing his fingers slightly as if reluctant to let go of the door. Finally, he shut it gently, stepping back as the cab pulled away.

For a long moment, he stood there with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as the car merged into the traffic and disappeared into the city lights. Finally, he turned slowly heading home, the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at his lips. For once, the night didn’t weigh so heavily on him, as he carried the lingering warmth of her smile and the memory of her kiss.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Bucky Barnes Comfort

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lizzobetumblin · 1 year ago

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Melissa hated her feelings.

She buried them in a chest in the 5th grade (along with her ability to express them). Other peoples' feelings on the other hand was her forte. She could process, decipher and regurgitate other peoples emotions effortlessly. This gift could’ve taken her through college, all the way to a degree in psychology. Distinguished Dr. Jefferson with a PhD and a cozy office and impressive roster of high-profile, weallthy clients was a shiny idea. Fate would have a different hand for Melissa her talents were exhausted on mediating family fights, friend group drama, and charming her way out of confronting her own feelings.

“Feelings.” Even saying it out loud to herself seemed silly. Something reserved for ‘cry babies’ and water signs. Typical Sunday nights started tame, reading or writing fan-fiction and drinking cranapple juice. And then like clock work her father would yell her name,

‘MELISSA!!!’ Emotionless, she’d get up dust off her Winnie the Pooh shorts and make her way downstairs. On the long walk down the hall to the stairs leading to the living room brawl, she’d go through her check list:

1.) Don’t cry.

2.) Stay neutral; Deescalate

3.)Don’t take anything personal. This isn’t about you

She padded down the carpeted stairs in her old soft socks to see her mother tightlipped and tear streaked thinking,

‘she broke rule number 1’. Her father, Michael was proud and angry, his big belly filled with self righteousness. She knew he would be unyielding in his resolve and at this point her only option was to deescalate.

‘Rule number 2’. Then her sister the water sign and calamity for the evening sat on the floor nearly fetal, face red and raw with emotion.

‘Its not your fault’ Melissa wanted to say ‘You just didn’t follow the rules… you’re loved.’ But she couldn’t say that because she’d be breaking rule number 3. It wasn’t about how Melissa felt. Even though she felt like screaming,

“VANESSA, YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. DAD—YOU JUST HAVE PENT UP ANGER BECAUSE YOU GREW UP IN THE HOOD OF DETROIT AS A BLACK MAN IN THE 60s AND 70s. YOU NEED A HEALTHY OUTLET LIKE.. I DONT KNOW… THERAPY?!?!?! THIS IS A WASTE OF ALL OF OUR TIME. I LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE BEST SAILOR SATURN x CHIBI USA FANFICTION EVER AND THIS IS KILLING MY VIBE!”

Instead, she decide to hear every one out. She decided to help. To calm her dragon of a father down. To be a translator for her emotional sister. To not take it personal. To stay neutral. To not cry.

9 years later, at her fathers funeral she still never broke the rules. She played her flute and spoke at his memorial. She was present for her mother because it wasn’t about her. When other peoples' emotions bubbled up she stayed neutral. She sat through both services and she did not cry. It wasn’t until she excused herself to make a phone call outside did she collapse onto the stairs of the funeral home and weep alone in the cold Detroit snow.

It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, she reminded herself. As long as no one else sees it.

Traumas began to compact on Melissa, as they do. Humans tend to collect traumas like pebbles on a long hike. We toss them into our backpacks and keep moving forward. Some hikers would falter, but Melissa was built for this. She’d carried the stones of her family’s traumas uphill for years. She was strong.

When men began to befriend and reject her, saying ‘you’re too good for me’ but not too good to make them feel good. She carried that.

When childhood friends began to cut off the strings of her heart, saying ‘We can’t be friends anymore’. She carried that.

When her family separated like dandelion seeds, it seemed like they’d never be together again. Melissa slept on so many couches, floors and car seats sometimes she didn’t know if she’d see them again.

She carried that.

Dying was never an option though sometimes she didn’t mind the thought of it. Peace and warmth were two things she’d desperately yearned and hadn’t felt fully since the womb. Then one night in the pitch black of the hot, sweaty, roach-infested studio in southeast Houston she slept in she wondered:

‘Why can’t I break the rules?’ She’d seen everyone else in her life break them like popsicle sticks. And she didn’t just want to break the rules, she wanted to break them boldly and loudly and annoyingly and honestly and sloppily like every one else gets to do. It was in that moment, tucked in a thin jacket inside of an 8-foot high instrument cubby in the inky darkness—it hit her.

‘Is my suffering for a high purpose? Or is my suffering trying to kill me?’

She cried.

She escalated.

She took it personal.

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream in a microphone in a sea of shadowy faces. She drank whiskey and wove her pain into rock music.

‘Music is my boyfriend’ she declared. The only man that kept his baggage to hisself. And it healed her. It gave her voice reason and purpose.

The pebble-laden hike became lighter with time. The incline eventually evened out to flat, beautiful landscapes where the breeze finally met her back. She knew it wasn’t gonna be easy or sunshine but even the rain cleansed her and it was beautiful too.

Somewhere in the rain she decided rules were meant to be built and broken. Like trust and love and friendships and families. Because every thing deserves the opportunity to change and grow.

So... She broke rule number 1 on stage while singing a beautiful song. Dr. Jefferson (PhD) screamed for her to stop but she didn’t listen and the tears flowed like rivers of emotion down her cheeks.

Rule number 2 was broken when she grew older and saw the injustices of the world. Marching with hundreds in protest she realized not everything needs to be pacified.

And one day when she finally fell in love, she broke rule number 3. No matter how much training she’d done she couldn't help but take every thing her lover said and did personal. But it was ok. Because in all her resistance she realized breaking rules was her power.

Melissa began to fall for her feelings. Her feelings gave life purpose. They weren’t always logical, as feelings seldom are. They were sloppy and embarrassing and rude and so fucking uncomfortable. But they were hers. And they were real. And when she sat alone sipping wine, staring at the moon…They were the only ones still by her side. Ready to break the rules for her because they loved her.

And she finally loved them back.

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stevieschrodinger · 3 months ago

Text

Part One Six

Eddie stands in the hallway, his feet cold on the marble floor, feeling useless. The profound lack of confidence is new and...haunting. Going through an extended period of time where he had to face how utterly shit he’s been as a human being has been...well. He’s doing his absolute best to remind himself that all of his friends and family don’t hate him, but that’s really hard considering how utterly shit he’s been.

How much trouble he’s caused for everyone.

He nearly lost the band. After all the hard work everyone put in, they got their dream. They achieved it. They played to sold out stadiums, and Eddie nearly fucked it, nearly fucking destroyed a decade of his friends hard work because he can’t control himself.

Eddie could be the shittest human being to ever exist.

“You should put a shirt on, Chrissy will be here soon.”

Eddie glowers at Steve. He’s got a hundred things on the tip of his tongue. Steve’s a traitor for leaving. Steve’s a cunt for being in his house for a week uninvited in the first place. How dare Steve just...abandon his post, or whatever. How can he just...leave Eddie to this. Steve’s just some guy with a dumb job and Eddie is that dumb job and Eddie hates him for it.

Steve hoists his stupid sensible back pack up higher, a small duffel in the other hand, “I prepped some snacks in the fridge if you get hungry later. Don’t forget the stuff in the dryer, it’ll crease if you leave it too long.”

“You’re not my mom.”

Steve professional mask slips back into place, “nice meeting you, Eddie,” and then he heads to the front door.

“I...wait. What am I supposed to do?”

Steve shrugs, “have a nice life?” he suggests vaguely, his eyebrows, doing that nothing thing that’s definitely a thing.

“And that’s it...you’re just going to leave?”

“Your rut is done, so is my job.” Steve gives Eddie a cold, customer service smile, “Chrissy’s coming over later to hang out. She said something about taking you to the studio tomorrow, that’ll be good, right?”

“I. I mean.” Eddie feels sick. He does not want to face the guys. He absolutely does not want to do that, at all. They’re going to hate him and it’s going to be awkward and it’s going to be shit and Eddie’s lost the people who are most important to him in the whole world and it’s all completely his own fault.

Steve’s face softens a little, back to just Steve and not professional Steve, and he puts his duffel down, “what is it?”

“Thought your job was done,” Eddie grumbles, wrapping his arms around himself defensively, suddenly deeply regretting his bare chest. Steve is well built and golden and healthy looking, and meanwhile Eddie is painfully aware of his scrawny, sad wet rat appearance.

“It is, I’m off the clock. You get one free pass, go for it.”

Eddie feels like a naughty child, staring the shit out of the floor. He gestures vaguely. “What if I fuck it up?”

“You’re probably gonna’.”

Eddie’s head snaps up, incandescent with rage, “what in the actual fuck-”

Steve shrugs, putting his duffel all the way down, “look. Statistically it takes a few tries for sobriety to stick. There’s...a lot of things I’m supposed to say about this, but, honestly,” he shrugs, “I’m not on shift, so, the best advice I have is remember this. Remember how shit you feel. Remember how much you upset Chrissy. Remember how much you fucking hated having me here. Remember how much you hated the center. Remember how fucking dogshit you felt when you found out your band were ready to bail on you. Hold on to it, and when...when you think you might fuck up, just think to yourself, is it worth it? Is it worth losing those people. Is it worth going through all this, again? Because...it isn’t worth it, is it? And, realistically...what really matters is what you do after you fuck up. The self destruct is the easy way out, getting back on the horse is the hard thing...but the right thing.”

Eddie kind of, deflates, a little. Because honestly, Steve's right. No ones ever put it quite like that before. It’s a horribly solid argument for not fucking up.

Steve picks up his duffel, turning to go, but he stops, smiling to himself, lingering for a second in the doorway, “and if that doesn’t work, just think, what would Dolly do?”

The door closes, and Eddie sighs.

The house is suddenly really, really big, and really, really fucking empty.

Eddie goes and runs himself a bath, and if that means he can imagine Steve is still in the house somewhere, there’s no one here to know what he’s up to.

"I didn't hate having you here," Eddie finally replies to no one.

“Eddie, get fucking dressed. What are you even doing in there?”

“Nothing,” Eddie grumbles from under the covers.

The door bangs, “oh my god, you’re not even up, what are you doing??”

“I’m not going.”

“Excuse you?” Chrissy drags the covers off him, and it’s fucking brutal. The air is chillier than the warmth under the covers and the light is too fucking bright.

Eddie yelps and curls up into a ball, “they don’t want to see me. I’ll just...ruin everything.”

“Oh. You’ve finally hit the feeling sorry for yourself stage.”

“What?”

“Recovery. It’s like with grief. There’s stages. I read a book.”

“You read a book-”

“Look. They want to see you. You’ve pissed them off, yes. You’ve been absolutely shit, also, yes.” Eddie curls up on himself even tighter, “but you had a problem Eddie, and you...weren't very well. And now you’re putting in effort and they see that, okay. They want their friend back, they want this to work out, okay?”

“You think?” Eddie mumbles, his face shoved into the sheet.

“Yes, I do. I also think that if you think a good first impression is you showing up fucking late and keeping them waiting then you’re an-”

“I’m up!” Eddie shifts, climbing out of bed, “I’m getting ready. I’ll be like, twenty minutes.”

Chrissy has Eddie a coffee ready in a to go cup in the kitchen, and he grabs it, rooting around in the fridge, he pulls out the last Tupperware, digging for a spoon from the drawer.

“Since when do you eat breakfast?” Chrissy asks as Eddie juggles everything, following her to the car.

“It’s overnight oats, peanut butter raspberry, there’s like, chia seeds and shit in it, Steve makes them. It’s like dessert for breakfast. Honestly it’s even better than his waffles.”

Eddie gets his seat belt on, pulling the lid off and digging in, he catches Chrissy staring at him, “what?” he speaks with his mouth full.

“I...you know what, nothing...just don’t spill that shit in my car.”

Eddie hesitates at the door. They’ve spent a million hours in this studio over the years. It’s like a second home to all of them. Every studio album they’ve ever produced, they’ve recorded it here. It’s like...a second home now. After they got shot to fame. When they didn’t have a clue what they were doing, not really, not in the beginning...this is the place where they learned how it sounded when your music got mixed by an actual professional.

This is the place that breathed life into Eddie’s vision.

He thunks his head against the door, just for a second, Chrissy waiting patiently a step behind him. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t press.

“What would Dolly do?” Eddie whispers to himself, and then he opens the door.

It’s actually been a few months since he’s seen the guys; easily the longest they’ve been apart since high school. Everyone looks a little uncertain when Eddie walks in, and Eddie suddenly feels like a stranger. Like an outsider, in a place he shouldn’t be.

In a place he has no right to be.

In a place he most certainly doesn’t deserve to be.

“Uhm, hi, everyone.”

There’s a moment of quiet that almost has Eddie retreating straight back out the door, but then Gareth is up out of his chair. He’s across the room in three long strides, and Eddie almost flinches back from the hit he thinks is coming, but then he’s in a hug. A big, solid, bone crushing hug.

Eddie closes his eyes, and rests his hands on Gareth’s back, “I’m so sorry.”

“Fucking better be,” Gareth huffs.

The hug lasts forever, like Gareth doesn’t want to let him go, but eventually he has to. Eddie is wrapped in Gareth’s scent. It’s as familiar as his own. Home, pack, brother, it says. Eddie relaxes into it. It’s calm, Gareth’s scent, not really betraying anything other than...Gareth’s happy to see him.

Jeff is next, “I’m so sorry man.”

“Wait? You’re sorry?” Eddie’s enveloped in another hug. Another familiar scent fills Eddie’s lungs. Makes him feel a tiny bit more whole. Another puzzle piece slotting into place, settling his insides. He’s denied himself this for so long, the relationship more and more strained the further Eddie spiraled.

“We saw it happening man, we made excuses. Told ourselves it wasn’t that bad, or it was just a phase. And then before we knew it it...it felt like we’d watched it get out of control, like we just sat back and let you struggle. I feel like we could have done something.”

It breaks something inside Eddie a little, he nuzzles closer, pressing his forehead against Jeff’s shoulder. “I made my own stupid mistakes.”

“In the beginning, yeah, totally you did. But...it became an illness, Eddie. And when you’re sick...you need help. We left it too long. You nearly fucking died.”

“I’m...I’m okay now, okay?”

Jeff pulls back, his eyes wet like Eddie’s, “you wanna play some tunes?”

“Fuck yeah I wanna’ play some tunes.”

Chrissy ordered them Chinese. They’re not allowed food in the actual booth bit, so they sit out in the lounge to eat.

It had...felt a little stilted, at first. Like they all had rough edges that weren't quite sitting right. It took a little while, but playing their older stuff helped. Something cathartic about completely ignoring their big hits. They don’t play a single number one tune the whole time they’re in there, playing their own personal favorites instead, shouting what they wanted at each other in between tracks.

It’s...good. It’s fun. There’s no pressure, and an hour in, they start to really click.

An hour after that, Eddie almost forgets all the bad shit. Almost stops feeling the rift he’s caused.

It’s back now though, back in force, when Gareth asks him what he wants to do next.

“I can’t tour,” Eddie says immediately.

There’s no push back, startlingly, everyone seems to agree, “yeah, I think it’s a bad idea. And to be honest...I don’t really want to. Not for a while, it was...a lot, right?” Jeff asks.

Everyone agrees. Everyone has families, hell, Gareth’s, somehow, got a hot wife and a kid. It’s a lot, being away from home so much when you have commitments like that.

“I wouldn’t mind something local though,” Gareth says, “maybe just like...stay in the states. Do like, a couple of stadiums or something.” The thought of being in front of all those people feels a little…itchy, to Eddie. He’s really not sure about performing right now, and Gareth clearly clocks it. There’s something there, the understanding. Eddie’s scent is probably going buck wild too, “not until we release a new album though, obviously,” he tacks on. Adjusting. For Eddie.

“Right,” Eddie nods, “right, a new album.”

Eddie hadn’t even thought about it. Didn’t think he had the right any more, didn’t think the guys would support him with anything like that, or even...trust him with it.

“I kind of have,” Jeff starts, pulling some balled up scraps of paper out of his jacket pocket.

Gareth has a whole fucking notebook, “what?” he says at the looks on everyone's faces, “I was bored, alright?”

Eddie gathers it all together, “okay if I...take it home and have a look?”

Everyone agrees, and by the time Eddie goes home again, they have plans for a full day in the studio, Eddie’s been invited to a BBQ at Gareth’s, and Jeff wants to run a games night.

Eddie’s going to have to dig out his dice, which, is kind of a weird feeling. He’ll have to brush up on the Handbook, they haven’t played for...well. Probably years with the tours.

Eddie finds himself kind of excited about it.

Part Eight

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

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samkerrworshipper · 8 months ago

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underneath the surface pt.2

i wrote a part two to a fic? sorry what?

anyways loved will always have a soft spot for this! hope you all enjoy and lmk how you felt about it xo

warnings: soft smut & soft angst viewer discretion advised

Alexia knows she should be the brave face in this whole situation, she’s not the one sitting in a hospital gown on a gurney about to head into surgery, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s sizzling with anxiety. She doesn’t know why, there isn’t anything particularly terrifying about her circumstances, this is a routine surgery, the chance of complication is extremely low, the chance of death is less than 1%. She knows because she’s google checked five times in the last hour.

She’s trying to hide it, because she knows even though you are putting on a brave face you are secretly terrified. She’s been playing the chivalrous girlfriend. Trying to eliminate any outside stress so that you don’t have to worry about it, which is causing Alexia to stumble into a spiral of worries. She’s worried for you, she’s worried for the future, she’s worried about everything that moves and breathes.

Alexia can normally cope under stress, give her a game winning penalty in a world cup winning game and she’ll treat it with the same amount of composure as she would a penalty in a 20-0 friendly game.

Alexia stressing about you though, is a completely different story. She’s snapped at everyone in the lead up to this week, she’s shut down, she’s in her fortress and until she knows that you’re going to be okay that’s not going to change.

You’re the best thing that happened to her, and even though she has absolutely zero impact on what’s going to happen in the operation room she feels like if she controls all of the outside variables then somehow that’s her contribution. She wants to believe that if she can make everything on the outside right, then it’ll somehow change what’s happening on the inside, Alexia wishes deep down that she could fix it all and that this situation wasn’t happening.

Alexia doesn’t understand why you suffer so much from a disease that has no cure, she doesn’t understand why something so horrible exists and why you are plagued with it.

You don’t seem phased at all, like this is normal routine for you which is making Alexia feel even worse.

You’ve gone about your morning as usual, denying Alexia in every way as she tried to do random acts of service that were actually useless.

You’d quite literally breezed your way through it all and to the hospital without a waiver, no tears, no worries, no stress. It was a long time coming, Alexia appreciated the fact that from what you and google had told her, laparoscopy’s could be life changing for people with endometriosis, it could effectively make your quality of life during your period so much better. But it was still surgery, Alexia remembers when she had her acl surgery, she was a bundle of nerves to the point where her mami had to sit by her bed to stop her from hyperventilating whilst they administered the anaesthesia.

There is no clutching for Alexia’s hand, no desperate admissions of fear, no articulation of any anxieties or stress. You’re practically meditative, sitting on the hospital bed in your gown waiting patiently for the doctors to come and collect you.

Alexia’s walked herself through the surgery hundreds of time, when she can’t sleep at night it’s the first thing that her mind drifts to, there isn’t any set routine for a laparoscopy, it’s based on how much tissue has built up and where it’s built up. They won’t know until they open you up, from the limited amount of information Alexia has been able to extract about your past surgeries she’s figured out that for you in the past, it normally builds up in your pelvis, fallopian tubes, the ligaments around your uterus, your ovaries and the last time you had a laparoscopy they even found small clusters on your bladder, vertebraes and bowel. Hopefully, they’ll just find it around your uterus, but if there are signs that it might have attached to other organs then the surgery can become far more invasive and longer. Your doctor has said that in the best case scenario it could take an hour or two, worst case scenario it might take upwards of 5 hours.

At least two hours of Alexia falling deeper and deeper into her fear that something horribly bad is going to happen.

You’d encouraged her to touch base with her therapist in preparation, a proposal that Alexia had laughed at. She knew that you’d talked to your psychologist a day beforehand in preparation, and told her that if possible you’d like to follow up a few days after your surgery. Alexia had no reason to reach out though, she wasn’t the one who was having her reproductive organs sliced up, it was her job to make sure that you were able to achieve optimal recovery. Your health was Alexia’s biggest concern, she needed you to recover, she needed you back on the pitch with her, she needed you back to normal as soon as possible, so that all of her stress and anxiety about everything that was happening could dissipate.

“Alexia, you’re squeezing.”

Alexia looked down at her hand, it was resting on the outside of you thigh, her hand all fisted up in your skin and the paper thin hospital bedding.

“Sorry bebita.”

Alexia retracted her hand as if had been burnt, she felt horribly guilty about the selfishness of her feelings, it wasn’t right for her to be so twisted up in her own troubles. She wasn’t the one suffering.

She didn’t know how to explain it, she felt like a child with her hand between couch cushions, reaching for something and only grazing for the edge of it. She only grazed the edge of understanding what you were going through, it felt like she was eternally reaching for more, trying to feel it, and yet she didn’t have hands big enough to grab what she wanted. She didn’t have the tools to fix this, she didn’t have the body to understand what you were going through, she was left searching without any chance of retrieving anything.

“Alexia.”

Alexia looked up at you, there was something in your body language, like you were uncomfortable, or on the border of being uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry bebe, is everything alright? Are you comfortable? I’m sure they’ll be in soon to come and get you, I know you must want to get this over with.”

You roll your eyes, and Alexia is aware that it’s your way of saying no, but for some reason it cuts deeper for her, she’s so on edge, she’s been on edge ever since you got your surgery date and it’s all starting to reach a certain point that is pushing Alexia in ways she doesn’t understand.

“I want my girlfriend to relax. I’m going to be fine Alexia, nothing is going to happen.”

Alexia knows that factually you’re correct, but in Alexia’s imaginative brain she can’t wrap her head around the truth.

“I know bebita, I just want to make sure that you are feeling good, si? You’re comfortable? It’s important for your recovery that you feel as good as possible.”

Your roll your eyes again.

“Alexia, everything is perfect, it’s all fine. I’ve recovered from this same surgery two times, I’m prepared. You’ve made sure that when I get home I’ll be comfortable, I’ve walked you through what the next week might looked like. I’m prepared and so are you, everything is going to be fine.”

You’re eerily calm and Alexia can’t tell whether or not it’s a front to hide your secret insecurities or if you seriously are content with what you are going through.

She supposes that when you’ve been living with something so debilitating for such a long time that at some stage you get used to constantly being disappointed with your body and constantly knowing that it doesn’t perform the same way that other people’s do.

“I know bebita.”

Alexia doesn’t even sound like she believes herself.

“Do you? Because it doesn’t seem that way.”

Alexia doesn’t want you worrying about her, she doesn’t want you worrying about anything, she wants you to feel calm.

“Bebe, I’m fine. I know our plan, I was the one who made it.”

It’s a weel made plan. Alexia had spent weeks getting everything in line for this moment. You were both going to take at least a week away from football, two weeks if need be. Alexia would return after the rest period, to training until she felt like she was in a place to be back on the pitch. You’d come in with her on the good days, meet with the team doctors and work through whatever exercise that was allowed whilst also just reintegrating into the team. If it all went to plan you’d make your way back into team training at the six week mark, and if it all went to plan you’d be back playing around the eight week mark. For the first week, you would be on mostly bed rest. Alexia had already meal prepped your comfort foods and easy foods to digest for the first week, and she had no doubt that her teammates would drop some more food off. You would rest, allow yourself some grace to recover from what you were going through. Alexia would make sure of it. She didn’t know what you’re previous recoveries from your surgeries looked like, you hardly shared any details about your past with endometriosis but what she could gauge it musn’t of been a positive experience. She was determined to change that though.

“You’ve got nothing to be scared about Ale, I’m going to be fine. I can’t guarantee how happy I’m going to be once this is over but I’ll be okay. I’ve been here, I’ve done this before, it’s the same as every other time.”

Alexia doesn’t think she’s seen anybody go into surgery so casually, as if this is truly just another surgery for you, as if there is no magnitude behind what is about to occur.

“I know bebita, I know.”

Alexia reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze before bringing it up to her mouth and pressing a soft kiss to it. Her lips linger for a second, it feels good to know that you are here with her.

“Ms Putellas, it’s time to take her.”

Alexia looked up to the doorway, where one of your nurses was waiting.

She didn’t want to say goodbye to you, she didn’t want the waiting to start.

Alexia stands up, moving her lips from your hand and pressing them to your hairline, breathing in everything about you. The smell of your shampoo that she’d massaged into your hair this morning, the smell of your body soap, the warmth of your skin. It was all you, the you that Alexia knew, the you that Alexia loved so much. She had so many hidden insecurities, but her biggest one was that deep down this surgery was going to somehow change you, and when you came back different to how you currently would, you wouldn’t want her anymore.

There was no explanation, but it didn’t change what Alexia had come to believe.

“Alexia, I love you, I am going to be fine, I will see you in a couple of hours.”

Alexia didn’t know it, but you had your own insecurities. You’d never had anybody, friends, family, partners that had stuck by your side through all of your issues. Who was interested in a person who was completely broken from the inside? Why would Alexia want to stick around for all the troubles. It wasn’t easy looking after a person with a chronic disease, even with her limited amount of time dating you she’d hardly experienced the real struggle. Sure, she’d seen you on your period, but that didn’t compare to a lifetime of struggles.

Alexia had advocated for you, with the team, with the physios, with the coaches, with your doctors. But was she prepared to do that for the rest of her life? Was she prepared to sacrifice her own health at certain times to prioritise yours? It was the ultimate sacrifice, and even though Alexia was genuinely the best person that you’d ever met, yet you wouldn’t blame her for being unable to compensate for you.

“I know bebe, I’ll be waiting for you. I love you so much, it’s all going to be fine.”

Alexia pressed her lips to your forehead one final time, you didn’t push her when she took her time. Alexia’s lips shook against your skin, the quiver silent as she kept any emotion she had at bay. She needed to be strong, she needed to stay strong for you.

“Ms Putellas, one of the nurses will take you to the waiting room, a doctor will come get you when she’s done.”

Alexia finally pulled her lips away, it truly did feel like she was parting with you completely, like she was being pulled away from you completely.

The nurse reached for Alexia’s hand and she shook it free.

You frowned at her, like she was making this so much harder, it made her feel bad, but she needed this, she needed a moment.

“I love you.”

You let up on your frown.

“I love you too.”

Alexia nodded, if there were tears in the corner of her eyes then she had no idea, her focus was on you, only ever you.

Only when she finally felt comforted, did she let the nurse lead her out.

The nurses took you down one end of the hallway, and she dragged herself in the opposite direction.

The waiting room was the same as any other, random stock pictures of scenery from somewhere around the world, chairs that were more uncomfortable then any other surface, bright white lights that were bound to remind Alexia exactly where she was.

It was all uniform, besides her mother sitting in the corner.

Eli looked the same as she always did, her lips sitting in a content smile. There were big lines all over her face from her smiling all the time, it was the reason why everybody gravitated towards her.

“Mami.”

Alexia had known there was something slightly suspicious happening when her mother had been dodging her calls for the last few days. She’d assumed in typical fashion that whilst Alexia was looking after you, Eli would go into overdrive, cooking all the meals, helping Alexia. She hadn’t quite expected this.

Alexia had kept the details about your surgery vague with her family, she didn’t feel like it was her information to give away and also she wanted to keep some privacy. She knew it was going to be a tough period for you and also for herself.

“No, before you say anything, I am staying.”

Alexia smirks, pushing back the words that had already been on the tip of her tongue.

“You don’t need to be here, I could be waiting for while. I can call you when she’s done and you can come to see her.”

Alexia walks towards her mother, and she knows by the way that Eli is looking at her that she’s not going to be able to convince her to leave. Alexia’s stubbornness came straight from her mother.

“I will do no such thing. I shall wait here with you, I’m here to support my daughter.”

Eli nudges Alexia into the seat beside her.

“I’m not the one having surgery Mami, I will be fine waiting on my own.”

Eli slaps Alexia’s arm.

“Estupida. Tan estupida. When I was in hospital with your faher do you know how alone i felt? No, you will not be alone. Maria has gone to go and get coffee, we will all wait here together until she’s done. Comprendida?”

The tears that were in Alexia’s eyes a couple of minutes ago are back, the sick feeling of anxiety that’s been in her stomach all week, especially today suddenly feels less all consuming.

“You don’t have to do this alone, there are people here for both of you. There is support for you.”

Alexia nods, and for the first time in a while she actually feels like she doesn’t have to handle it all, like maybe she can off load some of the responsibilities that are making her chest ache with every breath she takes.

“Thankyou.”

As the doctors had told Alexia, the first week is by far the worst.

Your surgery ends up going for a lot longer then expected. As the doctors had expected, it hadn’t looked good, and it had spread to some of your organs. The positives were though that there hadn’t been any complications and they’d managed to remove all the affected tissue.

It had ended up being a day procedure and the doctors had cleared Alexia to take you home once you’d woken up and were eating and talking.

It had only gone downhill from there.

You were in a lot of pain, and pretty much delirious on the feeling of it and anaesthesia.

Getting you out of her car and into the house had been near impossible, carrying you was too uncomfortable for your incision, and walking was also impossible.

Eventually, with a mixture of limping, Alexia bearing all the weight for you and dragging you as carefully as she could she got you into your bed.

Alexia had set the house up so that when you were home everything would be easy, she hadn’t organised though for you to be completely immobile.

She got you set up underneath the blankets, allowing you to rest whilst she worked on making a light meal for dinner.

When Alexia came back, you were running a fever.

It was a low grade fever, something the doctors had told her to expect but it made her feel uncomfortable.

A fever was the first sign of an infection, and you weren’t awake enough to know what was going on. What if something bad was happening and she didn’t know? What happened if she didn’t catch it early enough? What if she was the reason that something bad happened?

Before Alexia could find the warning signs of slipping into her own brain she was falling deep into a fog of anxiety.

Alexia was the one who was responsible for making sure that you were okay. She thought that she’d worked out every different variable and issue that could arise, she’d promised you that she’d be there for you after your surgery. If she couldn’t help you with this though then was she really capable of dealing with all of it?

You stirred slightly as Alexia removed the thermometer from your lips, your eyes hazily opening up, looking at her with confusion.

“Hugs.”

It’s almost laughable the way that you whine at Alexia, the doctors had said that you would be pretty out of it for the first few days. You’d told Alexia that in the past, the first two or three days after your surgeries tended to consist of mostly sleep and adjusting to the pain of your healing incisions. After they had healed it was all upwards from there.

“How are you feeling? Do you want some more pain relief? Do you need some water? Food? You’re not feeling nauseous or cold?”

You shook your head, your lips morphing into a soft smile as you took in Alexia, all flustered and clearly worked up.

“Want hugs.”

Alexia was guarded, she always was when she was focused on protecting people. You didn’t want guarded Alexia. You wanted relaxed, homey, calm Alexia. The Alexia who would sit on the couch with you after a rough game and eat icecream, the Alexia who would silence her alarm on a morning workout day to stay in bed with you, the Alexia who just wanted to spend all of her time with you. You just wanted the Alexia that would put whatever you wanted above all else.

Alexia looks torn, really torn, like she knows that she should probably be caregiving in some way. She promised you though that she’d let you guide her through your process, that she wouldn’t try to control how you wanted to recover.

“Okay bebita, if that’s what you want.”

Alexia slips to the wardrobe quickly, pulling off her sweats in favor for changing them in for some softer pyjamas. She doesn’t know how long she’s going to be in bed with you but she assumes it’s going to be long enough that she’ll want to be comfortable.

When she makes her way back into the bedroom you’re waiting patiently, like you know that if you’d fallen asleep whilst Alexia was gone she probably would have gone off to tackle some non-existent chore to make herself feel better. Alexia rolls her eyes at how well you know her more unobvious traits and tells.

Alexia, without trying to shift the mattress at all, pushes herself under the covers of your bed. She’d made sure to put down fresh sheets, so it’s comfier and snugglier then it normally is. When you realise that Alexia is going to make no attempt to shift within cuddling distance you pull your arms out from underneath the blankets. Everything is sore and accompanied with a tinge of pain that makes your head hurt. It sucks. You want your teddy bear of a girlfriend to hug it away.

Even though it hurts, you reach for the hem of her sleep shirt, tugging it towards you. There is no power to your movements but there is a general message. Alexia shuffles closer to you, but still far away enough that you definitely can’t use any part of her body as a pillow. You don’t know why it hits you then, you know you’ve got a lot of built up emotions, and that hormonally there is so much going on in your body and the pain medication isn’t making it any better. You don’t know why, but all of a sudden the tears start to fall and you can’t contain the sniffle that you make.

“Bebita, what’s wrong?”

Alexia shoots up, ready to take action in whatever way is needed.

“Do you even love me? What person wouldn’t want to give their girlfriend a hug? I know I just had surgery and I’m digusting and haven’t showered and smell like hospital but can you not just give me a hug, is is that big of a ask?”

Alexia almost immediately recoils, the feeling that sets into her stomach is one of horror. Of course she wants to hug you. Of course she wants to love you, she’s just scared to hurt you.

“Bebita, no. It’s not about any of that, I just don’t want to hurt you bebe. I love you so much bebe, none of the surgery stuff bothers me, not in the slightest. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

At this stage you’re sobbing hysterically and Alexia feels so horrible.

“I know you didn’t want me to get the surgery, I know it was stupid but can you just hug me?”

Alexia genuinely does a double take when you say that, it’s a insecurity that you haven’t expressed to her at all and she doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Bebe, of course I wanted you to have the surgery. I can’t tell you whether or not it was a good decision for you, but for me it was a no brainer. Bebe, you were in so much pain, you were struggling so much and for me it was so hard to see you go through that. I don’t know why you’d think that I wouldn’t want you to get the surgery but I can tell you that any decision that makes you feel happier and healthier is always going to be the best decision. If this surgery makes you feel healthier and happier then why would it be stupid?”

You don’t really know what you are thinking or why you’re suddenly thinking all of these things but you just feel so wrong all of a sudden.

“You promise?”

Alexia smiles at you, finally leaning over into your personal space. She bring her hand up to yours and interlocks your pinky with hers.

“I pinky promise, now how about we work out that hugh that you want. I don’t want to hurt you, so what’s going to work best?”

Alexia reaches up to thumb away the tears that are still leaking down your face, you can’t control the random emotions that are flurrying through your body like a tornado.

“The doctor said I should sleep propped up, so I could lie with my back pressed to your front?”

Alexia figures that probably is the best way to approach this whole situation.

It’s not easy getting you to sit up for long enough for Alexia to slip in behind you, but you both reap the reward when you get to relax against each other.

Even though you’re wrapped in Alexia’s hoodie she swears that she can feel your bones relax against hers and even though she knows that you might be in pain she selfishly couldn’t care less. For the first time since she’d walked through the doors of the hospital this morning she finally feels like she can breathe, like she has you, like her inherent need to protect you from everything has finally been fulfilled.

Alexia worries about you more then anything else, when you get injured, when you’re sick, when you’re away from Alexia too long she worries. Her need to protect and care for you has only developed more over the course of your relationship, and when she found out about your endometriosis it doubled. She’s never worried much about anything besides football, and even when she worried about football it was never the same kind of worry, it’s more internalised stress about achieving what she’s set out. For you, everything is irrational, none of it makes any functional sense, it’s ridiculous. And yet she kind of loves it, because she knows that it means it’s all real, that her love for you is so real and true that she worries irrationally because the thought that anything bad could ever happen to you she knows that it would break her in ways she’s never been broken before. She saw it in here mami when here papi died, the way that she stopped being able to function in the absence of him, and god forbid anything similar happened to you Alexia knows she’d be the same.

There’s this thing about recovery, about recovery from a non-injury that makes your skin crawl. You’re not a good person to be around when you’re struggling, it’s the half the reason you’d kept your reproductive issues from Alexia, because it all made you grumpy and tired and borderline and fucking bitch. There was a pattern of shutdowns, emotional, physical, mental, every single time you had a slip or bad period. A surgery though, it was a whole different story.

By week two you felt pretty much back to normal, but as the doctors kept reminding you, you weren’t. That was the problem with internal surgery, eventually the outside of your body returned to feeling normal, but the healing process on the inside took ten times longer. Your scars were healed, even the swelling had started to go down, the pain was minimal but you were still healing.

By week 4 you knew that you were toeing the line of being a bitch and being intolerable. You stomped your way around the halls of the training facilities, annoyed with your lack of progress and the fact that whilst all of your teammates were out on the pitch, you were stuck indoors under the air conditioning doing the exact same pelvic floor exercises that you’d been doing for two weeks. You were now allowed to run on the treadmill, instead of the slow walk that you’d been doing for the past few weeks. It all felt like nothing though, like you were being pulled through hell with no real picture of when you would be allowed to return.

You’d known about all of this before your surgery, known that it was going to be a slow process. What you hadn’t realised though was just how lonely that process was going to be, nobody understood what you were going through. At least with injury there was common ground, everyone on the team had been through some kind of back setting injury that had them in the gym more then on the pitch. They’d never been sidelined for something inside of them though, something that was going to keep coming back and keep hurting them over and over again.

Week 5 was when you broke. There wasn’t any exact reason, maybe it was the way that Mapi continuously kept trying to get you to try some stupid gym challenge when she knew you weren’t allowed to, maybe it was the way that Alexia kept coming home everyday complaining about how the defenders couldn’t get their act together, or maybe it was just the overwhelming pressure that was starting to get to you.

All you know is that after a particularly hard day and Alexia groaning about the sprints they’d run after every drill on the way to the car, it had been the final straw for you.

The minute your seatbelt was fastened there were tears pouring down your face.

When Alexia reached out you smacked her hands away.

“Bebe, talk to me, are you in pain? What hurts?”

If you weren’t busy crying you’d probably slap Alexia for the stupidity she was exhibiting.

“No, no I’m not fucking in pain. I’m sick of you constantly fucking tell me about all of your problems and acting like I wouldn’t die to be doing what you’re fucking doing. I’m sick of everybody thinking that I can do everything that they are doing just because I look fine. I know I look fine, I know I seem fine, hell at this stage I’m pretty sure I am fine. I’m sick of feeling like I’m back to normal and being told that I’m fucking not, that I have to wait another week, that I can’t do things that are so normal to my life.”

Once again when Alexia tries to give you a hug you deny her, wiggling out of her hold as soon as she tries.

“Bebe, no recovery is linear or easy. Just because yours looks different to most peoples doesn’t make it any less valid. You need to be more gracious to yourself, you are going to get back from this. Just because it isn’t a normal process or what a recovery normally looks like for you doesn’t mean that you are any less entitled to your process.”

You know that like everybody else, Alexia doesn’t understand. Sure, she’s injured herself, she’s been through hell and back for her recovery. She doesn’t understand though what you feel, the immense struggle that you are going through.

“No Ale, you don’t fucking understand. There was no point in your recovery where you weren’t able to eat your favourite foods because your body didn’t react well, there was no limiting you from sex, there was no limits on what the unaffected parts of your body could and couldn’t do. There was no limits on how much time you could spend in certain positions or limits on whether or not you could fucking vaccum or carry something heavier then 5 kilos. You don’t understand, I have nothing to look forward to, i’m going fucking crazy watching everybody do things daily with ease that I can’t fucking do. My fucking body hates me, it betrays me everyday. And I can’t change that, I can’t do anything about that.”

Alexia forces herself to take a deep breath, to truly consider what you’re saying. She doesn’t want to invalidate you, not even remotely, she knows how easy it is for people like you to be invalidated because of your disease. She has no idea what you are going through, she can’t even begin to understand, and yet she’s been trying to. She’s been trying to empathise with what you’ve been feeling, she’s tried her hardest to force her feet into your shoes but the reality is that she will never be able to. Nothing is going to make her understand the magnitude of what you are going through, and she thinks that she needs to stop pretending that she does.

“You’re right bebita, you’re right. I’m so sorry, just tell me what you need, whatever you need and I will help you. I will try my hardest to do whatever it is you need. Just take some deep breaths with me, vale? It’s okay, the world isn’t going to end right here and right now, it might feel like it but I promise it won’t. These are fixable problems, we can fix this, maybe not right now which sucks but eventually this will all be fixable.”

This time when Alexia moves to hug you, you don’t flinch away. For the first fucking time in five weeks you be slightly heard, less alone and isolated.

You sob into Alexia’s neck, not caring that it’s making her neck wet and also your face. It feels good to let it all out, like all of the weight, all the words from your psychologist, from the doctors, from the physios, from your teammates, from the coaches, from Ale are slowly becoming background noise. All you want is for it to be background noise, for it to all disappear.

“We’re going to be okay bebe, you’re going to be okay, we’re going to work this out.”

Alexia doesn’t really believe her own words, she doesn’t know if everything is going to be okay, not remotely. She doesn’t know how to help you, after you became self-reliant after week 2 her job as your caregiver was pretty much nonexistent, but that didn’t mean that you didn’t still need help. It was all confusing, a back and forwards dance that didn’t really make any sense really. Whether Alexia had realised it or not though, she’d assumed that you were happy to do it alone, inadvertently. She was giving you your space to recover how you wished, even though it was clear that wasn’t necessarily how you wanted to go about your rehab.

When your cries softened Alexia let go a little bit, so she could look at you.

“How can I help bebita? Tell me what I need to do and I will do everything I can.”

Your eyes are all glassy and full of tears, it makes the hole of guilt in Alexia’s heart even bigger.

“I just want to play.”

Alexia furrows her face, because of all the things she can do, that isn’t one. She can’t clear you to play and she won’t condone you rushing your rehab to get back. She wants you to play, do desperately, but only when you’re at full health.

“I can help you with your rehab, bebita you can be cleared from the six week mark onwards, if you work really hard this week there is a chance you could be back in training next week. But you can’t rush yourself, I know you want to be back on the pitch, I want you back on the pitch. But you need to be ready, and right now you aren’t.”

Alexia thinks it might be a little bit too brutal, but the way you nod at her with real determination tells her that she’s said the right things, she’s supporting what you need whilst also being honest.

“I can’t get you back on the pitch but how about icecream, huh?”

You look like you might start crying again but after a few seconds you roll your eyes in the same way that you would to Alexia on any other day.

“It’s a wednesday, your cheat day is Mondays.”

Alexia shrugs, because cheat days aside, she’d break any and every rule just to see a smile on your face.

“Well last time I checked everyday is a icecream day, especially on wednesdays.”

Alexia’s goofy smile never leaves her face. It’s clear on your face though that you’re still worrying.

“Bebita, you can’t do anything about this. You just keep doing what you’re doing, even though it sucks and we wait until your six week appointment and hopefully you get good news. The doctors said if everything went how it should then next week should be when things start to pick up, you just have to trust the process bebe and it’ll all work out. Until it all works out, we have icecream, no?”

Your barriers break and for the first time since you’d sat down in the car you smiled at Alexia.

“Yes, we do have ice cream.”

Alexia had been forbidden from coming to your six week appointment, you wanted to do it alone, wanted to face whatever news you were given on your own and she respected that.

It didn’t make it any easier.

In the space of around an hour she had reorganised her wardrobe and then reorganised it again because she couldn’t handle not having certain things in certain places. She then moved on to folding all of the laundry, making sure her kit bag had everything that was necessary for the away game coming up and then out of pure desperation she moved on to cleaning all of the dishes.

She’d seen the way that the last week in particular had drained you, how everyday had been even more of a struggle. For the first few weeks, there had been moments of intimacy, moments of love and softness. All Alexia wanted was that back, she wanted to be able to love you and have you reciprocate it without withdrawing. She just wanted some part of you back.

When she heard your keys turning in the door, she tried her hardest to look normal, perched on the kitchen bench like a kid waiting for their parents to come home from work.

She listens to the sound of the door clicking open and shut, then the sound of shoes scuffing off, a bag being dropped and then your footsteps. Alexia’s heart beats faster and faster as she listens to you slowly get closer to her.

She’s rewarded when she finally sees you, and you’re not crying and don’t look like your about to punch something so she thinks there must be some kind of good news on the horizon.

When you spot Alexia clearly waiting for you, you almost laugh, she looks like she’s trying so hard to not ask you what she clearly wants to. She looks almost antsy.

“Hi.”

You keep walking, closer and closer, until your standing in between her legs and looking up at her from her spot sat on the counter.

Before she asks a question, you lean in, you need it. You need to feel Alexia in a way that’s been forbidden for far to long.

The kiss is breath taking, not to rough, not to over bearing. It’s just enough of everything that you feel like you’ve been missing out on. It makes everything better.

Alexia lets you take control, it feels good to not be out of control with everything that’s been happening.

Eventually though, when your hands move from her neck to the hem of her shirt, she pulls away.

“Bebe, I love you, but if you haven’t been cleared we should stop here.”

You roll your eyes and fish your hand into you back pocket, pulling out a folded up slip of paper.

“I think you’ll find that you have a girlfriend who has been cleared to return to all activities except games until I’ve gotten sufficient training hours, I’ve got the green light amor.”

Alexia pulls the paper from your hand, her eyes scanning every single word of the clearance form your doctor, making sure that you’re telling the truth. When she gets to the bottom, her face lights up and before you can say anything she’s standing up and lifting you in her arms.

“Alexia, put me down.”

You giggle as she balances you on her hip as if you are much smaller then you truly are, already walking towards your bedroom.

“I think it’s time to show my beautiful, patient, hardworking girlfriend just how much i love her, unless you disagree?”

You have no objections.

Alexia drops you down on the bedding as softly as possible, a big cheshire grin plastered across her face, like a huntress whose found her prey.

She joins you on the mattress, crawling up your body and kissing different places as she goes.

When she get’s to your head she presses her lips to yours, there isn’t any inhibitions or barriers, she kisses you like a person whose been so deprived of something that they’re craving it, like she’s greedy for you. Alexia moves her lips everywhere, your neck, your collarbones, as low as she can get until your tank top stops her and when she wants more, she gently tugs the top off.

Alexia worships your skin like it’s holy, she kisses and sucks and bites until your sweating and so worked up that you can’t think. When it starts to get to you, she unclips your bra, and that’s a whole other level of worshipping every inch of breast and then your nipples.

It’s glorious, 6 weeks of celibacy had been hell. Technically this would have been okay, but neither of you trusted yourselves to get to this stage and not go further.

So being here, being at this level of pure ecstasy and pleasure was everything you’d wanted and it made all of the tough moments feel so much smaller.

After she was sufficiently happy with her worship of your upperbody, she began her campaign downwards, spending time on your ribcage and stomach before spending extra time showering your incision with soft kisses.

It was something she’d done regularly since the bandages had come off, everytime you stared in the mirror for two long, or complained about how ugly it looked she would spend at least half an hour reminding you just how perfect your body was with certain scars. Those scars were proof that you were healthy and taking care of yourself and for Alexia that mattered far more.

From your incision it was down to the band of your leggings, which after a quick glance up to check you were still happy, she slowly peeled off.

“Alexia, enough teasing.”

Alexia pressed open mouthed kisses all along the outline of your panties.

“I’ve been away from your body for so long bebita, I’m just reintroducing myself.”

You rolled your eyes at the blonde, and were about to say something bratty but were stopped when she moved her open mouth a bit further down, just above your mound.

Instead of a bratty retort Alexia’s ears were met with the glorious sounds of little moans slipping from your lips as she teased you.

When you started bucking up into her, Alexia made the executive decision to move things ahead a bit quicker then she intended, after all she had plenty of time to do this, over and over again.

“You’ll tell me if anything hurts, si? If anything feels wrong say something, we’ll just stick to my mouth for now and work our way back up.”

You nodded at her, even when you felt good sex could be painful, it was a weird back and forth of you feeling good and then all of a sudden feeling bad. All you craved right now though was sweet release.

“Want to taste you bebita, god I missed tasting you.”

You swear your legs go numb and you almost orgasm just from her words.

“It might be quick, it’s been a long time Ale and I’m sensitive.”

Alexia smiled at you, kind and genuine like she had all of the time in the world.

“Just feel it however you need to, if it’s fast then it’s fast, whatever you feel just take it.”

You nod at your girlfriend before relaxing against the pillows on your bed, allowing Alexia to pull one of your knees above her shoulder.

The feeling of her mouth on you is truly the best feeling in the world, you don’t care how loud you are because the fulfillment you are getting has been so hard worked for that you can’t help but just enjoy it.

Alexia licks and sucks in all of your most sensitive places, places that have been untouched for so long that you’d almost forgotten just how good it could feel. When she pulls your clit into her mouth you see stars and you know that you aren’t going to last long at all, you gather Alexia can tell from the way that your octave heightens.

“Ale-Ale I’m going to cum.”

You can feel Alexia smirk against you.

Even though she knows that she’s able to satisfy you, there is nothing better then actually doing it.

“Go ahead bebe, I’m right here, you’ve been so good and patient. You deserve it, if you feel it just let go.”

You nod your head, biting down on your lip as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge, there is no hesitation from your edge, when she grazes her teeth against your clit you are well and truly gone.

Normally, you’d last more then one round, or you’d reciprocate at the least but before you can even try Alexia has you bundled up in her arms, pressing kisses all over your face.

You squeal and flinch but she doesn’t stop, not until your face is all red and your both relaxed against your pillows.

“You know how proud I am of you? You’ve been so good this whole process bebita, so perfect, so hardworking, so determined. You’ve pushed through it all, and you’re going to keep doing ti because your the toughest person I know, truly. I love you so much amor.”

You know that for the rest of your life, Alexia will take care of you, like nobody else. Underneath the surface she cares for you more than anybody else ever had and ever will.

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