#and yet you are able to look at it and decide how you feel about his actions & decide what it means when someone is 'innocent'

[holeforzenin]

Tw - Boss!nanami, sir kink, reverse cowgirl, buttplug usage. Grammar errors.

Your thighs burned from how long you’d been riding him, the wet slap of your hips crashing down on his thick thighs echoing through the room in an inconsistent rhythm. Kento is lying beneath you, thick golden hair ruffled and mussed against the silky pillows, shirt still on but lazily unbuttoned like he’s been in a fight, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he didn’t even intend to fuck you this hard. Like he thought he could keep it neat.

But oh there’s nothing neat about the way your creamy pussy leaks down the length of his cock, nothing tidy about the way your eyes roll back as your ass bounces on him and your cute little plug nearly slips out—again. The pressure of his girth almost fucking the plug out every time it slides into your hole.

His hand darts up with that same practiced precision he uses in a fight, thumb pressing flush against the jewel at the heart base of it.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding as he pushes it back inside, and watching you squirm once it’s back in. “You keep it in like a good girl, understood?”

You nod obedienly, mouth hanging open, barely able to keep your balance as your thighs tremble around his waist. “Y-Yeah—yes, Kento—!”

“That’s sir to you,” he corrects.

That thumb stays in place, pressing into the base of the plug each time your movement threatens to dislodge it. It’s actually so mean—the way he insistently keeps it in, making you feel every bit of stretch and fullness, making it impossible to ignore how stuffed you are in both holes before he even starts thrusting up into you.

“Look at this,” he murmurs darkly, slightly shifting under you and spreading his legs more so his cock drives deeper with each roll of your hips. “Stuffed so full, and you’re still desperate for more. Fucking greedy. You like feeling this helpless, don’t you?”

Your moan answers for you, messy and loud, warm tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Kento’s cock is veiny and thick—he always stretches you up but the added plug makes it even more unbearable in the best way possible like your body can’t decide if it’s overwhelmed or starving for more.

“Please, please, sir—feels so good, I-I can’t—”

“You can.” That thumb pushes harder, pinning the plug in like a fucking button he’s got full control over. “You’ve taken everything I’ve given you tonight. You’re going to take this, too”.

Your nails dig into his sweaty chest for balance as he starts fucking up into you, ruining the pace you were trying to keep. Kento is usually a patient man but your lazy, fucked-out rhythm was getting on his nerves.

Now he’s in charge again—hips ramming up into you from below in a brutal pace while his hand stays glued to your ass, his thumb making sure that plug stays nestled tight like it’s a part of you. You continue bouncing helplessly, letting him use your body like a toy, stuffed full and shaking and fucked raw by your boss.

“I can feel it,” he growls, hand moving from your ass to grab your jaw, forcing your fluttering eyes open to look back at him. “The way your little hole clenches around it every time I hit that spot. So nasty, bet you’re gonna cum just from this, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, fingers slipping against his sweat-slick chest as your thighs quiver.

“Tell me,” he says, almost sweet now, almost gentle as he stares up at your flushed face. “Tell me how it feels to ride your boss’s cock with your ass plugged up like a dirty slut, so shameless—all this just for a little bonus huh?”.

“S-So full—Nanamin, it’s too much, I c-can’t hold it, I—fuck!”

“You can”. His grip on your jaw tightens just slightly. “You’re going to. I’ll hold it in for you if I have to”.

And he does. Every time it threatens to slip from how wildly you’re grinding against him, how soaked you are, how greedy your body’s gotten—he’s there, thumb pressing and pushing, guiding it right back in like he owns every part of your body now.

Your orgasm hits quick and sloppy, back arching and your plushy ass grinding on his pelvis, tight cunt spasming around him like you’re trying to take all his babies from him, your asshole clenching around the plug tighter than ever.

“Fuuuck, that’s it,” he groans, barely holding back from how sexy and filthy you look cumming on top of him. “So fucking tight—so full, shit!”

He spills inside you with a broken grunt, hips slamming up one last time and holding you there with a big hand clasping your hips and keeping you impaled on his cock, stuffed full of him and the plug both.

You feel every pulse of him emptying into you, the warmth leaking out only to be caught and squished deeper by his still throbbing shaft.

When you start to lift off him, the plug nearly slipping again, his hand flies back to your ass.

“Ah, ah,” he warns, pushing it back in firmly. “Did I say you could take it out?”

You whimper, obediently sinking back down with your brain fogged and mouth slack. You’ll stay like that as long as he wants. “You look perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice tired but still husky as always as he strokes your back. “Plug in. Pussy leaking with my children. All mine”.

[nouveau-nymph]

I like to think Ak!Jason would use the phrase "the moon is beautiful, isn't it," and any variation until he is ready to actually say, "I love you." He would come across randomly on the internet one day (cause I think that's how we all found out about it tbh) and then use it as a way (or well.. one of the ways) to express his love for you and get his feelings out without actually saying the words cause he still isn't sure he's mentally ready for that kind of commitment. Plus, it's not a commonly known phrase for a love confession, so there's a pretty high chance you don't know what it actually means, which relieves him from the worry of making you uncomfortable by dropping the L-bomb.

But what if you do know what it means and you decide to play along and pretend to not know it because even though you do love him back, you want him to be the first one to say it cause you don't wanna push anything onto him and make him uncomfortable.

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" He would ask.

"Yeah, it really is, especially full moons cause they look kinda like pearls. Oh, or better yet, moonstones!" You answer.

Until one night, you slip up. You forget to reply normally because now, whenever he says it, your brain automatically corrects to him, actually saying, "I love you."

"The moon is so beautiful tonight," he says.

"I love you, too," you mindlessly respond.

"What?"

Shit.

"Fuck. Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It just came out. I didn't make you uncomfortable, did I?"

"You know what that phrase means?"

"Yeeeaaah."

"For how long?"

"I've kindaaaa... always known. Okay, well, not always, obviously, but I did learn what it meant like a long while back, so when you said it the first time, I kind of, maybe knew immediately what you meant. I just didn't want to respond with saying, 'I love you, too,' cause I didn't want to push anything onto you cause I know you don't feel like your ready for big stuff like that so I pretended to not know as to not make you uncomfortable."

Jason just stares blankly at you for a short moment. A short moment that's juuusst long enough you to start worrying that maybe you had made things uncomfortable and now he doesn't want to be around you anymore. That is... until he starts laughing a tiny bit, a slight smile grazing his face as he leans his head down.

"Soooo, I'm guessing I..... didn't make you uncomfortable?"

"You didn't. Don't worry, you didn't," he says as he composes himself and lifts his head up.

"I... really don't mind if you answer back with 'I love you, too.' Honestly, I actually kinda like it. It's just... It's gonna take me a while to be able to say the actual words."

"That's okay! I mean, that's also kinda why I've been pretending cause I wanted you to be the first one to say cause you know consent is key and everything. I didn't want to go when there wasn't a green light."

Jason smiles. It's a sweet, soft smile. Like one of relief or contentment.

"Thank you. Thank you for... for being so patient with me."

(I swear I didn't mean for this to turn into basically a fluff one-shot. This was only meant to be just a little like a headcannon thing. I wasn't planning on going on a full tangent. I'm so sorry. I'm also so incredibly sorry if this is written poorly, and if the reader dialogue doesn't fit your personality, I don't write often, and I only know how to write nerdy, awkward characters.)

[hufflepuffsthunderdome]

A Bit More Time (Part Eight)

Schlatt x gn!reader <-P. Seven P. One ???-> Summary: You've finally had enough and decide that you need to talk to Schlatt about how you're feeling. Alcohol and feeling's don't mix well. Warnings: angsty! Crying, drinking, mentions of panic attacks and a breakdown, nothing graphic A/N: Look who's back! I love going mia and abandoning my tumblr for months. Expect this story to have 2 or 3 more parts, probably ending with some smut - I have the rest of it planned out so hopefully I won't take as long this time. Thank you all for being patient ❤️

It's been nice having Jay back in your life; he's slotted back in so easily and patched right over the hole he left in your heart all those years ago when he all but disappeared on you. He's brought comfort and familiarity again that you've just never found with anyone except him.

For the past few weeks, it's been comfortable, working back from awkward past friends, to learn each other's movements again, figuring out how each of you slots into each other's life again as your friendship settles. You hang out a lot now, spending a lot of time with each other just doing nothing, running errands, going on drives, watching movies - just existing together in an incredibly domestic way that you always thought your friendship would evolve into, just with a different title than you hoped.

That's been the real kicker in all of this, the aching still in your heart as you slump down in the couch next to him, leaning slightly into his side as you watch a movie in his living room and remind yourself that you can't reach out and curl up into his lap the way you want to. You'll just make it awkward if you say anything, so you keep your mouth shut.

It hasn't been easy. There was a particularly hard night a week ago when you stumbled upon him on Bumble, which you signed up for in an attempt to take your mind off him, which failed spectacularly, and realised that he was putting himself out there for other people, not you. You had swiped on him, sending him some stupid message as your hands shook and tears flooded your waterline, which you swallowed back when he called you and tried to laugh off his embarrassment at being caught like that.

"Oh my god," your friend Bec squealed excitedly over the music, playing loudly in the bar you had gathered all your friends into, wanting to show Jay the few spots you had become regulars of before he left. She thrust a phone over to you, Jay's eyes following curiously as he peered down over your shoulder, "that guy with the dog matched with me."

You whistle as you take the phone, hiding your grimace as you read his poor attempt at an opening line, but smile excitedly back at her, "that's so good! He was so good-looking!"

"Is this Tinder?" Jay asks next to you as he fails to hide his disdain for the pour attempt at a pickup line this guy decided would be the key to getting him laid, eyes shifting up to meet yours when you nod and hand Bec her phone back, "god don't tell me you're on these apps."

You just shrug and huff out a laugh, "I'm on Bumble," you mumble back, a bit embarrassed as your cheeks flood with heat when you hear him laugh next to you. You nudge him as you reach for your drink, "don't laugh. How else am I meant to meet guys?"

He presses the tongue to the inside of his cheek as his eyes meet yours as he goes to say something before looking away, reaching for his own drink, "any luck?"

You just sigh and shake your head, "not really. No one worth my time yet."

It's just past midnight when you finally work up the courage to go, when the sick feeling in your stomach becomes too much, and you throw your hoodie on and charge out the door before you can give yourself a chance to backtrack. You hadn't been able to stop thinking about Jay all night, for longer than that if you're honest with yourself, and you've worked yourself up into an anxiety-fuelled panic that is fuelling most of your movements now.

The Uber driver doesn’t say much, thank god, and you spend the ride nervously watching the familiar streets roll by, each one pulling you closer to whatever it is you’re about to walk into. You don’t even have a plan — no neat little monologue lined up, no dramatic one-liner, nothing. Just a buzzing feeling in your chest that says if you don’t do this now, you never will, and a sick anxiety that follows as you near closer to Jay's apartment.

You’re halfway up the stairs to his apartment when you realise your hands are shaking. You knock once, loudly. You don't hear anything at first and consider leaving, taking the first chance you can to let yourself run away and forget you ever wanted to do this.

"Wh—" Schlatt squints at you through the crack in the door, voice slurred and groggy, “the fuck’re you doin’ here?”

Your heart drops a little. He’s drunk.

"Can I come in?" you ask, trying not to let your disappointment show. His eyes are bloodshot and heavy-lidded, hair messy and and clothes wrinkled, like he's been tossing around for hours. He leans against the doorframe, blinking hard as if trying to make sure it’s really you, willing his eyes to focus and not see straight through you.

He swings the door open without answering.

The place smells obviously like whiskey, there's a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the coffee table, a show paused on the TV, and the blaring light coming from his office where he's left his streaming set up turned on. He walks in ahead of you, stumbling a bit before collapsing back onto the couch, head lolling onto the cushion behind him.

"It's midnight," he groans as he lets his eyes fall shut, his words sound almost pained as he sinks into the cushion.

"I know," you say back as you stand there, awkwardly, unsure of where to situate yourself as you watch him.

"Why're you here?" he says, the words snapping out of him in a way he hadn't expected, both of you flinching at his harsh tone.

You just stand there, not really sure what to say, as the words die in your throat and your brain goes blank of any of the thousands of things you've been dying to tell him over the past few weeks. After wishing for this moment for song long, months of longing and waiting and wishing, you're finally here, and you're floundering.

His eyes finally open to meet yours with a groan, as he blinks hard at the light pouring down the hallway, "I'll call you an Uber."

"what?"

"What?" he echoes back, though it sounds more like he's trying to defend himself from an accusation rather than ask a genuine question.

"You're kicking me out?"

"Is there a reason you're here?"

"We need to talk."

"Then talk," he says, his eyes intense as they stare at you, glossy with he effects of the alcohol as the storm of emotions swirl behind them.

"I don’t know what we’re doing," you force out, trying to keep your voice steady, even as it threatens to shake.

"That much is clear," he says as he forces a laugh, finally sitting up as he slumps over, head in his hands, as he rubs his face.

"Can you be serious?" you snap as you move forward, feet coming into his line of sight, even as he continues to avert his gaze from you.

"Can you just fucking tell me what's going on?"

"I like you!" you yell suddenly, the words coming out in a ramble of emotion, "I fucking like you ok? I like you and I've liked you for years now and I know you like me too but god you keep fucking pushing and pulling me and I don't know where I fucking stand."

He stays quiet.

"I don’t know what we’re doing," you continue, trying to keep your voice from rising further, "I don’t know if you’re trying to keep me close or push me away, or if you just want to have your cake and eat it too—"

"Don't make this about me being selfish," he cuts in sharply, jaw clenched.

"You are being selfish," you say, blinking back angry tears, "you've been selfish our entire friendship! I've liked you for so long and you fucking new that! You ruined any chance I had in highschool for a normal relationship, even fucking formal went to shit because you couldn't handle your emotions. Fuck and then you just stopped trying!" you say as the tears finally fall, "you fucking abandoned me when I needed you, you just stopped being my friend." Your chest heaves painfully as you begin to sob now, struggling to take in air as you feel a panic attack rise, "I turned up for you even when it was hard, I was always there."

"I never asked you to be," he spits, the venom in his voice shocking you as you watch him reach for the bottle of alcohol on the coffee table.

You watch him drink away his sorrows as he stands on shaky legs, pushing past you to walk away into the kitchen as you continue to sob in his living room, your head feeling dizzy as the room feels suffocating around you.

It's the kind of sentence that confirms all your worst fears, a gut punch that drives home the exact anxieties that plagued you for years when you thought about Jay. Once again, he has to remind you, your relationship exists on his terms.

You hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, glasses clattering that echoes violently in your ears as you shut your eyes, trying to force your breathing to return to normal. When you open them, he's standing there, watching you from the archway to the kitchen, swaying unsteadily on his feet as you continue to sob.

You don't know what to do, your eyes burn with tears as you both just stare at each other in silence, him, too scared to speak, and you, too heartbroken.

Finally, he says your name, soft and whispered as he moves forward to you, standing in front of you as he abandons the bottle of alcohol onto the couch. The apologies fumble out as he takes in the sight of you, crying like this in front of him, because of him, tears falling freely down his cheeks as he finally realises the extent of the damage he's done.

"I didn't mean that," he says gently, afraid to startle you, as he gently reaches for your hand, letting out a shaky breath of relief when you let him take your hand, "you know I didn't."

You just nod as you take his hand, forcing yourself to count your breaths as you calm yourself down.

"You're so important to me," he says softly as he steps closer, your bodies almost touching as the smell of alcohol on his breath invades your senses, "I've been a fucking awful friend to you."

"You have," you say softly, no real bite to your words even as you confirm his fears. As much as this hurts, as much as he hurts you, you know he didn't mean that, deep down he does care about you, years of friendship like the two of you had can't be faked.

"I want you," he confesses softly, "so badly. I have since school," he takes hold of your other hand, squeezing them comfortingly, "but I want to be good for you."

You nod softly as you shut your eyes, your breathing steady as you lean into his touch. "I want you to have everything you deserve," he continues, "and right now, I can't do that for you."

A tear runs down your cheek, "I can't wait forever."

"I won't make you," he promises, "just a little bit more time."

Lovely patient people who are interested in this: @jellybell92 @olive823 @schlattandcompany @imgayandvoreethatsall @aesthetixhoe @mads-hemmo @elliejell @schluttforschlatt @kyxmlii @stoneybun @lambyblurbsfics @fancy-fleur-blog @falseplastictrees @stupiddguitarwh0re @m4yjail3rr @nagisasugino

[ghqstwriter]

If you have the time to write this could you maybe write something where the Villain thinks they are under the influence of a love potion given to them by hero’s allies. That only seems to take effect every moment after they see hero. Feeling they are in love with them.

But when they confront the hero’s teammate they find out to their surprise that they gave only gave them a ‘speak your heart’ potion to get them to confess their crimes, they never thought or expected them to have feelings for their friend.

Coming to the shock and realization that they had indeed fallen for the hero on their own but had been ignoring it/suppressing it. Now they are at the point where they can’t deny it any longer. Thanks if you ever get around to writing it. Hope the rest of your day is wonderful and every other day forward!

The grip Villain had on the bathroom sink was rigid and firm; to say they were white-knuckled would be an honest understatement. It was a mistake to ever trust a hero, they should have learnt that by now. Supposed beacons of moral good who were willing to cut every corner in order to keep up with their supercilious reputation, that's all. Yet, here they were, teamed up with their worst enemies in order to stop a rogue hero who decided flattening the city sounded much more fun. And look where that got them: cowering away in a locked bathroom, fighting the urge to smash something.

They realised the drink had been spiked the moment they swallowed the first sip. It had activated instantly, as if the peculiar taste wasn't enough of a tell; the moment they looked up to see the hero, sat tidily across the table, they could feel their pulse begin to quicken uncontrollably. A fight or fight reaction to the drug, Villain had first thought, a hypothesis supported by their flushed demeanour and clammy palms. Even Hero noticed how sickly they looked. However, things took a concerning turn when they left to grab some water, and the symptoms suddenly stopped. Their heartbeat calmed the second Hero was out of range, though their mind still seemed to linger on that sculpted face.

A fucking love potion. It was unbelievable. Sure, it was obvious how little most of the team trusted the villain, but seriously? This was their way to make Villain behave? It wasn't the nature of the potion that irked them at this realisation (love potions seldom lasted long), but rather it was more about the ridiculous invasion of privacy, all because Villain couldn't be trusted to do the right thing for once. And so, they did what any reasonable person would do, and started yelling at the idiots who thought this was an immaculate masterplan. Rather honestly, actually. Surprisingly to even them, their words went a lot deeper into how they truly felt about betrayal than they'd planned.

But, then came the bombshell. As though Villain's day hadn't already been turned into enough of a minefield, Sidekick spoke up, sounding bewildered and almost amused. "We didn't give you a love potion, Villain. It was a truth serum of sorts, stops you from being able to hide stuff. Listen, we were worried you'd withhold information, you're a criminal after all. Plus, if it lasted longer than the mission took, we were, um, thinking we might be able to get a confession out of you. But, uh, looks like we might be getting a different type, I guess."

Villain didn't have a response for that. No amount of wit or sass could overcome the feeling amassing in their stomach, like an arrow went straight through them. They pitifully choked out a threat (one the team knew they couldn't be bluffing about) and promptly disappeared, headed straight to the nearest bathroom, hoping they could hide away behind a locked door until their hands ceased their trembling. Unfortunately, the universe was far from benevolent — especially to Villain, it so often seemed. It only took ten minutes until a visitor made their presence known, and consequently, Villain's heart began to hammer.

"Villain, are you in there? I just wanna check you're ok, you looked really sick earlier, did something happen?" Hero's voice sounded more than concerned, filled with the usual sympathy and compassion that Villain's heart began to melt at. Of course Hero had come to check on them. They were the only person in years who would meet Villain's eyes, with a gaze that lacked any trace of malice. The last true good samaritan left, they thought. Villain remained as silent as they could through their staggered breathing.

“Villain please, I can hear you in there, something’s wrong. If you don’t at least answer me, I’m gonna have to break the lock to make sure you don’t need emergency care.”

The only response Villain could manage was a scoff, though it wasn’t a hateful one. In the Hero’s eyes, Villain could be dying on the bathroom floor, drugged or having some sort of seizure, and yet they still sounded so guilty about the idea of invading their privacy. If only their moronic teammates were just a fraction of compentent and nice as Hero, maybe they wouldn’t be fighting the urge to double over and throw up. Deep down, a part of them wanted Hero to come in, console them attentively and reassure them. But, they knew that wouldn’t exactly help with their problem, so opted to keep their mouth firmly shut.

Villain heard their crush sigh worriedly on the other side of the oak door, before the noise of the lock snapping and the door slamming open resounded across the tight room. Before the criminal could even turn to face Hero, they had already sped towards the villain, who collapsed pathetically the instant Hero tried to wrap and arm around them. Unsurprisingly, the super caught them as their limbs came in, gently lowering them until the pair were on the ground, faces much closer than Villain was used to.

“What happened? Are you sick?” Hero questioned, free hand splayed against the villain’s feverish forehead, and the criminal quickly discovered a newfound problem with this godforsaken serum. It didn’t just stop the villain from lying: it meant they couldn’t hide anything either. They couldn’t omit anything if they tried. Their usual lies and dismissions echoed like a mantra in their head, as though they could convince themself that the truth was fabricated. I’m fine. I’m probably just sick. Must be stress. I’ll just sleep it off.

“Those birdbrained nitwits you call colleagues thought I’d be much more reliable drugged. Truth serum, they told me.” Villain blurted out, their voice wavering slightly as they tried to fight off the urge to confess anything and everything. Hero’s facial expression wasn’t replaced by confusion, but instead frustration. They hardly seemed shocked.

“Those idiots— I thought I convinced them to scrap that plan. I’m so sorry Villain, I don’t even know where they got the serum from. I’m worried this could all be a side effect, or worse, there could be something harmful in the ingredients. I’ll take you to Medic, we need to get this checked out—“

“No, no, we don’t need to do that. Please,” Villain interrupted, putting a temporary pause to Hero’s anxious rambling. They knew exactly why they were clamming up, why they felt as though they were on the verge of fainting into a pathetically yearning slump. Humiliation started to claw away at them, puncturing their lungs and gnawing at their windpipe. They couldn’t tell Hero they liked them, hell they’d only just realised they actually had a crush.

“I know you don’t like doctors, but if there was something else inside that vial that my team didn’t know about, we have to act fast, this could get ugly quickly. Plus, we don’t even have your medical records, there might be potential allergens, so please, Villain, let me take you to Medic,” Hero begged. Their voice was excruciatingly soft, and their tone was sickeningly genuine. Instinctively, Villain melted into their nemesis’ hold, looking up at their indescribable beauty wordlessly.

“This isn’t the serum, Hero. Well, it’s the serum but it’s not the serum. I’m not dying. I just— it’s just—“ It wasn’t that Villain was omitting the truth, trying to hide within a labyrinth of stammers and pauses. Their brain felt like it was shutting down, all language receptors powering off amidst a meltdown. They felt borderline delirious, barely able to string together a sentence without whimpering. They’d never been in love before, they’d no idea how horrific it could feel. Hero listened to their murmuring patiently, not wanting to ever rush them. A sweetheart, really.

It’s nothing, I’ll get over it. “I’ve never felt like this before.” Please just leave me alone. “Can you please just stay here?” I don’t want you here. “I don’t want to speak to medic, just you.” I don’t need you here. “I don’t know what to do with this, I need you.” I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. “It’s you.”

Hero was evidently speechless, seemingly trying to piece together the puzzle of just what was happening. As they spoke once again, they maneuvered both themself and the villain so that the two were more in more comfortable positions, although it meant that the already flustered Villain was practically in their hero’s lap. They could barely keep their eyes open, heartbeat desperately thrashing against its locked cage inside Villain’s ribs. They couldn’t do this, this felt extreme, even for a crush.

“Hey, hey. Villain, can you look at me? Trying to fight it will just make the pain worse, you got that? Tell me what’s wrong, and I can help you fix it, you know I can.” Hero’s hands gently cradled the jawline of the trembling villain.

“You’re too sweet, it’s killing me.” No, no. Absolutely not. We are not doing this on the bathroom floor. Get up, Villain, you idiot. “You’re so gentle with me, I can’t stand the thought of not seeing you. I never thought it mattered, the way you looked at me. But now, I don’t think I can ever stop noticing. I love you, Hero, I think I always have.”

The hero didn’t respond. Didn’t reject them, didn’t recoil away in disgust. Instead, they pulled the villain into a tight hug, burying their face into the criminal’s shoulder. Villain blinked for a few moments before everything seemed to click. Half an hour ago, they didn’t even realise they thought fondly of the superhero, but now, every realisation, every sweet sentiment, had bubbled up to the surface, and exploded from the sudden pressure.

“I like you too, Villain, more than I even thought I could care about a person. I’ll stay here, even when the serum has worn off, even when the mission is over, I promise,” they started, internally noting just how tightly their villain seemed to cling to them, like the hero would vanish if they loosened their grip for even a moment.

“But, as much as that explains a lot of what’s been happening with you, your symptoms are coming across as unusually severe. Crushes don’t usually do all of this. If there’s something unusual about the serum, we need to speak to Medic about it. I’ll be with you the whole time, I swear. They’re a lot nicer with me.” When Villain tilted their head upwards to look at the hero, their heart swelled with joy that almost nulled all the distress their body was going through. Almost.

Unfortunately, Hero was right to be worried. If they were the one who had been drugged, and their symptoms were showing to be severe, Villain would have likely imploded with sheer concern.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to Medic on these legs, would you mind ca—“ Villain stated shakily, yelping when their lover sweeped them off of the ground into a bridal carry, though it quickly shiften into a genuine laugh. Their cheeks became impossibly hotter, though their grip on Hero’s shirt loosened slightly as relaxation started to settle in. Truth be told (which seemed to be the pattern of the day), they didn’t mind if this truth serum made them sicker than a dog, because at least Hero would be there to hold them tightly from now on.

[lostatsea-blog]

maybe ona is dead set on being cold to lucy, but she softens when she sees lucy struggling with just the one crutch and she remembers it’s her fault. lucy of course is also remorseful of how she acted but shes actually not trying to flirt. yet she can’t help being a natural flirt. lucy being nervous mentions the age gap and ona gets more confused but understands lucys pov. maybe?

Thank you for your suggestion to help break my writers block. As requested the next part of Battle Lines.

Battle Lines Part 3

Lucy Bronze x Ona Battle

No warnings but the ending with get a little fluffy.

Lucy’s POV

I don’t know what came over me or why I asked her to dinner on a not - date (that I am hoping I can turn into a date) but now I am stood in front of my wardrobe wondering what the fuck I have to wear that is the appropriate level of dressed for a non-date – date but the thought of Ona believing that I hated her had been too much.

The truth is, I had been captivated by her since Lucy Staniforth’s wedding. Her perfect smile, the way she crinkles her eyes when she is being silly, the perfect definition in her jaw; it had all made my heart flutter like I was a teenager. While I had dated quite a few women, I did not remember the start of those relationships feeling like this. We had chatted for hours like we had known each other all our lives and when we had danced, feeling her athletic body pressed against mine had set my pulse racing. I wanted nothing more than to feel her writhing beneath me as I explored every inch of her perfect skin but I was brought back down to reality very quickly by my friend Jordan, who reminded me that there was an eight-year age gap between us. Ona was too young for me, at the start of her career with the whole world in front of her; I was at the end of my career with more baggage than a girl Ona’s age needed to deal with.

I settled on a pair of tight black jeans, a white button down shirt and a pair of black boots. Checking myself out in the mirror, I decided to take just one crutch. If the physio’s knew they would go mad but two would get in the way. I had one chance to convince Ona that I was not a complete and utter fucking psychopath with multiple personalities. I glance at the clock and grab my keys to go and get Ona. The thing about playing for Barca is they own an apartment complex and so all the players live in the same building. Ona lives two floors down so I start to hobble my way there.

Ona’s POV

I glance at the clock for what must be the sixth time in the last 10 minutes and feel a fluttering in my stomach. I don’t know why I am nervous, after the way she has behaved there is no way anything is going to happen between us. I am simply going to allow her to say whatever it is she wants to say. We play on the same team, in the same position, we need to be able to get along. Tonight is about sorting things out enough to have a good working relationship – nothing more. I glance at my outfit in the mirror. I had settled on a pair of light blue jeans, white fitted t-shirt and a white shirt over the top. I wish I could say I had picked it out without care but the destruction of my bedroom would tell a different story. I am pulled from my thoughts by a knock at my door and the sudden racing of my heart takes my breath away. My body is reacting against my will because after the last few weeks, I am not letting Lucy off the hook. I just need to fix things enough so that we can work together.

As I pull the door open, I am met with the widest smile and I have to fight with myself not to return it. Instead I give her a friendly hello and grab my keys so that we can leave.

“The uber is 5 minutes away” she tells me. I nod and head towards the stairs. When I reach the door, it takes me a minute to realise that Lucy is a good distance behind me. Looking back, I see her struggling with her crutch. It is then that it dawns on me, she only has one with her. I watch her approach, every step taking a great deal of effort and I am flooded with shame once again. She is struggling because of me, because of my reckless tackle.

“Can I help you” I ask softly watching her hobble while wanting nothing more than to wrap my arm around her waist and support her.

She looks up and smiles at me again “It’s okay, this is not my first time test driving these things” she jokes as she reaches me, “drives a bit slower than I like though.” I can not help the giggle that escapes but I clamp down on it and nod as we continue to make our way outside.  

The restaurant that Lucy has picked is an Italian ten minutes from the apartment building. I imagine if Lucy hadn’t of been injured we would have walked it and with that thought, guilt once again gnaws at my consciousness. I watch Lucy struggle with her crutch as she gets out of the uber and have to force my hands inside my pockets to stop myself reaching out. My plan to stay professional seems to be dwindling fast. There is just something so innately charming about the English woman that sneaks through all of my carefully constructed defences.

Once we are settled at the table, I have to ask her about the crutch and why she only has one. She pauses a minute and I get that signature Lucy Bronze smirk before she replies

“Well, I would usually prefer to not take any on a date but being able to walk was important” she joked. At the words date I feel my face blush and I know she sees it too by the way her green eyes twinkle. Trying to save myself, I clear my throat

“I never agreed to a date – This is just dinner between colleagues” I insist but the heat in my face is not in any rush to cool down.

“If you say so” she winks and my face is now on fire along with the rest of my body. Needing to break eye contact I stare down at my menu – this woman is going to kill me before the night is out.

Lucy’s POV

I would be lying if I said the pink hue currently covering Ona’s neck and face did not fill me with a sense of hope. I can tell that Ona is trying to stay detached and distant but this proves to me that I have some sort of effect on her which is a massive boost to my confidence. I can also see that she feels guilty about my movement. I have caught her watching me a couple of times tonight and she seems to be forcing herself not to react.

I love this place; I found it randomly one night when I had taken myself out for a walk. I had been struggling to adapt to my new home and needed some space to clear my head. When I had stepped in the people had been so friendly and it did not hurt that they had some of the best pasta I had tasted in my life. Once the drinks and food had been ordered (both of us opting for the seafood linguini), I turned my attention to Ona. While I had joked about it earlier, seeing her so out of sorts hurts my heart – This is not the woman I met at Lucy’s wedding. That Ona was confident, charming and unapologetically herself. I wish I could turn back the clocks and handle things differently but that wasn’t possible; all I could do was try and repair some of the damage. Without thinking I reach out and place my hand on her arm to still her nervous actions and she looks up startled not expecting the contact. She doesn’t pull away though and allows my hand to rest on her arm.

“I’m sorry is not enough Ona and I know that” I say with sincerity “That night at Lucy’s wedding, the connection that seemed to be building between us was something I have never experienced in my life”

“You did feel it” her voice is barely a whisper but I catch it. I know my actions the last few weeks would have caused her to second guess out entire interaction and I have that I have tarnished those memories for her.

I waited and searched for her eyes and once she was looking at me I nodded “I felt it” I confirmed because she deserved that knowledge “After we went out separate ways, I felt like a teenager with the biggest crush on a cute girl” my confession makes her blush and I know instantly that I want to spend the rest of my life making this woman blush like that.

“I would have welcomed your attention” she says softly “You were not the only teenager after that night”

“I know you would have and that is why I had to pull away” I sigh and she looked both angry and confused. Gone is the soft smile and gentle eyes replaced by a fiery Spanish temper. If possible she looks even more beautiful when she is angry.  

“That makes absolutely no sense” she throws her hands up in frustration breaking the contact we’d had “You liked me, you knew I liked you so you had to destroy it”

“Ona” I sigh “You are 24 and I am 32” I say this like my point is obvious and this will automatically help her to understand but I am very wrong and her fury just intensifies.  

“So? You think I am not aware of your age or mine?” she demands “What has that got to do with you treating me like shit for months”

“You don’t think that age gap is too big?” I ask “You are at the start of your career and I am at the end of mine. You need someone who is at the same stage of life as you, who you can experience all of your highs with. Ona you are going to be the best in the world one day and you deserve to have your partner right alongside you. I thought if I pushed you hard you would realise, I am not good for you and then just battle me for right back – I never imaged I would cause you to feel the way you do”

The speech comes out rambled and I can see many different emotions crossing her beautiful features at each stage of my explanation but when I am finished, she just seems sad and that worries me. Maybe I pushed too far and maybe I cannot salvage this.

Ona’s POV

As I listen to Lucy’s speech, I am confused by my reaction. To listen to her talk about the end of her career is hard but with starting clarity I realise that she thinks she is not good enough for me. She thinks that she will hold me back.

“Who gave you these ideas?” I challenge with defiance and it is her turn to be shocked by my response “who told you that you were too old for me?”

“No one, Ona it is just a fact” Lucy replies

“merda” I huff out and I am amused by the way Lucy’s eyes wides in surprise. I don’t swear often but this situation makes me want to swear “merda – who?” I demand “The Lucy I was speaking to at that wedding isn’t the one I have had to deal with for months and I deserve to know why”

“A couple of my friends pointed out that it was cradle snatching” Lucy admitted “It made me second guess myself. I felt like one of those pervy older people who goes for women far too young for them”

“Do I not get a say?” I challenge again and again Lucy is startled but I need her to realise that I am not some meek, love-struck teenager. I am quite stubborn and I know my own mind “Did you not think to ask ME how I felt about the age gap”

“If I’d have asked you out, would you have said yes?” Lucy asks, that fucking grin back on her face. The grin that exudes confidence of a woman who knows she is going to get what she wants and I realise that every smile, every grin, every touch, every wink and every second of prolonged eye contact has been moulding me to her will. She has my hand in her own and I feel her fingers gently stroke my palm. I nod my response unable to form the words.  

“What if I ask you out now, will you say yes?” her words echo in my mind and I am lost in her eyes. This is the Lucy that I met at Staniforth’s wedding; this is the Lucy I have been searching for these last few weeks

“I am here aren’t I” I reply softly and it is her turn to blush

“So, this is a date?” she teases

“It is now” I reply gripping her hand a little tighter, in no rush to break contact. I know there are things we still need to talk about. I know we cannot brush the last few weeks under the carpet but I will also not deny myself what my heart and mind so clearly want. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would ever be on a date with my teenage idol or that said person would be looking at me like they wanted to do unspeakable things to me. For now, we would have to see how this date went.  

[domesticgoddess22]

wish upon a cowboy

ch. 11 wild honey

pairing: raider!joel x fem!reader

rating: 18+ explicit MDNI

summary: you and joel start your long drive to wyoming. smut.warnings: age gap (early 20s/late 40s), praise kink, breeding kink, daddy kink (mostly just earlier chapters shut it down in the later chapters), unplanned pregnancy, unprotected piv, canon-typical violence, light choking, dom!Joel, softdom!Joel, angst, self-deprecation, dacryphilia, substance abuse, anxiety & ptsd

ch. 11 - 2.8k words

a/n: Sorry I haven't been able to update sooner <3 I'm going to be honest, I have been feeling overwhelmed with TLOU and not in a bad way because it's my everything, but I actually haven't watched the latest season yet and I'm not sure if I will because I am so sensitive. 3 Maybe one day.

masterlist | Ao3 | my booktower | wuac playlist

@orcasoul @guiltyaschargedmf @idrkman

Joel's POV

Joel was not a good man, and the fact that you kept reiterating that he was just proved how naive you really were.

The world was punishing him for his bad deeds, stacked like a mountain of wilted corpses that he’d lost count of. Soon he’d be one of them. Rotten fertilizer for rotten soil, that much he knew.

Something wasn’t right with his heart, he was convinced of the fact after the last few months of episodes he’d been having. Chest tight, heart racing a mile a minute, breathing ragged and panicked, like he was sucking the last air on earth through a punctured, plastic straw filled with coarse sand. 

Death was around the corner, lurking with yellow eyes against the desert’s barren, black canvas. His flashlight provided a beam of shaky light into the void, his other hand clutching his chest, bunching up the fabric of his flannel like he’d rip the pain out with his bare hands.

There was an inkling of worry that bloomed in the back of his mind whenever these episodes happened. That one of these days, it would send him to an early grave. 

Usually, the episodes passed after a few minutes.

He was beginning to seriously doubt his ability to protect you. Both you and the baby. And that thought consumed him every waking hour of every fucking day.

There was nothing more important to him than keeping you safe, which meant that surviving long enough to take you to Wyoming was his number one priority. 

After that, he’d let fate decide what to do with him. 

Just not yet.

****

“Hi.” You were gorgeous in the morning, wearing his t-shirt that barely covered your lower half. He loved the way you looked in the early hours. Hopeful, wide eyed with excitement for what the day would bring. 

“Mornin’. You get enough sleep?” He rumbled and when you sat up and tossed the blanked aside, it took strength for his eyes not to wander to your thighs, to think about what was between them.

Joel shifted his attention to roasting coffee on the firepit he built earlier that morning. The mundane activity does little to curb the swell of his already bulging cock.

“As much as I could get with as cold as it was last night. Without you.” He sensed the little jab at his unexplained absence, and it’d been something he was losing his knack for avoiding. “Where were you?” You asked, peering over his shoulder at the vast wasteland.

“Guardin’ the area.” A tight-lipped response, his eyes fixated on anything but your insistent gaze.

“Uhuh.” Whenever you were mad, your mouth would pucker up all small and cute. He tried not to laugh, knew it would only offend you and be misconstrued for more negligence on his end.

“I ain’t sleepin’ with anybody else if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I’d be shocked to hear if you stayed with anyone for the night. But hey, gotta hit it and quit it, right?”

“It ain’t like that–”

“Then what is it like, Joel?” He was never good at this part. The domestic, day-to-day swing of things in a relationship with a woman. The last time he was with a woman, as more than just a one night stand, was… decades ago. 

The memories played back in his mind like an old movie, edges wobbly and speckled, the sound of a film roll whirring in a vintage theater of his mind. Muffled shouting, broken glass, tears, all a recipe that baked into red ink splashed across eggshell white divorce papers, delivered in a harrowing manila envelope.

No one tells you the secret to keeping your wife happy. To keep her from leaving you for another man while you pick up the pieces of your lives, a fleeting afterthought for her while she embarked on a new adventure.

For him, he was left a broken man.

Not because she was the love of his life. He knew he didn’t feel the same way about her as he does with you now. But something about the way it all went down, seeing how fast his life could crumble like loose rubble on the edge of a cliff, made him feel hollow and lost. A bird with clipped wings.

After the divorce, he was alone for years. 

Well, sort of.

He didn’t let himself think too far into it.

Fast forward to the outbreak when it was just him and Tommy, he didn’t have to be careful about what he said or didn’t say to his brother. He just did what came naturally to him and Tommy would just accept it.

Until he didn’t.

Now he was at risk of fucking things up again. You being angry with him was reminding him of his past life. His fear of losing it all again, especially when you meant more to him than any woman he’d ever been with. 

He didn’t even want to imagine losing the baby. His child that you were carrying, belly already getting so swollen and round.

His mind wandered again, as it seemed to do when it came to you. To places he didn’t want to go, dark memories stashed in his mind, locked away in his own personal vault of failures.

Tiny fingers curled around a thick, calloused thumb. Pencil marks on the wall by the bathroom. Four foot five inches. Four foot eight inches. Four foot ten inches.

That would be the last one etched on his wall back in Austin, if time hadn’t erased it by now. Rain weathering the graphite markings until they bled down the wall, leaving behind a faded trail of gray rivers. History could not repeat itself. 

The storm could not come again, a lightning strike upon his life that left him in ruins.

He would do right by you, some way, somehow. Didn’t matter if he wasn’t going to stick around long, just meant he’d have to make the most of the time that he had.

Your legs dangled over the tailgate of the truck, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a waterfall of your hair cascading down your left side. 

Joel was in front of you now, taking your chin in his hand and tilting your head back until your eyes met his. “Hey, listen to me. ‘M right here, alright?” 

Looking into your eyes, it was like he held the sun in his hands, like he stole it from the world and kept it all to his greedy self like the grinch of summer.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” His heart spoke before his brain could, and he regretted it instantly. Stupid, stupid. Making promises he couldn’t keep. “Prove it.” You said, eyes still cold and sad but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, the mischievous little thing you were.

“Prove it?”

“Yeah. Sleep with me now and I’ll believe you. I’ll even forgive you for all the times you left me cold and alone.”

“Baby, we gotta keep movin’.”

“The sun’s barely up, we’ll be fine if we stick around for a few more hours.”

“As much as I want to fuck you again…” Joel chuckled to himself.

“I said sleep, not fuck, Joel.”

He clicked his tongue, pushing your legs apart gently so he could slot his groin against your warmth. “You know I don’t like stayin’ in one place for too long. ‘S dangerous when ‘s just the two of us.

“Please.” There was a syrupy lilt to your voice that Joel wasn’t able to resist. It soothed him, kept his worries at bay and tamed the rage that simmered inside him, threatening to boil over like an unwatched pot of soup. 

“Remember when you promised we’d stay at that cabin and then we didn’t?” You added playfully, firing his missteps back at him like ammo.

“Ya really know how to get your way, don’tcha? That always work for ya?”

“Maybe.” You sighed against his skin and he felt his cock jerk in his pants. “But you’re a difficult one. Never know what to expect with you.”

“Thought you’d know me by now.”

“In some ways, yes. In others, I’d say I hardly know a thing about you. Took you forever just to tell me how old you were.”

“Didn’t want ya to think I was a creep ‘s why,” Joel rumbled into your hair.

You pulled your face out from the crook of his neck and peered up at him, head tilted to the left with a puzzled expression lining your face. “And why on earth would I think that?” 

“Cuz I’m a lot older ‘n you. Was at war with myself if I should make a move on ya or not back then. Figured if I did, was better to keep you guessin’ my age. Maybe you’d knock a few years off.”

“What if I said I found old men sexy?”

“Older. Not old,” he corrected.

“Older.”

“I’d worry you had daddy issues or som’.” It was meant to be a playful remark, but there was a hint of concern in his tone. You never spoke much about your parents, about who they were, or how your life was with them behind the walls.

He didn’t ask either, he let you do the talking as usual, but you never scratched deeper than the surface. Other than your Grandma, he knew you were fond of her and your life from before, but he was itching to know more. Greedy.

Why you left the QZ was still a mystery to him. Well, he knew the place was a piss hole, but it still plagued him to know why a girl like you would up and leave all alone like that. 

“Who doesn’t?” You challenged, but the words were dry and bitter, falling out of your mouth in chunks like the disintegrated remnants of a 2001 Butterfinger.

“Never told me why ya left.” Testing the waters wasn’t all that bad to do, he decided. If you wanted to tell him, you would, if not, at least he left the door open. 

“I did tell you. There was nothing left for me there. You of all people should know that when you didn’t even wanna live there yourself.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… Dunno, darlin’, guess I just can’t wrap my head around why you’d risk gettin’ yourself killed like that. Ya had to of known ya weren’t prepared for life out here. Shit, if I had been any other man–I don’t even wanna think about what coulda happened to ya. Were ya… were ya runnin’ from someone–”

“I didn’t belong there,” you said curtly, stoking the fire of Joel’s curiosity even further with your tight-lipped reaction. Grumpiness was usually part of his script, not yours.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take ya word for it.” Joel pressed his lips to your forehead, stroking your hair, your back. “You’re right where ya belong now.”

Joel carried you to the truck cab and laid you down in the back. He tugged his t-shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him before climbing in beside you. 

The door clicked shut and the two of you were flush against each other, he’d taken your shirt off too, with a little playful protesting on your end, but he insisted that he wanted to feel your warmth, that it'd help him sleep.

Joel skin pressed to yours. Worn leather against a flawless tone and it made him feel old. Made him realize how young you were. How the two of you must look next to each other.

Tommy would be ashamed of him and what he’d done. 

There was no harm in enjoying you while he could, tasting you while he still had the chance, while you still let him since you didn’t know who he really was. You were naive, letting a–former?–hunter like him fuck you the way you had. 

An old hunter at that.

He’s killed a fuck load of people. Recently too, even though it was to help out Bill, which you seemed to be okay with, though he still would have done it without batting an eye, with or without your approval.

Pulling the trigger was as second nature to him as breathing. 

See, shoot, kill. 

Rinse and repeat.

Maybe that made him even worse than he thought, tricking you into thinking he wasn’t so bad. Keeping secrets about himself from you, like what he did for a living all these years, about what he was really doing outside the Austin QZ that day.

Watching the game of life and death, letting the players weed each other out so he didn’t have to do all the work. He was alone for a few months, after Tommy left and all his guys either kicked the bucket or betrayed him, Joel had to get savvy and hash out a different plan for raiding.

So he’d wait outside the QZ when inevitably a few of you would escape and make a break for it. 

They never lasted long. A gang would swoop in and wipe out any of the ants that left the farm, reaping whatever goodies they had from inside the walls, things that prove useful for those outside of them.

An enemy group would come in and fight for the rewards, and then they’d weed each other out and Joel would snipe them one-by-one from afar like little soda cans at a shooting range. 

Until he saw you through the lens of his scope, a helpless rabbit surrounded by hungry wolves with sharp grins. A switch went off in his head and he put his gun to work, aiming down his sight until each of them went down. 

You were still hurt, but it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

He held you close to him as the memories raced around his mind like a corralled horse.

“You aren’t sleepin’. Why?”

“Can’t relax.” 

“What would help you relax?” Soft hands stroked across the scruffy surface of his cheek and he smiled into your hand.

“You.” There wasn’t anything more beautiful, more comforting, than to have you by his side, feel the featherweight of your touch that settled his electrified nerves down to a soft buzz.

“I’m right here. You can rest now, Joel.”

“Not what I meant,” he rumbled darkly into the shell of your ear.

“Oh.”

It was amazing the effect you had on him, the frequent desire he felt in his jeans like he was going through a second puberty. 

“It calms me down,” he said with his lips pressed to the back of your shoulder. “But we don’t have to if ya don’t wanna.” 

“We can. If it’ll help you sleep then I’ll sacrifice myself for the greater good. But only if you promise to sleep right after.”

“I only wanna if you do. Want you to feel good.”

“I want it,” you whispered, giving Joel the greenlight, his tongue quickly tangling with yours, solidifying his debt to you now. A promise for a promise.

Summer rain and honey filled his lungs and he wondered how the hell you smelled so good all the time. The two of you hadn’t even had a bath since you left Bill’s. 

The soft pillows of your ass pressed against his groin and his hips bucked into yours.

Wandering hands slid under the fabric of your panties, gently tugging them down, down, down, all the way to your lower thighs.

Wet, sticky syrup coated his fingers tips. How you were so fucking soaked already was driving him insane.

Joel couldn’t wait anymore. Not this time.

He needed you.

Now.

He shoved his jeans off and slipped his cock into your folds and he sunk his teeth into your shoulder, swallowing the beastly groan that now sat in the pit of his stomach.

“That’s it, you can take it. ‘M gonna go nice ‘n slow–wanna feel you wrapped around me just like this.” Joel cooed into your ear. 

Teeth marks dotted the surface of your skin, places where he’d marked you with his love bites, scattering across your back like evidence of his love–his lust for you.

The early morning light spilled along the curves of your back, smooth and golden. Worn, sun-beaten hands holding your curves with bruising force, his hips jerking into yours as he drags your body onto his cock.

You were made for him.

Your soft whimpers melt into whines whenever he thrusts hard, bottoming out so deep he can feel your wet drip down his balls. He could stay there, like that, forever with you. Nestled between your thighs, forearm draped across your waist, right hand pressed to your throat.

Honey and summer rain. You smelled like a spring day in May, when the rain would stop and the sun would come out after the storm. 

You smelled like home. 

Felt like home when he poured himself into you, when he heard the sound of your moans begging him not to stop. Harder, more, please, Joel…

Ragged breaths steadied to a rhythmic flow, your breasts a comfortable weight in Joel’s hand as he fell asleep with you in his arms.

The trip could wait another day, for now, Joel would rest.

prev / next

[thepseudowoodo]

I am almost ready to get this up on AO3 and then start posting there concurrently with here. Won't that be something special.

Title: Measured With Blood

Rating: M for themes of canon-typical violence and sexual content

Summary: Hans reflects on his relationship with Henry and how it is viewed by the people around them.

Part 1 | Part 2 Part 3: Musa

The man Musa had, surprisingly, decided to stay with the pack when they moved from Suchdol back to the Devil’s Den. It was temporary, he assured them, as he made plans and arrangements to resume his travels through Bohemia. Hans sat with him at one of the tables inside, helping the man to gently dry the leather covers of the books they had been looking at together. They were laughing at being chased inside by a sudden rain shower when Henry joined them. 

“What’s all this then?” He asked, flopping down next to Hans so their arms brushed together, despite the table being otherwise entirely unoccupied. 

“Lord Capon and I were reading together when the rain began,” Musa chuckled, setting aside the last book with a sigh. “It was a bit of a rush to gather our things and bring them inside.”

Henry glanced out the front door as one of the alemaids darted in as well, and he whistled at the downpour. “Did you get everything in?”

“Aye, everything except our drinks,” Hans sighed. “Alas, the last of my good wine, all gone to water.”

Musa snorted. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around for Christians?”

The trio laughed, and Henry stood again with a sigh. “Well, rain or not, I have some work to do at the forge.”

“Ah, yes. The sword for your brother,” Musa said. “Have you started it yet?”

Henry nodded. “Aye, I’ve got the blade shaped, I think. I need to check it and get it looking nice now. Should be able to quench tomorrow. Maybe tonight if Tomas doesn’t need the forge.”

“It sounds like a lot of work. Do not let us keep you, friend.”

Henry dropped his hand onto Hans’ shoulder briefly, and Hans felt the warmth of it radiating through his entire body. They waved goodbye as he set off for the inner yard door, and Hans struggled not to let his gaze linger too long on the retreating form. 

“I didn’t know he was forging a blade,” he said. He was proud at how casual he sounded. 

“Yes, for Samuel. He lost his when the Frenchman took him captive.”

Hans hummed, reaching for the book he had been leafing through before their retreat. “A thoughtful gift.”

“I don’t know their situation well, but Henry seems to think it will have some special meaning, if he forges the blade himself. Beyond the normal gratitude for work well done, that is,” Musa added, leaning his chin in one hand with his elbow on the table. 

“Henry’s adoptive father is Samuel’s blood father,” Hans said with a shrug, “though Samuel never knew him. Martin - that was his name - is the one who taught Henry everything he knows about smithing. A sword he forges is the closest Samuel will probably ever get to having something made by his father.”

“Truly?” Musa seemed surprised. “He never mentioned any of that, simply said he wanted Sam to have something well-made.”

With a sigh, Hans closed the book again, knowing now that the two of them were well out of their studies now. “I think it bothers Henry, that Samuel never got to know his father. He wants to share what he can with him.”

Musa’s teeth flashed intimidatingly white against his dark face when he grinned. “You know your man well,” he said, eyes slanting in a tease. 

“We’ve been living out of each other’s pockets for weeks now,” Hans spluttered, feeling a flush bloom on his cheeks. The way Musa had said your man had sounded a particular sort of way, even accounting for his heavily accented Czech. “And even before everything went all to shit, I’d like to think we were-”

“Were…?” The other man prompted when it became clear that Hans wasn’t going to finish the thought. 

“Were… I’d like to think we were… friendly.”

“Friendly.” Hans couldn’t identify the tone, but he was sure skepticism was part of it. 

“Yes, friendly.”

“Just friendly? Not… friends?”

“I-” Hans froze like a deer spotting a hunter, and it took several seconds for him to recover himself. “He was- is my closest friend. Even then. But I wouldn’t dare to speak for his feelings at the time. I’m afraid I was quite the abominable prick not so long ago.”

Musa laughed uproariously. “You are of a pair, you and Henry,” he said through his laughter. “I am glad he has you.”

Hans didn’t really know what that meant, and he said so. Musa just grinned at him again. “Henry told me something similar one day when we were stuck in that fortress. He claims you are his best friend, and although he hated you dearly at first it did not last long.”

“Yes, well, the feeling is mutual then. My guardian gave him to me as a page to spite us both.” 

The black man’s eyebrows rose. “He said it was not duty to serve you.”

The memories of all the times Henry had reassured Hans of the same thing brought heat to his rain-cooled skin. “He claims that now, but when he first joined my service, it was against both our desires.”

“And yet, such an unhappy beginning has come to such a pleasant ending. It makes me glad,” Musa replied, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Henry has rapidly become a treasured friend of mine, and I am relieved that he has someone so dear to him at his side. You must take care of that man, he is truly a rare creature.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hans replied, glowing with pride at this praise for Henry. “He’s saved my life more times than I can count.”

“His heart is good and strong. I am a coward, and proud of it, But I have watched him leap feet-first into everything he does. And somehow, he always manages to land.” 

And again, though none of the praise was directed at him, Hans felt his chest swelling with pride. It was true, everything Musa said. Henry’s heart was golden, with a core of steel. Beautiful and shining, and strong to its very depths. Hans felt honored to have watched that heart rise from the despair Henry had gone through, to have it directed towards him, sharing Henry’s light with him. “Watching him is like staring at the sun, sometimes,” Hans said finally, fiddling with the cover of the book in front of him. “Or it feels that way, sometimes. Henry is like the sun, and everyone around him is just a moon, a mirror reflecting the light he produces.”

Musa nodded slowly. “Except that he shines brightest next to you.”

Hans blinked. “What?”

“You two are like mirrors, reflecting the bond between you. And a light caught by not one, but two mirrors?” Musa smiled with his entire face, an expression that Hans found charming in the extreme due in no small part to the dearth of people who ever showed him expressions like it. “That light shines much, much farther than it would on its own.”

Hans chuckled. “Yes, well. I suppose it comes from always trying to best each other.”

“I think it comes from trying to be the best for each other. A bond so pure and strong is rare these days, and it pleases me to know that there are still men who can find such strength in each other. Like the minstrel stories, yes? It is very… What is the word I want… knightly! It is a very knightly brotherhood.”

“Knightly! Yes, of course,” Hans’ tried to laugh over his sudden nerves. How had this man struck so immediately upon the heart of his feelings? So near the truth, just barely missing it. He felt the sudden urge to change the subject, unsure of where the conversation might go if it continued the way it was. “But- but surely you’ve seen friendships like ours before? You’ve traveled so far! Tell me some of the stories of where you’ve been.”

“Ahhh, my friend. Let me tell you of the Sultan’s palace…”

[end part 3]

[fungi-maestro]

Questionable Images 1/2 - The Question #8 (1987)

[bestfluteninja]

my roommate told me to stop thinking of myself as embarrassing for this and to be kinder to myself about it and she’s right but damn that thought pathway is well-worn

[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

[hellokittyish]

part one here.

★ thinking about mutual masturbation on facetime with ex!satoru which starts off with you just staring at him in some sort of daze, wondering what on earth possessed you to pick up the call in the first place. this is a mistake, you know that... so why aren't you hanging up already?

but before you can dwell too long on the answer to that question, your train of thought is rudely interrupted by a particularly loud moan echoing through the speaker.

“mmh… you actually didn’t decline for once," the white-haired menace gasps out, the slick sounds of his hand gliding up and down his cock only picking up in volume as he lays eyes on you. “shit— you don't know how much i've missed seein’ that pretty face of yours, baby.”

“you’re so shameless, satoru.” you mutter, lacing your tone with as much disdain as you can muster; but the way your own hand somehow snakes its way beneath the waistband of your sweatpants and into your panties tells an entirely different tale of how this whole situation is really making you feel.

“yeah,” he muses in an unapologetic hum, making a show of tilting the camera down to give you a better view of where he's currently thumbing his leaky, blushing tip. “but… ah— so are you, otherwise you would’ve blocked my new number the second i sent you that dick pic.”

“w-well how do you know i wasn't about to press the block button right when you called me and i accidentally clicked accept instead?” you shoot back through teeth which are clenched partly in annoyance and partly in an effort to hold back letting your own pleasure show on your face.

“nah, don’t give me that bullshit,” satoru snorts amusedly, leaning in closer to the screen and tilting his head to the side, snowy lashes fluttering seductively as his bright eyes stare knowingly into yours. “if you’re not enjoying this, then i want you to show me that your hands aren’t in your pants right now rubbing that pretty little pussy.”

shit. of course he'd be able to see through you that easily — he is your ex, after all. but no... you can’t let him win just yet. so, as subtly as possible, you pull your hand from your panties and hold it up to the phone screen, hoping against hope that the darkness of your room hides the wetness of your palm.

“hah. nice try, baby,” he drawls smugly, smiling so wide now that both of his annoyingly cute dimples are on full display; and it’s deliberate, too. he knows full well they were always your weakness. “...but i can see your sweet juices coating those cute fingers from here.”

and he knows he has you right where he wants you when you still don't hang up the call like you both know you should, instead just shoving your hand right back into your panties and rubbing messy circles over your clit while keeping direct eye-contact with him — trying to beat him at his own game, are you? oh, how he's missed you.

so he picks up the pace of his jostling fist around his cock, candy-pink lower lip caught between his pearly teeth as he tries to catch even a small glimpse of your bare skin through the screen; and god, only you could make him act this pathetic, this desperate. "fuck... please, pretty, y'gotta give me something to work with here. h-how about you pull your top up just a little for toru, hm?"

and you've already let this escalate too far to back out now, so you decide to throw caution to the wind and tug at the edge of your oversized tee just enough so that your bare tits spring free, courtesy to your preference for not wearing a bra around your apartment.

"o-oh, just look at those. i missed my girls s'much. bet you wish they were in my mouth right now, huh?" satoru rasps out, balls tightening to an almost painful degree as he reaches down to pay the heavy, neglected sacs some attention by gently fondling them.

and you, having finally caved and slid a finger into your fluttering hole, can only respond with a soft whine as you reach up to knead a breast with your free hand, the image of his skilled mouth suckling on them like he always used to making your much-too-empty cunt clench around your digit with need.

and that singular sweet, sweet sound from your lips that he's been deprived of hearing for months is all it takes for him to finally bust a load all over his chest and hand, goopy white streaks tainting his previously unmarred pale skin as his entire body trembles with a pleasure only you can give him.

and when he eventually manages to compose himself enough to glance back down at the facetime and realize that you're still trying to reach your own climax, your meek little fingers clearly not enough to finish the job, satoru has the absolute audacity to lean right in close to the screen and mutter out a cheeky…

“hey, if y'want me to come over and help you with that then all you gotta do is agree to get back together with me, baby.”

taglist: @haruhatake @sheismaryy @jxeon @bonneyzsk @yozora7154 @depositodeporradogojo @ifyournameischoisanpleaseloveme @anthy-j-ander @sugarcoatedsoul @moncher-ire @fwxyz00 @trishiepo0 @just-lilita @beenathembo @channnee @tul1ps1 @awoodsysimp411 @vera4luv @silllly-jokesterr @mastermasterlist1p1 @yourfaveava @rllyobsessedgirlie @cherrycel @tomiokas-lunchbox @iwaizumisloverrr @citruswriter @jasminelee324 @kocho-catt @azewritessillystuff @suggestmename @greentea-ellie @banksxxnik @feelingtoosilly @nepotti @nonamevenus @barking4dogs-fy @mihoonz @crazytrash @phoenixflames498 @starlightmid @k0z3me @cakenpiewhyohmy @wh1msycal @resfrio @ersharyzst @loveyislost @supernovacoffeestop @ying47

[icewindandboringhorror]

Other Misc. Rambling Thoughts on the topic:

(~ !!!!!!!!! if you're just reblogging this post for the Poll section, please reblog the original post without this addition* lol. ~)

(*not that there's anything super personal or weird about the addition, just that it's meant to be kind of casual Side Commentary, not really part of the Main Point Of The Poll, so it would feel kind of weird for it to be emphasized by being included in reblogs unless the reblogs were explicitly about the side commentary, etc..... if that makes sense.. ANYWAY!)

It's neat to read the written descriptions that people are mentioning in the tags, since it's almost like I can see or conceptualize the idea as well, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING it.

Like for example: I can imagine a vase, it's a muted mint green and slightly translucent, elaborate golden birds sprawled down the side in streaks of thin rough watery paint, the base material shimmers gently in the light, there's a small chip where it's cracked on the handle, etc, etc. .. But as I'm thinking about this I see literally nothing.

It seems like perhaps some people can visualize an object first, and THEN describe what they see. But I sort of work backwards. I am building the object in my mind, I can never see it, but it's a collection of concepts. Rather than visualizing all details as a whole at once, I am adding each detail one by one, building onto the IDEA of the thing.

The vase doesn't have a crack on the handle because I just automatically visualized a vase with a crack. It was more that I cognitively understand the concept of a vase, what they tend to be made out of, how they tend to look and feel, the properties they have. So based purely on that knowledge, I can imagine "a chip is something that a vase could have, it would look this way and behave this way" - more like... I'm constructing a bullet point Fact List about the object rather than seeing it.

So if you tell me to imagine an object, I can, in a way, imagine that object in great detail, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING those details, more just knowing it's qualities in a purely conceptual way. Sometimes in the tags when people are like "yeah I can see the skin of the apple, texture, little dots on the surface" it's like… I can imagine that too, I can know it's there, but just with no visual attached.

I guess rather than SEEING something and going ''ah. I know what this looks like because I have seen it''. I more just skip that visual step entirely and go ''I know what this looks like, I just randomly have a list of information about the concept in my mind.'' etc. Maybe similar to how sometimes in dreams, even though a house may look completely different and be in an entirely fake 'dreamlike' environment, you just somehow KNOW intuitively that it's meant to be your childhood home or something. Even when it looks nothing like it in reality. There's a built-in base knowledge of the properties or information of some things within a dreaming mind, etc.

--

This also makes me wonder about like.. how storytelling and myth is so important to cultures all across time. Or how this could tie also into concepts of religion.. etc. etc. If so many people really can kind of conjure these vivid images in their mind, then maybe that's part of why certain things are so meaningful to them? Like a "religious experience" being something you can actually really SEE/feel/lingering with you in your head, rather than just abstract words on a page, detached purely theoretical ideas, etc... hmmm

.

Plus also just for average emotional stuff too, even outside of broader cultural conceptual attachments..

Like, I don't think there's a direct 1 to 1 link (obviously not all people with mental illnesses that significantly reduce their emotional or expressive capacity also MUST have aphantasia or vice versa), but it's interesting as someone who DOES also have a much more lessened emotional range/pretty flat affect/etc. etc. to think like.. Maybe I WOULD be more emotional, in a way, if I could have these vivid experiences..?

Perhaps memories would hold deeper significance if they could really stay with me vividly. Or storytelling would evoke more of a deep emotional reaction to me if I could really picture and feel the things that are going on. If things were more TANGIBLE in my brain, rather than always merely conceptual highly abstracted ideas.

Kind of like, it's probably easier to get over the death of a pet or something, if after not seeing them for an hour you already don't remember what they looked like (beyond just a vague fact list of traits), and you have no vivid memories or mental reminders of them (beyond just factual information stores). COGNTIVIELY you can appreciate the idea of their absence, of course, you still miss them, but there's just no remaining visceral sensory ties. A very "out of sight, out of mind" sort of thing in terms of attachments, memories, emotions, etc. Maybe certain things are easier to "get over", when you're not having constant mental sensory reminders that occasionally rekindle your feelings about the event or etc.??

(like for example, maybe someone could remain angry about an argument longer if they could vividly replay it in their head over and over again. VS just like.. 'Yes I can factually recall the fact I had an argument, and I do have knowledge stored about what precisely was said, but any sort of sensory data such as sights/smells/feelings, etc. from the actual moment of the event are long gone and can never be conjured again in my mind." etc.)

Which again, I think lessened emotional permanence and image permanence in the mind are NOT inherently linked, can all be caused by different things for different people. And, since I can't visualize anything in my head, maybe I'm misunderstanding how it happens and the effect it may have on stuff like remembering things you miss or replaying arguments, etc. etc. But it's still a little interesting to think about, if they could influence each other to some degree.... :0c --

Lastly, It's also weird because I'm actually pretty good at estimating distance and spaces? I can quickly assemble furniture without an instruction manual, pretty easily have a concept of how much space a chair may take up in a room, how two mechanical parts might fit together - BUT, I am literally not actually visualizing anything. I cannot see 3D objects in my mind at ALL. It's like.. just based on the pure List Of Facts About Things Which I Have Observed.. I can intuitively go "oh this works like this/this is this size" just because.. I know it's that size. I don't have to see anything to know..?

But then on the other hand, I'm terrible at directions without a map (I guess because a 3d outdoor environment has WAY more complexity than like.. "Will this square fit into another square?"etc. lol ).

BUT, I also draw/sculpt/etc. entirely without references, and seem to do mostly okay at that..? Like.. I can't even remember the last time I actually used a reference or looked at anything whilst drawing. It's all muscle memory, and me just adjusting as I go until something "looks right" on paper, I never have a set image in my head (or external reference) before hand.. Hrmm....

AND.. I used to say that I had a photographic memory when I was younger, which I know NOW is not true (I always thought it was just an expression, not that people could literally see things in a photographic way). But what I was describing is, I do often associate information with imagery, just... without imagery....

Like "Oh, I know that I took my medicine earlier today because I have a distinct memory, a snapshot of a moment in time, of me rattling the pill bottle in my hands as I looked up at a stop sign while in the back seat of a car". When I say this, I can't ACTUALLY see/feel/hear a pill bottle, or vividly picture a stop sign, but it's more just a factual recall, of. Even though I don't see these things, I know they happened, the information of them happening (me hearing a sound and also looking at a stop sign at the same time) has been stored in my brain as a memory, a collection of linked facts. --

As for other senses, I cannot taste or feel anything in my head AT ALL.. wild that some people mention that. I mean, again, I can have a purely factual recall as if reading a textbook, knowing the information of 'X item typically has X texture, therefore I can imagine what it may be like to feel it' or 'X usually has this taste' etc. - but I can never actually experience those senses in any capacity in my mind alone. I would say audio is my strongest mental sense (maybe a 2.5 or 3 (if it were translated onto the above scale where 1 is most vivid and 5 is nothing)), then visual (4.5 at most, usually 5), and then taste and smell and such are just complete 5, absolutely nothing, I didn't even know people could experience taste or feeling just in their mind alone.. lol...

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[fluoneia]

pitfighter!vi knew it was bad to be indulging in something like a whorehouse, yet, she found herself at babettes often since she starting fighting in the ring.

usually, it was a quick in and out, but this time, she heard of a new worker. since the others started declining her because they were too rough with them, she decided to take the chances with you.

she drunkenly stumbled into babette’s place, grabbing onto the doorframe to steady herself.

that’s when she saw you. standing there, all pretty in nothing but pink.

vi’s eyes widen. she sees you talking to babette, no doubt starting as a worker there. vi chuckles to herself as she thinks, oh, i’m having fun tonight.

vi stumbles forward, grimacing as her shoulder hits the wall. she walks forward, leaning against the front desk.

“hey, babette.” vi slurs. she turns her glance to you, peering you up and down. her hungry, raw eyes make a shiver go down your spine. her badly-dyed black hair, ends pink, like how you assumed her hair used to look. she had bruises on her face, blood stained on her lip.

you gasp.

“hey, beautiful.” the girl rasps.

“vi.” babette says calmly, “i’m afraid.. you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

“what?” she turns to babette. “why?”

“well.. none of my girls will take you anymore. if i mention your name, they instantly say no.”

what the hell could this girl have done that makes it so every girl would decline her? money is money, you thought. and this girl seems willing to pay it.

“that’s bullshit.” she scoffed, slapping her palm on the desk. “bunch of wimps.”

“that’s precisely why, violet.” babette shakes her head. and her name is so.. un-fitting, you think. maybe the girl she was before, the girl with pink hair, was violet. but, this didn’t seem like a girl who deserved the honour to be named after things as delicate as flowers. but then again, you never liked delicate girls.

“i will.” you speak up. you straighten your back.

the girl— vi, turns to you. she eyes you up and down. and she reeks of alcohol, but, you could overlook that.

truth be told, you wanted to see what she would do that the others that made them not want to take her as a client anymore. you wanted to see what she could do.

“will you?” vi leans toward you. you smell the alcohol on her tongue. what made her this confident.. and if she can back it up?

and babette gives you a look. “alright. goodluck, then.” she snorts, leaning back.

you glance back toward vi. her eyes are staring at you like she can see underneath your clothes. undressing you with her eyes. and you wonder how she could look so damn hot.

red jacket. black hair. face-paint on her face. the way she held herself was so.. unreal. she knew she was attractive, and that’s what made her even more attractive.

you hadn’t had a good fuck in a while. at your old brothel, it was nothing but smelly, old, beer-bellied men, often from piltover looking for the thrill on cheating on their wives.

so, you hoped, maybe, just maybe, her reputation holds up, and you can just.. let yourself go.

oh, and boy, was she able to hold it.

you were writhing. your legs shaking, wrapped around her head as she eats you out like you’re a damned feast on christmas eve.

“o-oh, gods!” you’d scream, hands digging into her black hair, gripping and pulling her scalp. vi whines against you as you pull and tug, your plush, soft thighs wrapped so tightly around your head.

her fingers curl inside of you, only adding to the pure euphoria you feel. you’d fully forgotten everything— nothing mattered but vi’s tongue on you, licking through your folds, tasting you, feasting on you.

“ugh— fuck!” you whine, head throwing back against the pillow. the smoke of the candle around you, earthy scent only adding to the fog in your head.

how could anyone pass up on this? you’d think as her tongue brings you to your fourth orgasm of the night. your voice cracks from the sounds you’ve been making, no longer caring about how people might hear you. you’re too far gone to care.

“that’s it,” you hear vi whisper, voice vibrating against your skin in the most pleasurable way as it could. her voice was rasped, so drunk on your taste that she swore she’d never tasted better pussy before she met you.

“vi, vi, vi—“ you chant her name like a damn mantra as her hands tighten on your hips, dragging you toward her as you begin to pull away.

“oh, fuck, s’too much!” your voice slurs, her tongue chasing you as you pull back.

but that wasn’t true. you wanted this, you wanted more then this, you wanted to be treated so well that you forgot your own name.

she takes a second, pulls her head away, and you sigh in relief. “you asked for this.” she says, before running her tongue along your folds, your hips jerking at the sudden stimulation.

she placed a kiss against you, before pulling back, running a hand over her hair, inhaling a deep breath.

yet, her hands don’t pull away. she smiles a toothy smile as her fingers begun rubbing small, long circles over your most sensitive spot, leaning toward you.

“mmf, vi.” you cry, eyes opening to peer up at her. you don’t realize the tear running down your temple before she wipes it away.

“so beautiful.” vi gasped, fingers dipping inside you only to move back up. you cry out, legs shutting against her hand, preventing her from moving her hands any further.

but, her eyes darken, and her other hand rips your leg to the side, pinning it to the side of the bed.

“don’t do that.” she nearly damn growled, “do that again, and you’re only getting it worse.”

she leans toward you, eyes glancing all over your body, at the plush of your stomach, so soft, and twitching, pushing up from the bed, leaning into her touch despite your protests.

“ohmygod!” you whine. “fuck, oh my god!”

everything around you was so hazy. so foggy, so unreal. her hands were unreal, so laced with skill it almost drove you insane.

“said you can take it.” vi’s slurred voice only brings you more into the spiral of your own pleasure. her lips find your neck, placing sloppy, open mouthed kisses on your skin. her teeth nip at your neck, grazing against your skin, and it’s such a sweet gesture if you weren’t so out of it.

the feeling makes your skin set ablaze, prickles all over your body.

“you can take another. can’t you? hm?” she hums against you as her slender fingers dip back into you, curling, pressing against that spot she now knew drove you absolutely crazy.

and you whimper and whine, but you don’t protest. you wanted this. that’s all you’ve wanted for years. someone who can keep up with your stamina, your needs.

and vi not only meets that, but surpasses it. you swore she was between your legs for three hours and didn’t move once to breathe.

she was so enveloped in you. and that’s what you need.

her fingers rile you up, ignoring the absolute ache of your core, your whole entire body. you relished in the fact that you’d probably be here all night, but that’s what you wanted.

and as you feel your stomach untwist, that knot release, your vision goes fucking white from the searing, hot pleasure through your whole body.

“ohm—“ you cry, chest heaving as her fingers work you through your orgasm, slowly, yet continuing to abuse your bruised spot that she’d been hitting all night. “fuck, fuck! fuck me, oh my god!” you cry, gasping for air.

your arms throw around her, pulling her against you, entire body curling into her, legs clamping around her hand. your body shook, your nerves feeling like they were alive, and they would never die.

and finally, she stops.

you gasp a satisfied breath of air, mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut before she finally lets her hand slip away from you.

her hands glide up your body, stopping at your hips before she hauls you over her own body. her hand rests on your back, her own breath heavy as she tries to regain herself.

“you’re amazing.” she whispers against your hair. you freeze, taken aback by the sudden intimacy, but you let yourself melt into her, both not having the will or the strength to pull away from her.

“you’re fucking amazing.”

and slowly, you laugh. you glance toward her.

“are you.. are you done?” you say quietly, timidly.

she cocks a brow. “do you not want me to be?”

you shake your head. “no, no..” you inhale a deep breath, hand moving to take one of the strands in her hair in your palm. “for now, im done.” you snort as you shake your head, body still compelling from the previous orgasms. “but..”

“but?” she hums, hand moving to grab the plush of your ass, before running up your back. you gasp at the crude gesture.

but, you shake it off.

“you.. you haven’t let me touch you at all.” you say, shakingly pushing yourself up, resting your palms on her chest.

you let your hair spill over your face as you move closer, lips hovering just above hers.

“yeah. that’s not what i’m here for.”

vi gasps a breath of air. she brings herself closer, hands resting on your hips.

“that’s what you paid me for.” i cock a brow, before laughing and pressing kisses along her jaw, up to the corner of her mouth, testing the waters.

you smirk, you hand moving down to her jacket, slowly pulling it away.

“let me do my job. huh?”

“fine. but you’re not getting anything out of me. i give. i don’t receive.”

“you underestimate me.” you smile against her lips. “i’ve been in this business for years. i know how to pleasure a woman, vi.”

she pushes herself up, nose touching eachothers.

“we’ll see about that, cupcake.”

vi left the brothel feeling like a new person. all she could think was, what the fuck?

she clears her throat as she passes by babette, not daring to look at her as she struggles to stand on her shaking legs.

she discovered something about herself she never thought she would that night. and oh, she’d definitely be coming back if that meant you were there.

a/n. for @obivari :,)) more info on my taglist here

part 2 here.

[miyaz6ki]

kiss him to shut him up ☆

summary. literally the title.

director's note. greetings disciples, i feel as though I have been FLOPPING!! so have something I'm frfr proud of, happy 1.5k disciples!

pairings. albedo, alhaitham, capitano, childe, wriothesley, neuvillette, dainsleif, diluc, xiao, kinich

warnings. kissing n all that sap (yuck), fluff/suggestive

albedo is busy talking to you about his latest experiments, wrapping his jacket around you to ensure you don't get cold while resting at his lab. maybe he didn't notice the sneaky glances you set from his ocean eyes to his lips.

"and so... it basically recreated a somewhat circle of-" peck! ... "huh?"

he doesn't which feeling is more dominant; flushed or confused. yet he won't complain too much, displaying a simple smile as he slowly blinks with confusion, lovingly at least.

alhaitham happened to be ranting about a drunkard he spotted at the bar he and his friends (cyno, tighnari, & kaveh) went to while playing TCG, cyno's treat.

but when it truly sinks in that you had just kissed him, he wished you had kept it for a little longer. honestly was very close to leaning back in and letting it lead to something else, but he wouldn't let his pride down. deciding on giving a smirk, and poking one of your cheeks.

"what was that for, hmm?"

capitano is secretly someone who talks a ton when you get to know him despite his cold exterior, he's very fond of getting to tell you about his day, not being able to necessarily tell anyone (other than pierro)

before you could pull away from the simple peck on his crusted lips- it's almost immediate that he pulls you back in, giving you barely any time to breathe. simply leaning in more to the kiss, a hand behind your head grasping your hair to prevent you from getting away. it's alright, he loves a chase.

"trying to tease me, my love?" a deep, dark chuckle emits from his raspy throat as he runs a hand down your spine, from your scalp to your back, his eyes pierced you with love.

childe is sooo obviously cheeky about this, his teasing is inevitable when you're the one initiating this. yet he finds himself so stunned from the whole thing, he could feel the blush creep up from his neck already.

he was busy telling you about his previous adventures, trying to impress you and show off his strength, yet the only thing he was able to see from how you looked at him, you were set on your lips on his.

"a- ahh... ahem. feeling uhh... bold i see."

wriothesley is in the category of chasing your lips, trying to immediately reel you back into the peck you caused. pulling you in by your waist so you can't escape his touch. he can't say he wasn't used to your teasing, but this time he wanted you to taste your own medicine.

holding you close, until the very line of saliva that connected both of your lips finally broke apart, it was your turn to be flushed with embarrassment.

"oh, look who's all blushy now."

neuvillette is the one who's stunned this time, yet his hands trail back to yours before you can step away a little too far, his eyes telling you everything that you need to know.

"don't run away now, c'mon..."

his smile was soft and genuine, he felt himself trying to lean in further into your touch, so he could stay asleep forever in your arms. he lands another kiss on your lips. he loves to express how much he loves you, yet he doesn't know how to apply and put it out there.

dainsleif found himself leaning back in almost immediately, he didn't wanna run away from you giving him affection out of everything. his cold fingertips trailing up your nape, a soft grasp on your hair (a bold move indeed!)

"...is that the berry flavored chapstick i bought you last week?"

he loves to notice the little things on you, he knows you appreciate it as well, a loving smile, his eyes equally just as loving, staring at you, and only you.

diluc won't admit the deep-seated embarrassment that envelops him. at first, the warm flush spread from his neck to his cheeks, yet he could notice the very same for you. trying to play it cool, his arm that encircles your waist, drawing you in with a tender grip.

"i suppose this isn’t how I imagined our evening would go,"

his voice was strained, maybe his paperwork could wait till later.

kinich is one of those who pulls you in by the waist, yet finds himself almost too flushed to go through with it. not that he doesn't want to, he's scared that you wouldn't want the same, yet he finds himself leaning in the same way you were, just to taste you again.

"leaving me so soon, you're mean."

ajaw calls you both corny as he comes back from a little walk (with certified dog walker mualani). you could hear a "human! take me back to where we whence came!" (the springs nearby) as you let out a chuckle. a sigh from kinich, he'll have to train him to be a little nicer.

xiao can barely comprehend what you just did. his cheeks flushed with teal. and to give context, it's canon that xiao's blood/insides are all teal- so when he blushes, it's teal, I did a bit of research on this :P but think of it how you will!

he argued that you shouldn't go out tonight, he can handle himself! yet... maybe your little kiss was a little.. maybe very convincing.

"y- you think this will change my mind about all of this, huh?"

[bloomseishiro]

A SURPRISE VISIT — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — you decide to surprise your fiancé while he is doing a photoshoot for a brand he works with. the director and photographer never even knew rin could smile in such a way...

itoshi rin x reader. fluff, pro soccer player!rin, y’all are like mid-twenties here, established relationship, sunshine x grumpy vibes :> 

word count. 1.3k

It’s not often you are able to visit Rin while he’s working. Given the nature of his job, he spends most of his time traveling around for away games and matches outside of Japan.

Today, however, Rin is in town for a photoshoot with a local luxury brand and you decide that is the perfect opportunity. for you to surprise him. He spoils you plenty himself, bringing you souvenirs and cute trinkets from his travels. This is the least you can do to pamper him back.

You prepare him a quick and easy meal—a grilled mackerel rice bowl with a side of spinach salad—but still packed with nutrients to help fuel his body for the long day ahead. Rin has complained about PR and photoshoot days to you plenty of times before. They were busy and tiring and he barely got any breaks. What better way to bring some light into his day than a little surprise? 

Along with a warm, homemade lunch, you decide you want to stop by for some flowers as well. At a nearby florist, you order a bouquet of vibrant blue morning glories (the closest color you can get to his eyes, though nothing seems to be the perfect match) mixed in with classic white florets. 

Pleased with your little bouquet and neatly wrapped lunch box, you bound along to the studio Rin was working in for the day. 

Immediately upon entry, you find yourself greeted by the receptionist, cheerily asking how she can help you. 

“I’m just here to visit my fiance,” you say with a smile. “He’s here for a shoot— Itoshi Rin.”

She eyes you skeptically, her eyes briefly flitting to the phone on her desk. “Can I ask for your name, please?”

“Of course!” you agree hurriedly, pulling your ID out of your wallet as you stated your name. It’s inconvenient at times, having a professional soccer player as a fiancé, but you understood why security had to be higher for him. “I promise, I’m not lying! See.”

You flash her your diamond engagement ring and show her your lock screen photo of you and Rin making kissy faces at the camera. 

“Oh, no! I don’t think you’re lying! Mr. Itoshi’s team always gives a list of who he might be expecting and, well, the list only has your name on it,” explains the receptionist, looking back and forth between your ID and her computer screen. “You can head right in! His session is in the big room to the left.”

“Thank you!” you chirp, gathering the bouquet back up in one arm as you hold his lunch in the other. You hope Rin will feel how much you love and value him.

You walk down the hall and hesitantly knock on the door, before deciding to push it open after not hearing a response. 

As soon as you peek your head in, your eyes lock with Rin’s as he poses in a relaxed stance, one hand in his pocket as he looks away from the camera dramatically. Once he notices you, his serious expression changes into one of surprise as the corner of his lip quirks upward into the semblance of a smile. 

“Yes! Exactly like that!” the director cries in relief. “Hold that smile— This is the first one we’ve seen from you all day!” 

As Rin’s attention is directed away from you, the sullen expression returns to his face. 

“No! Smile, I said,” said the director exasperatedly. 

You wave your flowers around in the background, hoping to catch Rin’s attention as you shoot him a playful wink. It’s similar to when parents are trying to get their baby to smile for the camera by playing peek-a-boo behind the lens. 

Rin’s much too old to be treated like a baby, yet somehow, your method works. 

His eyes soften as he lets out an amused snort. It’s quiet and barely there, but it was enough to change the ambiance of the photoshoot. From the corner of your eye, you see the creative director nodding at the photographer fervently as the rapid clicks of the camera sound in succession. 

Once satisfied with the amount of successful photos they captured, the director soon calls a quick break so the next scene can be shot. Rin wastes no time in heading over to you with a question in his gaze. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

You grin, handing him the bouquet of flowers. “To give you this!” you say simply. “I wanted to surprise you. I also brought you lunch. I know you don’t have much time to eat, but I hope you can find time to sneak a few bites between shoots.” 

Rin takes the flowers and lunch box into his hands, eyes softening as he pulls you into a quick hug. “Now why did you go through all this on a random Thursday?” 

“Do I need a reason to see my handsome boyfriend—er, fiancé—during work?” you say with a playful pout. He proposed only recently, and calling him fiancé is still new to you. “Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me…”

Rin rolls his eyes at your dramatics. “I’m always happy to see you, and you know it.”

“I do!” you agree happily, bringing another small smile onto his face. “Now, I don’t want to keep you from your work for too long. I better get going.”

He frowns. “Can’t you stay longer?”

Before you can reply, the creative director from earlier concurs, “Yes, can you please? We need more pictures of Mr. Itoshi looking like he’s not miserable!”

Rin glares at him in annoyance. Partly for saying he looks miserable and partly for interrupting his conversation with you.

You laugh at the director’s pleading. “I wish I could, but I do have some work of my own to finish up today.”

You aren’t sure whose face looks more dejected—the director’s or Rin’s? 

“But,” you start, trying to cheer them both up, “Rin, you can look at the flowers I got you and smile when you think of me!” 

Rin’s cheeks color and a grunt of embarrassment escapes him as his eyes flit frantically to everyone overhearing the conversation. 

You grin, not letting up. “And, if you eat the lunch I made you, your stomach and soul will be warmed for the rest of the shoot!” 

The director nods along like you came up with the most brilliant idea ever. 

“Okay, now I really do have to go,” you say apologetically, placing a chaste kiss onto Rin’s lips. “I’ll see you at home? Soon?

He nods. “Soon.” 

“And,” the director sings, “it might be even sooner than planned. Mr. Itoshi, if you cooperate well, we may be able to finish up within the next hour and a half.” 

Rin’s expression turns serious, a look of fierce determination forming on his features. “So, I can be home in less than two hours?”

“Yes. Maybe even sooner if we get into a good flow.” 

“We will,” promises Rin as if he has no other option. “I’ll be home soon.”

You giggle at his resoluteness. Nothing motivates him more than soccer and spending time with you. 

“Work hard then!” you say. “I’ll see you in a bit, baby.”

The tips of Rin’s ears turn red as he hisses, “In public?” 

You have to stop yourself from snickering at his embarrassment. The two of you really need to work on your public displays of affection. 

“Wait— That’s it!” exclaimed the director. “That’s the perfect flushed face! Someone bring a camera here, stat!” As the director rambles along, you wave goodbye to Rin, wiggling your fingers as you watch the look of misery return to Rin’s face, his eyes calling to you to help get him out of here. 

“Break’s over! Come along now, Mr. Itoshi.” 

You spare him one last thumbs up before leaving the studio with a laugh. Well, that visit certainly turned out to be more entertaining than you had imagined. You would have to visit Rin at work much more often. 

[mrsbarnesblog]

when the time is right

masterlist

summary: Rafe found out that you were secretly from him taking tests, not even realizing how much you struggled in silence about not being able to get pregnant

word count: 3.7k

warnings: struggles with getting pregnant, insecurities, smut, oral sex, unprotected p in v, Rafe is literally the BEST

Your vision got blurry when you looked at another negative pregnancy test, feeling nauseous and extremely tired from all of it. 

You and Rafe, after getting married almost a year ago, both decided that you wanted to have children, and you tried to do everything to make it happen. You consulted the doctor, you both stayed healthy, and your sex life was so good, but no matter how hard you tried, it was all for nothing. 

It became an unhealthy obsession of yours to buy these damn tests secretly from Rafe, hoping that one time you’ll see two lines, but always ending up throwing it in the trash can or hiding it in your drawer. You felt so bad, guilty, knowing that your husband did everything for you to give you the best life you could’ve ever asked for, yet you were unable to give him one thing that he wished for so badly. 

Rafe was perfect in every aspect of your relationships, even better than when you two were just dating. He was so loving, so caring, so protective of you, not missing a single day without saying how much he loved you. Family and love were the only things that he ever wished for, wanting to have someone always by his side and someone who he could’ve shower with all of the love and affection that he desperately needed to give away, as it was not the option during his childhood. 

He told you how much he wanted to have a baby, to raise him or her with you and be the best dad ever—the one that he had never had. And you wanted to give it to him, wanted to be happy with the love of your life. But the more you tried, the more frustrated you got, constantly seeing negative results, and hating yourself and your body for not being able to do it. 

Of course Rafe didn’t know any of it—you simply hid all of the possible evidence of your doings, thinking that he might change his mind and that he’ll get colder to you once he realizes that there’s something wrong. 

When you heard the front door getting closed and Rafe’s voice calling your name, you mindlessly shoved the test into the less-used drawer under some kind of napkin that was stored there. You looked in the mirror, wiping away a few stray tears and making yourself smile, even if it felt like you were empty inside. 

Rafe embraced you in his arms before you were even able to step into the living room, pulling you flush against his chest and burying his face into your neck. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” You felt the rumble of his voice on your skin, closing your eyes to relish the moment and throwing your hands around his neck. Rafe held you in his arms for a few long moments, running his hands up and down your back and mumbling some sweet things about missing you and the way he couldn’t wait to get home, but you couldn’t seem to focus, just distantly nodding your head. 

“What’s wrong?” He pulled away, instantly seeing your sad, empty eyes. He had always been so good at reading you, so you couldn’t help but laugh at the way he got concerned, placing a hand on your cheek and studying your face with a worried look. 

“Nothing. It’s nothing, Ray. I’m okay.” You leaned into his touch, giving him your best smile. 

He looked at you for a few moments without saying anything, and it was all you needed to know that he did not believe you even for a second. He took a deep breath, then took a hold of your face with both hands before capturing your lips in a slow, gentle kiss. 

“I know that you’re not, but I won’t push you. Take your time, you know I'm here for you, baby,  yeah?" He pecked your lips once again, and you nodded your head, feeling a sudden lump in your throat. “Now… I’m starving and I can smell something from the kitchen.” 

“I made your favorite pasta.” You smiled softly, twirling his slightly grown-out hair around your finger. 

“I fucking love you, you know that, baby?” You could barely register what was happening when Rafe’s hands manhandled you and threw you over his shoulder. With a possessive hand on your ass, he went towards the kitchen, finally making you forget about your worries even for some time. “The best wife in the world.”

Freshly showered and sitting in your bed, you were mindlessly scrolling through your phone, while Rafe was doing whatever in your shared bathroom. There were some noises of him rummaging through the cabinets, cussing and mumbling something about the new razor that he had bought recently and now couldn’t find. 

It all continued for a few minutes until he suddenly went silent, and it was the moment when your stomach dropped. 

He found the tests. You knew that he did. 

He stood in the bathroom, eyes wide from shock, as he held in the palm of his hand a bunch of white and blue sticks, which surely were yours. He felt uneasy either from every single one of them being negative or from the fact that you did it secretly from him and so regularly. 

With your phone long forgotten on the bedside table, you jumped out of bed, only to bump into Rafe’s chest at the bathroom’s entrance. Your eyes instantly fell to his hand, seeing a handful of pregnancy tests, then looking up at his frowning face. The look in his eyes made you want to vanish away, just simply disappear from the face of earth, as your own eyes suddenly filled with tears. 

“How long have you been doing this, Y/N?” Your lower lip wobbled as you tried to not break down, hands shaking with tension, while you fidgeted with your wedding ring. “I asked you a question.” There was no anger or treat in Rafe’s voice, but it still sent shivers down your spine—you knew that he was disappointed or upset, and you hated that you went behind his back to do that. Not that you worried about him being actually mad, but the feeling of guilt and shame was eating you alive. 

“I-I don’t know.” You whispered.

“You don’t know?” He raised his brows, still holding all of the tests in between you two. “There’s like twenty of them. All negative, yeah? Why are you taking it so often, and why didn’t you tell me?” The frustration in his voice was like a knife to your heart, and with a sob of his name, you completely broke down. 

You cried the way Rafe had never seen before, taking him aback for a moment. You hid your face behind your hands, sobbing loudly and trembling from head to toe. He made a quick move to lay all the rest on the nearby table before protectively wrapping his hands around your form and holding you as close as possible. 

With one hand on your lower back while another stroked your hair, Rafe rocked your body from side to side. You couldn’t seem to stop crying, soaking his shirt with your tears and gripping it with your hands for dear life. All the frustration and tears you weren’t able to fully let out were now just spilling non-stop, and Rafe tried to control himself even if your full of pain cries were quite literally killing him. 

“I—I want to have a baby. I want to give it to you. I r-really do!” You almost whimpered in desperation, cutting Rafe’s heart open with the amount of pain in your voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, with my body. I’m sorry, Rafe. I want it so bad.” You tugged at the back of his shirt, burying your face deeper in his neck and seemingly struggling to even breathe normally. 

“Sh-h, calm down. Listen to my voice.” Holding you steady against his body, Rafe lowered his head to your ear to make sure that you would be able to focus on him. “Just breathe, it’s okay. You’re okay. C’mon just in and out.” He inhaled and exhaled, making sure that you followed his command before repeating it a few more times. “Yeah, just like that, sweetheart. Now sit down for me.” He pushed you back towards the bed, and you obediently followed him. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, with Rafe kneeling in between your legs. He caressed your face, planting a loving kiss on your forehead, before sliding his hands down and capturing your own in his hold. You looked down at your interlaced fingers, unable to look up at your husband, ashamed and embarrassed, but still feeling his burning gaze on you. Some tears still slid down your cheeks, as you were seemingly unable to fully calm down. 

“How long?” He asked in a steady, calm voice. 

“Since we decided that we want to have a child? I’ve been doing them from time to time, but… recently it kinda got worse.” You shrugged, still looking down. Rafe took a deep breath, shaking his head in disbelief, and you felt your heart sinking. 

“It messes with your head, Y/N. Do you understand that?” He squeezed your hand, rubbing circles against your knuckles. “I thought that we decided that it’s going to happen when the time is right, huh? Show me your pretty eyes, sweetheart.”

“That’s the problem—it’s never the right time!” You finally looked up at Rafe, locking your eyes with his blue ones. There was no judgement or anger whatsoever, making you feel slightly weird about the whole situation, as you were constantly convincing yourself that Rafe would be mad when he found out. “It’s been like five months since I got off the pills, since we decided that we both want it, and nothing, Ray! Nothing! My stupid body just doesn’t work the way it should.” You sobbed again. 

Rafe cupped your face, wiping away the remains of your tears. His eyes softened while looking at you. “Stop saying it. Stop worrying yourself out and stop blaming your body, Y/N. You cannot control things like this, and if it didn't happen, then it’s not the right time yet, okay? It doesn’t mean that something’s wrong with you or your body.” His voice was surprisingly steady and firm, and you looked at him almost in awe, drinking in every word coming from your husband’s mouth. Rafe’s support meant everything to you, and even if you were worried before that, now he finally managed to calm a little part of you. “You’re perfect. You’re the way you should be. You’re mine, and I don’t want you to even doubt how much you mean to me.” 

Rafe didn’t look away from you for a second, making sure that you understood everything that he was saying. “I was afraid to disappoint you. That you’ll be mad, because I know how much you want it too.”

“What I want the most is for you to be healthy, happy, and safe, sweetheart. Seeing you like this breaks my heart.” He dryly chuckled. “And what I need is for you to not be so hard on yourself.”

“I’ll try.” 

A soft smile finally touched your lips when he slightly moved up to give your forehead another lingering kiss before moving down to your temple, then cheek, and then lips. “That’s my girl.” Rafe mumbled against your mouth and slowly deepened the kiss, making your worries fade away. Feeling his hands moving down to your waist and bringing you closer to the edge of the bed while you steadied yourself by laying your hands on his shoulders. 

“Ray…”

“Let me show you how much you mean to me. How much I love you.” He murmured against your lips, hands sliding under your nightgown and knuckles brushing against your tender skin. You shivered under his touch, eyes fluttering and brain barely able to form a response. It was always like that with Rafe—it was as if his presence and touch alone could make all of your worries and insecurities go away. He had a way of making you feel on cloud nine, both physically and emotionally, and at moments like this, when he quite literally praised and worshiped you, you wondered how you could ever think any less of him. 

He tilted his head slightly, peppering the side of your neck and your clevage with open-mouthed kisses, inhaling your sweet scent, while his hands were wandering down your body and pushing your legs further from each other. Rate leaned back for a moment, his eyes drinking your blissful face expression in as if you were the most breathtaking sight he'd ever seen. "You're everything to me." He said, his voice thick with emotion. "Do you know that?"

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of his love. "I do." You whispered. "I feel it, Rafe. Always." 

He softly pushed your body back until you were enveloped in a bunch of blankets and pillows scattered around. He looked you up and down, feeling his heart racing at the thought of making you feel good, reminding you how much you meant to him because you were quite literally the most important thing in his life. Rafe for a second thought that, maybe, it was his fault that you started to spiral into that darkness of stress and worries of not being enough or broken. With constantly being busy at work, he couldn’t pick up the cues earlier and notice your struggles. 

Kissing down your body, dragging your nightgown up, and exposing your naked body to his hungry gaze, Rafe made sure to give you everything that he had and make you feel the way he felt about you. Rafe’s lips hovered over your stomach, brushing feather-light kisses against your soft skin as his hands caressed your sides. His touch was tender as his lips paused against your stomach, and he closed his eyes, his breath warm against you.

“We’re going to have a baby, sweetheart.” He murmured, his voice filled with quiet determination and love. “When the time is right, I know it. And you’re going to be the most amazing mother.” He pressed another kiss to your stomach, lingering there for a moment and making sure that the words sank in for you. “I’ll do everything in my power to give you the best and help you out, yeah? You’re not alone in this.”

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks as you reached out to run your fingers through his hair, your chest swelling with emotion at the raw devotion in his words and actions as you nodded to him. “Rafe…” You whispered, your voice trembling. “I love you so much.”

He looked up at you, his blue eyes glistening with emotion. “I love you more.” He said simply, his lips curling into a small, reassuring smile. He kissed your stomach one last time before his gaze darkened with desire, his hands sliding further down your thighs as he lowered himself between your legs.

You gasped when he suddenly just pulled your underwear down your legs and, not letting you process his further actions, placed your thighs on his shoulders before connecting his mouth with your dripping core. 

Rafe ate you like a man starved, alternating soft licks with sucking on your clit and almost bringing you to the edge. In a few minutes, you were a trembling mess, squeezing your legs around his head and mumbling something incoherent.

“R-Rafe.” You whimpered, your voice breaking as you felt the tension in your core building rapidly. “I’m—oh my God—I’m so close.”

He smirked against you, sucking your swollen clit harder and pushing the tips of his fingers against your entrance just to tease you. His lips curling into a grin that you could feel even through the haze of your pleasure. “I know, sweetheart.” He said, his voice low and gravelly. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

His words tipped you over the edge, and you cried out, reaching for his hair, tugging, as your body trembled while waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Rafe didn’t let up, his mouth continuing to work you through your orgasm, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were left breathless and boneless beneath him.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your release, and his eyes locked onto yours with a mix of satisfaction and adoration.

His body was on top of yours in an instant, pushing you down into the mattress with his comforting weight. Placing a hand on the side of your neck, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb, and then pulling you closer for a kiss. 

You didn’t even notice the moment when he slipped inside of you, too lost in the aftershocks of your previous orgasm. He hissed at the way you clenched around him, instinctively wrapping your legs and arms around him and pushing his cock deeper into you. 

It was not the type of sex that you two usually had. Rafe was mumbling praises next to your ear with each thrust of his hips into you, and you were simply drowning in him, his love, and the ecstasy that it had all brought you. It was slower, deeper, and more intimate on every level. 

Rafe made sure to hit that sweet spot inside of you with every move, seeing your teary eyes rolling back in your head and your mouth slightly opening from pleasure. He never stopped, exploring your body with his hands, pinching your nipples, sliding down your stomach and causing goosebumps to raise all over your skin, and then ever-so-slightly brushing your puffy clit, until you desperately cried out his name. 

By the time Rafe was done with you, when your body was all tingly and exhausted from that sweet torture, you were laying face to face on your sides, with him still buried deep inside of you. Your leg was thrown over his hip, your shared release slowly dripping down and probably ruining the sheets, but neither of you seemed to care. 

Your eyes were barely focused, but your heart was full, and a soft smile was placed on your face. Rafe, slightly flushed and sheepish, was slowly caressing your cheek, looking at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

You smiled softly, your eyelids fluttering closed for a moment, letting the peaceful silence settle around you. The warmth of his body against yours felt like home, grounding you like nothing else ever could. There was no need to say anything else, because it felt like your bodies, your eyes, and your souls had already said everything that was needed. 

A few weeks later, as you sat in your bathroom with trembling hands, you stared at the pregnancy test on the counter. You'd been late, but you had tried to push it out of your mind, remembering your promise to Rafe to stop stressing out and overthinking.

Though this time, it felt different. Something inside of you was telling you that you were right.

And now, as the two lines were staring back at you, you were filled with a mix of shock, disbelief, and overwhelming joy.

Your heart raced in your chest as tears welled up in your eyes. Slowly, you walked out of the bathroom, holding a test in your shaking hands, finding Rafe sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he scrolled through his phone.

"Rafe." You whispered, your voice shaky, and he turned to face you instantly, sensing something was different.

“What’s going on?” Instantly he was beside you, hands on your upper arms, as his eyes were searching yours for an answer. 

Silently, you held out the pregnancy test to him, your hand trembling as you did. His gaze dropped to the test, and for a moment, everything stood still, heavy silence filling your bedroom.

Rafe’s eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. "Is this...?" He whispered, his voice barely audible. 

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks now, as you stared up at him. "We're going to have a baby, Rafe."

He stood frozen for a beat, his hands tightening on your forearms as he let the moment sink in, watching tears running down your cheeks. Then, without a word, he pulled you into him, his arms enveloping you tightly as if he never wanted to let go. You melted into his embrace, feeling his heart racing against yours. 

You both erupted into laughter, the sound of pure joy filling the room, echoing off the walls as Rafe pulled back slightly to look at you, his face lit with disbelief and happiness. He wiped away the tears from your cheeks, laughing through his own, his voice thick with emotion.

“I can’t believe it.” He said, his words trembling slightly. “We’re going to be parents. Told you that it's gonna happen when the time is right, didn’t I?”

You nodded with a smile, still holding the test between your fingers as the reality of it all settled in. “You did. Now it’s really happening.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, as if he were trying to savor every second of this moment, making you throw your hands around his neck and give in to the moment. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily as you shared the same smile filled with love and excitement.

“I love you so much.” He murmured, his hands resting on your waist as he held you close. 

You brushed the tip of your nose against his, looking up at your husband through your wet eyelashes. The look of pure adoration in his eyes made you want to giggle like a damn teenager, so instead you tightened your hands around his neck to be even closer. “I love you more.”