#female insert

PAIRING | Yandere Step-Brother!Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader (slightly older)

GENRE | Taboo Romance, Dark Romance (Yandere), Romance, College AU, Non-Curse/Sorcerer AU

RATING | 18+ / MATURE

WC | 5.8k

a/n | something extremely light that i started on company time, please b kind to me

CONTENT WARNINGS stepcest/psuedo-incest, taboo relationship, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, unhealthy/toxic/protective/obsessive behavior, sexual assault, non-consensual kisses, non-consensual touching, slight nerdjo but not too much, he's honestly just a brat in this

You think your new step-brother is adorable.

When you had first met him he was unapproachable - a little more than 'slightly intimidating' as his mother, your new step-mom, put it.

The day he moved in you were practically ignored as you introduced yourself. Sure, he was looking down at you from his towering height, holding your gaze and huffing a small greeting in response, but you could tell he wanted nothing more than to brush past you in silence and start unpacking in his new room.

And you understood that. It sucks having to move - especially moving in with people you don't know.

You and your father had moved twice between two different states before settling down in your current house. The environment shift is jarring to say the least; having to make new friends, constantly looking up directions, and experiencing culture shocks.

You wanted to prove that you were harmless and respectful towards him - it only made sense as you would be his older sister now. He was two years younger than you, starting his second semester of his freshman year in university - while you considered yourself nothing more than a part-time employed freeloader with little ambition under your dad's house.

Unfortunately, your dad is either too nice to tell his own daughter to start planning for the future, or he just loves your presence in general - it didn't hurt less when your new step-mom asked what you were wanting to do in the future during the first dinner with everyone seated together. Your face paled slightly, your heart hammering in embarrassment against your ribs, as you basically admitted you had nothing planned, just 'feeling out options'.

It did make you feel slightly better when Satoru told his mom that he'd do the same if she didn't basically threaten him to go to college. His voice was apprehensive as he spoke, as if he was unsure how to speak in front of you and your dad, but it still had a teasing lilt to it that made his mother visibly roll her eyes. Both of them bickering back and forth as if they were siblings themselves.

You weren't sure if he was saying that to lighten the mood, but it made the dinner more comfortable afterwards.

You decided to give Satoru space to acclimate to his new house.

Your coworkers said that you were practically acting as if you were the one who had just moved in after you explained your internally devised plan.

You disagreed, of course.

You made sure to not be too active in his personal life. You figured that once he was comfortable enough he'd tell you on his own. You didn't want to trap him into conversations he didn't want to be part of, but would have to be as it's polite.

You totally get that having to force yourself to talk to someone new isn't exactly pleasant.

You kept your questions or answers curt and direct, as if you were responding to someone higher in command.

'Where's my mom?' He asked one night, you heard him drop his backpack onto the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. He must've just returned from classes.

'Not sure,' you hummed, 'probably out with my dad.'

Silence sat between you both save for the television chiming with a random advertisement.

'Gotcha,' he finally huffs out, somewhat apprehensive in his tone.

You hear rustling behind you from the connected kitchen, but you don't turn around - you don't want him to think you were watching his every move.

'Where do you guys keep your silverware again?' You hear the wooden-plastic creak of drawers sliding in and out.

'Right of the fridge, first drawer,' you responded.

'Oh.' Another drawer is pulled with the rattle and clink of steel against steel before a final roll following with the deep thud of a drawer being shut. 'Thanks.'

You only hummed in response, clicking through the channels on the television until it landed on one that was halfway through a movie that you enjoyed.

You can hear more noises behind you from the kitchen before footsteps lead and stop right behind you. The familiar sound of a spoon scraping against molars and teeth crunching on cereal is heard behind you.

You could feel his presence looming over you as he spoke through the food crunching in his mouth.

'Do you like this movie?' he had asked. You could hear him take another bite.

'Yeah.'

Silence filled the room once more. The heavy and dramatic sounds from the TV filled it in.

'Gotcha,' he'd said, another bite right after. 'You're not working today?'

'Nope.' You had gently emphasized the 'p' with the pop of your lips.

'Gotcha.'

The conversation ended swiftly after that. He had mentioned something about a project being due this week before he made his escape to his room.

You made sure not to impose too much onto his personal space - which was a struggle considering your rooms were right across from each other, both of you sharing one bathroom. But your irregular hours from your part-time job coupled with him having days where his classes would stretch into the late afternoon made it a lot easier than you expected. Your opposing schedules meant you rarely crossed paths, and the bathroom was almost always vacant. You'd even intentionally stay in your room when he was leaving, just to avoid those awkward hallway moments.

There were moments when curiosity gnawed at you - small windows into his life that you deliberately chose not to pry open. You'd overhear him on the phone with someone, his voice dropping into something softer, more animated than his usual monotone, and you'd wonder who it was. A friend? Someone more? You never asked. You'd notice him coming home some days with his shoulders tense, his jaw set tight, clearly stressed about something academic or otherwise, and the urge to ask 'rough day?' would sit on your tongue. But you'd swallow it down.

There were the little things too - the way he'd linger in the living room on certain evenings, or how he'd disappear into his room for hours on end, or the occasional laugh you'd hear through the walls that made you curious about what could possibly be funny enough to crack through that carefully maintained exterior. You could have asked about his classes, his friends, whether he was seeing anyone. The questions felt natural, the kind of thing a sibling might ask. But you held back, understanding that asking was a form of imposing when he'd already been forced into enough - a new house, a new family, a new routine.

So instead, you let him come to you. You made space for him to share without pressure, without the weight of expectation. It was part of your larger strategy, you realized - this careful dance of presence without intrusion.

You'd be lying if you didn't pat yourself on the back for your patience.

You'd hope one day he actually did see you as his sister.

And you think that, maybe, now - almost his third month living with you - you had achieved it. Albeit, a little too well.

You assumed that he'd warm up to you by this time as well.

You could tell by how the conversations would flow naturally and consistently, sometimes even prolonging to the point where you'd thought the conversation had ended seven different times before Satoru has another related or unrelated question spilling from his mouth. He'd go off on tangents about whatever documentary he watched that week, or some obscure fact about game theory he learned in class, his hands gesturing wildly as he explained concepts you only half-understood. You'd nod along and he'd keep going, clearly just happy to have someone listening.

He'd often go out with you if he saw that you were pulling your shoes on for something other than your job. The words 'where 'ya headed' were so common to hear that even his mother began to chide him. Telling him that 'she doesn't need a bodyguard everywhere she goes'.

He would get frustrated especially when his mother would butt in. His face flushing with a deep red as he's trying to either justify himself coming with or convincing you to stay home.

It was adoring to say the least, but excruciatingly painful at times when you needed to go out alone to meet up with friends he didn't know or shopping for items you'd rather he not be present for. You think you're just too weak to him and his antics, constantly employing some form of psychological torture on you whenever you told him he couldn't come.

'What? Who're you meeting with? I'm fine with meeting new people.'

'You don't wanna' hang out with me?'

'Are you going to meet up with a drug dealer or somethin'? Because I can come for that too, I guess.'

'I wanted to go with you though.'

'You haven't ate, right? Let's get lunch. I'm literally starving and you can't let me starve.'

'I had a shit-day at school. Can I just come with? Please?'

'You don't have to go, right? Like it's not urgent?'

'Wow. Leaving me to die, I guess.'

'If I don't come you hate me and want me to die.'

'You don't have an issue with me coming. Right?

'So then I can come.'

Your heartstrings are too thin, nearly weightless, and much too easy to pull whenever the playful and pearly-like smile from his face drops, the glint in his blue eyes dulling by a fraction. Sometimes his face contorting into a questioning look, an eyebrow raising behind his glasses, as if you were caught sneaking out of the house at twelve in the afternoon. It's as if he especially knew you were weak when he'd pout, his tone either begging or prickling with kid-like annoyance as he spoke with a hurt expression that often ranged from acceptable to overly dramatic.

You can't help it when you finally relent on most days you didn't want him to come along. Cursing yourself internally as your car hums to life with the turn of your key. He's happily sliding into the passenger seat with a hum, already reaching for your phone to play a song. You don't even question the fact that he knows your password as you've probably done it in front of him or just told him in passing.

It was just harder to explain to your friends that this tall, lanky boy with sharply defined features, naturally platinum-white hair, and bright blue eyes was your brother - always having to clarify he was your step-brother. That he just happened to be tagging along for today, and perhaps the next few hangouts after that if he'd catch you.

Your friends, obviously awe-struck with seeing a natural beauty that's your brother, do tell you it's slightly odd that he's always glued to your side. Always talking to you as if he was the happiest man alive. Always physically attached to you, hands dancing near your hips and waist, palms rubbing circles into your back, his entire body pressed into your side or from behind you.

You agree. It is a little weird.

You do think that he warmed up to you a little too fast. However, you always explain to them that perhaps he's unsure of how to treat a sibling as he's never had one before. That with time he will slowly realign himself as he realizes how weird his own behavior is.

You're just not sure when it'll happen, because you're far too afraid to scold him for his behavior. What if it ruins your relationship with him? What if it makes living in the same house awkward until either you or him move out first? What if he tells his mother and she begins to hate you?

You're not even sure if your father or his mother are aware of how present he is in your life and your space.

Your literal physical space.

As he is currently splayed out on your bed, an arm folded behind his head onto the pillow as he lays there in complete silence, his free hand holding his phone upright on his chest as he scrolls lazily.

You're sitting upright next to him with a blanket pulled around you, scrolling with the same half-interest he's exuding, eyeing him with caution every once in a while when he shifts.

As if going through phases, he'd choose to scroll through his phone before deciding his phone isn't interesting enough and will tuck his head into the back of your seated position, his long arms coming to drape themselves around your hip. Then, as if getting bored, he'd go right back to his phone, sometimes his phone chiming with a notification here and there.

You didn't mind as much. Ever since a certain point he would just naturally seat himself flushed against you.

It had begun at the dinner table, you'd noticed he was scooting his chair closer into your side until your elbows would be battling for the space. Then, he'd drop himself down right next to you onto the couch if you were in the living room, often falling asleep on you or his head in your lap, some days not a word would be said as he would do so.

Now, he recently discovered your room - or more of the fact that you allow him to come in.

You think it's cute. Cute in the way a cat is. Like, he wants attention or someone near him, but he won't be completely direct with it.

You think you're doing really well to solidify the image of his older sister.

"I thought you wanted to check my computer," you finally spoke into the white noise emitting from the AC in your room, you absently scroll through posts on your feed, tune after tune being cut-off as you scroll.

"I did," he replies effortlessly, his hands moving with ease along his phone's screen, before he's pushing his glasses back up his nose with an awkward arm gesture.

You hum. "What for? Like, school - or games? Because I think I have some games." You try to remember some of the titles you have downloaded.

"Dunno'," he says, his eyes shift over to your simple computer set-up. "You have games on there?"

"Yeah, but you probably won't like my type of games."

"I mean, I actually don't mind those cooking simulators or whatever." He adjusts his glasses again. "They help prepare you for the future, y'know - heavy on the 'you' part."

You shoot him a look that barely borders on mean. You pinch his skin through his shirt and his hands shoot out to grab you with a laugh teasing at his lips.

"Okay, okay - joke," he says breathlessly when he finally manages to hold your hand away from pinching him, his phone discarded somewhere around him on your bed. "Mostly joking."

You roll your eyes, your mouth opens to tell him to check whatever he needs on your computer so you can have the entirety of your bed to yourself again, but your phone sings a familiar tune that Satoru slightly perks up to. Especially, when your mouth closes as you read the message.

"Who is it? Mom?" He questions lightly, his body is turned into you with his face pressed into your back once more. When he speaks you can feel him speaking into your skin through your shirt.

You barely register his words as you read the message over and over, red heat and excitement beginning to bubble under your skin.

A coworker you had a slight interest in asked if you wanted to come hang out with some other of your coworkers.

"Uh - no," you finally say. Your fingers immediately moving across the screen, and then deleting the typed words. "Just check my computer for whatever you need - don't download viruses."

"I'm not an idiot," he bites back with a playful tone. However, when he moves away from you to look at his phone once more, he must've noticed your expression as he's quickly sitting up to look at your phone too. "What's wrong? Is it your dad?"

You turn away from him, phone angled out of his view immediately. Not wanting him to see how much you were failing to coolly respond to your coworker, and the fact that Satoru might bully you. It took him a week or two in the past to stop bringing up how ugly your ex-boyfriend was. Even at the dinner table.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. His finger goes up to push up his glasses by the corner of the frames.

"Alright," he says, you try not to note the edge to his tone. "Who the fuck is it? You trading government secrets that I can't see? Because that's illegal. And also boring."

You finally manage to respond despite how close Satoru is pushing closer to you.

You hope that your coworker wasn't actively watching your typing bubble agonize over your own response.

"It's no one," you huff out. "Hurry up and do whatever you need on my computer so I can actually use my own bed."

"Not my fault your bed is small," he quips. "If it's no one then lemme see."

He shifts closer near you, the side of his body flushed against your side to get a look at your phone. You immediately swipe out of message history and turn your phone off.

"No."

"So, it's a someone then."

"No. Well - yes - maybe," you relent. "But I don't want you to read the text messages between me and him."

Satoru goes completely still against you. You can feel the exact moment his entire body tenses.

"Him," he repeats flatly. Not a question. A statement. A very pointed statement.

"Yes, him," you say, biting back a smile. "A person. Of the male variety."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool." He's not looking at you anymore, instead staring straight ahead at your darkened phone screen like it personally offended him. His jaw works for a second before he speaks again. "So like - is this someone I know?"

"No."

"Oh." He shifts, and you can practically feel the gears turning. "So it's like... a random person? Someone just hit you up out of nowhere?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That's actually weird though," he says, and there's genuine concern threading through his voice now. "Like, that's a whole situation. Random guys don't just message people. That's sketchy. You don't know what he wants or like - what his deal is."

"Oh my god, are you serious right now?"

"I'm being serious! What if you go over to his house and he's like, got people tied up in his basement then he tells you you're next. It happens more than you think - I saw this whole documentary about it."

"Oh my god, Satoru," you groan with the roll of your eyes. "It's a guy from work, not on the FBI watchlist."

He goes quiet for a moment, and you watch his fingers drum against his thigh - another tell that he's working through something. "Oh. From work. Well, workplace relationships statistically crash and burn. It's like - proven data. Bad combo."

You raise your eyebrow. "Based on what data?"

"Reality. Realistic data called common sense." He pushes his glasses up again, more aggressively this time. "And like, basic probability."

"Not every workplace relationship is going to 'crash and burn'."

"Okay, but like - ninety percent of them do. I saw it on a documentary." He's talking faster now, his hands gesturing wildly in that way he does when he's getting worked up about something. "And then you have to see them every day after it implodes and it's awkward and someone always ends up crying in the supply closet. Do you want to be the supply closet crier? Because that's how you become the supply closet crier."

"There is no supply closet at my job."

"Then the bathroom. The parking lot. Wherever you people cry at your work - that'll be you." He's leaning closer now, his shoulder pressing into yours with more insistence.

You have to physically bite your tongue to keep from laughing.

He shifts his weight, and you feel him crane his neck slightly - not obvious, but obvious enough that you notice. His glasses slip down a bit and he pushes them back up with an irritated huff.

"Is he like - older than you? Because if he's significantly older that's a whole different red flag situation and I'm just saying that as someone who cares about your general wellbeing and safety. Age gaps have like, documented power imbalances."

"He's around my age," you offer, watching as his jaw clenches.

"Around. So not exactly your age."

"Satoru."

"What? I'm just - is he like, taking advantage of you or something?" His voice drops, and there's genuine concern threading through, but it's wrapped in that slightly dorky earnestness that's so distinctly him. "Because you can tell me. Like, as a trusted adult. I'm serious."

You stare at him. "You're the last person I'd consider a trusted adult."

"I - okay, that's fair, but - "

"You literally tried to convince me that my coworker had people in his basement five minutes ago."

He shifts closer, pressing his shoulder against yours with more force now. "That's different. That's just like, healthy skepticism based on actual crime statistics. This is - if something's wrong, you should tell me. I'm here for that."

There's a beat of silence before he continues, quieter. "I mean, how long have you been talking to this dude?"

"Not really talking," you sigh. "I mean, I work with him, but we recently started texting a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks and you didn't mention it," he says quietly. There's something almost hurt underneath the casual tone, and when you glance at him his ears are turning red. "That's cool. That's - yeah, that's fine."

"Alright, didn't know I suddenly had a second dad," you tease.

"I'm not - that's not what I'm doing," he says immediately, too quickly, his ears flushing deeper. "I'm just like, looking out for you. That's different. I don't even know who this guy is, so he could be a total loser for all I know. Probably is, actually."

"You don't know anything about him."

"Exactly. Which is why you should tell me so I can like, properly assess whether he's worth your time." He finally glances at you, and there's something swimming in his blue eyes behind his glasses - something intense that doesn't quite match the casual tone he's forcing. "I'm a trusted person to you - a trusted step-brother." The way he says it, there's something bitter underneath, a slight edge to those last two words that you don't quite catch.

You're definitely smiling now, and you can feel him notice because his ears are turning redder.

"It's fine." You draw out your words. "It's not like me and him are even anything, he basically just asked me to hangout with some other coworkers."

"So, I can come with then is what I'm hearing."

"I said coworkers."

"Tell them I'm a former employee."

"Coworkers."

He lets out a guttural groan, throwing himself back against your bed that makes the cushioned fabric ripple under you, you don't miss the way he's eyeing your phone like it personally wronged him. His hand comes up to drag down his face in frustration.

You'll have to carefully plan how you'll leave the house that day to avoid him pressuring you into tagging along.

"For weeks," he speaks aloud, his voice slightly muffled behind his hand. "And not a single word about this guy."

"Considering you don't talk about anyone you're talking to, I think that's fair."

"Because I'm not," he says flatly, dropping his hand to look at you.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say," you dismiss with a gentle hand wave.

"No - I'm not though." He sits up, his voice getting that sharp edge to it, the one that comes out when he's genuinely frustrated. "You can even check my phone if you want. I'm serious. Go ahead."

"Satoru, I don't care - "

"You clearly do, or you wouldn't be - " He stops himself, jaw clenching. His fingers drum against his thigh again, faster this time. "I'm not talking to anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone."

"It's really fine, it's okay."

"I'm talking to you."

"Well, yes, right now you are," you hum. "But I mean like, y'know, a girlfriend or a boyfriend - like romantically."

"I don't see how it's any different." He's looking at you now, direct and unwavering in a way that makes something uncomfortable shift in your chest.

"I'm your sister," you say flatly.

He scoffs in a way that feels mean, adjusting his glasses with more force than necessary. "Not by blood."

His words begin to settle deep into your skin, fogging up your thoughts until you're at a standstill. You try not to register what he's implying, because surely he couldn't be implying what you think he is. Your eyebrows furrow into each other, lines of skin forming as your confusion settles over.

"Yes, not by blood," you agree haphazardly. "But - we're still family - well, I mean, I consider us family. I hope you finally - "

The words die in your mouth - or rather, they're muffled under the sheer force of his own lips on yours.

It happens so fast you don't even process it at first. One second you're mid-sentence, the next his mouth is pressed against yours - not gentle, not tentative, but hard. Demanding. Your eyes fly open in shock and you try to jerk back, but his hand is already at the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gripping tight to hold you in place. The sound that comes from his throat is desperate, needy - a whimper that vibrates against your lips.

"Satoru - " you try to say against his mouth, but it comes out muffled. You push at his chest hard, palms flat, shoving with everything you've got, but he's leaning into you - his weight forcing you backward until your spine hits your mattress. You twist your head to the side, gasping, trying to break the kiss, but he follows, his hand gripping tighter in your hair.

What the fuck is going on?

He's so much bigger than you and the angle is all wrong and you can't breathe properly. The frames of his glasses dig into the bridge of your nose, cold metal and hard plastic pressing uncomfortably as he kisses you harder. There's nothing romantic about it - it's aggressive, almost violent. He's making those sounds again, whimpering like he's in pain, like he can't help himself.

"Stop - Satoru, stop - " Your voice comes out panicked, higher than normal. You're clawing at his shoulders, trying to create any kind of distance, but he's got you pinned. His hand slides under your shirt and you flinch hard, your whole body going rigid.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his chest heaving against yours. His eyes behind his glasses - pupils blown wide, barely any blue left. Then he's diving back in, kissing you with desperate hunger. "You're - god, you're so pretty," he gasps between kisses, his voice raw and shaking but still distinctly him, still carrying that edge of confidence underneath. "You're really pretty and I - " He cuts himself off, pressing his forehead against yours before going back in, kissing you like he's been holding back for months and finally snapped.

"Please don't hate me," he whimpers against your lips, going in for another kiss, deeper this time. His hand tightens in your hair. "I'll be really good to you, I swear - just don't hate me for this."

His palm slides higher under your shirt, massaging exposed skin. The touch makes you flinch - his fingers are warm, almost hot, and they're moving possessively. You try to twist away but his other hand is still in your hair, keeping your head still, and his body is a solid weight pinning you down. You can feel him grinding against your hip with every desperate breath he takes.

"Get off - " you manage to choke out, and you open your eyes.

He's staring directly at you. Those blown-wide pupils, barely any blue left - but the look in them is calculated. Aware. He knows exactly what he's doing. He pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged, and lets out another whimper that sounds almost pained, but there's something else there too - satisfaction.

He goes in for another kiss, softer for just a moment - almost tender - before it deepens again. "I thought I could wait just a bit longer," he breathes against your lips, his voice cracking but still carrying that thread of control underneath.

Tears are already burning at the corners of your eyes.

His hand slides higher. You can feel the tips of his fingers graze the bottom wiring of your bra, his touch demanding.

"You can touch me too," he says, and there's an edge to it - not quite a question, more like a demand wrapped in something almost playful despite the desperation.

His hands find yours, trying to guide them down his chest, but you're already pulling back, fingers curling into fists. You wrench your hands away, twisting your wrists hard, but he's stronger - he's so much stronger - and he's got them pinned against his body with purpose.

"No - don't - " you gasp out, struggling, but he keeps pulling with an iron grip, forcing your resistance downward until your hands are pressed against the front of his sweats.

The shape of him is obvious through the fabric - hard and straining. He grinds into your touch with intention, a low sound escaping his throat that's somewhere between a groan and a laugh, slightly manic but controlled.

"This is wrong, Satoru," you manage to say, voice weak and bordering on a sob. You're trying to pull your hands away, clenching your fists tight, but he's got them pinned there, forcing you to feel him through the sweats as he rocks against your palms with deliberate pressure.

"I know - I know it's wrong," he breathes out, but there's no remorse in his voice - just acknowledgment, like he's stating a fact that doesn't matter. Like he's thought this through and decided it's worth it anyway.

Before you can say anything else, he crashes his mouth against yours again.

This kiss is even more aggressive. His teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough that you taste copper, and when you gasp he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue pushing past your lips with bruising intensity. One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back at an angle that makes your neck strain, while the other keeps your palm pressed firmly against his erection.

You twist your head sharply, trying to break away, but he follows - relentless. Your hands are still trapped and you're pulling, really pulling, fingers curling into fists as you try to wrench free.

It's useless. He's so much stronger and he knows it.

You're pushing against his chest with your shoulder, your whole body rigid, but he just leans into you harder, pinning you deeper into the mattress. Your legs kick slightly, instinctive, panicked - trying to shift your weight, to get leverage, anything.

He's panting into your mouth, making these desperate little sounds that vibrate through your chest, but underneath it all there's still that thread of awareness, of control.

"I know," he repeats between kisses, the words hot and wet against your lips. "I know, but I don't care - can't care - " Another kiss, this one so forceful it makes your head spin.

You turn your face away again, gasping for air, your neck straining against his grip in your hair. This time you note the soft click of his tongue when his lips leave yours once more from your abrupt movement.

A knock at the door breaks through the moment.

"Hey kids, dinner's ready!" Your dad's voice, muffled through the wood. Cheerful and oblivious. "Is Satoru in there too?"

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Your throat has closed up entirely.

Your eyes dart to him. He's still on top of you, still holding you down, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach drop. Like he's curious what you'll do. Like he wants you to try.

The fear is suffocating. Worse than his weight, worse than the ache in your wrists. You can't think, can't do anything but lie there with tears spilling over.

Satoru pulls back just enough to look at the door when the silence prolongs from your side. His hand is still under your shirt, and he gives one last, deliberate press of his cock against your leg before stilling completely. You can see him thinking, calculating.

"Yeah!" he calls out, and his voice is so normal it makes your skin crawl. Confident. Calm. Just slightly breathless like he'd been laughing at something funny. "We'll be down in a second!"

"Alright, don't take too long - we're waiting on you guys!"

Footsteps retreating down the hall.

Satoru looks back at you, his glasses hanging low off his nose at this point with the deep heaves of his chest. A grin begins to settle onto his expression despite the red that blooms tirelessly along the cheeks of his face.

“Knees, now.”

His baritone sharp tone bounced off the darkly colored walls of the room. His body language reflecting his tone, he rested leisurely on the chair that faced you. Broad muscular arms rested on either side of the chair’s borders.

His entire being illuminated dominance, and supremacy. Whatever he says, goes, and he knows it.

Blinking at his words, his face shifts to an expression of disappointment that has your body immediately dropping to its knees. You shifted uncomfortably at the feeling of the cool wood of the floors contacting the soft skin of your knees, the ground harsh against your bones.

It felt almost like a chemical reaction to his disappointment, wanting to do whatever you could to please him. A nearly inconceivable shift of slight praise drifted across his features, before quickly stoning back into his default of disapproval.

“What do you say?” He asked with a mere tilt of his head, like you should be embarrassed to have forgotten it.

”Yes sir” you mutter quickly, maintaining eye contact with the man ahead of you. A pleased sound leaves him, drawing a rush of arousal to your underwear.

“Ask for what you want.” He spoke, with his voice slick like honey.

You swallow before responding, embarrassment, arousal, and thrill all coursing from your toes to your finger tips. “I want to suck your cock, sir”

He tsks—yes, actually “tsks”—before you’ve even finished your sentence.

Quickly, he leans body closer to your kneeled frame, his rough calloused hands grip your jaw, causing a gasp to leave you at the contact.

Looking into your eyes as he says, “That’s not how you ask me for something, doll. Why don’t you try again, because I don’t think you want to be punished this early in the night, do you?”

Another rush of arousal and fear rushes through your veins at the memory of your last, “punishment.”

”Mno, no swir” You try, but the words come out slurred together, his fingers squeezing your jaw.

Releasing your face with a huff, he allows you to speak properly.

“May I please suck your cock, sir?” You ask politely, looking at him with your best needy, doe eyed expression. Your eyes trail down to the bulge that begins to grow in front of you. The stretching of the dark denim causes you to swallow, eager to please your boyfriend.

He watches you too, the way your red lace bra highlights your breasts, the garter that runs along your skin. Despite his ability to almost hide it, you affect him just as much as he affects you.

“Take it off.” His voice cuts through the tight tension of anticipation that swarms the air around you.

Your fingers work quickly at his affirmation, unzipping the fly of his pants, sliding the material down his thick muscular thighs.

A smirk grapes across his features when you meet his eye. Your fingers slipping under the tight material of his boxer-breifs.

“You always this excited to get throat fucked baby, or do I just do something to ya?”

His hand comes back to your jaw, trailing down until he has a hold around your neck. Not choking you, just holding. You moan softly in response to the contact, furrowing your eyebrows as you attempt to focus on releasing his cock from the confines of his clothing.

His fingers squeeze just barely around your neck when you fingers find what you’ve been searching for. Pulling his length out of the black underwear, you begin immediately.

Bringing your mouth his base you begin to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along his shaft. Licking and kissing each vein, drawing groans of pleasure out of the man above you. Feeling his fingers grip your hair, only encourages you.

Licking a stripe up his length before stopping at the tip, you plant a soft kiss before finally wrapping your lips around it. You have to breathe through your nose to stop the pending gagging at your throat, forcing yourself down inch after inch.

Managing to get almost half way down his nine inch length, before dragging your head off of him to gasp for air.

”Come on baby you can take it” your boyfriend speaks before using his grip on your haste to push your mouth back on him. Causing you to bring your hands to his thighs, not to push him away, but to brace yourself for whatever he wanted to do with your mouth.

A gagging sound follows his action, but he persists, keeping a firm grip in your hair.

You relax your throat until finally, your nose is buried in his base.

“That’s my girl, keep it there, just like that.” He moans, hips grinding into you.

You moan and writhe against him, failing to swallow and breathe with the intrusion down your throat.

The sound of gagging fills the air, as a shiver runs down your spine, feeling the tip of his cock seem to get deeper inside your mouth as you shake, writhing against his grasp.

Pulled your head away from him 10 seconds too late, a string of saliva and pre-cum connects you two. Your wheezing and coughing doesn’t deter the man above you though, before you know it, your mouth is back to his cock.

You begin bobbing your head and hollowing your cheeks, eager to get him to his release, and have his load coat your throat. Feeling his thigh muscles flex underneath your fingertips when his tip meets the ends of your throat.

a crude, “gluck-gluck-gluck” sound leaves your throat each time you head bobs back down. salivia and precum overflow from the sides of your mouth.

”So fuckin’ good for me—ah, just like that.” feeling your thighs clench together in response, you moan at his words. But it comes out muffled on his dick, the vibrating sensation drawing yet another groan from his lips.

“you gonna take my cum pretty girl? yeahhh you are, go—fuck ah, good girl”

A bitter taste fills your mouth without warning as he begins to shudder, spasm thrusting his hips impossibly deeper down your throat as his release showers him in pleasure. You swallow every drop with gratuity, feeling your own heat pulse in response to his.

You’re both shuddering messes by the time you pull your lips off him with a pop. His hands grace either side of your face as he drags you up to his, bringing your lips together in a messy kiss.

Swiping his tongue across your bottom lip, you open your mouth eagerly, deepening the kiss. He groans into your mouth when he tastes his own release on you.

“Gonna take care of my girl now” he speaks against your lips, his words only ever causing the pulsing sensation between your thighs to increase.

The ballroom glowed gold.

Crystal chandeliers scattered light like falling stars across silk gowns and pressed tuxedos, champagne glasses chiming in soft, polite percussion. Manhattan’s skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a thousand distant lights bowing to the charity banner stretched across the far wall:

THE NEW AVENGERS INITIATIVE — Rebuilding Together.

She fit the room like she’d been born to it.

Laughter curved easy from her mouth as she leaned against a cocktail table, one hand wrapped around a flute of champagne, the other resting lightly at the elbow of a silver-haired donor who looked thoroughly enchanted. Her dress caught the light every time she moved—something soft and pale that made her look almost luminous. Effortless.

Bucky stood near the perimeter of the room, shoulders squared out of habit more than necessity, scanning exits and faces and shadows that didn’t belong. He felt like a smudge of charcoal in a painting done in gold leaf.

Across the room, she tipped her head back and laughed.

It wasn’t forced. It never sounded forced.

“You’re telling me,” she said to the donor, mock-serious, “that you once tried to build your own Iron Man suit?”

The man puffed up a little. “In my defense, I had a very good blueprint.”

“Was it drawn in crayon?” she asked sweetly.

He barked a delighted laugh.

Bucky caught the moment her smile faltered—just a fraction. A breath too long before she lifted her glass to her lips. A swallow that wasn’t quite casual.

He told himself he imagined it.

A young reporter edged closer, phone already recording. “Can I just say, you are everyone’s favorite Avenger right now.”

She blinked, surprised. “Oh, that’s definitely not true.”

“America’s Sweetheart,” the reporter insisted. “You’re kind of the sunshine of the New Avengers.”

Her grin widened, brilliant. “Sunshine, huh? That’s a lot of pressure. What if I get seasonal depression?”

The table laughed. The reporter laughed. Even Sam, hovering nearby, snorted.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, clapping her shoulder. “You’re annoyingly consistent.”

She shot him a look. “You wound me, Wilson.”

Sam leaned toward Bucky as he passed, murmuring low, “You ever see someone actually enjoy this stuff?”

Bucky’s gaze tracked her as she shifted seamlessly to greet another cluster of donors. “Some people are built for it.”

Sam followed his line of sight. “You sure about that?”

Bucky didn’t answer. She caught him looking.

Her eyes brightened, and she excused herself from the donors with a polite squeeze of someone’s hand. In three easy steps she was in front of him, offering her champagne flute like a peace treaty.

“You look like you’re being audited, Barnes.”

“I don’t like crowds.”

“You’ve been in actual wars.”

“Crowds don’t follow rules.”

Her mouth curved. “That’s half the fun.”

She pressed the stem of her glass into his hand and snagged another from a passing server without missing a beat. He noticed it was her third. Maybe fourth.

He wasn’t counting.

“You could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself,” she said, nudging his arm lightly. “Smile. Think patriotic thoughts.”

“I am.”

“Scary ones?”

“Always.”

She laughed again, softer this time. For a second—just one—her eyes dropped. Not to the room. Not to the skyline. To the floor. Then she looked back up and the light was back on.

“Relax,” she told him. “We’re doing good tonight.”

He watched her take a long swallow.

“You’re good at this,” he said before he could stop himself.

“At drinking champagne?” she asked.

“At… this.” He gestured vaguely. The room. The people. The expectation. Something flickered across her face. Too fast to read.

“It’s easy,” she said. “You just give people what they want.”

“And what’s that?”

She tilted her head, considering him like he’d asked something complicated.

“Hope,” she said finally.

A photographer called her name. She slipped away before he could respond.

Bucky remained where he was, her abandoned warmth still ghosting against his fingers from where she’d pressed the glass into his hand. He didn’t drink it.

Across the ballroom, she was already mid-conversation again, one hand resting lightly on a senator’s sleeve, nodding with careful attention. She leaned in when they spoke, made them feel important. She laughed at the right moments. She brushed off praise like it embarrassed her.

She glowed.

The room responded to her like sunflowers turning toward light. Another flute appeared in her hand. He didn’t see her ask for it.

Sam drifted back over, shaking his head. “You’d think she’s been doing press for decades.”

“She hasn’t,” Bucky said.

“Nah. But she makes it look easy.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened when she stumbled—barely noticeable. A heel catching against the hem of her dress. She recovered instantly, grin intact, spinning it into a joke about “gravitational anomalies.”

No one else reacted. He did.

The band shifted into something slower. A donor asked for a photo with her. She stepped closer, smile flawless.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Every captured moment: bright eyes, lifted chin, champagne held delicately between fingers.

The sunshine Avenger.

Bucky didn’t know when he started watching for the cracks. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was recognition.

When the gala began to thin, she finally returned to him, cheeks flushed, energy somehow still humming.

“See?” she said lightly. “No audits required.”

“You drank a lot,” he said before he could filter it.

Her eyebrows lifted. “It’s a party.”

“Still.”

She studied him for a moment. Not offended. Not defensive. Just… measuring.

“You worried about me, Barnes?” she teased gently.

“I—” He stopped. Adjusted. “I just want you to be safe.”

The words hung between them. Her smile didn’t vanish. But it dimmed.

“I am,” she said simply.

No joke this time. A server passed. She traded her empty glass for a fresh one with practiced ease. He watched her swallow half of it in one go.

"Go home,” she told him lightly. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at training.”

“You going straight home?”

“Eventually.”

She squeezed his arm, friendly and warm, then slipped away to say her final goodbyes. Bucky remained still until she disappeared through the grand doors. He didn’t follow. Not tonight.

The door shuts behind her with a soft click that sounds too loud in the quiet.

She leans her forehead against it for a second—just a second—breathing in the leftover city heat, the faint smell of expensive perfume and champagne clinging to her skin. The smile slides off her face like it was never really attached to begin with.

Lights stay off.

She toes her heels off where she stands and pads forward, the apartment lit only by the spill of neon from the street below. Glass catches that light—empty bottles on the counter, on the table, one tipped on its side near the sink. The place looks like a stranger’s mess. Or hers. Same thing, lately.

She opens the freezer and pulls out the bottle she keeps there on purpose. Something harsh. Something that burns. She pours it into a champagne flute because the stem feels elegant in her hand, because habits are hard to kill.

The first swallow hits like a punch.

She doesn’t chase it. Doesn’t flinch. Just drinks again, deeper this time, until her throat warms and the quiet in her head goes pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

The glass slips from her fingers.

It shatters.

The sound echoes sharp and sudden, and she laughs, breathless and a little hysterical, like it’s the funniest thing that’s happened all night. Liquid spreads across the floor, catching the light in jagged reflections. Shards glitter like something pretty.

She steps forward without thinking.

Glass bites into the sole of her foot. Not deep. Just enough to sting.

She doesn’t look down.

She pours another drink straight from the bottle and takes it with her as she wanders, bare feet pressing against cold tile, then hardwood. Each step leaves a faint smear she doesn’t bother to clean. She knocks into the table, bumps her hip, sways and steadies herself against the wall, fingers smearing along paint.

“Idiot,” she murmurs, to no one.

The framed photo sits on the counter, angled just so. She pauses in front of it, squinting like it might come into focus if she tries hard enough.

Summer. Sunburned noses. Her mom’s arm slung around her shoulders. Her dad laughing at something just out of frame. All of them whole. All of them alive.

Her chest tightens.

She turns the frame face-down with a careless flick and drains the glass.

The bottle follows her to the couch, then to the bathroom, where she sinks down onto the cool tile and presses her back against the tub. The room spins slowly, pleasantly, like she’s on a ride she didn’t pay for. She laughs again, softer this time, and tips her head back until it thumps against porcelain.

“Sunshine,” she mutters, tasting the word. It sounds wrong here. Too bright. Too loud.

She drinks until her fingers go numb and the edges of things blur together. Until the ache in her chest dulls into something manageable. Until standing feels optional.

When she tries anyway, the room tilts sharply and she stumbles, catching herself on the sink. Her elbow clips the counter. Pain flares, distant and unimportant.

She leaves the bathroom light off.

Leaves the mess.

She doesn’t bother with the bed. Just collapses onto the couch sideways, one leg hanging off, bottle clutched loose in her hand. The city hums outside, distant and indifferent.

She closes her eyes.

For a moment, just a moment, there’s the echo of voices that aren’t there anymore. Laughter. A hand squeezing hers. Someone calling her name like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It envelopes around her like steam and smoke all at once, filling her lungs and pulling her down until it fully consumes her.

Then nothing.

Morning comes too fast.

Light knifes through the window, cruel and unfiltered. Her head pounds in time with her heartbeat, every thud a reminder of the night before. She groans and rolls onto her back, arm flung over her eyes.

The bottle is empty.

Of course it is.

She swings her legs off the couch and hisses when her bare foot hits something sharp. Blood beads, bright against her skin. She stares at it for a second, detached, then pads to the bathroom leaving a faint red smear behind.

Cold water. Soap. She cleans the cut, slaps a bandage on it without ceremony.

The mirror reflects someone wrecked—smudged mascara, hair tangled, eyes dull and rimmed red. For a second, she just looks. Really looks.

Then she flips the switch.

The shower roars to life. Steam fills the room. She scrubs until her skin is pink and her thoughts line up into something usable. She washes her hair twice. Brushes her teeth until her mouth tastes like mint and control.

By the time she steps out, towel wrapped tight, the mess in the apartment feels distant. Manageable. Later.

She dresses with practiced efficiency. Clean clothes. Neutral colors. Nothing that hints at the night before. She dabs concealer under her eyes, smooths mascara on carefully, coaxes her mouth into a smile until it looks right.

She practices it once in the mirror.

Bright. Easy. Fine.

“Morning,” she tells her reflection, voice light.

The woman staring back nods like she believes it.

She steps carefully around the broken glass on her way out, grabs her keys, and pulls the door shut behind her.

In the hallway, shoulders square. Chin lifts. The sunshine snaps back into place like armor.

By the time she reaches the street, she’s already laughing at a text from Sam.

By the time she reaches the Tower, no one can tell she spent the night bleeding on her own floor.

And if her foot throbs with every step, if her head still aches, if something hollow rattles in her chest when she inhales—

Well.

She’s good at this. She always has been.

The briefing room smells like burnt coffee and recycled air.

It’s too bright, too white—sterile in a way that makes Bucky’s shoulders itch. Screens line the walls, tactical maps already rotating through satellite images and schematics. The team filters in piece by piece, boots heavy against the floor, voices overlapping in the low hum that always comes before a mission.

She’s already there.

Perched on the edge of the table like she owns the place, legs crossed at the ankle, elbow braced casually on her knee. Her suit is zipped halfway down, sleeves rolled just enough to look relaxed rather than sloppy. Hair pulled back. Clean. Put together.

Smiling.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sam says as he drops into a chair.

She beams at him. “Careful, you’re going to give me a reputation.”

“Too late,” he replies. “You’re the only one in here who looks like they actually slept.”

She laughs, light and musical, and Bucky feels the sound echo somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.

He takes his usual spot near the back wall, arms folded, metal fingers flexing once before stilling. Old habit. Watch the room. Watch the exits. Watch her.

She hasn’t noticed him yet. Or she has and is pretending not to. Hard to tell with her.

The screen changes. A map zooms in on a port city, red circles blooming like warning lights.

“Alright,” the mission coordinator begins. “Weapons transfer scheduled for tonight. We go in quiet. Disrupt, seize, extract.”

She slides off the table and moves closer, eyes tracking the display with sharp focus. No hesitation. No fog. She asks the right questions at the right moments, nods along as details stack up. When someone cracks a joke about paperwork, she rolls her eyes dramatically, drawing a few chuckles.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

Bucky notices the way she shifts her weight. Not restless—measured. Like she’s aware of every inch of herself, holding something steady by force alone. He notices how her fingers tap once against her thigh before stilling, how she keeps her hands busy—adjusting a glove, tugging at a strap—never quite at rest.

She catches his eye then.

Her smile sharpens, like she’s been waiting for it.

“Barnes,” she says, bright as ever. “You’re on overwatch with me. Try to keep up.”

“Always do,” he replies automatically.

She grins wider, clearly pleased, and for a split second—just a split second—something flickers behind her eyes. Not fear. Not doubt.

Exhaustion.

It’s gone before he can be sure.

The briefing continues. Entry points. Escape routes. Contingencies. She volunteers for point without hesitation, voice steady, confident. No one questions it. They never do. She’s reliable. Strong. She gets the job done.

Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.

He remembers her hands shaking around a coffee mug two weeks ago. Just barely. He’d thought it was the chill.

He remembers the faint, sharp edge of alcohol on her breath one morning during training. He’d told himself it was from the night before, nothing unusual.

He remembers the way she’d laughed too loud at a joke that wasn’t that funny.

He hadn’t said anything then.

He doesn’t say anything now.

“Questions?” the coordinator asks.

She raises her hand halfway, playful. “Just one. Are we doing this the boring way, or the fun way?”

A ripple of amusement moves through the room. Someone groans. Someone else shakes their head.

“Boring,” comes the answer.

She sighs theatrically. “El tragique.”

Bucky watches her shoulders relax as laughter fills the space. Like the sound itself is holding her up.

The meeting breaks. Chairs scrape. People stand, stretching, already shifting into mission mode. She turns immediately, falling into step beside Sam, nudging him with her elbow as she says something he can’t hear.

Bucky follows at a distance.

In the hallway, she stops short, rifling through a pocket. Her smile falters—not gone, but thinner—as she checks another pocket, then another.

“Everything good?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “Just—thought I lost something.”

She laughs it off, already moving again, but Bucky clocks the way her hand trembles when she zips her jacket. He clocks the way she swallows hard, throat working, before smoothing her expression back into place. By the time they reach the locker room, she’s all charm again. Tossing a quip over her shoulder. Complimenting someone’s new gear. Moving like someone who belongs exactly where she is.

Bucky leans against a locker and pretends to check his weapon. He watches her in the reflection of the polished metal.

She catches sight of herself too.

For a moment, her face goes blank. Not sad. Not angry. Empty. Like the lights behind her eyes have dimmed. Then she straightens, lifts her chin, and smiles at her own reflection—practiced, effortless. The sunshine clicks back on.

She turns and nearly runs into him.

“Oh—hey,” she says, bright. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he answers. A beat. “You?”

“Always,” she says lightly, like it’s a joke they’ve shared before.

Her gaze holds his for half a second longer than necessary. Searching. Measuring. He gives her nothing.

She nods, satisfied, and moves past him, humming under her breath as she goes. Bucky stays where he is long after she’s gone.

The room feels colder without her voice in it. He tells himself he’s imagining things. That he’s projecting. That she’s just tired. That everyone has off days.

But the image of her frozen reflection won’t leave him. The way the smile came back too fast. Too controlled. Like a switch. As he finally pushes off the locker and heads for the exit, something settles uncomfortably in his chest, not panic, not fear.

Recognition.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

But he watches her walk down the hall to the landing pad, laughter echoing ahead of her like a shield, and knows with quiet certainty—

Something is wrong.

The explosion wasn’t supposed to go off yet.

Bucky registers that much first—the wrongness of the timing, the way his instincts scream a half-second before the world fractures. The air compresses, a concussive force slamming outward, heat ripping through the narrow corridor they’re moving down.

He twists on reflex.

She’s already there. Already moving.

Already shoving him hard in the chest, metal arm ringing as he stumbles back into cover while she takes the brunt of it. The blast throws her sideways, her body hitting the wall with a sound that’s all wrong—too heavy, too final.

“—no!”

The smoke clears enough for him to see her crumpled on the ground.

For one suspended, impossible second, she doesn’t move.

Bucky is on his knees beside her before anyone finishes shouting her name. The world narrows to the slick feel of blood under his gloves, too warm, too much. Her suit is torn, dark spreading fast beneath it. Her eyes are half-lidded, unfocused.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking despite himself. “Hey—look at me.”

Nothing. He presses his fingers to her neck, heart slamming against his ribs as he searches for a pulse. It’s there. Weak. Slipping.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, hands already moving, sealing wounds, shouting for evac. The team’s voices blur together around him, urgency cracking into fear.

She doesn’t wake up.

The quinjet is chaos—lights flashing, engines screaming, med kit snapped open with shaking hands. Bucky stays anchored to her side, knees planted, blood smeared across his forearms, across his chest, across the metal of his hand. It looks wrong on him. Too bright.

The medic presses down hard, calls out vitals.

Her pulse falters.

Then stops. The monitor’s tone goes flat and continuous, slicing clean through the cabin.

“No,” Bucky says again, louder now, panic clawing up his throat. His hand clamps around hers, squeezing like force alone might pull her back. “Don’t you—don’t you dare.”

The medic moves fast, shocking her chest, shouting counts. Someone calls for another round. Bucky barely hears it. He can’t look away from her face, too still, too pale beneath the grime and blood. He’s back in other places then, other times, rooms where bodies didn’t wake up, where he was always a moment too late. His breath comes shallow, vision tunneling, fingers numb where they clutch her hand.

The monitor beeps.

Once.

Twice.

A rhythm stutters back to life.

Everyone exhales at once, like the cabin itself had been holding its breath.

“She’s back,” the medic says, but there’s no relief in their voice. Just focus. “Barely. We’re not out of this.”

Bucky nods dumbly, throat tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t let go of her hand the entire flight. He doesn’t notice the way his own blood pressure spikes, the way his hands shake. He only watches her chest rise and fall, uneven and fragile, like it might stop again if he looks away.

The team is silent.

Sam sits rigid across from them, jaw clenched. No jokes. No commentary. Just the hum of the engines and the steady, terrifying awareness of how close they came to losing her.

Of how bright the space feels without her voice filling it.

They rush her through the Tower medbay doors on a gurney, a flurry of white coats and clipped instructions. Bucky follows until someone physically blocks his path.

“Sir—”

“She’s not alone,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut. “I’m staying.”

A doctor hesitates, then nods. “Fine. But stay out of the way.”

He stands at the foot of her bed as machines are hooked up, IV lines threaded into her arms, blood drawn and replaced. She looks smaller like this, stripped of armor and sharp edges, lashes dark against skin gone pale.

A nurse reads off numbers. Blood pressure unstable. Oxygen low. Too much blood lost.

“We’ll need a transfusion,” the doctor says. “Type matches?”

Bucky answers automatically, rattling it off like it’s a weapon spec. They move fast.

He watches the bag fill. Watches life being fed back into her vein drop by drop. On the monitor, her heart stutters, steadies, stutters again.

The doctor frowns at a tablet, scrolling through results. “Liver enzymes are elevated.”

Bucky barely registers it.

“Could be from alcohol,” the doctor adds absently, already moving on. “Recent event?”

Bucky’s mind flicks, briefly, to champagne glasses and crystal chandeliers. To laughter and flashing cameras.

“Gala,” he says. “Couple nights ago.”

The doctor hums, unconcerned. “That’ll do it. Not our priority right now.”

Good, Bucky thinks distantly. Because he can’t afford priorities that aren’t her breathing. He can’t afford questions. Not tonight. They stabilize her enough to move her to a private room. The lights dim. The machines quiet to a low, steady hum.

Bucky sinks into the chair beside her bed like his bones have finally remembered gravity. His hands are still stained red, no matter how much sanitizer the nurse shoved at him. He doesn’t bother cleaning them again.

He takes her hand carefully this time, afraid of hurting her, afraid of everything.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, though he isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince. “You’re gonna be okay.”

She doesn’t wake up.

Hours pass. He doesn’t move.

A nurse tells him to get some rest. He ignores her.

A doctor suggests he step out. He refuses.

At some point, Sam appears in the doorway, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders heavy. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once and leaves.

Bucky watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, memorizing it. The faint beep of the monitor becomes a lifeline, each sound a small, fragile miracle. He thinks about the way she laughed in the briefing room. The way she smiled like nothing in the world could touch her. The way she shoved him out of the blast radius without hesitation.

He thinks about how close he came to losing her.

He doesn’t think about liver enzymes. Or champagne. Or anything beyond the fact that she’s here, alive, barely and that he can’t imagine the Tower without her light filling its halls. He leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against the edge of the bed.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers, voice rough. “You hear me?”

Her fingers twitch. Just a little.

It’s enough to break him. He straightens instantly, grip tightening, eyes locked on her face. Her lashes flutter, breath hitching, but she doesn’t wake, not fully.

Still.

She’s alive.

She wakes to the sound of machines and the wrong kind of quiet.

At first, there’s only fog—thick and heavy, pressing in around her thoughts. Her body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. Something tugs at her arm. Something hums softly near her head. The air smells like antiseptic and ozone.

Then pain blooms, slow and deep, radiating outward until it sharpens her awareness into something brittle.

She blinks.

The ceiling swims into focus. White. Too white.

Hospital.

Her throat is dry. Her chest feels tight, like it’s wrapped in wires. When she tries to move, something warm and solid tightens around her hand.

She turns her head.

Bucky is slumped in a chair beside the bed, shoulders hunched, elbows braced on his knees. His hair is a mess. There’s dried blood on his jacket sleeve—hers, distantly, she realizes. His face looks drawn, eyes shadowed like he hasn’t slept in days.

The sight of him hits her harder than the pain.

Her mouth moves before her brain catches up.

“Wow,” she croaks. “You should see the other guy.”

Bucky startles like he’s been shot.

His head snaps up, eyes wide, frantic—then locked on her face like she might vanish if he looks away. For a second, he just stares, breathing uneven, metal fingers tightening around hers like an anchor.

“You’re awake,” he says hoarsely.

She squints at him, forcing her mouth into a crooked smile. It feels stiff. Foreign.

“Barely,” she says. “And I still look better than you.”

It’s instinct. Automatic. The switch flipping back into place before she can stop it.

He lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half broken exhale, and scrubs a hand down his face. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Us?” she teases weakly. “Speak for yourself.”

His eyes don’t soften the way they usually do when she jokes. They stay sharp. Too sharp. Like he’s afraid if he relaxes, she’ll slip away again.

“You flatlined,” he says quietly.

The word lands heavier than she expects.

She shrugs, careful not to move too much. “I came back.”

That earns her a look—something raw and wounded flashing across his face.

“Don’t do that again,” he says.

She wants to say I won’t. Wants to make it easy. Instead, she lifts her free hand as much as the IV will allow and gives a lazy salute.

“No promises, Sergeant.”

He doesn’t smile.

The doctors come in soon after. They shine lights in her eyes, ask her questions, prod and poke and murmur things she doesn’t quite catch. Bucky stays put, a solid presence at her side, refusing to leave even when a nurse gently suggests he get some rest.

She plays the role flawlessly.

Cracks jokes. Thanks everyone. Waves off concern like it’s nothing. She’s done this before—injured, patched up, sent back out. She knows the script.

By the time they finally make him step out for a few minutes, she’s already smiling again.

—

Weeks later, she insists she’s fine.

The doctors hesitate. The team hesitates. Bucky hesitates the longest.

“I’m not made of glass,” she tells them, arms crossed, chin lifted. “You benched me long enough.”

Sam studies her closely. “You sure?”

She grins. “When am I not?”

It’s almost convincing.

Almost.

She returns to duty too soon, and something in her never quite locks back into place.

At first, it’s small things.

She shows up to the Tower in yesterday’s clothes, hair pulled back a little sloppier than usual. Mascara smudged faintly beneath her eyes, like she forgot to wash it off—or didn’t care enough to.

She’s still smiling. Still saying the right things. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes the way it used to.

She laughs quieter.

She doesn’t tease Sam as much. When she does, it feels delayed, like she’s remembering to do it instead of wanting to.

She leaves debriefs early, always with a quick excuse. “Headache.” “Physical therapy ran long.” “Just need some air.”

Bucky notices.

He notices the way she rubs at her temples during briefings. The way she flinches when the lights are too bright. The way she smells faintly like alcohol at nine in the morning—just enough that his enhanced senses catch it, sharp and unmistakable.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He just watches.

He watches her sit a little farther away from the group at lunch. Watches her stare at her phone without scrolling, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. Watches her laugh at the wrong moments, like she’s half a beat out of sync with everyone else.

He watches the storm pressing harder against the bars.

She keeps it together at the Tower, she always does. It’s when she gets home that everything falls apart. The door closes behind her and the quiet hits like a wave.

No jokes to make. No one to reassure. No one watching. She drops her keys on the counter and stares at them for a long moment, chest tight, breath coming shallow. The apartment feels wrong—too big, too empty, like it’s waiting for something she can’t give it.

She sinks onto the couch, elbows on her knees, hands tangled in her hair.

She almost died.

The thought crashes into her with a force she hasn’t let herself feel yet.

She almost died—and she didn’t.

Again.

Her chest burns as anger flares, hot and sudden, cutting through the numbness. Anger at the universe. At fate. At herself. At surviving when she shouldn’t have. Again.

“Why,” she whispers into the empty room, voice breaking. “Why me?”

Her family’s faces crowd her mind unbidden. Smiles frozen in time. Voices she can almost hear if she concentrates hard enough.

She presses her palms to her eyes, nails digging in, trying to hold it back.

It doesn’t work.

A sob tears out of her chest, raw and ugly. Then another. She folds in on herself, shoulders shaking as grief claws its way up and out, relentless and unforgiving. She almost died. And part of her wishes she hadn’t come back. The thought scares her and comforts her in equal measure.

The bottle is where she left it. She doesn’t hesitate this time.

She drinks fast, chasing the burn, welcoming the blur as it creeps in and softens the edges of everything. The anger dulls. The grief fuzzes. The thoughts slow enough that they don’t hurt as much.

She stumbles through the apartment, unsteady but familiar with the layout, collapsing onto the bed without bothering to change. The room spins gently, lulling her toward something close to peace. As consciousness starts to slip, one final thought drifts through her mind—not sharp, not dramatic. Just tired.

Maybe it would be easier not to wake up.

She doesn’t frame it as a plan. Doesn’t linger on it. She just lets the darkness take her, hoping for rest, hoping for quiet, hoping, just this once that the morning won’t come so fast. That maybe the next one won't come at all.

The feeling settles in Bucky’s gut halfway through dinner.

It’s not loud. Not sharp. Just wrong.

The restaurant is warm and crowded, the kind of place that thrives on noise—clinking glasses, overlapping laughter, music low and steady beneath it all. She sits across from him, smiling easily, twirling pasta around her fork as Sam tells a story with too many hand gestures.

She laughs at the right moments. Nods. Plays along.

But her eyes keep drifting.

To the door. To the bar. To nowhere at all.

She drinks faster than everyone else. Not sloppy—never sloppy—but efficient. Like she’s checking something off a list. When the waiter asks if anyone wants another round, she answers before anyone else can.

“Sure,” she says brightly. “Why not?”

Bucky watches her fingers tighten around the glass.

When dinner wraps up, she’s the first to stand.

“I’m wiped,” she says, already reaching for her coat. “Gonna head out.”

Sam frowns. “You sure? We were gonna—”

“Rain check,” she says, smiling, already backing away. “Promise.”

She’s gone before anyone can push.

Bucky tells himself to stay seated.

Tells himself this isn’t his place. That following her would be a violation of trust, of friendship, of the careful distance they’ve both maintained.

Then she stumbles. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just a misstep on the threshold, a quick catch on the doorframe before she straightens and waves it off with a laugh.

That’s all it takes.

He leaves cash on the table and follows at a distance. He keeps far enough back that she won’t hear him, won’t feel watched. Old habits slide into place easily—blending into crowds, timing his steps with traffic, keeping her in sight without being seen.

She doesn’t go straight home.

She turns down a side street and pushes through the glass doors of a liquor store. Bucky stops short. He waits outside, heart thudding harder than it should, eyes fixed on the glowing windows. He tells himself she could be grabbing a bottle of wine. A nightcap. Nothing unusual.

She emerges with two bags.

Heavy ones.

The paper strains at the seams, glass clinking softly with every step she takes.

Bucky’s breath catches.

That’s too much, he thinks. That’s way too much.

She doesn’t look back as she walks. Doesn’t hesitate. Like this is routine.

He follows her home. The building is quiet when she disappears inside. Bucky stays on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, jaw tight. He checks his watch once. Then again.

Lights flick on in her living room. The TV flares to life—blue light flickering through the curtains.

He waits.

Tells himself he’s being paranoid. That she’s fine. That she deserves privacy.

An hour passes.

Then two.

The TV is still on.

No movement. No shadows crossing the windows. No lights switching off.

The feeling in his gut twists tighter. Something is wrong.

He goes up. The hallway outside her apartment smells faintly like stale carpet and someone else’s cooking. He stands there longer than necessary, heart pounding, listening for… something. Music. Footsteps. Anything.

There’s nothing.

He knocks.

“Hey,” he calls softly. “It’s Bucky.”

No answer.

He knocks again, louder this time.

Nothing.

His pulse spikes. He reaches for the handle without thinking. The door swings open, unlocked.

The apartment hits him like a punch.

The smell comes first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Alcohol layered thick in the air, mixed with something stale and heavy that turns his stomach. The TV hums from the living room, a sitcom laugh track echoing emptily through the space.

Bottles are everywhere.

On the counter. On the table. Lined up along the wall like discarded soldiers. Some empty. Some half-full. Some tipped over, liquor darkening the floorboards. Trash overflows from the bin, crumpled takeout containers, paper bags from the liquor store, wrappers she never bothered to throw away.

His breath goes shallow.

He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

Her family photo sits on the coffee table, tilted sideways. The glass is cracked. The faces inside are still smiling. A pill bottle lies on its side nearby, cap loose, pills scattered across the table like someone knocked it over and didn’t care enough to fix it.

“Hey,” he says again, voice tight now. “Hey—where are you?”

He finds her on the floor.

She’s half-curled near the couch, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath her, hair splayed across the rug. Her eyes are open, unfocused, blinking slowly like the world is moving too fast for her to keep up.

A bottle is clutched loosely in her hand.

“Hey,” he says sharply, crossing the room in three strides and dropping to his knees beside her. “Hey—look at me.”

Her gaze drifts toward him. Slides past. Then back again, like she’s trying to piece him together.

“Bucky,” she slurs softly, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Did I… miss debrief?”

Fear slams into him so hard it steals his breath.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Pure, visceral terror.

His hands hover over her, unsure where to touch, afraid of doing something wrong. He presses two fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. It’s there. Fast. Uneven. Flashbacks crash over him without warning—cold rooms, unresponsive bodies, the sickening weight of realizing it’s already too late.

He swallows hard.

“You scared me,” he says, voice breaking despite himself. “You’re not— you weren't answering.”

She frowns, brow creasing like the effort of thinking physically hurts. “I’m… here.”

Barely.

Her head lolls to the side. Her grip loosens, the bottle rolling from her fingers and spilling across the floor. Bucky’s chest tightens painfully.

“Okay,” he says, forcing calm into his voice even as his hands shake. “Okay. Stay with me, alright?”

He eases an arm behind her shoulders, carefully lifting her enough to sit her up. She sways, heavy and uncooperative, eyes fluttering.

“Don’t,” she mumbles weakly. “’M tired.”

The words slice through him. He’s back in the quinjet again—blood on his hands, alarms screaming, her body still and too quiet.

“No,” he says firmly, grounding her with his voice. “Not like this. Not alone.”

Her forehead drops against his shoulder. He freezes and for a second, all he can hear is his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

“You don’t get to do this,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. “You don’t get to disappear.”

She doesn’t respond.

Bucky tightens his hold on her, anchoring her upright, his eyes darting around the apartment, cataloging the damage, the signs he missed. The bottles. The pills. The photo.

How long has this been going on?

How close did he come to being too late—again?

He presses his forehead briefly against hers, breath shaky, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin, the fact that she’s still breathing.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She stirs faintly, a quiet sound escaping her throat, but doesn’t wake. Bucky doesn’t let go. Not for a second. Because this time, watching isn’t enough and he’s done pretending everything is fine.

Morning comes quietly.

Not gently—quietly.

Gray light filters through the blinds, thin and unforgiving, slicing the apartment into pale stripes. The TV is still on, volume low, a morning show droning meaningless cheer into the room. The smell of stale alcohol hangs heavy in the air, layered with the sharp bite of disinfectant and something faintly metallic.

She wakes with a headache that feels like punishment.

Every nerve in her body aches. Her mouth tastes like regret and copper. Her stomach churns as she shifts, immediately aware of the unfamiliar weight around her shoulders.

An arm.

Solid. Warm.

Real.

She freezes.

Memory trickles back in fragments—liquor store bags, the bottle slipping from her hand, the floor too close and too far away at the same time. A voice saying her name. Hands holding her upright when she couldn’t.

She swallows hard and opens her eyes.

Bucky is sitting on the floor beside the couch, back against it, head tipped forward slightly like he nodded off sometime before dawn. His metal arm is looped loosely around her, keeping her from sliding off the cushions. His face is drawn, stubbled, eyes shadowed and red-rimmed like he hasn’t slept at all.

Shame hits her harder than the hangover.

“Oh god,” she whispers.

The sound wakes him instantly.

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto her with sharp, startled focus that softens just a fraction when he sees she’s awake. Really awake.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

She pushes herself upright too fast, the room spinning violently in response. She winces, one hand flying to her temple.

“Don’t—” He steadies her automatically, hand hovering near her shoulder without quite touching. “Slow down.”

She nods, breathing shallowly until the dizziness fades. When she looks around, really looks, the reality of the apartment crashes in on her.

The bottles. The mess. The pill bottle on the table. The family photo turned face-down, glass cracked.

She can’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t usually—I mean, I do, but—god, this is embarrassing, I—”

She laughs weakly, trying to smooth it over, trying to reach for that familiar brightness. “Guess I overdid it, huh?”

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t scold her either.

He just watches her, eyes steady, expression unreadable.

“I thought I was too late,” he says.

The words land between them like something fragile shattering.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

The laugh dies in her throat.

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

“I knocked,” he continues, voice low and even. Too even. “You didn’t answer. The door was unlocked.”

She stares at her hands, fingers twisting together. Her knuckles are scraped. There’s a faint bandage on her foot she doesn’t remember putting on.

“I saw you on the floor,” he says. “And for a second I didn’t know if—”

His voice catches. He clears his throat once, sharply.

“I didn’t know if you were breathing.”

Something inside her finally gives.

The storm she’s been holding back—teeth clenched, smile stapled in place—breaks through the bars.

“I didn’t mean for you to see this,” she whispers.

Her shoulders curl inward, protective, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

He shifts slightly, giving her space without pulling away. “Why?”

The question isn’t accusing.

It’s tired. Hurt. Genuinely confused.

She swallows, throat burning.

“Because I’m supposed to be fine,” she says softly. “Because everyone needs me to be fine.”

“You don’t,” he says immediately.

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he says. “Because right now all I know is I almost lost you.”

Her eyes finally lift to his.

They’re glassy. Red-rimmed. Raw.

“There was an accident. 'Bout nine months ago. I survived but I was the only one,” she says suddenly.

The words sound strange in her mouth, like they belong to someone else.

Bucky doesn’t interrupt.

She keeps going, voice trembling now, the dam fully cracked.

“We were driving. Just—normal. Music on the radio. My dad was complaining about traffic like he always did.” Her breath hitches. “And then there was this light. And noise. And… nothing.”

She presses her fingers into her palms hard enough to hurt.

“I don’t remember it clearly anymore,” she admits. “Everyone thinks I do, but I don’t. I remember waking up in a hospital bed. I remember a doctor telling me I was lucky. That it was a miracle I survived.”

Her laugh is bitter this time. Hollow.

“Lucky.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

“They told me my family didn’t make it,” she continues. “They said it was quick and that I should be grateful. That I had my whole life ahead of me.”

Her voice cracks.

“I don’t remember their last words. I don’t remember if they were scared. I don’t remember anything except the sound of the machine next to my bed and the way the room felt too quiet.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, tears spilling over despite her best efforts.

“I walked out of that hospital alone,” she says. “And everyone kept telling me how strong I was. How amazing it was that I survived.”

She laughs again, broken. “But it didn’t feel like surviving. It felt like I stole something.”

Bucky’s chest tightens painfully.

“I kept thinking… if I was good enough to live,” she whispers, voice barely audible now, “they’d still be here.”

The line guts him.

It’s like being hit square in the ribs, breath torn from his lungs. His vision blurs, jaw clenching hard as memories surge—faces he never got back, names carved into the inside of his skull, the endless, gnawing question of why him.

He knows that thought.

Knows it intimately.

She wipes at her face with the heel of her hand, frustrated with herself. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it’s not how it works. But I keep waking up, and they don’t.”

Her shoulders shake as she finally breaks, sobs wracking her frame, all pretense gone.

“I didn’t want to die,” she chokes. “I just didn’t want to keep waking up without them.”

Bucky moves then.

Carefully. Gently.

He pulls her into him, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other bracing her back as she collapses against his chest. He holds her like something precious and fragile, like if he lets go she might shatter completely.

“You’re not wrong for feeling this way,” he says quietly, voice rough. “And you’re not weak.”

She clutches at his shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric. “I tried to be okay,” she sobs. “I really did. I tried to be the version everyone liked because it felt easier than being… this.”

He rests his forehead against her hair, eyes squeezed shut.

“I know,” he says.

And he does.

“I watched you almost die,” he continues, voice shaking now, honesty spilling out of him too. “I thought I was going to lose you. And all I could think was how empty everything would be without you in it.”

She pulls back just enough to look at him, stunned.

“You matter,” he says firmly. “Not because of what you do. Not because you make things lighter for everyone else. You matter because you exist.”

Her breath stutters.

“You didn’t steal their lives,” he adds softly. “And you didn’t survive because you were worth more than them. You survived because sometimes the world is cruel and unfair and makes no sense.”

He swallows.

“I’ve spent a long time thinking I wasn’t supposed to be here either,” he admits. “Thinking maybe everyone else would’ve been better off.”

She searches his face, recognition dawning through the tears.

“And it almost killed me,” he finishes.

They sit there like that for a long time. No fixing. No platitudes. Just shared brokenness, laid bare.

When her breathing finally slows, she sags against him, exhausted.

“I’m scared,” she says.

“I know,” he replies.

“I don’t know how to stop,” she whispers.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Then we don’t start with stopping,” he says gently. “We start with not doing this alone.”

She nods weakly, tears still slipping free.

For the first time in a long time, the sunshine doesn’t come back on. And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she has to force it.

He doesn’t say anything when she reaches for his hand.

That’s the thing that undoes her.

No speeches. No promises he can’t keep. No quiet vow to save her from herself. He just lets his fingers curl around hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this—her raw, red-eyed, stripped bare—isn’t something he needs to flinch away from.

Her hand is shaking. He notices. Pretends not to. She breathes him in like she’s been underwater for years. Not cured. Not healed. Just… not alone.

They start with the apartment because it’s something he can do. Something solid. Something that doesn’t require the right words.

He opens windows. Lets cold air chase out the stale smell of alcohol and regret. He gathers bottles without commentary—empty, half-full, hidden in drawers and under the sink, lined up like evidence she never meant to leave behind. The sound of glass clinking makes her flinch, but she doesn’t tell him to stop.

She sits on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, watching him move through her life like he belongs there.

When he finds the photo of her family knocked facedown on the floor, he pauses.

Careful. Gentle.

He wipes the dust off the frame with his sleeve and sets it back up on the shelf, centered, where it can see the room again. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay. He just… does it. Like they deserve to be here. Like she does.

Something in her chest aches in a way that isn’t sharp for once.

They fill trash bags together. She helps when she can. When she can’t, he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t watch her like she’s fragile glass. He just adjusts, quietly steps in when her hands start to shake too badly to hold anything.

When the last bottle is gone, the silence feels louder.

She laughs once, weak and broken. “Guess I don’t know who I am without all that.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

He starts staying the night.

Not every night at first. Not in any way that feels like obligation or surveillance. He sleeps on the couch, fully dressed, boots by the door like he might need to leave at any second—but he doesn’t.

It’s not because he doesn’t trust her. It’s because he remembers what it felt like to be alone with the dark and no one noticing until it was almost too late.

He doesn’t want to be too late again.

Some nights are easy. They watch old movies. She dozes off halfway through, head tipping against his shoulder, breathing even. He stays still so he doesn’t wake her.

Some nights are not. There are nights she’s sharp and defensive, words cutting because pain needs somewhere to go. Nights she tells him to leave, tells him he doesn’t understand, tells him she doesn’t need a babysitter.

He stays anyway.

Not in her space. Not pushing. Just present. Quiet. Grounded.

“I’ll be on the couch,” he says. “You don’t gotta talk.”

She slams her bedroom door. Cries into her pillow. Hates herself for the relief that floods her chest when she hears him settle in for the night.

In the morning, she finds him still there.

Coffee brewed with the windows cracked, the world still intact. She never says thank you. But sometimes, when she passes him in the kitchen, her fingers brush his wrist—light, fleeting, real.

And it’s enough.

The sunshine doesn’t come back.

Not the way it used to.

She stops forcing it. Stops waking up early to paint smiles on her face like armor. The team notices—of course they do—but Bucky notices first. He sees the way she goes quieter instead of louder. The way she listens more than she talks. The way her laughter, when it comes, is softer. Real.

There’s a gap where the brightness used to be.

He helps fill it—not by replacing it, not by demanding it—but by standing beside it.

Some days that looks like coffee waiting on her counter when she wakes up with a headache and guilt pressing behind her eyes. Some days it’s him answering questions in debriefs when she’s too tired to pretend she’s okay. Some days it’s him cracking a joke just loud enough that the room doesn’t feel so heavy without her carrying it on her shoulders.

He never says, I miss the old you.

He never says, When will you be better?

He lets her be this version.

The honest one, because he know healing isn’t linear.

She learns it the hard way.

There are setbacks. Bad days. Nights where the grief hits like a freight train and surviving still feels like a punishment. But there’s also this—him, steady and unflinching, loving her without trying to fix her, without asking her to be anything other than what she is in that moment.

One night, months later, they sit on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of her past—letters, old photos, pieces of a life that ended too soon.

She picks up a picture of her family and presses it to her chest.

“I’m scared,” she admits. “That one day you’ll get tired of this.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m scared of being too late,” he says. “So I’m choosing to stay early.”

She laughs, tears slipping free. Reaches for his hand again.

This time, her grip is steady.

Not cured. Not healed.

But held.

The room smells like burnt coffee and lemon cleaner and something softer underneath it—hope, maybe, or the collective effort of people trying again.

She sits with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white, leg bouncing despite herself. Two months. Sixty-two days. Long enough to matter. Not long enough to feel safe. Long enough that she wakes up every morning and chooses it again, even when grief presses against her ribs and whispers that numb would be easier.

Her sponsor squeezes her shoulder.

“Ready?” she asks quietly.

She nods, throat tight. Ready is a strong word. But she’s here. And that counts.

When her name is called, the room claps—not loud, not performative, just warm. She stands, legs shaky, and walks to the front like it’s a ledge she’s been staring at for weeks. Someone hands her the chip. It’s small. Blue. Ordinary.

It feels impossibly heavy in her palm.

“Two months,” her sponsor says, pride softening her voice. “Would you like to say anything?”

She hadn’t planned on it. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. But the words have been crowding her chest for days, pressing against her ribs until there’s no room left to keep them in.

She swallows.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think… I think I do.”

The room goes quiet in that gentle way AA rooms do—like everyone leans in without moving.

She looks down at the chip. Then up. Past the faces she’s learned. Past the nods of understanding. Past the people who know exactly how hard this is.

Her voice trembles. She doesn’t stop it.

“I didn’t come here because I thought I had a problem,” she says honestly. “I came because everything else had fallen apart, and I didn’t know how to exist in the quiet without hurting myself.”

A few people nod. Someone murmurs agreement.

“I lost my family,” she continues, breath hitching. “And I built my life around pretending that didn’t hollow me out. I thought if I stayed bright enough, useful enough, no one would notice how bad it really was.”

She pauses, fingers tightening around the chip.

“But someone did.”

Her eyes sting. She blinks through it.

“He didn’t fix me,” she says, voice steadier now. “He didn’t save me in some big dramatic way. He just stayed. When I was ugly. When I was angry. When I was quiet. When I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

She exhales, shoulders shaking.

“So I’m dedicating this chip,” she says, lifting it slightly, “my sobriety—and everything good that’s come from it—to him. Because he showed me that there’s more to my life than what I lost. That I’m more than my grief. And that maybe surviving isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

“I don’t know if he knows how much that mattered,” she finishes softly. “But I hope one day he does.”

The room erupts into applause—not loud, but full. The kind that wraps around you and holds you up when your knees feel weak.

She steps back, heart pounding, tears blurring the edges of the room.

And she doesn’t see him.

Because he’s in the back, half-hidden by the doorframe, jacket slung over one shoulder, keys in his hand—waiting, like he always does, to take her home.

He’d meant to stay outside. Meant to give her space. Meant to just be the ride.

But he’d heard his name without hearing it. Heard him in the way she spoke. In the way the room softened around her words.

His chest aches. Not sharp. Heavy. Full.

Pride swells in him so fast it almost knocks the breath out of his lungs.

She did this.

She did this.

And somewhere in that pride is something warmer. Something he’s been careful not to name. Something he’s folded away neatly because the last thing she needs is another thing to carry.

So he wipes at his eyes, breathes through it, and waits.

Like he promised himself he would.

They go out for milkshakes after.

It’s their thing now. A replacement ritual. Something sweet and uncomplicated that doesn’t ask anything of them except to sit across from each other and exist.

She orders chocolate. Extra whipped cream. He pretends not to notice the way her hands don’t shake when she passes the money to the cashier anymore. They slide into a booth by the window, neon lights buzzing softly outside. She’s still riding the adrenaline, cheeks flushed, smile real in a way it never used to be.

“So,” he says carefully, stirring his shake. “How’d it go?”

She watches the swirl for a second. Then looks up at him, eyes bright.

“I got my chip.”

He grins, small and sincere. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She laughs, breathless. “Two months.”

“That’s… that’s amazing,” he says, and he means it with his whole chest.

She studies him, something thoughtful settling over her features.

“You were there, weren't you.” she says.

He freezes for half a second. Then nods. “I came to pick you up.”

She smiles, softer now. Knowing.

“My sponsor and I have been talking,” she continues, fingers tapping against the glass. “About Step Four.”

He hums. “The uh, the inventory one?"

“Yeah.” She winces slightly. “The scary one.”

She takes a breath.

‘Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.’

“I didn’t think I was brave enough for it,” she admits. “Turns out, I just didn’t want to look too closely.”

He listens. Always.

“But when I did,” she says quietly, “everywhere I looked inside myself… I saw you.”

His spoon stills.

She rushes on, words tumbling out before she can second-guess them.

“Not like—god, not in a creepy way,” she says, laughing weakly. “Just… you were there. In the worst parts. In the parts I didn’t want to admit existed. You were always by my side. Whether I wanted it. Whether I noticed it. Whether I deserved it.”

She swallows.

“And I realized that even when my life was a mess—especially when it was a mess—you stayed.”

The neon light outside flickers. Time stretches thin between them.

“I’m still a mess,” she says plainly. “My life is still a mess. I don’t know if that’s going to change anytime soon. Or ever.”

Her voice wobbles. She steadies it.

“But if you would like it,” she says, eyes locked on his, “I’d like you to be by my side through it. Not as my savior. Not as my reason to stay sober. Just… as you.”

The confession lands between them, fragile and brave and terrifyingly honest. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says first. Because that matters.

“I know,” she says. “That’s not why I’m asking.”

His mouth curves into a soft, almost disbelieving smile.

“I didn’t say anything,” he admits. “Because I didn’t want to add to your plate. You had enough to carry.”

Her eyes shine.

“But?” she prompts gently.

“But I’m not sorry for feeling it,” he says. “And I’d like… to try. If you’re sure.”

She reaches across the table. Takes his hand.

“I’m sure enough to be honest,” she says. “And that’s the best I’ve got right now.”

He squeezes her fingers.

“That’s more than enough,” he says.

They sit there, milkshakes melting between them, hands linked across a sticky table, not healed, not perfect—but together, seen and held through it all.

And choosing each other, one honest moment at a time.

It doesn’t happen all at once after that. There’s no dramatic line in the sand, no vow carved into stone. Just days stacking gently on top of each other. Meetings attended. Chips collected. Mornings that don’t begin with regret. Nights that still ache, but don’t swallow her whole.

She stays sober.

Not because it’s easy. Not because the grief ever truly loosens its grip. But because she wants to stay present in the life she’s still living—and because someone is finally standing beside her, not asking her to be less broken in order to be loved.

She and Bucky settle into each other the same way spring settles into the world. Quietly. Gradually. Like a breeze nudging a petal free from a flower—not ripping it away, not demanding it fall—just carrying it forward. Holding it steady through sudden gusts, through the trembling air, through moments when the wind threatens to be too much.

They’re together in small ways before they’re ever together in big ones. Shared breakfasts. His jacket over her shoulders when the nights run cold. Fingers brushing in hallways. His presence at meetings, waiting without expectation. Her hand finding his when the world feels too loud.

There are still hard days. Days where she feels jagged and raw, like she’s made entirely of exposed edges. But Bucky never treats her like something fragile that might shatter. He knows better than anyone that broken doesn’t mean useless. That damage doesn’t make something unlovable.

You can’t break what’s already broken.

You can only decide how gently you hold it.

And so he does. And so she lets him.

They don’t promise forever. They promise now. They promise honesty. They promise staying when it’s uncomfortable, when it’s quiet, when it’s heavy. She doesn’t become the sunshine again, not in the way she used to be but she becomes something warmer. Something real.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, that feels like enough.

Not healed. Not fixed.

Just living. Just loving. And not alone.

fin.

lying on satoru’s bed, heat pooled in between your thighs, a small damp stain forming on the cotton fabric of your skimpy panties, your nipples perky through the thin tank top you were wearing. the sight was one to admire—your nerdy boyfriend flustered; his pale cheeks tinted pink as he sat on his knees in front of you.

the lenses of his glasses were foggy, trying to avert his gaze away from your figure, while you tilted your head to the side, a small pout on your lips as you asked him.

you propped yourself up on your elbows, “toru, do you not wanna do it...?”

satoru’s head snapped back at you, with enough force to give his neck whiplash as he fumbled over his words.

“no! it’s not like that…i just—…just never did this before…” his voice fell on the last part, showing his embarrassment in how inexperienced he was.

truly, satoru had never been intimate with a girl before meeting you. and even then, the furthest he’s ever went with you was making out, and you either jerking or sucking him off. a lightbulb went off in your head, looking at his blushing face with a playful smile.

“well,” you paused, “i’m your girlfriend, so i can teach you how…only if you want it, of course.”

the man’s eyes widened, “really?”

“yeah, now c’mon,” you spread your legs wider, hooking them over his shoulders, as he grabbed onto the sides of your thighs with hesitating hands. “first, you need to start by turning me on.”

satoru didn’t waste any time, the gears in his mind working quickly as he started to trail his lips from above your knee, up to where your core met your thigh, biting down gently. you let out a soft moan, his sign that it felt good—his tongue darted out, licking over the mark and soothing the ache, then switching to your other leg, leaving open-mouth kisses along your stretchmarks.

“shit, just like that…” you leaned back against the sheets, head resting on the soft pillows, as your hand came down to grip his hair, fingers tangling in his white locks.

tentatively, satoru reached to undress you, glancing up at you to make sure you didn’t suddenly change your mind. with a small nod of your head, he peeled your panties off, catching briefly on your heels before he slid the piece of underwear down your ankles. your bare cunt sat in front of satoru’s face, his eyes agape as he stared at your glistening folds.

“second, try using your tongue, see how it feels.” you said smoothly, the hand holding the back of his skull beckoning him closer.

satoru started out by giving small licks, attempting to both find a rhythm and figure out what you enjoyed at the same time. then, he flattened his tongue, dragging a long, filthy stripe from your hole to your puffy clit, eliciting a whimper to leave your mouth.

“toru, fuck…keep going—…” you tighten your hold of his hair and hold him there, guiding.

his name sounded so sweet when moaned from your parted lips, giving him the motivation to continue, to make you fall apart on his tongue, and leave you breathless, your mind only filled with thoughts of him and how good he made you feel.

your slick ran down satoru’s chin, his whole lower face soaked as he swirled his tongue around your clit, just enough to get you wanting more, before flicking at the underside of your nub, following every tiny shift of your hips. your fingers tugged on his hair to anchor yourself, while your back arching off the mattress, your free hand gipping the sheets tightly, knuckles going numb with effort, and the fabric straining under your touch.

“mnhh—please. s’good,” you mewl, pussy clenching around nothing, “need more…”

satoru grunts as you pull on his silky hair, the sound vibrating against your cunt as he needlessly obeys your words, sealing his lips around your bud and sucking. your sweet sounds made something in satoru’s head switch, his hips beginning to hump against the bed, chasing his own release, precum already leaking out from his slit and dampening his boxers.

"f-fuuckk—hahh..toru" you babbled incoherently, tongue heavy, words melting into broken moans and whimpers. the haze caused by the pleasure fogged your brain, thighs trembling as you clenched them around satoru’s head.

“doing so, so good, baby,” he pulled away from your bundle of nerves with a wet plop, seemingly having gained more confidence in his ministrations, “i wanna make you feel good, please?”

“yes, god…ah, need to cum.” you swallowed dryly, adding, “third, add your fingers, yeah? will make any girl feel real good.”

hand leaving your thigh, two of satoru’s fingers come up to your wet folds, gathering your slick and dragging it up to your clit. you whimpered quietly, biting on your bottom lip in an attempt to muffle your sounds, while satoru’s digits prodded inside, your walls immediately squeezing him. “fuck, so tight…” he mumbles, pushing them deeper, until you could only see his knuckles sticking out.

satoru pumped his long fingers in-an-out of you slowly, before stopping, but still not pulling them out. “baby, i wanna hear you, how else would i know if you like it?” he pouted slightly.

“right, shit,” you let go of your lip, your words abruptly interrupted by your boyfriend suddenly curling his fingers upwards, grazing the spongy spot that made your spine jolt from the bed instantly.

“ahh, toru—…too much!” and yet, you unconsciously started to move your hips in small, circular motions, riding his hand. you were close to coming, and you wanted nothing more than to let satoru rip orgasm after orgasm out of you. to add to the overwhelming sensation, he resumed his previous action, sucking on your clit again, this time harder, as he figured out a pace in which to do it.

“holy, f-fuckk,” you cried out, legs trying to close around his head, but satoru kept them spread wide for him, not letting you run away until he was content with how many times he made you cum.

with a final curl of his fingers, your thighs clamped around his head, white hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes, and his name etched on your lips as you cummed hard, orgasm washing over you in waves, your whole body shaking. still, satoru didn’t stop, continuing to finger you through the aftershocks, his tongue relentless as he made out with your oversensitive bundle of nerves.

“toru, ‘s too much—…”

he withdrew his fingers, along with pulling away from your cunt, raising his hand up to his mouth, licking them clean, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. satoru crawled on top of you, catching your lips in between his, effectively stifling your words.

breaking away from the kiss, his hand began to trail down your body, “lesson 2?”

return to masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

might have to lock in to write my kinktober drafts...

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The cave was alive with the usual chaos of the Lost Boys. Paul’s boombox blasting some thrash metal that echoed off the dripping stalactites, Marko’s laughter sharp as a blade while he tossed cards into a hat across the room, David lounging on his throne of stolen furniture like a king surveying his domain.

But you barely registered any of it tonight.

The heat had started as a low thrum under your skin hours ago, back on the boardwalk when the salt air hit your lungs, and Dwayne’s hand had brushed the small of your back.

Now it was a wildfire.

You paced the edge of the sunken fountain that served as your communal nest, fangs itching, body slick with a sheen of sweat that no vampire should ever produce.

Your mate’s scent clung to everything—leather, smoke, and that dark, earthy musk that was pure Dwayne, and it was making it impossible to think. You’d been turned three years ago, scooped up by the pack after a messy hunt gone wrong on the beach, but the bond with Dwayne had snapped into place the night he’d claimed you under the pier. Blood, bites, and a promise growled against your throat: Mine. Forever.

He was watching you now from the shadows near the entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, long dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The others had noticed too; Paul’s nostrils flared mid-laugh, Marko’s grin turned sly, but one low growl from Dwayne and they scattered like startled bats.

David just smirked, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Handle your mate, brother. She smells like sin.”

Dwayne didn’t answer; he never needed to. He crossed the cave in three strides, his heavy boots silent on the stone, and caught you by the waist before you could pace another frantic circle. His touch was fire on your skin. You whimpered, pressing back against him instinctively, hips rolling without permission.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice like gravel and velvet. One big hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still while the other brushed your hair aside to expose your neck. His lips ghosted over the mating mark he’d left there, two perfect punctures that never fully healed. “I’ve got you.”

The heat crashed over you harder at the contact. It wasn’t like human heat; this was vampire instinct, ancient and brutal. Your blood sang for him, core clenching around nothing, thighs already slick beneath the short leather skirt you’d worn for the boardwalk. You could feel his cock hardening against your ass, thick and insistent even through his jeans. Dwayne had always been the quiet one, the watcher, but when it came to you, he was relentless.

He spun you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails sharp enough to draw beads of blood that healed instantly. “Dwayne… please. It hurts.”

“I know, baby.” He kissed you then, slow and deep, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was tasting the fever on you. You moaned into it, grinding down on the bulge in his jeans, chasing friction. He tasted like the night, copper and smoke and something wild that belonged only to him.

The others were gone by the time he carried you deeper into the cave, past the main chamber and into the smaller alcove he’d claimed as yours. A nest of stolen blankets and furs waited on a raised ledge, lit by a single kerosene lantern that cast long shadows. He set you down gently, but there was nothing gentle in the way he stripped you. Your tank top ripped at the seams under his hands; the skirt was shoved up and yanked off in one motion. You were bare beneath, nipples hard, pussy glistening with need.

Dwayne’s dark eyes drank you in. “Look at you,” he growled, shedding his own jacket, then his shirt. The lantern light carved shadows over the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars from old fights that never faded. His jeans followed, cock springing free, heavy and flushed, the head already beading with pre-cum. “All wet and desperate for your mate.”

You reached for him, but he caught your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head. “Not yet.” He dropped to his knees between your spread thighs, mouth hovering just over where you needed him most. His breath was cool against your overheated skin. “Gonna take care of this heat first.”

His tongue dragged up your slit in one long, slow lick, and you cried out, back arching off the furs. He groaned at your taste, sweet and sharp with the heat pheromones, and dove in like a starving man, no teasing tonight. He sucked your clit into his mouth, two thick fingers sliding into your soaked cunt without warning, curling hard against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You thrashed, heels digging into his back, but he held you down with his free arm across your hips, devouring you.

“Dwayne, fuck…yes-” The words dissolved into gasps as he added a third finger, stretching you open, fucking you with them in time with his tongue. Your first orgasm hit like a freight train, walls clamping down, slick flooding his hand and chin. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, then built you right back up, fangs grazing your inner thigh just enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

By the time he rose over you, you were shaking, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaking your cheeks. He released your wrists only to grip your thighs, spreading you wider as he notched the thick head of his cock at your entrance.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice rough. You obeyed, staring up into that dark gaze as he pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch as the burn and stretch of him filled you completely. He was big, always had been, but tonight the heat made you take him easier, greedier. You clenched around him, pulling him deeper.

“Mine,” he snarled, bottoming out with a snap of his hips. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the alcove. He set a brutal pace, hips driving forward, cock dragging along every sensitive ridge inside you. Your nails raked down his back, drawing blood that only made him fuck you harder. He leaned down, fangs sinking into the mating mark on your neck. Not feeding, just claiming, and you came again with a scream, vision whiting out.

He didn’t slow as he flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the furs. He mounted you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise a human. The new angle hit deeper, his balls slapping your clit with every thrust. “That’s it,” he panted against your ear. “Take it. Let the heat burn out on my cock.”

You were babbling, now lost to the rhythm of him. He reached around, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles until you shattered a third time, pussy gushing around him. Only then did he let himself go.

His thrusts turned erratic, growls turning into snarls. The stretch was exquisite agony; you pushed back against it, milking him. “Fill me,” you gasped. “Please, Dwayne. Need your cum-”

He roared, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Hot pulses flooded you, thick and endless. He collapsed over your back, arms caging you in, teeth grazing your shoulder in a lazy bite. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, slow, steady, eternal.

For a minute, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant crash of waves outside the cave. The heat ebbed, not gone but banked, sated for now. His cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks as he rolled you both onto your sides, spooning you protectively, one hand cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the rare softness he saved only for you threading through his voice. His lips pressed to the fresh bite on your neck, licking away the tiny trickle of blood.

You nodded, boneless and glowing. “Better. But… it’s not over.” The heat never was, not for days. You could already feel the next wave building, a slow coil low in your belly.

Dwayne’s chuckle vibrated against your back. “Good. I’m not done with you either.” He nipped your earlobe, hand sliding down to rest possessively over your mound, fingers dipping just enough to gather the mix of your slick and his cum leaking out. “Gonna keep you right here. Full of me. Until the sun’s long gone and the boys are out hunting without us.”

You shivered at the promise, grinding back against him, drawing a shared groan from both of you.

Hours blurred as he fucked you through the second wave on your back, legs over his shoulders, folding you in half so he could watch your face while he drove into you. You came screaming his name, fangs buried in his wrist as you drank from him, his blood singing through your veins, amplifying everything. Then again, against the cave wall, your legs locked around his waist while he pounded up into you, gravelly voice whispering filthy praise: Such a good little mate. So fucking tight for me. Gonna breed this heat right out of you.

By the time your heat subsided the second time, you were a mess—covered in sweat, cum, and faint streaks of blood from love bites that healed almost as fast as he made them. Dwayne carried you to the natural spring pool deeper in the cave, the one fed by underground tides. He washed you gently, big hands soaping away the evidence of your frenzy, then let you do the same to him. His cock was still half-hard, twitching under your touch, but he just kissed your temple.

“Rest,” he said, voice low. “You’ll need it. Heat’s got two more days, easy.”

You curled against his chest in the nest afterward, his arms a steel cage around you. The distant sounds of the pack filtering back—Paul’s whoop, Marko’s teasing—made you smile. They knew better than to come near this alcove. Dwayne’s scent was all over you now, thick and territorial, a warning no vampire would ignore.

“I love you,” you whispered into the hollow of his throat, where his pulse beat slow and strong.

He tilted your chin up, dark eyes locking on yours with that quiet intensity that had claimed you from the start. “Love you more than blood. More than the night.”