#I can just pretend that part of the ending never happened

[leona-hawthorne]

— ⸝⸝ the first encounter with therapist’s son!theo

links. therapist’s son!theo // moodboard // m.list // au list

warnings: implied fem!reader, mentions of therapy & mental health, invasion of privacy (?) note: hello! here is what i consider kind of an intro to this au. trying to ease into it so this drabble is nice and chill lmao

you’ve always hated coming here.

not the therapy part — dr nott is fine, in the polished, soothing, clearly-did-her-training way. she keeps tissues in every corner of the room and never looks surprised when you say something ugly, which is probably what makes it worse. you don’t like being known in that clinical way. examined. sorted into little boxes she writes down in your file, words like attachment issues and self-destructive behavior patterns scribbled in tight handwriting behind your back.

but it’s better than talking to your mother, or your friends, or your mirror. at least here, no one expects you to smile.

still, it’s a weird setup. the office isn’t in some downtown building or clean little suite in a medical park. it’s in a house — her house. you have to knock on the door like you’re here for dinner, walk past a sitting room that smells like expensive candles and old books, and follow the creaky wood floors down a hallway to the in-home office, which is professionally separated from the rest of the house.

you always feel like you’re trespassing.

today, though, it’s different.

the door swings open before you knock, and for a split second you think you’re early — too early. that you’ve walked in on something you shouldn’t have. the hallway light is on and there’s someone else standing just inside, barefoot and shirtless, rubbing a towel through wet hair, water dripping from the ends onto the hardwood.

he looks at you like you’re the one who doesn’t belong here, like you don’t literally have an appointment scheduled.

before you can say anything — before you can even think of anything to say — dr nott appears at the end of the hallway, smiling like nothing is unusual at all.

“oh, i’m sorry about him,” she says, waving a hand, as though she’s embarrassed to have had something so unprofessional occur. “that’s my son, theo. he’s back from uni for a few weeks. theodore, go upstairs.”

you try to nod, try to pretend you didn’t just see him, all golden skin and dripping hair and ocean eyes that flicked over you like a scanner. he doesn’t speak or move. just steps aside, barely, and lets you pass by him in the hall with a kind of slow, smug look that sticks to your spine.

he smells like clean laundry and something faintly spiced, like cologne that hasn’t fully been washed off, and the scent sticks with you long after he’s away.

you sit through your session like normal, or at least you try. dr nott asks the usual questions, you give the usual deflections, but you’re distracted. you keep thinking about the boy by the door. his presence in the hallway, the look on his face.

you almost think you imagined it until the very end — when you open the door to leave and see him appear at the top of the stairs, fully dressed now but still barefoot, like he knew exactly when your session ended.

he walks you to the door in silence — why, you have no idea, but you’re too dazed after your session to question it out loud. you step out onto the porch with a mumbled thank you, fumbling in your bag for your phone, but he doesn’t go back inside right away.

instead, he leans against the doorframe, watching you like he has all the time in the world. the corners of his mouth pull up into a slow, quiet smile.

“you always talk that much in there?”

you freeze, your hand clenching tighter around your phone, and you turn to look at him, confused, unsure if you heard him right. he lifts a brow, lazy and amused.

“just wondering. walls are thin, piccola.”

your stomach drops.

he grins like he likes that, like he meant for that to happen. and then he slips back inside, door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone on the porch, your heart hammering against your ribs and the weight of his voice crawling under your skin.

piccola.

the word sticks with you. soft, almost sweet, if it hadn’t come from him.

you don’t know what it means, not exactly, but it sounded practiced, easy. like it belonged to someone who always got what he wanted.

you take the long way home that afternoon, trying not to think about how he looked at you. trying even harder not to wonder if he’d been listening the whole time.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

[randominchident]

'tis the damn season

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. lando noriss x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

You and Lando had to break up months ago, but the holiday season has brought him back to your hometown. One more weekend of love is all he wants, like you used to have, and you’ve never been able to turn him down. Especially since you still love him.

inspired by ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift

You open the door before he can knock.

It’s instinct more than anything. Some part of you still knows the sound of his car on the driveway, the way the gravel crunches just slightly differently under his tires. 

He’s in town for Christmas. To see family. Unwind. Get away from the cameras for a bit. That’s what your friend had told you. There’s a part of you, deep down in your aching heart, that knew he would end up here. At your house. For Lando, all roads lead to you eventually—even months after you’ve broken up.

The door creaks open and… It’s him. Because of course it is.

Lando stands on your porch with a dusting of snow on his shoulders and that same sheepish smile he always used to wear when he showed up at your door after a long flight, just needing to be near you. Just needing to hold you.

Your heart stutters, stupid and soft.

“Hey,” he says, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat.

You blink. “I didn’t know you were in town,” you lie.

“Flew in last night. Mum said you were still here.” A beat. “I hoped you might be.”

You should shut the door. Or invite him in. You’re not sure which would hurt less.

Instead, you say, “You could’ve texted first.”

“I almost did.” His voice is quiet, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to find the version of you he left behind. “But I didn’t want to make it easy to turn me away. I wanted to see you.”

Your throat tightens. It's complete silence, except for the rustling tree branches and the low howling of the wind. His smile falters. 

“I know I shouldn’t have come,” he says. “But I couldn’t help it.”

You stare at each other for a moment too long.

Then you step aside.

“It’s cold. Come in.”

The kettle whistles.

He’s leaning against your kitchen counter, coat off now, like nothing’s changed. Like he didn’t walk out of this same house six months ago with eyes rimmed red and hands that didn’t want to let go. Like he hadn’t whispered I’m sorry over and over as he packed up and disappeared from your life. Like having to let him go doesn’t still keep you up at night, even though you know it was the right thing to do.

Fantasising about the life you could have had together has kept you awake for too many nights to count. 

Now he’s in your kitchen again, sipping tea like the last six months never happened. Like no time has passed.

He’s still wearing that damn hoodie—the grey one you used to steal just to feel closer when he was away. He looks at home here. That’s the worst part, because in another life this is his home. But it’s not anymore. You both know that.

You lean against the opposite counter, arms crossed. “You can’t just show up and pretend everything’s the same.”

Lando glances at you over his mug. “I’m not trying to.”

You raise a brow.

He exhales slowly. “Okay. Maybe I am. But just for the weekend. Can we? I’ve just… I miss you. Everything’s shit right now and I just miss you. I know why we aren’t together. I know. But that doesn’t stop me missing you. Loving you, Babe. ”

You don’t answer right away. 

“Lando,” you say softly. “We’re not together anymore.”

“I know,” he says, walking toward you, voice lower now. “But just for a few days... Let me look at you like I used to. We can pretend. Just until I leave.”

You should say no. This will only make the ache in your heart stronger when he has to leave again. But you don’t. You can’t. Deep down you want it too. It's so much easier to pretend there is nothing drawing you two apart. It’s nicer to pretend the media, the cameras, the comments, the travel—all of it—doesn’t make it too hard to love each other like you deserve.

One weekend of unforgotten love is so tempting.

You nod once, barely. He smiles.

You don’t know when he crawled into your bed. Sometime after the second cup of tea, or the third glass of wine. You just remember the way his voice sounded in the dark—quiet, hesitant, familiar. The way he asked if it was okay. The way you didn’t say no. 

Your hands grip his tightly, willing him not to disappear like a dreamed wish. One you’ve had many times before and watched slip away when morning came. When he asked to kiss you, you say yes, and thank the darkness of your bedroom for disguising the tear that rolls down your cheek.

His hands are heavy on your waist, in your hair, roaming your body with a hint of uncertainty and familiarity. Your own hands pull his face to yours and keeps your foreheads leaned against each other. You need the closeness. The certainty that his touch is more than wanton desire—its love. Or, at least, love that once was. That maybe could be again, someday.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, like muscle memory.

It’s almost noon when you finally stir. Being next to eachother again has let your body finally relax, sleep came easy and lasted longer than normal. Light filters in through the crack in the blinds and illuminates the soft look on Lando’s sleeping face.

He’s warm beside you, one arm under his head, the other curled loosely around your waist like it belongs there. His breathing is slow.

You don’t want to move.

Lando shifts first, mumbling into the pillow, “You still sleep like a starfish.”

You grin, eyes slipping closed again. “You still snore.”

He laughs—that low, sleepy chuckle you used to live for. “Rude. You still hog the blankets.”

“And you still call me babe like nothing’s changed.”

He opens his eyes suddenly, and there it is again—that look. The one that makes your chest hurt.

“Not nothing,” he says. “Just not the part that matters.”

You don’t leave the house all day.

You make pancakes and they are left to burn a little because you’re both busy laughing. Lando steals bites off your plate like always. You wear his hoodie, and he pretends not to notice how at home you look in it. You’re both addicted to the ‘if only’ and talking about it would make it too hard to leave once the weekend is over. Because you both know it will have to come to an end.

By late afternoon, you're tangled on the couch together. A christmas movie plays on low volume, but you’re not watching it. His hand rests on your knee. Yours plays lazily with the strings of his hoodie.

“You look happy,” he murmurs, like he’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a cruel one to point out. You’re so much happier here—with him—than you would have been alone. It's a thought that leaves a pit in your stomach.

You glance over at him. “I am.”

He nods. Then adds, quietly, “I missed your smile.”

Your breath catches. You don’t know how to answer that without unraveling. Without begging to go back in time and redo everything.

So you just press your shoulder into his and whisper, “I missed yours too.”

That night, you lie in bed again—you can’t seem to spend more than a few minutes out of each other's reach this weekend—but this time you’re facing each other.

Lando’s voice is soft in the dark. “Do you ever wonder if we gave up too fast?”

You’re quiet for a long time. “I think about it every day. But,” you take a deep breath and find the courage to keep your voice from breaking, “we made the right call. You know that, right?”

He swallows. You hear it.

“I still love you, you know.”

You shut your eyes. “I know.”

And that’s the problem. Because you still love him too. But nothing has changed. The world outside your house is still loud and bright and full of pressure. And you don’t know if love is enough to survive it.

Your life is here, in this small town that used to belong to both of you. His is out there, in the world, thousands of kilometres away from the quiet solace of your bedroom.

“I wish I stayed,” he whispers once you've closed your eyes and leaned into his chest again. Tucked under his chin, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

You grant him the dignity of pretending not to hear him. The world is too loud for you two to have done anything different than you have.

But here—for now—it’s quiet. And warm. And good.

Just for the weekend.

The next morning, you wake up to snow on the windows and Lando in your kitchen, barefoot and humming something soft under his breath.

He looks at you over his shoulder and smiles. “Morning, babe.”

You lean in the doorway. “You really love calling me that.”

He shrugs, boyish. “Yeah. It still feels right. I can’t pretend it doesn’t.”

He leaves Sunday night.

You walk him to the door, your hands shoved into the sleeves of your cardigan. The sky is grey. The world feels numb, like it’s holding its breath with you.

He doesn’t say much. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to memorise the way you smell.

You don’t say don’t go. You both know he has too. You both know he’d stay if you asked.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll text you when I land?”

You nod. “You don’t have to.”

He smiles—that same tired smile from the night he arrived. “I want to.” And then, almost too soft to hear: “Thanks for letting me pretend.”

Your voice cracks. “Travel safe.”

You watch the taillights disappear down the street, like maybe this time they’ll turn around. But they don’t. Before you can even blink he’s gone from view.

You close the door. Go back inside. Turn off the porch lights. Turn on the kettle. 

The house is still warm. The bed is still rumpled. His hoodie is still on your chair. And for a few more days, you’ll pretend that means something. The smell of him on its fabric, like the memory of him at your table, will go stale and fade soon enough. But the sound of his voice lingers in your ear forever.

Because some love doesn’t die. It just comes home for the holidays, then gets packed away and hidden with the Christmas lights.

my first ever lando fic!!! the people asked for smutty fun and instead I wrote mild angst!!! who knows what I’ll do next!!! writing inspiration and motivation is a cruel mistress!!!

[prettydaisygirl]

i am on my hands and knees when i ask u for rafe!zombie au where they(rafe) finally admits how much he loves her after another close call with a zombie or person/group

Nonnie, I am on my hands and knees thanking you for this request! I had some ideas floating around but nothing solid and this is exactly what I needed! I love you, I hope you're doing well, and I hope you enjoy! Also, shoutout to the person who asked for a longer part, this one is the longest by far <3

zombie au with Rafe Cameron x fem!reader & the first "i love you" ✿ 5.4k words

cw: zombie apocalypse, fem reader, reader gets threatened with a gun, reader gets kidnapped(?), reader gets a knee injury and wounds on her feet, death from gunshot, death from fire, death from zombies, lots of death described in detail, I can't really say 'happy ending' given the AU but sweet ending

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You and Rafe are on the road again.

You can say with 100% certainty that you hate when you and Rafe are moving, unsure of when you’ll get to sleep in a bed or eat a full meal again. You miss the farmhouse more and more every day, but when Rafe says it isn’t safe anymore, you know he’s right. Staying in one place for too long will just lead to complacency, which will just lead to death.

Rafe lets you hold his hand as he leads you through the woods. He pretends like he hates it, but when his thumb brushes soothingly over your knuckles, you think it brings him just as much comfort as it does you.

The sun beams down on the two of you from high in the sky. The days are getting longer now, the bone-chilling cold of winter slowly melting away into spring. The ground sloshes slightly with every step, saturated with water now that the last of the snow has melted away. Your shoes, coated in mud and plant debris, are soaked through and making your feet cold. You’ve been looking for some new ones but haven’t had any luck. The only shoe store you’ve found was completely ransacked, and you sure as shit aren’t trekking through the woods in six inch stilettos.

You feel the sting of another mosquito bite and whack it as soon as you feel the pinch. Your body is covered in small bites and welts, the tall grass not doing anything to help your poor, eaten-up legs. 

“Rafe?” You say his name quietly, and he turns his head for a moment to glance at you. You press yourself into his side just for a second, just to be a little closer.

“Hmm?” His questioning sound is accompanied by a gentle squeeze of your hand, his eyes returning in front of him.

“Do you think we can get infected from mosquitos?” Your question hangs in the air for a moment and when Rafe tugs on your hand again, you realize he isn’t going to respond. You continue anyway, “I’m just saying, if a mosquito bites a zombie, and then bites me, I could die.”

“We don’t know that,” Rafe’s short response is nothing new, but his soft tone is a significant contrast from the harsh, biting words he used to spit in your direction. 

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t,” You argue, bumping your body into his side again. He gives you a quick side-eyed glance but doesn’t say anything else, so you speak again to fill the silence. “If you got bit by a zombie mosquito, I would shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rafe quips, voice husky and low, “I’d watch you turn ‘n let you suffer forever.”

Your jaw drops in offense and Rafe smirks, jerking you against him again. He presses the gentlest of feather-light kisses to your hair as an apology, though you know he’s just teasing.

The woods are never-ending, bits of sunlight shining through the canopy and into your eyes. Twigs crunch under your feet, and you cringe with every squish and squelch of your socks. 

By the time the sun is approaching the horizon, you think your feet might fall off. Rafe picks a spot to camp, and you peel off your socks and shoes while he gets the fire started. You wiggle your toes, feeling the light breeze against your wrinkly, water-soaked skin. 

“Gotta get some new shoes,” Rafe states, though more to himself than to you as he glances at your sneakers, barely holding together. He pokes at the fire as it begins to grow, then he stands with a groan as you stretch your legs forward, letting the heat of the fire warm you. 

“I’m gonna walk around, scope a perimeter,” Rafe announces like he doesn’t have the same routine every night when you camp. You nod, and he nods back, grabbing his crowbar and his flashlight and moving back into the trees. The fire crackles by your feet and you hold yourself up with your palms on the ground behind you. You let your eyes fall closed as Rafe’s footsteps slowly recede further into the trees.

Things have been good between the two of you lately, at least romantically. There’s not often enough energy or space to have sex, but Rafe has been more forward and open with his affections toward you otherwise. He kisses you more, he lets you hold his hand. A few nights ago, you’d woken up to him cradling you and stroking your hair. He said you’d had a nightmare, but you think maybe he just wanted to hold you.

It’s hard, given the zombies and the survivors hunting you both down. But in a lot of ways, love is easier than it used to be. There’s no expectations, no family to argue with, no jobs to move for or rings to buy. And definitely no class standings that would keep Rafe from being with you. Now, the biggest hurdle in your relationship is keeping each other alive. 

You sit up a bit, wiggling your toes again and stretching your arms. Rafe is far enough away now that you can’t hear the clomping of his heavy boots. Not having him in your line of sight is still a little nerve-wracking, less so than it used to be now that you’ve adjusted to the zombie apocalypse. Or adjusted as much as you possibly can, anyway.

The joints in your knees crack as you stand. Bare feet on the forest floor isn’t very pleasant, but it beats the possibility of getting trench foot from your wet shoes and socks. You shiver a bit at the thought. 

Walking over to your pack, you kneel down to dig through it. You unzip it, digging through to find a different pair of socks.

You don’t get far in your search before something cold and metallic presses against the side of your head, and a deep voice hisses in your ear.

“Scream, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out, bitch.”

Your heart stops, your breath catches, and fear surges through you. Not Rafe. Definitely not Rafe. Is it a gun he has pressed to your head? You aren’t sure, but you aren’t going to take any chances. So, you don’t scream.

“Take your hands out of the bag, zip it, and hand it to me.” His orders are clipped and low, like he knows Rafe might sense something is off if he speaks too loud. You hesitate, and his next words are harsher.

“Now, bitch! Your man will be back soon, we don’t have time for you to fuck aroun’!”

Your hands tremble as you scramble to follow his command. You zip the bag up and lift it to hand to him, catching a glimpse of both the man and the gun that he definitely has pointed at your head. Fuck.

“Get up,” He spits, and you slowly raise up from your kneeling position. The man swings your bag over his shoulder and presses the gun into your head harder to push you forward. “Move! Grab his bag too.”

You flinch as your bare feet scrape against the ground, scrambling to grab Rafe’s bag. Your brain is completely blank, survival taking over you as adrenaline surges through your veins. You grip Rafe’s bag like a lifeline, but the man rips it harshly from your grasp. He shoves you forward again, gun to the back of your head now.

“Put your fuckin’ shoes on and let’s go,” The man growls and you cringe at the thought of putting your wet sneakers back on your aching feet. “Now!”

You shove your feet into your shoes with no socks, and you don’t waste time tying them, just shoving the laces inside beside your feet. It’s uncomfortable, and you can feel your eyes burn as you stumble forward again, the gun pressed firmly to the back of your skull.

He forces you to walk quickly, sometimes shoving into your back to push you along. He’s worried about Rafe being on your trail, you can tell. You know he’s going to be frantic in his search for you as soon as he realizes you’re gone. You can only hope it’s soon.

The sun sets quickly, the light not illuminating the ground in front of you nearly as much as it had when it was beaming down from above. You find yourself slipping and sliding through the mud and grass, and your captor’s threats only become more intense the further you go. 

“Keep fuckin’ walkin’ bitch. Tha’s right,” Every word out of his mouth makes you feel like puking. 

The sun has officially fully set by the time you finally get where you’re going. Your captor grabs you roughly around the arm, taking the gun away from your head. You take a full breath for the first time in what feels like hours. Your feet are killing you and you feel numb, like your body doesn’t want to process what is happening. You miss Rafe.

The man shrugs your bags off his shoulder and pushes you into a small clearing. There’s a camp with three other people around the fire, two men and a woman. They are all smiling and laughing in the middle of a conversation, but it stops immediately when they see him approaching with you. Your captor keeps a firm grip on your arm, tossing the two bags toward the others. Their eyes dart between the bags and you. You stand there, petrified, and the man only squeezes your arm harder when you try to squirm out of his grasp. It’s going to leave a bruise. 

“Levi, what the fuck?” One of the other men steps forward. The man gripping your arm, Levi, scoffs.

“The fuck was I supposed to do? He left her there alone!” Levi shakes your arm with each word and you grit your teeth from the pain. 

“We told you to grab their stuff and run,” The woman speaks now, standing up and taking a few steps toward you. She eyes you up and down before turning to Levi with a look of anger, “We don’t have enough supplies for anyone else. That’s why we have to steal, dumbass!”

“I couldn’ just grab the stuff n’ leave! She was righ’ there!” Levi shakes his head and shoves you forward. You stumble, landing on your knee wrong as you hit the ground. You cringe, moving to sit up and Levi pushes your head down again roughly.

“Will you stop?” The other man speaks up again. The third man is still silent, watching the interaction. “If she was there, then it clearly wasn’t the right time!”

“Well, I did it, alright? Fuck me…” Levi kicks dirt toward you and you watch as he walks away for a moment before he turns again and pulls out his gun, pointing it directly at you. Your eyes widen and you try to scramble away, crying out a bit at the pain in your knee. 

“Woah, hey stop!” The woman stands up and puts herself between you and Levi. 

“Move, Angie!” Levi demands, waving his gun at her. His finger is on the trigger. “If y’all want her gone so bad, I’ll just get rid of her!”

“No.” The third man finally speaks up, his voice a deep boom.

“Fuck off, Matthew!” Levi spits but Matthew stands up. He towers over Levi, who immediately backs down the closer Matthew gets. 

“You aren’t gonna fuckin’ shoot her. You’ll get us all killed, who knows how many zombies are crawling around this forest.” Matthew’s voice is low, but he doesn’t need to yell. Levi gets the message and huffs, sending you a glare.

“Whatever. Fuck all y’all.” Levi flips Matthew off and pockets his gun, turning and walking back into the woods. You watch the entire interaction silently, a hand cradling your knee. Matthew gives you a look, but there’s no softness or pity at all. He returns to his spot, and you curl up where you are. 

The second man, the one whose name you don’t know, grabs Rafe’s bag off the ground. You watch helplessly as he digs through it, tossing out some of Rafe’s things and ‘ooh’ing when he finds Rafe’s granola bar stash. He grabs several, tearing into them. He passes one to Matthew, who takes it and slowly begins to eat. 

Deciding not to watch the three strangers continue to rummage through your stuff, you return your attention to your feet. You tug off your shoes with a hiss, each slight movement causing pain on your skin and deeper within your foot, your nerves alight. You can see blood on the inside of the soles and when you examine your feet, you see several popped blisters and some that are just forming. The sores line all sides of your feet, the skin red and inflamed. You wiggle your toes a bit and find it hurts to do so, which worries you even more. 

“Well…” Man #2 speaks up again to Matthew. He thinks he’s whispering but the quiet of the night allows you to hear his words. “What should we do with her?”

Matthew closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his fingers against his temples in small circles. You try to act like you aren’t listening, pretending to tend to your feet. “Fuckin’ Levi. He always fucks everything up.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Matthew’s gruff voice speaks up again, slow and quiet, and you have to strain your ears to catch his words. But you do.

“I guess we tie her up so she don’t run. And in the mornin’, we’ll head off and leave her.” The idea of being left alone in the woods, tied up by yourself makes your stomach churn. They don’t need to tie you up, you can’t run given your knee and your feet. When the unknown man comes toward you, you try to scramble away but he is able to tie your wrists and ankles with some thin rope, easily overpowering your struggle. The woman, Angie, watches from the sidelines with a frown.

“Do you really have to tie her up?” She asks, finishing off her granola bar and tossing the wrapper into the woods behind her. “She’s injured, look at her feet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew gruffs, “You know the rules.”

You struggle against the ropes binding you but they don’t budge. You have to curl against the ground and get leverage to sit up. You lean against a tree trunk beside you, watching the others as they demolish all of your and Rafe’s work before apparently planning to abandon both of you, separated and with no supplies. 

The ground is cold and wet underneath you, your clothes and skin covered in patches of mud. You fight to keep your eyes open, to keep sleep from taking over you. You don’t trust any of these people, and even though you can’t run, the thought of being unconscious and unaware right now doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as they prepare for bed, your shoulders and ankles aching from the position you’re stuck in with the ropes. 

The other three settle in pretty quickly. You’re surprised none of them stayed up to keep watch. The fire begins to die out soon after they go to sleep and you somehow manage to stay awake, the twinging pain in your back keeping you from getting too comfortable. You manage to loosen your ropes, freeing your wrists and then your ankles. You're thinking of running when something catches your attention.

You hear Levi’s return before you actually see him. At least, you think it’s Levi and not a zombie. You’re not sure which one would be better, though. 

The moon shines down, not quite full but almost, as Levi huffs and puffs, stomping his way back into the camp. He’s not even trying to be quiet, twigs cracking under his steps and letting out careless groans of anger. You see his shadow pass by you, and you’re grateful that you don’t seem to catch his attention. He kicks at the fire and realizes it’s out, cursing loudly as he reaches to restart it. 

His movements are loose and carefree, almost like he’s drunk. He might be, though you aren’t sure where he would’ve gone to drink. There aren’t bars anymore. 

Levi grunts as he tosses something into the fire and it ignites quickly, even larger than it was before. You can’t see his face, only his silhouette illuminated by the flame. He stands up, stumbling back a bit and seems to chuckle, a small shake visible in his shoulders. His hand reaches behind to his back pocket and he pulls out the gun again, his finger going to the trigger as he waves it around carelessly. You try to stay completely silent, hidden behind him and hoping he won’t notice you.

He seems pissed off that the other three are asleep. His head moves, and you can assume he is looking at each of them before he scoffs, and then he lets out an ear-piercing whistle. You jump, and the other three leap from their beds instantly, panic immediately taking over. Loud sounds like that are a surefire way to die out here, attracting God knows what in the middle of the night. 

“Levi, are you crazy?” Angie hisses out, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps toward the gun-wielding man. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

“Y’all never fuckin’ appreciate what I do for the group!” Levi’s words are yelled and slurred, and he continues to wave the gun around aimlessly, finger on the trigger. He’s definitely drunk. “I got the fuckin’ bags!”

“Levi,” Matthew’s face is stern, and he approaches Levi slowly, “You need to shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck you, Matthew!” Levi points the gun at Matthew, who raises his hands despite the fact that he could easily overpower Levi. It’s better not to risk getting shot at all, you guess. 

“Levi, stop!” Angie and the man whose name you don’t know both move forward to try and stop Levi, and he turns his attention back to them, gun primed for shooting in his grasp. 

“No!” Levi’s voice is howled and you push yourself further up against the tree. Your feet are fucked, and so is your knee, but maybe if you stay silent, any zombies he attracts with his yelling won’t notice you. Angie’s eyes dart toward you, but as soon as they land on you, her gaze is back on Levi. 

“You’re being a fuckin’ moron,” Matthew growls, stepping forward to reach for Levi’s arm. “If you’d just think for one goddamn-”

It all happens so fast, and then all hell breaks loose. 

The gun goes off, the end smoking, with Levi’s finger holding down the trigger. Matthew stumbles back, raising a hand to his abdomen where the bullet entered his gut. Blood begins to seep from the wound, pouring down Matthew’s skin and soaking through his shirt. His body crumbles to the ground with a loud thud, a wet groan bubbling from his throat as he grasps at the gunshot wound.

The four of you watch for a moment, disbelief and shock thick in the air. And then Angie starts screaming.

“Matthew!” Her words are piercing, harsh and loud in the dead of night. She scrambles across the ground, hand moving over the wound in Matthew’s abdomen. The other man charges at Levi, roaring and grabbing for him. Levi seems to panic, trying to dash away so as not to get grabbed but he gets punched in the gut, doubling over. You watch, pressed against the tree and completely in shock at the scene in front of you. 

Levi hits the ground, the gun tumbling from his hand and going off again. The sound echoes through the trees, bouncing off the leaves as the campfire seems to surge with the violence and chaos. The unnamed man punches at Levi over and over, the sound of his fists on Levi’s bones again and again causing you to feel sick. Levi somehow manages to shove the other man off with a grunt, and man #2 falls back, landing directly in the campfire. 

His screams are immediate, his body writhing to try and escape. The flames soar around him as his clothes ignite, melting to his skin. Levi struggles to sit up, the both of you watching the scene in horror. Angie finally looks up from Matthew’s body at the other man’s screams, and she screams even louder, practically howling as she stumbles over to Levi and begins to hit him too. He tries to fight back, but he grows weaker, his body flopping back against the mud as the woman continues to pound on his chest. By the time Levi stops moving, the man in the fire has stopped moving too. 

You don’t know what to do. You can’t think, you just feel like you’re separate from your body, like none of this is really happening. Like maybe you’ll flinch and wake up to Rafe holding you and stroking your hair again, like maybe you really did just have a nightmare this time because there’s no way any of this is actually happening, right?

Things go from bad to worse when you hear another raspy growl, and a few zombies begin sneaking into the clearing from the other side, lured by gunshots and screams. 

You let out an involuntary cry when you try to stand, and you’re quick to cover your mouth with a hand. You can’t run, you don’t know if you can even walk really, but you know it isn’t safe to stay here. Especially not if zombies are coming. A few sneaking in could mean a dozen are headed this way. You don’t want to stick around to find out, and your body seems to understand this without you even consciously deciding to move. It hurts though, once you do. 

Your feet… you’re worried if you think too much about them, you might not like what you find. It’s a pain like you’ve never experienced, only amplified by your knee, which is likely injured pretty badly if you can judge by the swelling and the obvious limp in your stride. But you keep going. You have to keep going, because if you don’t, you’ll die. And you’ve only just started to explore things with Rafe. You miss Rafe, your heart aches for him and it hurts almost as bad as your feet. 

You manage to get up fully, shuffling away from the scene as quietly as you can. It hurts terribly, it’s probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and you can still hear the screams of the woman behind you, her ‘No! No! No!’, the sound etching itself into your brain as you slowly push yourself further and further away from that nightmare. 

The movement doesn’t get easier, especially the further you get from the light and the deeper you get into the woods. It’s almost pitch black, the moonlight not able to cut through the thick canopy like sunlight can. You are running on fumes, the adrenaline in your blood is the only thing keeping you going. You trip several times, and you get cuts and scrapes all over your body, but you never fall. 

When you finally manage to break through the trees, you do find yourself crumbling to the ground. Your body aches everywhere, there isn’t a single part of you that doesn’t hurt. Your eyes scan the road in front of you. It’s empty. 

You can see the faintest hint of light on the horizon, or at least what you’re able to see of it from the ground. You breathe heavily, trying to will yourself to get up again, to find Rafe, to keep going, but you can’t. You lay there, trembling and in pain, until you ultimately lose consciousness. 

Rafe’s laugh is deep, a full belly one you’ve only heard once or twice since you met him all those months ago. His fingers slide against your lower back, pulling you a bit closer to him. You blink, taking in your surroundings, and he places a gentle kiss to your temple.

“You alright?” He asks, tilting his head as his eyes scan your face. You nod, but you’re sort of lying. Your brain feels sluggish and you don’t feel right. The laughter of children catches your attention and you find your head turning. A little boy runs toward the two of you and Rafe picks him up easily.

“Hey, buddy!” He says the boy. You can smell a grill, hear the chatting of neighbors. Are you having a barbeque? You close your eyes for a moment, trying to get your bearings, nothing makes sense. 

“Babe?” You hear Rafe’s voice, but when you open your eyes, there’s a zombie in front of you. You scream and everything goes silent. Everyone watches you with unnaturally dark eyes as you scramble back, and when you blink again it’s Rafe, not a zombie. There’s an eerie smile on his face, and on the face of the small boy he is holding too.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe’s mouth opens, but it’s not his voice you hear, it’s Levi’s. White hot fear surges through you and you step back again just as Rafe’s arms let go of the boy and he once again transforms into a zombie. You turn to run, screaming, but there are zombies everywhere, your neighbors who have become undead clawing and grabbing at you. There’s nothing you can do, you’re completely surrounded.

The grabbing is real. You can feel hands on your arms, your face, your neck. They aren’t painful, but the sensation of the touch is enough to have you screaming out and writhing away from the thing. It doesn’t let up, a gruff tone reaching your ears as you try to push them away, tears streaming down your face.

“It’s me,” The thing says, “Shh, I gotcha. It’s me, baby.”

You force your eyes to open, vision swirling as the familiar voice soothes you before you even register that it’s Rafe. He’s above you, the morning light making him look like an angel and for a moment you think you died. 

Until all the pain, fear, and memories come back. 

“Rafe?’ You ask, hissing as you try to move. You can’t, and Rafe reaches out to stop you before you try again. “How-”

“Don’t move,” He says lowly, arms moving to reach around you. He gathers you against him and you cry out a little when he jostles you. He coos into your ear and you manage to wrap an arm around his shoulder, face buried in his neck. 

If you didn’t hurt so bad, you really would think you died. Rafe is so gentle with you, soft and kind in a way he’s never been before. Even during the more intimate moments between the two of you, he was never really a lover. 

He carries you through the woods, and into a cabin you don’t recognize. You don’t ask, you can’t ask, moving in and out of consciousness as he cleans you up and places you on an old bed. The mattress is thin enough that you can feel the beams but it’s better than the floor. 

Rafe lays next to you, fingers resting over your neck to feel your pulse. He was able to get you to drink a few sips of water, and you managed a hum of agreement to try and eat in the morning. You don’t know if Rafe really knows how to take care of you, but he’s trying. Even in your state, you recognize how different this is from how he normally acts. 

“You’re not a zombie?” You ask him, brows furrowing as your overwhelmed brain confuses your dreams with reality. “What happened to the cookout?”

Rafe takes your words in stride, shushing you and pulling you closer as gently as he can manage. You still whimper but you curl into him, seeking his warmth. “You’re okay,” He says, and then again, “I gotcha, baby.”

Someday soon, he’ll ask you what happened, and he’ll hold you as you sob and recount the entire night. He’ll vow to never leave you alone again, to teach you how to fight, and you’ll swear he lets a few tears fall too.

But for now, you don’t think about what happened. You think about Rafe, and how warm he is, and how his body keeps tensing and he pushes his fingers against your neck to feel for your pulse. You think about the dream you had, the good parts of it, with the neighbors and the cookout and the little boy who looks like Rafe. You think about finding somewhere safe like the farmhouse where Rafe can hold you like this and you’ll never be worried about Levi or anyone like him ever again. 

The words come then, whispered that same night while he cuddles you in the cabin’s small bed. He’s barricaded the door and completely blocked the windows. You know he won���t sleep a wink and you probably won’t either. The bed isn’t comfortable. You feel more like yourself, the pain dulled after Rafe managed to find some pain pills. Other than that, and a few expired cans in the cabinets, you have no supplies, you’ve lost all of your things, and it’s probably the worst off you two have been since the beginning. But you’re together. 

“I thought I lost you,” He whispers against your hair. You don’t move, his hand sprawling against your back under your shirt. Maybe he thinks you’re asleep. “Fuck, I’ve never been scared like that.”

The admission is one that has your heart pounding and butterflies erupting in your stomach. Even with your feet bandaged and your knee swollen, and cuts all over your face, Rafe still wants to hold you. He’s admitting things to you in the dark, things he never would’ve imagined himself saying to anyone. But you’re not anyone.

“When I got back, I was going to tell you I found this place but you… you weren’t there. And your shoes were gone, and the bags. I knew something had happened. I tried looking around but I had no idea which direction you went in.” He pauses, swallowing thickly and you think he might cry, but he doesn’t. He pulls you even closer to him, completely wrapping himself around you.

“You did so good goin’ to the road, baby. I’m so proud of you, tha’s how I found you.” His lips brush over your cheek and your ear, and you find your skin warming under his touch, his whispered praise. 

“I thought I was going to die,” You admit to him, and his lips pause for a moment. You think maybe he really did think you were asleep. “I tried to get up, but I saw the road and I just…”

“Shh… You did everything right, I’m so proud of you.” 

You don’t feel like you did everything right, the horror of what you witnessed will probably always be with you. But your life since the start of the End has been suffering broken up with moments of peace and joy. So you think this moment, with Rafe in this cabin, will mean more to you in the future as eventually the horror begins to fade away. You let tears fall, soaking into his shirt.

“I love you,” He whispers, and you sniffle, pulling back enough to look at him, trying to hide your grimace from the pain of moving. “I’ve never said it to anyone before, but I do. It scared the fuck outta me when you were gone.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper back, and Rafe wipes at your tears. He kisses you then, soft and sweet. His fingers barely touch you, afraid of causing you any kind of pain. He whispers it again when you pull away from the kiss and settle down to try and sleep. There, etched into your soul right next to the helpless screams of Angie, is the sound of Rafe’s whispered words, holding you together as you’re falling apart.

“I love you.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[lov3lycosmos]

"𝐼'𝑚 𝑆𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦..." — H.J

genre: angst without a happy ending

pairings: non idol!jisung x gn!reader

synopsis: after getting struck by a car you lost your memory and after multiple attempt from jisung to bring it back, it never happens

cosmos note: i was in a angst mood today. (Use of y/n)

my library~ (not proofread!)

The first thing you remember is Jisung’s voice.

It’s not like you’ve never heard it before. You have. Countless times. His voice is familiar, like a favorite song playing softly in the background while you go about your day. It’s the voice that would pull you from your sleep, the one that sent you laughing at jokes you didn’t even understand. It’s the voice that, even in silence, would echo through your mind, lingering, comforting.

But when you hear it now, it feels like a ghost.

It’s muffled at first—far off, like it’s underwater. A string of words, so distant you can barely catch them. And then—then, it sharpens, and his laughter breaks through the fog in your head. You can almost hear the smile in his voice, and it’s so beautiful that it makes you ache.

You want to hold onto it. To breathe it in and wrap it around you like a blanket. You want to memorize every pitch, every inflection, because something about it feels like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

But the world itself feels so wrong.

When you finally try to open your eyes, the harshness of the light blinds you. It stings. You blink rapidly, trying to adjust, but nothing seems right. The room around you is unfamiliar, sterile. The smell is sharp, clinical—nothing like the warm, familiar scent of your home or his cologne.

There’s something off in your chest. A heavy weight. A tightness, like you can’t quite get enough air into your lungs. But that’s not the worst part.

No, the worst part is the emptiness.

You don’t remember how you got here. Or why. Or where you were before.

You don’t remember who you are.

That’s the panic. It rises in your throat like bile, burning, suffocating. Your heartbeat thunders, and your head spins. You try to lift your hand, but it feels sluggish, uncooperative. It takes everything in you just to move your fingers, to pull yourself out of the fog.

But then you hear it again.

“Hey,” he says, and you want to break at the sound. The voice that’s supposed to be so comforting, so familiar—it’s now a lifeline, but it feels so out of reach. “You’re awake.”

It’s Jisung. You know it. But there’s a part of you—some deep, dark corner—that wants to deny it. Wants to pretend you’re still safe in your bed, in your life before.

You turn your head slowly, the movement making your body protest in ways that make you want to scream. You’re in a bed. A hospital bed. The sheets are cold against your skin, and you don’t even know why you’re here.

And then you see him.

Jisung.

He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, his hands clenched into tight fists. His face is gaunt. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is a mess, falling over his forehead in tangles. There’s a light stubble along his jaw that you don’t recognize, though it seems to suit him somehow.

But it’s the eyes that catch you first.

The fear in them.

They’re wide and filled with something raw—something that cuts into you like shards of glass. His mouth is set in a hard line, like he’s holding himself back from saying too much.

But when he sees you looking at him, his whole expression cracks.

“Y/N,” he whispers, voice shaking. His fingers hover over the edge of your bed like he’s scared to touch you. Like he’s scared you’ll shatter if he does. “Y/N, please—”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s something lodged in your throat, something so thick you can’t speak. So instead, you reach out, slowly, shakily, and he takes your hand. His touch is gentle, but it feels like a lifeline. It’s warm. Familiar. But it’s not enough.

“Do you—do you remember me?” he asks, his voice breaking on the last word.

You want to say yes. You want to scream yes, because you remember something about him. You remember the way his voice makes your chest tighten. You remember the way he smiles when he’s excited. You remember how he laughs—so carefree and genuine that it makes you laugh, too.

But when you try to remember more, it’s like grasping at smoke.

“I don’t...” You try to speak, but the words get tangled in your throat. You don’t know how to say this to him. You don’t know how to explain that everything is slipping through your fingers. That there’s this dark, empty hole inside of you where your memories should be.

And you realize, with a sickening wave of horror, that you don’t know who you are.

You don’t know him.

And it’s killing you.

Jisung’s face falls. His hand trembles in yours, and you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. He’s trying to hold it together, for you, but you can see the cracks forming.

“I’m... I’m Han Jisung,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air like a fragile thread, and it pulls at your heart. But you don’t feel it. You don’t feel the warmth, the safety, the way you always imagined it would feel to be loved like that.

Instead, all you feel is this gnawing emptiness.

And you hate yourself for it.

His eyes are searching yours, desperately hoping for something—anything—that will prove this is real. But all you can do is stare back at him, helpless.

“I don’t know what happened,” you manage to say, your voice barely audible. “I don’t... I don’t remember you.”

The silence between you is suffocating. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, you think he might cry. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to find you in the depths of your confusion.

“I’ll help you remember,” he says softly. “I’ll remind you, okay? Just... just give me a chance.”

You want to believe him. You want to tell him you’ll remember everything. You want to fix this. But how can you when you don’t even know where to start?

His hand squeezes yours, and he forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m here. I’ll be here, every day. I won’t leave you.”

But you don’t believe him. You can’t. Not when you don’t even know how to hold onto yourself.

The days blend together.

Jisung comes every morning without fail. You always know it’s him—not because you recognize him, not truly—but because of the way the nurses’ voices soften when they say his name, the way the tension in the room shifts the second he walks in. His presence brings warmth that you don’t understand, like a fire you can’t get close to, not without burning.

You hate the look in his eyes when he sees you. Like you’re a stranger wearing someone else’s skin. Like he’s trying so hard to find traces of the person he loves, but all he finds is a ghost.

He brings things. Pieces of a life you don’t remember.

Photos. A sweater that apparently used to be yours—soft and oversized, smells faintly like lavender and something deeper, something that might be him. A playlist of songs you supposedly made together, but when he plays them on his phone, they just feel like noise.

The worst part is watching his hope die in real time.

He doesn’t say it outright. He never would. But it’s in the little things. The way he smiles a second too late. The way he starts talking and then cuts himself off, like he remembers that you’re not really there with him. The way his fingers brush yours, so gently, like he’s scared you’ll flinch. Sometimes you do.

One day, he brings a photo album.

It’s thick and worn, filled with stickers and scribbles in what you assume is your handwriting. The first picture is of the two of you—arms wrapped around each other, his cheek pressed against yours, both of you grinning like idiots. Your eyes are bright, and his are even brighter. You can see the love. It’s practically radiating off the page.

But you don’t remember it.

You stare at it like it’s a movie poster for a film you never saw.

“That was our first trip together,” he says softly. “Jeju. You got sunburned because you said sunscreen was for cowards.”

You smile weakly because it sounds like something someone would say. It sounds like something someone brave and beautiful and whole would say. But you don’t feel like that person. You feel like a cracked shell of them.

He turns the page, and each photo is another stab in your chest. Birthdays. Lazy Sundays on the couch. Takeout containers and movie nights. Snowfall and matching scarves. There’s even one of you asleep on his shoulder, his hand gently cradling your face, as if you were the most delicate thing in the world.

You don’t recognize a single one.

You hate yourself for it.

“I look happy,” you say quietly.

“You were,” he replies instantly, his voice thick.

You pause. “Are you?”

The question hangs heavy in the room.

Jisung doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump, in the way his jaw tightens. You’ve asked something cruel, even if you didn’t mean to.

“I’m trying,” he finally says. “I’m trying to be okay. For you.”

You nod slowly, even though it makes you want to cry. He shouldn’t have to try so hard. He shouldn’t have to carry all of this alone.

But you don’t know how to help. You don’t know how to be the person he’s grieving.

Because that’s what it is—grief.

He talks about you like you died. And maybe, in a way, you did.

The you he knew, the one who wore his hoodies and made dumb inside jokes and clung to him during thunderstorms—that person is gone. And all that’s left is a shadow.

You.

“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him one afternoon. It’s raining outside, and you think it suits the mood. “I won’t blame you.”

His head snaps up so fast you flinch.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes, like the words physically hurt him. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“But it’s true. I’m not who I used to be.”

“You’re still you.”

“No,” you say, and your voice cracks. “I’m not. I can’t remember our first kiss. Or the first time you told me you loved me. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or how you take your coffee, or—”

He cuts you off by reaching for your hand. His grip is tight, trembling. Desperate.

“You still hold your breath when you’re nervous,” he says, voice breaking. “You still hum under your breath when you're thinking. You still hate hospital pudding and complain every time they bring it.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away.

“You still have the softest laugh I’ve ever heard,” he whispers. “And when you smile—even if it’s just a little—I can still see the person I love.”

“I don’t feel like them,” you admit. “I don’t know how to be them again.”

He doesn’t speak. Just strokes your knuckles with his thumb. There’s a silence between you that’s heavier than any noise could be.

“I’m scared,” you finally confess.

“I know,” he says. “So am I.”

That night, after he leaves, you look at the photo album again.

You study every inch of your face, every laugh line, every candid moment. And you wonder what kind of person you must’ve been to make someone love you like that.

And whether you’ll ever be able to again.

The decision comes quietly.

There’s no dramatic lightning strike, no shattering revelation. Just a tired afternoon, sterile light, and a stack of new memory tests that leave your head pounding and your heart numb. The doctors say you’re improving. That you’re “functional.” That with enough therapy and time, you could build a new life.

But it won’t be that life. The one you shared with Jisung.

So you make the decision.

You’ll leave.

Not to punish him, not because you want to. But because it’s crueler to keep him tied to this version of you—this fractured, faded stranger. He deserves the person in those photographs. The one with starlight in their smile. The one who used to sing with him in the kitchen and fall asleep on his chest and kiss his temple just because.

And that person… they’re gone.

It takes days to work up the courage. You rehearse the words in your head like a script. You practice how to smile when you say goodbye. How not to cry.

But none of it prepares you for his eyes when you tell him.

He doesn’t even sit down. Just stares at you like you’ve stabbed him.

“I’m leaving the hospital next week,” you say. “I’ve been approved for outpatient care. I’m going to a rehab facility. Somewhere far. Somewhere… quiet.”

Jisung’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I think it’s best,” you say gently. “For both of us.”

“No,” he whispers.

You force a small smile. “Jisung—”

“No.” His voice is louder this time, rougher. Cracked and sharp. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just walk away.”

“I’m not the person you love anymore.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” you say, and your voice finally breaks. “Don’t you see how much it hurts you? How much you’ve been suffering trying to pretend this is normal? I can’t keep watching you look at me like you’re waiting for someone to come back. I’m not them. I can’t be.”

He shakes his head, lips trembling. “You think this is about me? You think I’m staying out of pity? Or duty?”

“I think,” you say quietly, “that you’re holding onto something that’s already gone.”

There’s a silence so loud it’s almost deafening.

Then he steps forward, slowly, like approaching a wild animal. He kneels in front of your chair and takes your hands in his—trembling and warm.

“You’re right,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You’re not exactly who you were. But I’m not either. Do you think I’m the same person who met you three years ago? Who fell in love on a rainy night and wrote you songs I never showed anyone else? I’ve changed too. We changed.”

You look away.

“But the thing about love,” he continues, “is that it doesn’t vanish just because things get hard. I don’t need the old you. I just want you. However you are. However you’re becoming.”

His thumb traces your wrist, slow and reverent.

“Please don’t go,” he whispers. “Not like this.”

You close your eyes.

It would be so easy. To believe him. To let him carry the weight of your broken pieces. To stay and try and pretend that love alone is enough to mend what’s been lost.

But you don’t want to be his burden.

“You deserve more than this,” you murmur. “You deserve someone who remembers everything. Who can love you the way you deserve.”

“I already have that,” he says, voice fierce. “I have you.”

A sob crawls up your throat. “I’m sorry.”

And when you pull your hands away, he doesn’t chase you.

He just kneels there, staring at the floor, breathing like it hurts.

You leave the next week.

He doesn’t come to the hospital again.

And the day you’re discharged, you carry the photo album he gave you—tucked against your chest like a wound—and walk into a world that feels too big, too bright, and entirely too empty.

You hope he’ll forget you.

You hope he won’t.

And at night, in a quiet bed miles from everything, you whisper his name into the dark.

Just once.

Just to remember how it feels.

It's been over a year since you left.

A year of therapy. A year of trying to rebuild a life, one step at a time, away from the person you once were. Away from Jisung.

You tried not to think about him. Tried to bury him in the recesses of your mind, telling yourself it was better this way. That you weren't who he needed anymore, and he deserved someone who could remember every little detail. Someone who could love him the way he deserved.

But no matter how far you ran, no matter how many new faces you met, no matter how much you buried yourself in work or in the endless cycle of recovery, there were nights where you could still feel the phantom ache of his touch, the ghost of his laugh, his voice calling your name.

There were nights you still dreamed of him.

And every time, you woke up with a pit in your stomach, knowing you were alone.

You knew what it meant when you got the letter.

It wasn’t just a letter. It was a wake-up call. It was a reminder. It was a slap in the face that you were still, in some way, tied to him. He was still waiting.

The letter is postmarked from Seoul. It’s typed, but you can tell it’s from him. The words are a little too familiar, and the rhythm of his sentences lingers in your chest like a heartbeat you can’t outrun.

"Please come. Please just come. I can't do this without you. I miss you. I love you."

It’s simple, yet the weight of it is so much heavier than anything you could’ve prepared yourself for.

For weeks, you ignore it. You tear it up. You burn the edges. You throw it in the trash. But every time, you fish it out. Every time, you stare at the charred remnants and wonder if it was a mistake to let him go. Wonder if it was a mistake to choose yourself over the only person you’ve ever loved.

And then, one day, you can’t ignore it anymore.

You book a flight back to Seoul.

The first time you see him again, he doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not fully.

His eyes lock onto you from across the coffee shop like he’s seeing a ghost. You’re standing in the doorway, your hand still on the handle, like you don’t know whether to step forward or turn and run. He looks older—his hair darker, his clothes more refined, his face more worn—but there’s still a tenderness there that you can’t mistake. You know it’s him.

The realization hits you hard—so much so that your knees almost give out.

He stands up slowly, his movements hesitant. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. He blinks, and you see it—recognition flickers behind his eyes, but something else is there too. Something that feels almost… broken.

And then he does speak.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You can’t breathe.

“I… I thought I was imagining it,” he says. His voice cracks like it’s been holding on to so much for so long. “I didn’t think you’d actually… come back.”

There’s a weight to the words, as if the distance between you wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, too. And suddenly, you realize just how much time has passed—how much has changed.

How much you’ve both changed.

The silence stretches between you like an abyss, and you can see his eyes flicker with all the things he wants to say but can’t.

“You look…” He stops himself, swallowing thickly. “You look different.”

You nod. “I am.”

He laughs quietly, but it’s bitter. “You don’t have to say that. I know. I can see it.”

His voice cracks again, and it feels like a punch to the gut. You look away, because if you don’t, you’ll start crying, and you can’t cry here, not in front of him. Not after everything.

“Are you happy?” he asks, voice small.

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to answer.

“Are you?” you ask, your voice shaking more than you intend.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve spent so much time wondering if you were okay. If you were… happy. Because I never got to ask you that.”

There’s a rawness in his words that makes your chest ache. You want to say that you’re doing better. That you’re okay. That it’s all been worth it.

But you’re not. You’re still haunted by the person you once were, by the person he still sees in his mind, and by the memory of him that’s been buried so deep inside you that it might never come out.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he continues softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I know it sounds stupid. But I’ve been waiting for you.”

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. You wipe it away quickly, but it’s too late. He saw.

His face softens, his hand trembling as he reaches out, but he stops before he touches you. Like he’s scared that if he does, you’ll vanish.

“I never wanted you to leave,” he says, the words full of regret and pain. “I don’t think I can go on like this anymore, Y/N. Not without you.”

The tears are streaming now, and you can’t stop them. You should say something. You should tell him how much you still love him. How much it hurts to see him like this.

But the words won’t come. The pain won’t stop.

And you know, deep down, that it’s too late.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it feels hollow. “I’m so sorry.”

And then, like the ghost you’ve become, you walk away.

And for the first time in a long time, Jisung doesn’t chase you.

He doesn’t chase you because he’s finally learned that he can’t hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.

And you don’t chase him, because you can’t save him from the love that’s already dying.

You both live in the silence of the lives you could’ve had, haunted by the person you used to be and the love that couldn’t survive the weight of time.

In the end, you wonder if it was ever truly meant to be.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Because in the end, love isn’t enough to fix everything that’s broken.

And you were never enough for him.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc @ari-hwanggg @alondra6011 @sk1ndx0

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

[madscientistshowdown]

Top 3 Will move onto main bracket

PROPAGANDA

Mikage Souji:

Was also known in the series as Professor Nemuro - I don't know if he ever had a doctorate or not. He's referred to as professor, but he's also the age of a student. He is described as a computer-like genius and was working on some mysterious research project that he did not even know the goal of. He ends up burning down a building that has 100 boys inside of it. In the present day, he has not aged at all even though those events happened a long time ago…. and no longer goes by the name Professor Nemuro…. and now he gets students to come to his evil therapy elevator where he brings their darkest feelings to the surface and become Black Rose duelists, and then they go to try and kill the main characters of the show.

Dr Bryony Halbech:

She works on cryonic preservation, has killed multiple people while experimenting on them, and she kept traumatising her only survivor test subject as a part of her experiments. What makes her mad is that her morals are non-existent when it comes to her research

Dr Dick Hardly:

Yes, there is a character in a children's cartoon named "Dick Hardly." Though he was only in one episode, he's one of the most memorable villains in the show, effectively being Professor Utonium's evil counterpart. He tricks the Powerpuff Girls into giving Chemical X so he can make more PowerPuffs and sell them for profit. Like many mad scientists, he is mutated into a horrible monster at the end of the episode, and then killed by his own mistreated creations.

Dr Frankenstein:

Usually simply referred to as "The Professor", he is the creator of the various androids that serve the Phoenixes (Monster Royal family). His current form resembles that of a giant brain in a jar.

Inari Sakihira:

Using your scientific genius to turn your classmate into a dog without his consent, is not what we in the science biz like to call "Ethical"

Cave Johnson:

Gosh, Mr Johnson I never realised that large, morally questionable scientific facilities could be such a force for good in this world!

Pearl Forrester:

Clayton's mother who kills him and vows to continue his work as revenge for his death (even though she killed him). She drives a space van, survives multiple planets exploding while she was still on them, has an ego bigger than the sun, and hits people she doesn't like with cheez-its. One time she had a super chill porch-van chat with the guy she was torturing. Also pretended to be a roman goddess, ran a scam public television channel, stopped the timeline from being changed so gambling machines and chicken in a biskit snack crackers would continue to exist, gave LSD to robots because she could, drove her space van to LA to threaten famous movie critic Leonard Maltin, and spent at least an hour scamming a couple into thinking her evil castle was a cruise ship. I love her

Dr Clayton Forrester:

he's a mad scientist who lives a very unserious life in a cave, what's not to love? mad scientist activities include showing a guy in space (that he kidnapped because he didn't like him) bad movies until he cracks, then kidnapping a second guy to do the exact same thing to when the first one gets out. hobbies include killing and then reviving his second banana/roommate/boyfriend frank, dealing with the random people/fictional characters/entities that come to his cave, begrudgingly hosting thanksgiving, and creating inventions that are sometimes evil but mostly just kind of strange.

Monsieur Mallah:

A super intelligent gorilla who lives a simple life of peace with his cyborg husband. Aside from when they got bored and made a bunch of mutants. But aside from the army of mutants and making a black hole, they live a simple life of peace.

[yaz-the-spaz]

not to add my two cents on what is already a shitstorm beenado of discourse but i just wanna say that i find it real interesting that the tags on that buddie queerbait poll are full of ppl, mostly bt's (judging by the amount of pfp's with t's face in them), claiming how it's not the showrunners / producers / etc's fault that buddies felt baited, and that it's no one's fault but our own for somehow baiting ourselves and on the journos who wrote clickbait headlines to draw us in as if that's all it was that led to us feeling baited. which is insane to me cause it just categorically ignores the fact that that they chose to market the show by allowing certain interview questions to be asked, by allowing certain interviews to not only be framed around the question of buddie going canon but to specifically put the two actors of the ship in interviews together answering questions about the ship potentially going canon.

at the end of the day the journos and interviewers and whoever the hell else can choose all the questions they want but if the ppl behind the show - the showrunners and the producers and the pr team and whoever else may be involved in those marketing decisions - don't want buddie to be the focus they can simply. not allow those questions. because that's how marketing works. it is literally their job to analyze how ppl in the audience are gonna respond to promo and when you frame 99% of your promo around buddie, including putting the actors together to talk about it, knowing there's not gonna be any follow-through on the show, you have to be aware on some level that you're not only (cruelly) teasing the (already mostly disenfranchised) part of the audience that has been actively rooting for buddie for almost a decade, but also keeping it top of mind for non-buddie shippers who are seeing it alongside their consumption of the show, making everyone think it's leading somewhere it's not.

this is not just about being upset that the ship i wanted didn't happen. this is so much bigger than that. because if it's not happening and there were no plans to make it happen then fine, but why the FUCK was the entire promo run centered around buddie? even bt's have to admit that's fucking baity and a shitty thing to do. if you wanna pretend like y'all weren't also whining when they put your fave (t) front and center in promo scenes only for him to be on screen for all of 30 seconds of the ep then have at it, but ya'll know if it was your ship they'd done something like this for you'd be big mad too (and you know it's true because it's already happened small-scale).

and furthermore i also saw ppl making the claim that the show itself never actually baited buddie this season and that they unequivocally shut down buddie by having buck deny any feelings and eddie say he was straight and us still reading into things was just us baiting ourselves. but in fact for a lot of ppl who were previously oblivious to buddie it actually had the complete opposite effect. because, much like the promo mess, it was not top of mind until they made it top of mind and then you suddenly had a bunch of ppl in the gen audience going wait is there something there? are they putting seeds in place to get them together?

i am not alone in observing this firsthand. my own mother, who never for a second even considered buddie in any way shape or form as at all romantic, had this reaction completely independently during the beginning of 8b. i have never once mentioned buddie to her or around her, nor is she in any online fandom spaces (she didn't even know they existed until very recently and is not internet savvy enough to find them without outside help) so it was not at all my or anyone else's influence that led her to this conclusion. she got there all on her own just from watching what was presented to her in the show. and i've seen other ppl in fandom reporting similar experiences from their (often older) non-buddie shipping friends and relatives too. so clearly the writers' / showerunners' attempts to shut buddie down (if that's even what it was) was either really, really bad or just plain unsuccessful or both as it obviously did not at all have the intended effect for anyone (but maybe salty anti buddie stans who were looking for any excuse to gloat either way) and actually seemed to large-scale have the exact opposite effect.

anyways i just had to get all that out cause it was driving me insane having it all swirl around in my head while i scrolled through tags & comments but i digress (and for anyone who even bothered to read this long ass rant and got his far, thanks for reading & much love).

long gay sigh

[charulein]

I still really, really liked Endwalker, but gods if it wasn't a roller-coaster between utter elation and utter 'i hate this' xd

[itspileofgoodthings]

I showed my students some Rosings scenes yesterday and in my last period class I let it play a little longer so that it continued into Darcy’s first proposal (even though we hadn’t read it yet) and it played all the way up until the exact moment that Lizzy drew breath to answer him. The bell rang and then they shouted at me in a unison of disappointment and disbelief anskskskskksks.

[oldcurse]

Having a relapse moment

[unproduciblesmackdown]

omgg lol [guy who won't stop going "more like scapeGOATED" voice] now hold! on!! lmao [same guy just saw encanto voice] Hold on!!!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[randominchident]

the good luck charm

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. max vertsappen x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

you kiss max's forehead one race morning "for luck". he wins. it becomes a thing.

It started as a joke. As most things do.

You were both exhausted and half-dressed in a hotel room in Monza, Max trying to stretch out sore muscles while you searched (unsuccessfully) for your other shoe. Something about the early morning, the nerves, the jetlag, the weird sleepy love you always carry for him—it made you lean in, cup his face in both hands, and press a long kiss to his forehead.

"May your tires be warm, your brakes be cool, and your competitors forget how to drive," you said solemnly, eyes still half closed.

He gave you the flattest look imaginable, though the end of his ears blushed a faint pink from the kiss. As they always did. “What are you doing?”

“Blessing you,” you replied, as if it was obvious. As if it had happened a hundred times before. "So you win."

Max snorted, jokingly thanked you for your wise words, and then won the race.

The next weekend in Baku, just before he headed back into the garage, he stopped in front of you. Didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his helmet under one arm, brows raised. Waiting.

You blinked at him. “…Yes?”

Max looked around and then lowered his voice. “Aren’t you gonna do your weird blessing thing?”

You smiled. You were obnoxious about it. You made it a whole scene. Two hands to his cheeks, a huge dramatic smooch in the exact middle of his forehead, a made-up chant about tire degradation and curses upon the other drivers' decision making capabilities. He pretended to hate it.

He won again.

Now it’s a ritual. It practically part of his warm up routine.

He always finds you. Doesn’t matter if it’s Silverstone or Suzuka, if you're sitting quietly in hospitality or standing in the garage trying not to get run over by a mechanic on a scooter. He finds you. Every single race.

Helmet in hand. Suit half-zipped. That laser-focus look on his face until he sees you. Then it softens—just slightly. His jaw unclenches. His hands flex like they want to hold something. You.

You rise on your toes, brush your lips across his forehead, whisper the familiar words: “For luck.” Because sometimes he doesn't need the big speech, the dramatic show, the curses upon the other cars—he just needs you.

He never says much. Just nods, or gives you the tiniest smile. Once, after a win, he muttered “works better than pole” with a blush he tried to pass off as heat exhaustion.

You didn’t tease him for it. Much.

One day the camera's pick it up, and suddenly it becomes clear that your little tradition is not a secret and private as you once thought. Even the Sky Sports commentary team has something to say:

“And there’s Max Verstappen’s girlfriend giving him—what’s clearly become—a bit of a pre-race tradition. Can’t argue with results.”

It's nice. You like being part of the flow of race day. Its nice to be relied upon, even for something as small as this.

And then… one weekend, you’re not there.

You tried. You really did. But your flight got cancelled, the backup was overbooked, and Red Bull’s private jet was full of engineers and people who don’t think “I give Max forehead kisses before lights out” qualifies as essential personnel.

You call him from the airport instead, bags at your feet, coffee in hand. Max offered to send his own jet back to pick you up, but it would never have arrived in time.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I really wanted to be there.”

Max is quiet on the other end. “You tried.”

“I’ll scream your blessing into the sky from here, okay?”

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds tight. “Might need it. Grid’s a mess.”

“You’ll handle it. You always do.”

You want to say more. Something sappy. But you can already hear noise in the backgorund of the call. He's being pulled away by Christian or Helmut or someone asking about tires. So you settle for, “I love you. Drive safe.”

His voice softens. “Love you too.”

Back at the track, people notice something’s… off.

He’s still fast—because of course he is—but there’s a tension in his shoulders. The calm, razor-sharp version of Max that usually shows up on race day feels thinner, more like a mask.

Christian corners him right before the anthem. “You good?”

“Fine,” Max says. Short. Clipped. Cold.

But his eyes keep scanning the garage, looking for something—or someone—he knows isn’t there.

The race goes okay. Not amazing. A few things go wrong. His start is messy. Pit stop’s a second too slow. He finishes second, which for anyone else would be great, but for Max it’s a shrug and a “whatever.” Second place always hurts. Always has for him.

After the cooldown room, after media, after debrief, he ducks away from everyone and finally calls you.

“You cursed me,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“I had no forehead kiss. And now look. P2. Disaster.”

You smile, curling up in the airport lounge chair. “Guess you need me, huh?”

He exhales like he doesn’t want to say yes, but then, quietly: “Yeah. I do.”

And then impossibly quieter: "I always do."

The next weekend, you’re definitely there.

He doesn’t even say hello when he finds you sat in the garage. He just walks up, stands in front of you, and tilts his head down expectantly.

You blink. “Wow. No ‘how are you,’ no hug—just forehead service?”

He glares at the ground, but there is a small smile on his face that you can just barely see. “Do the thing.”

You grin, place your hands on his cheeks, and kiss him gently on the forehead.

“For luck,” you murmur.

He exhales. Content. “There it is.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the one casting spells on my head.”

You lean in a little. “They work, don’t they?”

Max just smiles. The small, secret one. The one he saves for you. Then he nods.

After he wins that race, he dedicates it to the team. Then, on the radio, voice quieter:

“Tell her thanks. It worked again.”

You hear it. Of course you do. And when he lifts the trophy, champagne flying, there’s a tiny smile on your face that says yeah. you’re welcome.

[sukumna]

┌─ .✦ HIS FAVORITE TYPE OF SEX part two

part two bc someone ask and i love this style of rambling about my favs.

꒰ part one | jjk version ꒱

✦ — Kenma Kozume, lazy, demanding sex. He’s the type to fuck you slow, dragging it out like he has all the time in the world, arms wrapped around you, keeping you in place like you belong to him. The type to pull you into his lap mid-game, barely sparing you a glance as he grinds up into you, muttering, “Be good and keep quiet.” He won’t stop playing, won’t even pretend to be fully focused on you—until you start squirming, whining, and then he’s flipping you over, making sure you know exactly who’s in control.

✦ — Kuroo Tetsurou, teasing, drawn-out sex. He’s the type to edge you until you’re crying, to drag things out just to hear you beg. The type to pin your wrists above your head, smirking as he murmurs, “Look at you. So desperate for me.” He loves overstimulation, fucking you until you’re a babbling mess, just to see how much you can take. The type to leave bite marks down your body just because he loves seeing the proof of what he did to you the next morning.

✦ — Kageyama Tobio, frustrated, intense sex. He’s the type to fuck you hard after a bad game, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The type to lose control, voice rough as he groans, “I can’t stop—feels too good.” He fucks with everything he has, like he’s got something to prove, like he needs to feel you break beneath him. He’s too embarrassed to tell you he wants to be praised, but if you grab his face, tell him how good he’s making you feel, he’ll fuck you even harder, desperate to hear more.

✦ — Hinata Shoyo, eager, can’t-get-enough sex. He’s the type to go again before you’ve even caught your breath, to fuck you so hard the bedframe rattles. The type to moan against your neck, whimpering, “Just one more, baby, I promise.” But it’s never just one more. He’s so overwhelmed by you, so caught up in how good you feel, that he never wants it to end. He’ll fuck you with the same reckless enthusiasm he throws into everything else, like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

✦ — Tsukishima Kei, mean but calculated sex. He’s the type to tease you until you’re a wreck, to make you beg before he even thinks about giving you what you want. The type to fuck you slow and deep, smirking as you squirm, whispering, “What’s wrong? Isn’t this what you asked for?” He gets off on control, on watching you unravel under his touch. He’ll act like he doesn’t care, like he’s unaffected, but the second you cry for him—whimper, beg, tell him how much you need it—his resolve snaps, and suddenly, he’s fucking you senseless.

✦ — Akaashi Keiji, attentive, make-you-melt sex. He’s the type to hold your face as he fucks you, brushing kisses over your forehead, whispering soft praises. The type to make you come undone with just his words, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful like this.” He makes love to you, slow and deep, like he wants to feel every part of you. But the moment you pull his hair, scratch his back, whisper something filthy in his ear? He snaps—presses you into the mattress, holds your hips still, fucks you until all you can do is moan his name.

[lemonlover1110]

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Is Toji jealous of a helpless baby? Oh, he absolute is!

Warnings: Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“Isn’t he the cutest?” You gush as Megumi yawns. Toji clicks his tongue. He’s cuter– Plus, he has teeth. The stupid baby doesn’t even have a way to chew food. “You look just like your daddy, oh my…”

“You got that right!” Toji agrees, making a chuckle leave your lips. You were afraid that once the baby came along Toji would act weird, but no. He’s still an overgrown child when it comes to you; Toji isn’t willing to share you with anyone, not even his own son.

Megumi begins to cry, getting fussy as his drowsiness gets the best of him. Would he really be a baby if he didn’t cry for everything? His eyes are getting heavy, and he doesn’t know what happens when they close, of course he’s scared.

“He didn’t get the crybaby part from me though.” Toji quickly defends himself, making you click your tongue. It’s odd to watch your husband compete with a baby, but did you expect less?

“Toji he’s a baby!” You remind him, but that doesn’t impress him. You end up sighing, handing the crying baby to your husband. Megumi isn’t only your son, but his as well. Toji can bear some of the responsibilities. “Put him to sleep, I’m going to take a shower.”

“But–” Toji begins, but he can’t finish protesting before he’s carrying a chunky baby. Megumi was born so small, but at four months, the baby is nearly 17 pounds. His little cheeks are so round and kissable now, something that the man would never admit outloud.

Toji sneaks one of those kisses on the cheek before telling Megumi, “I can pretend to stop hating you now that we’re alone.”

Toji puts the baby on his chest, hand caressing his small back. Something that works charms with the baby. Toji smells the small amount of hair on his head, kissing him again. “You know I just do that because I want your mommy’s attention.”

The crying dies down, sleep getting the best of the baby. He can fight it and fight it, but that’s the one thing that will always win: sleep. He’s just like Toji in that sense too. 

“I love you, Megumi.” Toji says, eyes glimmering at the small baby. He lightly chuckles as he mutters, “You’re still not cuter than me though.”

[wonsiwon]

s.jy

synopsis | after a big argument with jake, your clingy and overly sensitive boyfriend, aka golden retriever, finds it impossible to handle the distance. and let’s face it, who can resist a teary-eyed, overly affectionate guy who’s one step away from curling up in your lap?

pairing | clingyboyfriend! jake x fem! reader

genre | fluff

jake was the kind of person who felt everything too much. it wasn’t a bad thing, he just had a heart so soft it bruised too easily. he was sensitive in a way that made him beautiful, like he carried every emotion so deeply it became a part of him. and when he loved, he loved hard. clingy, desperate, like he didn’t know how to exist without the people he cared about.

he was clingy too, always needing to be close, to touch, to hold. he followed you around the house like a lost puppy, watching you with those big, pleading eyes. he never liked distance, never liked silence between you.

and right now the house was too quiet. not in a peaceful way, but in that heavy, suffocating way that settled after an argument. you both said things you didn’t mean, and he ended up crying. jake always cried during fights. he hated it, tried so hard to hold it back, but he could never help it.

you were sitting on the couch, watching a movie, one you had been watching with him before everything went wrong. your eyes were glued to the screen, pretending to care about what was happening on it, but really, you couldn’t focus.

then you heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from the hallway. you didn’t look up, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen, you knew it was jake. you already saw his messy hair from the corner of your eye, his face poking around the corner of the living room, just enough to make sure you saw him. he didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, watching you with those puppy eyes of his. you didn’t look at him. you couldn’t.

he sighed softly, so soft you barely heard it, and took a slow step into the room. his shoulders were slumped, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, clearly unsure of what to do next.

he shifted closer, then gently slid down to sit beside you, his leg brushing against yours. “i… i don’t like when you’re mad at me..” he mumbled, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. his head dropped to your shoulder, his hair brushing against your skin. you could feel the subtle tremble in his body, the way he leaned into you, needing your comfort, even though you were still angry.

you didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. your shoulder relaxed, just enough for him to rest there without feeling rejected. but even with that small gesture, he still felt uncertain, still felt like he wasn’t allowed to hold you the way he wanted to.

his fingers twitched against your arm before hesitantly gripping onto the sleeve of your shirt, his hold weak, like he was afraid you’d shake him off. he sniffled softly, his breath uneven, and when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, so broken, it made your chest ache.

“i’m sorry..” he whispered again, barely audible, like he was running out of strength to even say the words. his face buried deeper into your shoulder, and that’s when you felt it. the faint dampness of his tears soaking into your sleeve.

he was still crying. maybe he never really stopped after the argument, just hid away in the bedroom, curled up and upset until he finally couldn’t take the distance anymore.

his body curled into yours instinctively, his arms hesitating before wrapping loosely around you, his grip weak, desperate. “please don’t ignore me…” his voice cracked this time “i hate the silent treatment. it makes me feel like… like i’m in time-out.”

his words wobbled, thick with tears, his breath uneven as he sniffled against your skin.

god, he was so pretty when he cried. his lips were parted, glossy from where he had nervously chewed at them, his big, watery eyes peeking up at you through damp lashes. his cheeks were flushed, his whole face soft and open, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

you sighed, your fingers twitched before you finally gave in, reaching up to cup his cheek, and he melted instantly, his entire body going boneless against you like he had been waiting for that touch.

“you’re not in time-out, jake.” you murmured, still a little firm, but gentler than before. “but you did piss me off.”

he nodded quickly, his curls bouncing against your shoulder. “i know.” he mumbled, still sniffly, still so soft and needy. “but i don’t wanna be mad at each other anymore. can we just… can we be okay now?”

he looked up at you then, eyes big and pleading, so impossibly pretty, and you sighed, feeling the last of your frustration slip away.

instead of answering, you leaned down and kissed his cheek. just a quick press of your lips, light and fleeting. but then he made this tiny, breathless sound, like he couldn’t believe you were kissing him after all that, and it made something in you soften completely.

so you did it again. and again.

a little kiss on the tip of his nose. then one on his jaw, lingering just slightly. then another right at the corner of his mouth, where his lips were still wobbly from crying.

jake blinked up at you, dazed, his breath stuttering like he didn’t know what to do with himself. and then, without thinking, he surged forward, pressing his face against yours, clumsily chasing after your lips.

his kisses were messy, desperate, all over the place. he kissed your cheek, your chin, your forehead—anywhere he could reach. his hands were gripping at your waist now, still shaky but holding on a little tighter, like he never wanted to let go.

“i love you..” he mumbled between kisses, his voice still stuffy from crying. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”

you laughed softly, tilting his face up so you could kiss him properly, slow and sweet, until he sighed into your mouth and melted against you completely.

he made this tiny sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper. his hands trembled where they clung to you, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of your shirt.

“missed you..” he whispered between kisses, his nose bumping against yours. “hated being away from you…”

“i was right here, jake,” you murmured, your fingers slipping into his curls, gently scratching at his scalp. he shivered under your touch, melting even further into you.

“no..” he sniffled, shaking his head against your skin. “felt too far.”

you sighed, kissing the top of his head, feeling the way he practically purred at the affection. he was always like this, too soft, too clingy, too desperate for closeness, especially after a fight.

“you’re so dramatic..” you muttered, but your arms wrapped around him anyway, pulling him even closer.

he let out a breathy, content little sigh, pressing a few more lazy, sleepy kisses along your collarbone. “only for you.” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

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