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fic-girlie · 10 hours ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you could write a pedro pascal x reader where the reader works at a cafe and they meet there and they click immidiatly (reader in her 30's) and they go on dates and are dating in private for a while until she notices he cancels dates and stuff and later sees hes with dakota johnson but she doesnt realise its for their new movie and she ignores him also when he comes to her work and one night he goes to her work when she closes and she confesses everything also about how insecure she is and he assures her there is nothing going on and they make up? And he invites her to the world premiere of tlou season 2 and announces their relationship? You can decide the ending :))

A Love Unveiled

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: She thought he was just another charming customer—until Pedro Pascal quietly became the center of her world. Their private romance grows behind closed doors, but when fame, rumors, and insecurities threaten to pull them apart, a heartfelt confession brings them back together. At the premiere of The Last of Us Season 2, Pedro steps into the spotlight—hand in hand with the woman he loves.

Warnings: angst & fluff, hurt/comfort, age gap (not big, reader is in her 30's and Pedro is 50) miscommunication, insecurity, emotional vunerability, jealousy, happy ending

A/N: Hey, everyone! :) This is the first fic that I wrote for a request. I really liked the idea so... Here it is, I guess. It turned out to be more than 10k words. I hope you'll enjoy it. :))

It was a typical Tuesday afternoon at the small, local café you had worked at for the past few years. The kind of place where the air always smelled like freshly ground coffee beans and the faint sweetness of pastries, where regulars came in at the same time each day for their routine fix of caffeine and conversation. The café, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, had become your second home, and you were content with it. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was steady, and you liked the steady rhythm of it—the quiet hum of the espresso machine, the swish of milk frothing, the soft murmur of customers.

You had a few regulars who knew your name—Mr. Lawson, who always ordered his coffee black and took it to go; Claire, who would chat with you about her kids; and the occasional students who came in to study, sprawled out in the window seats. It was all comfortable and predictable.

That is, until he walked in.

It was almost 3 P.M., the typical mid-afternoon lull. You were wiping down the counter, absently arranging sugar packets when the bell above the door chimed. You looked up to see a man step inside, his presence immediately standing out in the calm of the café.

He had a slight air of mystery, a look that suggested he might be someone who didn’t easily fit into the mundane everyday life of coffee shops and small-town routines. His hair was a bit tousled, just the right kind of messy that made him look handsome, and his jacket—a dark leather one—hung casually over his shoulders. He looked around for a moment, and for some reason, when his eyes met yours, something in the air seemed to shift. There was a brief flash of recognition between the two of you, though you couldn’t quite place why.

He walked up to the counter, and you gave him a polite smile. “Hi, welcome in. What can I get for you today?”

He returned the smile, his eyes warm and inquisitive. “Uhm…I’m not sure. I usually drink black coffee but… What do you recommend?”

You hesitated for a second. You didn’t usually have to recommend anything. Most customers had their orders ready, and you just went through the motions. But there was something about him, the way he was looking at you, that made you want to give a little bit more. Maybe it was the tired look in his eyes or the way he seemed out of place in the usual crowd of office workers and college students. Whatever it was, you found yourself pausing before speaking.

“Well,” you said, leaning slightly towards him as you spoke, “if you want to try something little sweet, our vanilla latte is always a hit. It’s warm and comforting—perfect for a day like today.”

His smile deepened, the hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Vanilla latte it is, then.”

You nodded, feeling the tiniest flutter in your stomach at the easy way he smiled. As you prepared his drink, you couldn’t help but glance over at him every now and then. There was something about him—something you couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the way his gaze lingered just a little longer than normal. Or his posture seemed so relaxed yet effortlessly confident. Or maybe it was the gentle confidence with which he carried himself around.

As you placed the warm cup of coffee in front of him, your fingers brushed briefly against his as he reached for it. A spark of electricity ran through you, and for a moment, you both froze. You locked eyes for just a fraction of a second longer than usual, and something in the air felt different. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was undeniable. He cleared his throat softly, his voice low as he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone smoother than you had expected, rich with a hint of an accent you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, and it’s Pedro, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Pedro. Enjoy,” you replied, offering him your name too, along with a quick smile as he took the cup in his big hands.

As he turned away, moving toward one of the window seats, you couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did—either way, the brief moment had left a lingering warmth in the air.

——

The quiet rhythm of the café continued, but something had shifted. You had come to look forward to Pedro’s visits more than you cared to admit. What started as brief exchanges over coffee had turned into something deeper, a connection you couldn’t deny even if you wanted to. There was a magnetic pull between you two, something unspoken but undeniable. The way he could casually ask about your day, the way his smile would soften when you laughed or talked—those small moments stuck with you long after he left the little coffee shop.

At first, you tried to tell yourself it was just because he was a regular customer. He was friendly, sure, but he was just another face in the crowd, right? Yet, every time you saw him, your heart would skip, and you found yourself watching the door, waiting for him to come in. You tried not to get too attached. After all, you were just the barista, and he was someone who had a busy life, probably surrounded by people who had the same kind of energy he gave off: charismatic, easy-going, a little too charming for your own good.

But the more you interacted, the more you realized that there was something different about him. It wasn’t just his good looks or the way his smile could lit up a whole room. It was his genuine interest in getting to know you. No one had ever asked about your favourite books or the movies you liked without making it seem like small talk. Pedro listened when you spoke, truly listened, and that made you feel seen, something that wasn’t easy to come by in your world of casual conversations with strangers.

One Friday afternoon, you were wiping down the counter when you heard the familiar jingle of the bell as the door opened. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. You felt it—his presence, warm and steady, settling into the space next to you.

“Hi there,” Pedro’s voice greeted you, smooth and low, a little warmer than usual. “How’s your day going?”

You finally looked up, offering him a small smile as a greeting gesture. “It’s going alright. A bit slow today. What about you? Busy?”

He leaned against the counter, resting his arms casually, His gaze didn’t leave yours, the way his eyes seemed to soften the moment they made contact with yours, sending an unexpected rush of warmth through your whole body. You caught yourself for a second, your heartbeat quickening before you could mask it.

“Same old, same old,” he replied with a small shrug. “Just wrapped up some work. Needed a little break.”

“A break, huh?” you mused. “What does Pedro Pascal do when he needs a break from work?”

He smiled, a little sheepish. “Usually just something quiet. A walk, a good book, maybe a movie or a series.” He paused for a second, his tone becoming more personal. “But lately I’ve been spending most of my breaks here.”

You felt a little twinge in your chest at his words, not sure if it was the warmth of his compliment or the way he made you feel like you mattered. “Well, I’m glad you’ve found the time to unwind,” you tried to keep your tone as casual as you could, but the hint of vulnerability in his eyes made it hard to look away.

You noticed the subtle way he studied you as you poured his coffee. It wasn’t in a way that felt like he was evaluating you—no, it was deeper than that. It was as if he was truly trying to understand who you were, the smallest details you might not even realize about yourself. And somehow, it made everything feel more intimate.

When you handed him his coffee, you made sure to hold his gaze a little longer than usual. There was a weight to the moment now, a silent understanding passing between you two.

“You ever try the carrot cake here?” he asked, a sudden spark of curiosity in his voice.

You shook your head. “I’ve been meaning to. It’s one of those things I always put off.”

“Well, you should try it sometime,” he said with a soft chuckle. “It’s better than it looks, trust me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, taking a step back from the counter and letting your shoulders relax for a second.

He took a slow sip of his drink, and you couldn’t help but notice how his lips barely brushed against the cup. There was something effortlessly sensual in the way he moved, as if every gesture, even the smallest, had a certain grace to it. It was almost like watching someone in their element—like he was perfectly comfortable in his own skin. And that comfort drew you in, made you feel at ease with him in a way you hadn’t felt with anyone in a long time.

——

Over the next few days, the encounters grew more personal. He would come in almost every day around the same time, sometimes staying a little longer than necessary. You caught him glancing at you when you weren’t looking, but when your eyes met, he’d quickly look away, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. It was those little moments—the shared glances, the silent understanding—that made your heart race.

One afternoon, after the café had emptied out a little and you were wiping down tables, Pedro stood up from his usual spot by the window.

“I was wondering,” he started, his voice soft, “if you’d wanted to go for a walk sometime. You know, just to get out of here for a bit of time.”

The suddenness of the invitation caught you off guard. Your mind raced for a second. A walk? With him? A casual thing, of course, but still… the idea of spending time with him outside of the café stirred something in you.

“I’d like that,” you replied before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth with a smile spreading across your face. You immediately felt your stomach do a small flip, wondering if you’d just done something a little impulsive.

He smiled in return, his eyes lighting up at your response. “Great. How about tomorrow after your shift? I know this park nearby.”

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you said, trying to keep the flutter of excitement from showing in your voice. “I’ll see you then.”

——

The walk was easy. Just the two of you strolling along the tree-lined paths of a nearby park, the evening sun casting a golden glow on everything around you. It was a warm, almost magical evening, the kind where everything felt like it fell into place without effort.

You talked about everything and nothing at the same time. You told him about your childhood, about how you ended up working at the café, about the little things that made your life feel whole. In return, he shared stories about his own life—how he’d started acting, his favourite roles, his family, the places he’d travelled, the people he’d met. There was something refreshing about the way he spoke—honest, without the usual pretences that most people wore.

When the conversation lulled, there was a comfortable silence between you two, and you found yourself glancing at him more than once, taking in the way the light from the setting sun played across his face, making his features even more striking. He was easy to be around, and there was no need to fill in the silence with words. It felt natural.

As the evening wore on, the temperature began to drop slightly, and you shivered involuntarily, hugging your arms around yourself. Pedro noticed immediately.

“Here,” he said, his voice gentle, and before you could respond, he slipped his jacket off and draped it around your shoulders.

You blinked, surprised by the gesture. It wasn’t grand, but the softness in his actions spoke volumes. You pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, inhaling the faint scent of cologne mixed with leather. It was comforting, like he was taking care of you without thinking twice about it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling the warmth of the jacket seep through you.

“No problem,” he replied, a quiet sincerity in his voice. “You look like you could use a little extra warmth. And it looks better on you.”

The rest of the walk passed with quiet conversation, each step bringing you closer to him. You didn’t need to rush. It was as if everything had aligned, the space between you two feeling smaller with each moment that passed.

As you reached the end of the park and the streetlights flickered on, he turned toward you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad we did this. And of course, for accepting to come with me.”

“Me too,” you agreed, your voice a little softer than usual.

It wasn’t just the walk, or the warmth of the jacket, or the way the night had unfolded. It was the way he made you feel, the way his presence seemed to settle into your bones, making everything feel a little brighter.

You found yourself wondering. What now?

But before you could get too caught up in your thoughts, he added with a smile, “Next time, we should do something a little more exciting. How about dinner?”

Your heart skipped a beat again, and you nodded without hesitation. “I’d like that.”

——

The days passed, and with each passing one, you found yourself looking forward to seeing Pedro more than you ever thought possible. What had started as a simple connection over coffee had quickly turned into something deeper, more meaningful. You had gone on walks, shared stories, and spent long afternoons getting to know one another outside of the familiar confines of the little café. Each date, each shared moment, felt like the beginning of something real, and it was hard to deny how much you were starting to care.

You had begun to notice the small ways he showed he was interested—the way his hand would brush against yours in a crowded space, the way he’d always ask how you were feeling, really feeling, beyond the surface. No one had ever asked you that before. No one had ever made you feel so seen, like you mattered to the world.

And yet, with all the time you spent together, there was a part of you that couldn’t shake a nagging sense of uncertainty. It wasn’t like you’d never been in a relationship before, but this felt different. It felt real, in a way you hadn’t experienced before, and that terrified you. For some reason, it seemed too easy with him, too natural. You had always been more guarded, more cautious. But with Pedro, it was like everything you thought you knew about yourself—about love, about connection—was being slowly and surely undone.

It was a Friday evening when things took a turn.

You’d been at the café since the early morning, as usual, but it had been a particularly slow day. You were wiping down the counter when Pedro walked in. You saw him immediately, as always, a wave of warmth hitting you when you met his gaze. He offered his signature smile, that smile that made everything around you seem just a little brighter.

“Hey,” he greeted you, his voice deep and soothing.

“Hey, you,” you replied, your heart skipping a beat at the familiarity of the exchange. “How’s your day been?”

“Busy,” he said, shrugging as he leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving yours. “But it’s been a good kind of busy.”

You returned his gaze, feeling the comfortable pull between you, the kind of connection that made everything feel just a little bit more meaningful. But this time, there was something in his eyes—something that made you pause. It wasn’t the usual warmth, not quite. There was a flicker of something else, something you couldn’t place, something just on the edge of his expression that made your heart tighten.

“What’s up?” you asked, instinctively picking up on the subtle change in his demeanour.

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head, forcing a smile. “Nothing, just… you know. Been thinking about a lot of things lately.”

You didn’t press, but the unease lingered between you. His words, though vague, didn’t sit right. You told yourself to brush it off. He was probably just overworked, or maybe ha was dealing with something you didn’t know about. It wasn’t unusual for people to get distracted from time to time. You tried to push the feeling to the back of your mind as you made his coffee, telling yourself it was nothing.

But then, the next week, he started cancelling plans.

It began with small things—a dinner here, a walk there. He’d apologize profusely, offering vague explanations about work commitments or something coming up unexpectedly. And at first, you didn’t think much of it. You knew he had a busy life, and you had come to understand that sometimes things just came up. But as the days went on, the cancellations started to feel less like coincidences and more like something else.

One evening, you were sitting at the counter, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone when a text from Pedro popped up.

Pedro: Hey, I'm really sorry, but I can't make it tonight. Something came up. Can we reschedule?

You stared at the message for a moment, your fingers hovering over the screen. You had tried not to let it get to you, but each time he cancelled, it felt like something was slipping through your fingers. You had started to worry, to wonder if maybe there was something more going on, something he wasn’t telling you.

You glanced at the clock—he was supposed to meet you in twenty minutes. You couldn’t help the knot that formed in your stomach.

You: Sure. Just let me know when. Hope everything's okay.

A few moments later, the familiar read notification appeared. But he didn’t respond. You sat there, staring at the screen for what felt like hours, trying to convince yourself that it was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. But deep down, you knew it didn’t feel fine. Something was off.

——

It was a few days after that, when you were working late, that you saw him. But this time, it wasn’t just him. He was with someone else.

It was almost closing time when you saw the familiar figure step through the door, but he wasn’t alone. A woman was with him—a tall, beautiful woman with soft brown hair and an easy smile that seemed to light up the room. You couldn’t help but feel a little pang in your chest as they walked in, the two of them laughing softly together as they approached the counter.

“Hey, there,” Pedro greeted you, but this time, his smile seemed a little less genuine, almost like he was forcing it.

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the jealousy you couldn’t quite hide started to bubble up. It wasn’t rational. You had no claim over him, but something about seeing him with her made your heart sink. You forced a smile, offering a polite greeting to the woman standing beside him.

“Hi, I’m Dakota,” she said, extending her hand, her smile warm and friendly.

You shook her hand, trying to keep the irritation from showing on your face. “Nice to meet you,” you said, though the words felt hollow.

Pedro was talking, but his words seemed distant, like you were in a fog. It was hard to focus on what he was saying when all you could think about was how he had canceled your plans in favor of this woman.

Suddenly, everything seemed to fall into place. You had always wondered why he had been distant lately, why he had canceled your dates and changed his behavior. But now it was clear. He was seeing someone else, someone important. And you weren’t it.

You tried to push down the lump in your throat, but it was impossible. You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you, the sting of being pushed aside without explanation hitting you harder than you had expected. You forced a smile and nodded at them both, unable to muster the energy to say much else.

Pedro seemed to sense the shift in the air because his smile faltered, just slightly, before he said, “Hey, listen, can we talk in a bit? I’ll be right back.”

You didn’t respond. You simply turned back to your work, trying to focus on the monotonous tasks, anything to keep your hands busy and your mind distracted.

A few minutes later, Pedro was standing by the counter, looking at you with an apologetic expression.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to hear whatever excuse he was about to offer. But you couldn’t help yourself. Slowly, you met his gaze, your heart pounding.

“About what?” you asked, your voice tight.

“I—look, I know this must look weird, but it’s not what you think it is.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, a defensive gesture that felt like an automatic response. “Really? Because it looks pretty clear to me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. “I never meant to hurt you. This isn’t about what you think it is. Dakota and I are working on something together—she’s my co-star. This is all just part of the job.”

You could feel your chest tighten at his words, but before you could respond, he reached out, gently touching your arm. “Please, just hear me out. I’ve been pulling away, and I know that’s been hard on you. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you said nothing. He stood there for a moment, searching your eyes as if trying to gauge whether you believed him.

“I care about you,” he finally said, his voice low. “I really do.”

You felt your heart skip, but the words didn’t reach you the way they used to. There was too much confusion now, too many unanswered questions.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, looking away.

He didn’t push. He simply nodded, letting the silence stretch between you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like this.”

——

That night, after the cafe closed, you went back to your apartment, your mind swirling with everything you had just learned. You tried to convince yourself that there was an explanation, that maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You couldn’t ignore the doubts, the insecurities that were beginning to creep in, and the fear that maybe this wasn’t as real as you had hoped.

But there was one thing you knew for sure: you needed answers. You needed to hear him say it, to know the truth, and to finally understand what this all meant.

And maybe, just maybe, you could begin to make sense of it all.

——

The days that followed were a blur, a tangled mess of uncertainty and confusion. Each time you saw Pedro, each time your phone buzzed with another canceled date or vague excuse, you felt a knot tighten in your chest. He would send sweet texts or try to reach out, but somehow, the sincerity in his words didn’t reach you the way it used to. The distance between you two had become palpable, suffocating, and it left you questioning everything. Had you misread the connection? Was it just something fleeting for him?

You found yourself pacing your apartment late one night, unable to quiet the thoughts running through your mind. What had changed? Why did everything feel so different now? You couldn’t help but think about the woman you had seen with him at the cafe. Dakota. The name alone stung. You knew who she was. You knew enough to understand that if he was spending time with her, things were likely... complicated.

You couldn’t bring yourself to text him. The thought of confronting him made your chest tighten in a way that felt suffocating. You didn’t want to sound needy, or worse, stupid. But you also didn’t want to keep pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

You were just about to sit down when your phone buzzed in your hand. Pedro’s name flashed on the screen.

Pedro: Hey, I’m really sorry about what happened the other day. Can we talk?

Your finger hovered over the screen. You stared at the message for a long moment, unsure of what to do. You had wanted him to reach out, to offer some explanation, but now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could handle it. It felt like he had already slipped away, and part of you wondered if hearing him try to explain would only make things worse.

But then again, what was the alternative? You could keep avoiding him, keep letting the uncertainty fester, or you could finally confront it. You could ask the questions that had been haunting you for days.

You took a deep breath and replied.

You: I don’t know if I’m ready for this conversation, Pedro, but we need to talk. When can you come by?

His response came almost immediately.

Pedro: How about now? I can come over if you’re up for it.

You felt your heart pound in your chest. Your nerves were running wild, but something told you that this conversation couldn’t wait any longer.

You: Alright. Come over in 20 minutes.

The message was sent, and immediately, you felt a rush of anxiety. You started pacing again, wondering if you were doing the right thing. This was it. The moment you had been avoiding.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Your stomach did a flip, and for a moment, you almost considered not answering it. But you forced yourself to move, to open the door. And there he was.

Pedro stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, looking a little uncertain. He had a slight frown on his face, his brow furrowed in a way that was almost familiar, like he was preparing for something difficult. When your eyes met, something shifted between you, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had been unsaid.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you would let him in.

You stepped aside to let him in, your gaze flicking to the floor as you tried to gather your composure.

He entered your apartment, and there it was again—the weight of the silence between you two. It felt like the space had grown so much larger, the distance between you both almost impossible to bridge. You didn’t know where to start, didn’t know if you could even say what you needed to say.

He stood by the couch, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. You took a deep breath before speaking, your voice shaking just slightly as you broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

Pedro’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, but you quickly held up a hand, your own emotions bubbling up to the surface.

“No,” you said firmly, “I need to say this. You’ve been pulling away for weeks now. And I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to be patient. But then... I saw you with her.” You couldn’t stop the anger and hurt from seeping into your voice. “And it didn’t make sense. You canceled our dates, you kept making excuses, and now I see you with her, laughing, talking, and I—”

Pedro stepped forward quickly, his hands reaching out for yours, but you pulled away before he could touch you. His face twisted with regret, and his voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly. “Please, just let me explain.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “Explain what, Pedro? What is there to explain? I thought we had something real, something that could have gone somewhere, but now it just feels like... like I was nothing but a distraction for you.”

His eyes widened, and for the first time, you saw something raw in his expression. “No,” he said firmly, stepping forward again. “You were never just a distraction to me. You’ve meant more to me than I know how to say.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt clear in his face. “I never meant to hurt you. I’ve been trying to figure out what I wanted... what I needed.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you shook your head again, trying to fight the tears that were starting to pool in your eyes. “Then why... why did you pull away?” you asked, your voice shaking. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? Why didn’t you just tell me about her? About your work?”

Pedro stood there for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours, before he sighed deeply and spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“She’s my co-star,” he began slowly, “and we’ve been working together for a while now. But I should’ve been more upfront with you about everything. The truth is, I was scared.” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “Scared that I was getting too close to you. Scared that I was going to screw it up.”

You were silent for a long moment, your heart aching as his words sank in. You had never seen him this vulnerable, this open. You wanted to believe him, wanted to understand, but the doubt still lingered.

“Scared?” you whispered, the word tasting foreign on your tongue. “Scared of me?”

He nodded, taking a step closer. “Yeah. Scared that if I let myself fall for you, I’d hurt you in the end. Because things get complicated, and I’m... I’m always on the move. I don’t know how to make things work the way I want them to.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. “So what, you just thought pulling away was the answer?”

He winced at your words, and you saw the guilt in his eyes. “I don’t know. I thought maybe giving you space would help, but it only made things worse.”

You took a shaky breath, wiping your eyes as the tears threatened to spill over. “I just... I don’t know what to believe anymore, Pedro. I don’t know if I can trust this.”

He looked at you, his eyes full of regret. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. “But I want to make this right. I don’t want to lose you.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there in the silence, the weight of everything hanging in the air. Slowly, you looked up at him, your heart a tangle of emotions. “Then show me,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. “Show me you mean it.”

Pedro stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he was afraid to break something fragile. He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. His actions spoke louder than words ever could.

He leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours, a slow, hesitant kiss that seemed to carry all the apologies, the regret, and the hope for something better. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you felt something inside you begin to loosen. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something real again.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested gently against yours, and he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Just give me the chance.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself breathe in the warmth of his words. “Okay,” you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ll give you that chance.”

——

The days following your conversation with Pedro were not without their challenges, but the air between you felt lighter, somehow more breathable. The uncertainty that had plagued you for weeks was slowly being replaced with something more tangible—an understanding, a tentative trust that you were both willing to rebuild what had once seemed so fragile.

You had given him the chance, and in the weeks that followed, Pedro worked hard to prove himself. He no longer kept you at arm’s length. In fact, he did the opposite. He was present—truly present—in a way that made your heart ache with a deep, quiet joy. It wasn’t just the sweet text messages or the phone calls at night; it was the way he showed up for you, the way he made an effort to listen, to support, and to share his life in ways he hadn’t before.

One afternoon, as the late summer sun poured into your apartment, you found yourself on the couch, your feet tucked under a soft blanket, with Pedro sitting beside you, his arm draped casually around your shoulders. You were watching an old movie, but your attention was on him, as it often was these days. It had become routine to simply be with him, to share these quiet moments. It felt as if you had always known each other, even before you had ever met.

“I’m really sorry I messed things up,” he said, his voice low and sincere, cutting through the soft hum of the movie. His thumb gently traced circles on your arm, a reminder of how much he had changed since that night.

You shifted slightly, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him. “You’ve apologized a million times already,” you said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, though your voice still carried a weight of emotion. “I get it. It’s in the past.”

Pedro met your gaze, his eyes searching yours for something. “I just... I want you to know how much I care about you. More than I think I even realized before.”

You could feel the sincerity in his words, the honesty in his expression. It made your chest tighten, this quiet but steady wave of emotion building inside you. He had always had a way of speaking that made you believe in his every word.

“I believe you,” you said softly, leaning your head back on his shoulder. The trust between you was fragile but growing stronger with each day. “But I’m still learning to trust myself in this.”

“I get that,” he said, his hand gently brushing your hair back. “I know I hurt you, and I don’t ever want to do that again. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

You turned your face toward him, your hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The truth of his words, so simple and yet so profound, made something inside you settle. He was here. He was trying. And that was all you needed to move forward.

——

That evening, as the moon rose high in the sky, you were closing up the cafe after your shift, your hands tired from the long day of work. You were used to the solitude of the late-night hours, but tonight, the familiar stillness felt different. There was a sense of anticipation in the air as you swept the last of the crumbs from the counter. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to be lost in your thoughts.

The doorbell chimed, and you looked up to see Pedro standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the warm light from outside. His expression was unreadable, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something more serious.

“Hey,” you said, pushing the broom aside. “You’re here later than usual.”

He nodded, stepping inside. “I needed to see you,” he said, his voice soft but urgent. “I know it’s late, but I... I wanted to talk.”

You felt a quick flutter in your chest, that familiar spark of nervous energy rising within you. “About what?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully, before he took a step toward you. “About us. About what comes next.”

Your heart skipped. You had been waiting for a conversation like this, but now that it was happening, you felt your stomach twist. “Pedro...”

“Listen,” he said, his voice more intense now, his eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t want to keep hiding. I don’t want to keep this thing between us a secret anymore. I want to be with you, out in the open. I’m done being afraid of what people might think. I just—” He paused, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just need you to know that I’m serious about this. About you.”

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. “You want to go public?” you asked, your voice a little shakier than you intended.

Pedro nodded, stepping even closer until you could feel the heat from his body. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. About how I’ve been hiding parts of myself, parts of us. I want to stop doing that. I want you to know that you’re not just some side thing in my life. You’re the most important thing.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a wave of certainty rush over you. Everything had been so uncertain for so long, but now... now you could see the possibility of something lasting, something real.

But even as you felt the pull toward him, there was a part of you that hesitated, a lingering thread of doubt.

“You’re sure about this?” you asked, needing to hear it again. “Because once we do this, there’s no turning back.”

Pedro’s smile softened, and he reached out to take your hand, his fingers weaving through yours as if he couldn’t stand to be apart from you. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Your breath caught in your chest as you looked into his eyes, feeling the depth of what he was saying. You had been afraid, so afraid of opening up, of giving someone all of yourself. But Pedro had shown you, time and time again, that he was worth that leap of faith. He wasn’t going to let you fall.

“You mean it?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if saying the words aloud would make them more real.

“I do,” he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a tender gesture. “I want you by my side, no matter what. I want to take this... wherever it goes.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. There was no need. Everything you needed to know was already there, in the space between you, in the quiet of the night. And then, without another word, Pedro leaned in, his lips finding yours in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of promises made and promises kept.

When he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was low and full of emotion. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I’m going to show you every day how much.”

You smiled, feeling your heart soar as you whispered back, “I love you too.”

——

The days leading up to the The Last of Us 2 premiere were filled with the kind of excitement and anticipation that only a project this huge could bring. Pedro had been in and out of fittings, rehearsals, and press conferences, his mind consumed by the weight of the event. Yet, through it all, you noticed how often his thoughts seemed to drift back to you, his gaze softening whenever your name came up.

You had been through the whirlwind together—public declarations, the unspoken promises, the late-night talks about navigating this new world. But as the premiere approached, there was something you could sense in him, a quiet, almost hesitant energy. He wanted you there, you knew that much. But how would he ask? How would he make you feel comfortable in the midst of all the chaos?

One evening, just days before the event, you were sitting on the couch in his apartment, the soft flicker of a movie playing in the background, but neither of you were really paying attention. Pedro had a glass of wine in his hand, and you were nursing a cup of tea, your legs curled beneath you. The tension between the two of you felt thick in the air, and you could tell that he was working up the nerve to say something important.

Finally, after a long silence, he put his glass down on the table and turned to you. You looked at him curiously, noticing the way his eyes softened when he met your gaze.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he said, his voice quieter than usual, almost unsure. "The premiere is coming up... and I really want you to come with me. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and... I just need to know if you’re ready for something like this."

You blinked, caught off guard. It wasn’t that you didn’t expect the invitation—it was more that you didn’t expect the weight behind it. He wasn’t just asking you to come as his date, to stand beside him on a red carpet; he was asking you to step into the center of his world, into the spotlight with him. It felt like a deeper commitment in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

"Pedro, I..." you trailed off, feeling the nerves rising. "The cameras, the attention… I’ve been so used to staying out of the public eye. Are you sure about this?"

He nodded, his hand reaching for yours, gently squeezing it as he held your gaze with a warmth that settled deep in your chest. "I’ve never been more sure of anything," he said softly. "This... it’s not just a premiere for me. It’s about having you by my side. I want to show the world that I’m with you, that this thing between us is real."

You felt a flutter in your heart, and the weight of his words sank in. It wasn’t just about attending an event. It was about stepping forward together—into the unknown, into the whirlwind, with no hesitation. You’d both been through so much, and here was Pedro, offering you his heart without a single reservation.

"You’re sure I’m ready for this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, a small, reassuring grin. "I think you’re more than ready. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Besides, you’re the one person I want beside me when everything else is spinning. Will you come with me?"

You didn’t even need to think about it. You knew that this moment was one of many that would define the future of your relationship. With a deep breath, you smiled back and nodded. "Okay. I’ll go with you."

Pedro's face broke into a grin, his eyes lighting up with a mix of relief and excitement. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his lips brushing the top of your head. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice full of emotion. "This means everything."

——

The red carpet was a maze of flashing cameras, buzzing reporters, and celebrities in elegant attire, all trying to carve out their place in the spotlight. It was overwhelming to witness in person, the sheer energy of it all—every second someone new was swept in front of the cameras, smiles and poses all around. But through it all, Pedro had a calm about him, an assurance that helped you breathe easier. He knew how to navigate this world, and you were about to enter it by his side.

You stood just a few paces behind him, holding onto his hand as if it was the only thing grounding you. His fingers were warm and solid around yours, and though the world was noisy and chaotic, in this small, intimate space between you, it felt like time had slowed. Pedro’s grip tightened around your hand every now and then, as if checking that you were still there, as if reminding you that no matter how many eyes were on you, nothing would change between the two of you.

The flash of cameras continued, the chatter of reporters growing louder as they all clamored for a chance to speak with Pedro. You were used to the press by now, but this night was different. This night wasn’t just about The Last of Us or the big premiere; tonight, Pedro would announce something that had been building quietly for months—your relationship, your love.

It was only when you arrived at the interview area that Pedro finally turned to you with a look that told you everything you needed to know. There was a nervous energy in his eyes, something that betrayed his usual composure. But there was also certainty—a steady, undeniable warmth that made your heart beat just a little faster.

The reporters ushered you both toward the microphones, their cameras flashing relentlessly as Pedro adjusted the collar of his suit jacket, then glanced down at you. He gave you a soft smile, as if silently asking if you were ready.

You squeezed his hand and nodded, your breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t just a premiere anymore. It was a moment. A moment where the world would finally know what you both had been protecting in private.

The interview began, the usual questions flying about the success of The Last of Us and what the audience could expect in Season 2. Pedro answered each one with his usual charm, always polite, always engaging, but there was something different in his demeanor tonight. There was a tenderness in his voice, a vulnerability that had been hidden in the past, and you could feel it, even if the cameras didn’t capture it.

Then, the moment arrived.

One of the reporters, who had been asking him about his role as Joel and his experience on the show, glanced over at you with a polite but inquisitive smile. "And who is this, standing beside you tonight, Pedro?" the reporter asked, gesturing toward you.

For a moment, everything went quiet. You could feel the gaze of every camera, every eye in the room turn toward you. Pedro’s hand, still holding yours, tightened ever so slightly as he took a breath.

For a second, you thought he might say something lighthearted or deflect the question, as he had with so many others before. But instead, he surprised you, his gaze steady and sure as he looked directly at the reporter, then back at you.

"This," he said, his voice clear and calm, but filled with something undeniably affectionate, "is the woman of my whole world. And she’s the most important person in my life."

The weight of his words hit you like a wave, crashing over you in a rush. Your breath caught, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to do. The world around you seemed to slow, the chatter of the cameras fading as you focused on the sincerity in Pedro’s eyes.

"And," he continued, his voice unwavering, "we’ve been together for some time now. It’s been... a beautiful, private thing, something we’ve held close. But tonight, I want the world to know. I want the world to know that I’m proud of her, proud of what we share. And it’s time to stop hiding."

A wave of emotion surged through you, your heart racing in your chest. The cameras were still flashing, the questions still coming, but all you could hear was Pedro’s voice, steady and strong, as he spoke about you, about the love you’d shared in the shadows for so long.

The room seemed to still as he finished his sentence. "So, yeah, this is the woman who has my heart. And I just wanted to let everyone know... because, well... she deserves to be known."

The reporter, momentarily stunned by the sincerity in his words, smiled and nodded, before turning to address the cameras. "Well, there you have it, folks. Pedro Pascal making a statement about his personal life. It looks like we have a beautiful couple here tonight."

But you weren’t listening to the reporter anymore. You were looking at Pedro—really looking at him. The way he stood there, vulnerable and strong at once, his gaze never leaving yours. It was as though the entire world had faded away, and it was just the two of you, standing on this massive stage, free to be who you truly were.

Your heart soared, and without thinking, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, the tender warmth of his skin sending a ripple of warmth through your body. He turned to you, his smile wide and full of emotion.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely escaping you.

Pedro cupped your face with his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek as he looked into your eyes, his gaze full of unspoken affection. "No," he murmured, "thank you."

And just like that, it was official. The world knew. You and Pedro were no longer just a secret. You were a couple. You were his.

The rest of the interview passed in a blur. There were questions about The Last of Us, about Pedro’s experience on set, but the buzz of the declaration hung in the air. As you both made your way into the theater for the screening, the press followed, but it didn’t feel the same. The nerves, the uncertainty—everything had faded, replaced by a quiet confidence. Pedro held your hand tighter as you entered the theater, the feeling of his warmth grounding you, reminding you that you were no longer hiding in the shadows.

When you found your seats, Pedro leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "Thank you for being my strength tonight," he whispered. "You’re my everything."

You smiled, your heart full. "No, thank you, for making me feel so seen, so loved."

And as the lights dimmed and the opening credits of The Last of Us 2 began to roll, you sat beside him, hand in hand, no longer just a whisper in the crowd. You were part of this moment, part of this life, and the world would know your love—one step into the spotlight at a time.

——

The days that followed the world premiere of The Last of Us Season 2 were a whirlwind. The red carpet event had been everything Pedro had promised and more—surreal in its glitz and glamour, but deeply personal in a way you hadn’t expected. You were no longer hiding in the shadows, no longer worried about what people might think. Pedro had publicly declared his love for you, and in doing so, he had pulled you into a new chapter of your life, one where his world and yours intertwined.

At first, it was exhilarating. Walking through the flashing lights of the photographers' cameras, hand in hand with Pedro, felt like something out of a dream. But as the days wore on, the reality of being thrust into the spotlight—into a relationship that the entire world was now watching—began to settle in. The constant buzz of paparazzi, the endless social media comments, the scrutinizing eyes—it was all a bit overwhelming.

You found yourself on edge more often than not, your nerves heightened whenever you left your apartment or met up with Pedro in public. It wasn’t that you weren’t proud of your relationship—it was the exact opposite. You were proud of him, proud of both of you. But the attention was something you hadn’t anticipated, and it made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

One afternoon, after a particularly long press tour for The Last of Us season premiere, you and Pedro found a rare moment of calm in his hotel room. He had been away for a few days, his schedule packed with interviews and shoots, and you had missed him terribly. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was the emotional one. The time apart had started to take its toll on both of you.

Pedro was lying on the bed, propped up with a pillow behind his head, his eyes closed in exhaustion. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your phone as you scrolled through the constant buzz of social media notifications. Every picture, every comment, every video was filled with the same questions and assumptions—Who is this woman? Is she really with him?—and it was starting to wear on you.

Pedro noticed the shift in your mood before you could hide it. “Hey,” he murmured, sitting up and reaching for your hand. “You okay?”

You glanced up at him, forcing a smile even though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah, just... a lot going on, you know? All the attention. It’s just... a lot to handle.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed as he moved closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch was warm and grounding, and you allowed yourself a moment to close your eyes and let the tension melt away under his gentle touch. “I get it,” he said softly. “It’s overwhelming, and I don’t want it to make you feel... exposed. I didn’t realize how much it would affect you.”

You shook your head, not wanting him to feel guilty for something he couldn’t control. “It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t expect it to be like this. I don’t mind the attention, but it’s hard to feel like we can just be... us when it feels like everyone’s watching.”

Pedro’s expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t let anyone make you feel less than. Not with me.”

You nodded, trying to hold onto his words, but doubt still lingered in your mind. “I know. But it’s hard to navigate all this. To balance what’s private with what’s public.”

Pedro sighed, pulling you into his arms, his embrace warm and secure. “We’ll figure it out together,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not rushing anything. If we need to take a step back from the spotlight, we’ll do it. What matters is us. ”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net, and for the first time in days, you felt yourself start to relax. The pressure of the public eye hadn’t gone away, but with Pedro by your side, it felt manageable. You leaned into him, your head resting on his chest as his arms tightened around you.

——

In the following weeks, you and Pedro made a conscious effort to carve out moments for just the two of you, away from the cameras, away from the noise. When he wasn’t on set or doing press, you’d take quiet walks together in parks or visit your favorite hole-in-the-wall cafes—places where the public eye couldn’t follow. The connection between you deepened during these private moments, where time seemed to slow and it was just the two of you, existing in a world that was entirely your own.

It wasn’t always easy, though. The public pressure still weighed heavily on you, and even though Pedro did his best to shield you from it, you could see the strain it was beginning to have on him as well.

One particularly tough day, after a grueling press junket that had left both of you exhausted, you and Pedro sat in his hotel room, the lights dimmed low. You were sipping wine from a glass he had poured for you, the quiet hum of the city outside barely audible.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence. The words had been lingering in your chest for days, and finally, they spilled out. “The constant scrutiny... the cameras, the rumors. I didn’t sign up for this.”

Pedro looked at you, his expression soft yet serious. He put down his glass and turned toward you, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he said quietly. “You never signed up for any of this, and I’m sorry. But I won’t let it break us. I’ll protect you.”

You sighed, feeling the weight of your words. “I know. I know you will. But what about me? What if I’m not strong enough for this?”

Pedro shook his head, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re stronger than you think. And we don’t have to do this alone. I’m here. And I’ll keep reminding you that we’re in this together.”

You took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. It wasn’t about being perfect or having all the answers. It was about leaning into each other, sharing your vulnerabilities, and finding strength in each other’s love.

——

A few days later, as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror getting ready for another red carpet event, you found yourself feeling more confident. Pedro had taken your hand that night and assured you again that he was committed to helping you navigate this new world you found yourselves in. The press, the cameras, and all the expectations would come and go—but your relationship, the connection you shared, would remain constant.

The event was a glamorous affair—elegant, star-studded, and full of people vying for attention. But this time, you were ready. You weren’t just Pedro Pascal’s girlfriend. You were the woman of his life, standing next to the man you loved, unafraid of the spotlight anymore. With him by your side, you knew you could handle whatever came your way.

When Pedro appeared in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever in his tuxedo, you smiled, feeling a surge of warmth flood through you. He caught your eye and grinned, his usual calm composure replaced by something that felt more genuine, more present.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low but with a hint of excitement.

You nodded, stepping toward him and linking your arm through his. “Ready.”

The red carpet was overwhelming as always, but this time, you didn’t feel out of place. With Pedro at your side, it was as though the whole world faded away. It was just you, him, and the love you shared—something no one could take from you.

As the cameras flashed around you, Pedro leaned down to whisper in your ear. “I don’t care what the world thinks. I love you. And I’m never letting you go.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and in that moment, you knew. This wasn’t just about fame or the public eye. It was about the two of you—your love, your connection, your future.

And no matter what the world threw at you, you would face it together.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #jose pedro balmaceda pascal

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museanddream · 10 hours ago

Note

You’re reading is SO CUTE 🥹🥹 How do you think Ona/Lucy’s first conversation/confession about R went? Do you think Ona put 2+2 together, or did Lucy come clean immediately?

Well, anon, I think it goes a little like this:

One Night Prequel Drabble Collection

Summary: Some little glimpses into just a few of the conversations that led to Ona and Lucy inviting you into their bed.

Word count: 1.8k

Disclaimer: I wrote this in about 2 hours tonight. It’s raw, unedited, and probably not very good, nor do I have any intention of ever finessing it. But the anons got my brain working and I had to scribble it down. It’s also really fucking hard to write a fic about an unnamed OC (aka the reader in the main story) from the point of view of two other people while also trying to avoid the icky use of “Y/N”. Anyway, enjoy. And keep chatting to me about the fic - I’m enjoying it and maybe it’ll help inspire me to continue the next chapter.

……

“Sit down.”

Ona has barely made it through the door into Lucy’s apartment - their apartment, now that Ona is back in Barcelona - when Lucy practically manhandles her into a chair in the kitchen.

Any doubt that Ona might have had about the severity of the situation is squashed completely with the four ominous words that follow.

“We need to talk.”

“What is it?” Ona asks. “Is there something wrong?”

“You heard the rumours today about our new signing, right?” Lucy asks, worry etched on her face.

The question triggers a memory in Ona’s mind.

“Yes! Aitana mentioned we were signing her for free from -”

“Well, the thing is…” Lucy interrupts, before Ona can finish. “I used to play with her at City. The first time I was there.”

Ona must be missing something critical, because she doesn’t understand how the prospect of reuniting with an old friend and teammate can cause Lucy to radiate this much anxiety as she paces around the kitchen.

“It’ll be nice for you to play with her again,” Ona says.

“I didn’t just play with her though.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything else. Just watches Ona and waits for her to figure it out herself. The words swirl through Ona’s brain for a long moment, wondering if something has got lost in translation, before it all clicks into place.

“Ohhhhh,” Ona says, eyes widening in realisation. “She’s your ex?”

“No! Or yes. Kind of.” Lucy stumbles slightly over her explanation. “We never dated. It was just sex.”

Ona considers it all. Lucy’s nerves, her serious expression as she asked Ona to sit down, the eventual confession about something that must be years in the past.

And then, she laughs.

“What?” Lucy frowns. “What’s funny?”

“Dios mio, Lucy,” Ona says exasperatedly, shaking her head once she’s got her giggles under control. “You had me worried for a second. I thought you were about to break up with me. Or announce you were transferring to Mexico, or something.”

“You … don’t care?” Lucy asks, like she’s the one not quite understanding things now.

“You’re not still sleeping with her, are you?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then why would I care?” Ona asks, getting to her feet and closing the gap between them, one of her hands seeking out Lucy’s hip. “I know you had sex with other people before me.”

“I know,” Lucy mumbles, letting herself melt into Ona’s touch. “It’s just … I haven’t seen her in years and I wanted you to hear it from me before she suddenly shows up at training and tells you herself, or something.”

Ona pushes up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to Lucy’s in a quick kiss, still not quite believing that this is her life now, that she gets to kiss Lucy whenever she wants.

“Then thank you for telling me.”

……

“She’s pretty,” Ona comments, as Lucy drives them home from their second day of pre-season training.

The slight hesitation before Lucy answers hangs heavily enough in the air that Ona knows Lucy is playing stupid, rather than actually confused by the comment.

“Who?”

Ona rolls her eyes.

“You know who. She’s hot. Don’t pretend she isn’t.”

Lucy doesn’t agree, but her silence isn’t a denial either.

“You’re hot too. Obviously. I bet you were hot together.”

There’s a little noise from Lucy’s side of the car. Not quite a snort, but enough to tell Ona that Lucy has an opinion about Ona’s comments.

An opinion that she keeps to herself.

“And she seems really nice,” Ona continues, when she gets no verbal response from Lucy. “Really funny. I think she’ll be good for the team.”

Still nothing from the driver’s seat. Just silence.

“You must have done something really stupid to fuck it up with her.”

Lucy brakes a little too suddenly as the car reaches a red light.

“I didn’t…” She turns in the seat to look at Ona. “Why do you think it was me who fucked it up.”

“Because, cariño,” Ona practically sings. “I know you. And because Jorge told me exactly what you were like when you were younger. What was that English word he taught me?”

“Prat,” Lucy supplies, with a little grumble.

“Yes!” Ona says gleefully. “He said you were a prat when it came to girlfriends.”

“I love that you get on with my brother so well,” Lucy says, as the light turns green and she shifts the car into gear once more. “But the only prat in the family is him.”

……

“Was the sex good?”

Lucy chokes, perhaps on a piece of Ona’s hair considering the placement of Ona’s head against Lucy’s upper chest, and Ona realises that maybe her timing of the question, as they lay together in a post-coital tangle of sweaty limbs, is probably not the best.

“Am I supposed to give you a rating out of five, or…?”

Ona laughs and lifts her head to look into Lucy’s l eyes.

“Not with me.”

“Please tell me you weren’t thinking about me shagging somebody else while I was literally inside you.”

Ona decides that the best course of action is to remain silent and let Lucy fill in the gaps.

It takes a few seconds before Lucy’s eyes widen and she follows up with, “You were thinking about that?”

“You make me feel really good,” Ona tries to explain. “Like, really good. Best-I’ve-ever-had kind of good. So maybe sometimes I wonder how you learned to do some of those things. And who taught you.”

“Maybe it’s just natural talent,” Lucy brags, raising her eyebrows smugly.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Sleep with her yourself if you’re that desperate to know,” Lucy jokes with a roll of her eyes.

Ona thinks of her new teammate, who is exactly her type and who she might already be a little bit enamoured with, who she might already be thinking about sleeping with, if she wasn’t already head over heels in love with Lucy.

She hesitates for just long enough that Lucy reads the direction of her thoughts.

“Oh? You want that?”

“No,” Ona is quick to answer, settling back against Lucy’s chest to avoid having to continue to make eye contact with her girlfriend. She pauses to think, then adds, “Not without you, anyway.”

Ona feels the rumble of Lucy’s chest beneath her as she chuckles.

“You’ve been thinking about it. Don’t lie.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Ona admits, fingers tightening against the bare skin of Lucy’s hip where it rests beneath her hand.

“A lot, more like.”

“Not a lot. Just a bit.”

Lucy’s lips press into the spot where the wisps of Ona’s hair at her temple meet her forehead, arms wrapping tighter around Ona’s back.

“Then let me tell you this,” she says, her voice impossibly low. “Yes, it was good.” In an effortless display of strength, Lucy rolls them over so that Ona is on her back on the mattress, with Lucy holding herself above her. “Now why don’t you tell me more about those fantasies of yours while I make you come again?”

……

��I don’t think she even likes me.”

Ona knows exactly who Lucy is talking about as they wander around the grocery store after training.

“She does.”

“No she doesn’t. We were paired up in the gym today and she didn’t say a word to me.”

“You didn’t talk to her either,” Ona points out. “She likes you.”

“No she doesn’t,” Lucy counters.

“She does,” Ona insists. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not watching. She still fancies you.”

“You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

“I’m not,” Ona grins. “She stared at your ass in the dressing room for like, a whole minute today.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, then turns to walk away, the shopping basket caught in the hook of her elbow.

“And who can blame her?” Ona calls after Lucy. “It’s a great ass to stare at!”

……

“I can stop talking about her if it makes you uncomfortable.”

One brings it up one night over dinner, a few months into the season.

“It’s fine,” Lucy answers, pushing her food around her plate with a fork. “I know you’re close to her.”

“But if it’s weird for you…”

“It’s not weird,” Lucy is quick to say. “I promise. I … I still like her. There’s a reason we used to be so close. She’s a good person. I’m glad you two are friends.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Lucy interjects, looking at Ona earnestly across the table. “I don’t mind you talking about her. I don’t even mind you teasing me about her. In fact, I … when I was away with England, I …” Lucy sighs and puts her fork down. “I was thinking about what you said before about your fantasies. The three of us together.”

Ona puts her own fork down too and leans forward in her seat.

“Tell me,” she urges Lucy in a low voice.

Lucy’s eyes flicker up and meet Ona’s over the table.

“I touched myself thinking about watching you two together. More than once, actually.”

Ona feels all the blood in her body rush south. The food lies forgotten between them, hunger replaced by a different kind of hunger.

“Yeah?”

“You put it in my head. I know you’re probably joking when you bring up wanting her to join us, but…”

“I’m not joking,” Ona interjects. “Not properly.” And then, to explain, “Like, if it’s something you were interested in…”

“Are you interested in it?”

Ona pauses to think.

The answer is yes, of course. But Ona doesn’t know if admitting that will hurt Lucy. She doesn’t want Lucy to think that she spends all her time fantasising about somebody else, when Lucy is already more than enough for her.

“I think so,” Ona answers. “I like spending time with her. And she’s hot.”

Lucy smirks across the table.

“So you keep saying.”

Ona feels her cheeks start to burn with embarrassment.

“I don’t need it,” Ona continues. “There’s nothing missing from what I already have with you.”

“But…” Lucy prompts her, gesturing with one of her hands for Ona to continue.

“But it would be fun, no?” Ona replies, as if it’s that simple.

Lucy picks up her fork again and smiles down into her plate of food.

“Then invite her over,” Lucy says.

As if it’s that simple.

It’s been weeks of teasing, weeks of making occasional comments to Lucy about her history with the new signing. Weeks of Ona only saying things because she knew it would never actually mean anything.

Or so she thought.

“Really?” she asks Lucy.

Lucy shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“I already told you the idea turns me on. Invite her over. Or don’t. It’s your decision. But if you do, I’d be down.”

Ona watches Lucy’s face, waiting for some kind of sign that Lucy is just joking, that this is all part of some cruel test of Ona’s loyalty to her.

But it never comes.

So it’s decided. She’ll make it happen.

There’s only one problem. How the hell do you proposition one of your teammates for a threesome without making it weird?

Ona will just have to take a risk and try.

#one night universe #lucy bronze x ona batlle x reader

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hufflezki · 18 hours ago

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summary: meeting you, as padfoot, was supposed to be an accident. but sirius can't help himself from coming back to you. especially when its warmer in your arms.

-> sirius black x whimsical!reader, padfoot loves likes you very much, established relationship, word count: 591

In a very odd and not-so-usual way, You appeared in Sirius’ life like a fallen angel. It was an early spring then, he had spent most of his Saturday morning just snooping around the grounds of Hogwarts as Padfoot. And occasionally playing chase with Prongs and Wormtail. But it was one particular push that got him stumbling slightly into some bushes.

Now, Sirius wasn't new with playing rough—if anything it was the only way he knew how to play. But this time, however, the bushes didn't really save him. Instead, they had given him a couple of wood splinters. Most were not so hard to remove—with Remus’ help—but some were just too tiny and troublesome. Even when he turned back to his human form.

He planned to go to Madam Pomfrey later that noon, but on his way back he had stumbled upon you. With him still being Padfoot, You immediately stopped in your tracks to take a good look at him. His dark fur was all messy, and he was staring up at you—the look on his face mirroring your own curiosity. Then you got down on your knees, checked his front legs and asked. “Can I see your paw?” Your voice was so soft and gentle, that suddenly Sirius would do anything you told him to. So, of course, he lifted his paw up and you helped remove the stubborn wood splinters piercing his paws.

And he was saved, he didn't have to go to Madam Pomfrey anymore, all thanks to you. From then on, you were often seen accompanied by a big, intimidating dog that seemed too attached to you. You thought it was adorable that he likes your company so much. But little did you know, that as time passed by, Sirius grew more and more enamored by you. Until he eventually confessed and revealed himself.

And he was nervous, scared that you might think he’s weird after finding out that it was him, that it's been him begging for your attention all along. But you had taken it well, and even agreed for him to continue hanging out with you as Padfoot sometimes. And, well, Sirius did take that to heart.

In Sirius’ dorm room, you’re currently laying down on his bed. And with a notebook and pen in your hands, you write down a short description of a mooncalf you had seen after the full moon last week.. While Sirius, currently as Padfoot, uses you as a pillow—or a body heater—as he sleeps.

Remus, reading a book on his own bed, glances at you and smiles, definitely amused. “Someone looks comfortable.” You turn your head to him, and he points his chin towards the sleeping dog on your chest. And you return his smile. “Well he does get cold easily, and I tend to be very warm.” You reach around Padfoot, scratching the spot behind his ear.

“Mhm, he does seem like he’s having the time of his life right now.” You turn to face your notebook once again, missing the look Remus and Padfoot exchange. The cheeky little guy had been awake all along, well not until a few minutes ago. But you didn't need to know that, as he wanted you to pamper him much longer.

It's clear that ever since you got together, Sirius has been spoiled rotten. Though his friends like to complain about it, they're still grateful for you. Especially now that Sirius just seems brighter. As if he’s genuinely content for once. And it's all thanks to your company.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black one shot #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders x you #marauders x y/n #marauders fanfiction #marauders oneshot #�� ᝰ.ᐟ marauders

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bl4nk-card · 2 days ago

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By the word " ; { general headcanons }

🪻🪦 ~ > andrew kreiss & gn! [lover] reader (you ♡)

a/n: everyone, i learned how to do the 'keep reading' thing!! i'm so sorry i didn't do this for my previous posts TT

✧༺♥༻

andrew who would, during matches, not hesitate to throw himself in harm's way to cover a hit for you. he generally wouldn't do this for anyone else --- as he grew up on his own, he's learned to fend for himself --- but oh how things changed with you.

andrew would also not think twice before carrying you during the dangerous tricks you pull in matches. he may be on the frail side, but he would exert what strength he could to get you safely out of there. regardless of how he does it.

andrew would want to be close to you at all times. he's never had anyone close to him growing up, having lost his mother at an age so young, and so he is so, so attached to his lover. whether it'd be just holding your elbow, or even being around you --- anything is fine. he is largely dependent on your comfort.

andrew does not have a lot of energy to socialize. however, with you, it seems as if it regenerates so quickly. residents of the manor report that, suddenly, he's no longer frowning and sulking whenever you are around.

andrew loves physical affection. as long as you are both away from prying eyes and potentially dangerous individuals (and the sun), he is willing to cuddle up for hours.

andrew adores the praise that you rain upon him. while he might say nothing and only bashfully nod, his heart pounds so quickly he might just explode if he doesn't embrace you on the spot--- that is how grateful he is. growing up, he has been nothing but insecure and self-conscious. hearing you say it would be enough for him to melt.

speaking of which, andrew has issues managing his self-esteem. he often questions his worth and his behaviors are very obvious despite his attempts to hide his struggles. he may deny your help, but he wants it. he wants reassurance, and he wants it from you.

andrew is cautious especially if it's about protecting you. andrew may be timid and shy, but he isn't a baby. he will do whatever it may take so long as he is assured that you are safe even if it means making a few enemies around the manor.

✧༺♥༻

BONUS: developing feelings

andrew kept pushing these feelings down, deep down. he tried to get rid of them before they could grow --- he became stern, avoidant, and even a little 'rude' towards you for a while in hopes of erasing these feelings.

between the both of you, it might be that you were the one who confessed first

during your confession, andrew attempted to flee out of embarrassment and the fear of vulnerability. once. twice. mayybeee thrice --- you couldn't count anymore, you had to drag him back to you

it was definitely a difficult day trying to convince him, but with a word here and a few touches there, he finally calmed down.

✧༺♥༻

#andrew kreiss x reader #identity v #idv #idv grave keeper #idv gravekeeper #andrew kreiss #idv andrew #idv x reader #identity v x reader

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atruththatyoudeny · 3 days ago

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Happy 28th! Here are the amazing fics I read these last two months:

These Telltale Tickings | lanallite | [124k] Louis Tomlinson was never meant to be a viscount. His name, his title, his legacy—none of it is truly his. But the Ton does not know that. Not yet. For years, he has kept his distance, doing his duties from his family’s estate in the countryside, far from prying eyes and sharper tongues. But with his eldest sister’s debut, his return to London is inevitable. He has a goal in mind: secure a match for Lottie, ensure his family’s future, and leave before anyone can uncover the truth. Duke Harry Styles has never been one for polite society. A rake with little interest in marriage or mindless gossip, he prefers to keep others at arm’s length. But there is something about Viscount Tomlinson—his guarded words, his careful steps, the undeniable sense that he is hiding something—that Harry cannot ignore. The longer Louis stays, the closer the truth comes to the surface. And the closer Harry gets, the harder it is to remember why he was meant to leave in the first place. or; a Bridgerton inspired fic where Louis is a viscount with a secret and Harry is a duke who won’t stop until he knows what it is.

Mountain Investigation | babyhoneyhslt | [35k] As a plane crash investigator, Louis has handled his fair share of strange cases, but something is different about the crash of British Airways flight BA278. Crashed into the Brecon Beacons, over the Pen Y Fan mountain, very few survived. One of them being the pilot, Harry Styles. While evidence is pointing to a pilot error, something isn't adding up with Harry's story and Louis is determined to figure out what exactly happened that night and why Harry isn't all that keen to prove his own innocence.

Six Ways to Sunday | SilverStuff50 | [11k] Prompt 97: H is an award winning actor who’s a massive fan of The Six, an indie band fronted by a certain LT. H confesses his love for the band in an interview, L takes the piss when asked about him, saying H isn’t cool enough to stan The Six. An internet feud starts with the fandoms facing off, whilst behind the scenes H’s secret crush on L makes him determined to change the man’s mind about him. While the fandoms are at war, the two men bicker over Twitter, but behind the scenes the ice is slowly thawing. Or: Harry’s a fanboy and Louis secretly likes the fact. Or maybe not so secretly….

when close to satisfaction | etherealbliss | [88k] After a string of unlucky events, Louis finds himself forced to bring his sharp financial acumen to Harmonia, a beauty and apparel brand known for its whimsical aesthetics but hurt by its inability to make a profit in all its years of operation. Unfortunately, his assistance seems to be far from appreciated by the co-founder and CEO, Harry, who is stubborn, spoiled, and much to Louis' dismay: drop-dead gorgeous. With no other option, he and Harry form an unlikely team in the mission to make Harmonia successful. But as the lines begin to blur through late nights and stolen glances, Louis realizes that the traits he had once despised might just make Harry impossible to resist.

Pulled Under | Niallinjapan2013+ xx_soup_xx | [27k] Orphan Harry shows up in Louis’ remote island’s primary school one day, thus beginning a lifelong friendship, only strengthened by a storm and a wreckage. Until Louis takes a dive in the sea that changes everything.

it's warm in antarctica | HoldingOnToChaos | [26k] After having his heart accidentally broken by Harry, Louis is offered a job opportunity in Australia. With nothing keeping him tied to England and a desperate desire to not watch the man he loves love someone else, he takes it. When he eventually returns home to England, he’s so sure that his feelings are gone. So. Sure. Right? -- Or Louis runs away to Australia but can’t escape his feelings

Legally Married, Morally Confused | Kiwiwatermelongrapejuice | [51k] Louis Tomlinson is just a bartender. A chaotic little shit of a bartender, sure, but still—a normal, very straight man just trying to flirt with models and get free drinks out of it. Until he accidentally Snapchats a murder. With a leprechaun filter. To his public story. Now he’s the FBI’s biggest headache and only eyewitness in a high-profile assassination. Which is why he ends up in Witness Protection—with a fake husband. Enter: Harry Styles. FBI adjacent. Professional. Mysterious. Also alarmingly good at pretending to be married. For safety, they must convincingly pose as newlyweds. Hold hands. Sit close. Share a bed. You know. Normal married stuff. It’s all fake. Totally fake. Absolutely, definitely fake. ...Until it starts to feel like it’s not. Now they’re stuck in suburbia with nosy neighbors, flirty baristas, Niall texting from FBI HQ, and a growing number of feelings no one wants to name. There are rules. They just keep breaking them. Or: The one where Louis goes into Witness Protection and ends up in a fake marriage with a very real problem: he might be catching feelings for his FBI-assigned husband.

waiting room is getting crowded | harrysboy | [13k] “Look— um. I really appreciate the apology. I kind of assumed you just needed space. But, uh— about Louis… He’s… He’s right behind you. In the waiting room.” What. Harry whips around. And yeah. Louis’ here. “What the fu—” “Holy shit.” or, broken-up harry and louis both decide to get their oops and hi tattoos covered. what they didn't decide on, however, was having their appointments booked for the same time.

100% customer satisfaction guaranteed | fckingfreakshow | [48k] I. please remain on the line harry’s looking for love, or at the very least a date that doesn’t make him want to walk off the brooklyn bridge. his friends call him a serial dater, but he prefers romantically persistent. he believes in the process and sometimes, you gotta kiss a few toads and pay sketchy astrology sites for the answers. what he really wants is simple. someone fun, who keeps him on his toes, who doesn’t take themselves too seriously. someone who’ll flirt shamelessly, make him laugh, maybe even whisper sweet nothings into his ear… he just didn’t expect the last part to be so…literal. II. thank you for waiting “I feel like I know everything about you,” Harry finally murmured, carefully, as if the air itself was fragile. “But at the same time, I don’t know you at all.” Louis huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head back against the brick. “Yeah, I get that.” Harry rolled his head to look at him. “Do you?” “I mean,” Louis continued. “I know the sound you make when you’re about to fall asleep but don’t want to admit it. Or how your words get all jumbled when you’re excited, like your brain’s moving too fast for your mouth to keep up. How you start three different sentences before finishing one, like you’re afraid you’ll lose the thought if you don’t get it out quick enough.” Harry felt the heat rise to his cheeks, looking away, hoping the sunset’s blush was enough to hide his own. Louis’ pinky squeezed his, knowing. “I know the way you go quiet when you’re shy...” The words pressed into his ribs, making it harder to breathe. __ or, a continuation of "please remain on the line," picking up a few days after prospect park, as harry and louis navigate learning each other all over again, but this time with touching.

Better Mistakes | lovelarry10 | [117k] “Look, this doesn’t have to be the end of the world-” “Oh but it fucking is,” Louis said, shaking his head. “How the fuck am I going to tell Matt I’m pregnant with a baby when we’ve not had sex in months? He might be a bit thick sometimes, but he is gonna know there’s no chance this baby is his.” “You don’t have to, uh, tell him it’s mine, right?” Louis scoffed. “Why, are you scared he’s gonna come and kick the shit out of you?” “He wishes,” Harry laughed, looking back down at the test. “Shit, I … I can’t believe this. Louis, I didn’t mean for this. Honestly. It was just sex for me. We have great sex, and I didn’t see why I should have to turn that down, not when you clearly wanted it as much as I did. I didn’t want this to end in a baby.” »｡ ∾･⁙･ ღ ➵ ⁘ ➵ ღ ･⁙･∾ ｡« Louis knows he shouldn’t be sleeping with his boyfriend’s enemy. He knows that. But there’s something that draws him back to Harry over and over again. Falling in love wasn’t part of the plan...

(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction | SwimmingInAChampagneSea | [40k] “And finally, Harry’s so-called quirky trait is probably the one that requires most getting used to," Zayn says, smirking. Louis looks at Harry, whose only reaction is rolling his eyes so hard Louis thinks they could get stuck. “It’s normal and natural,” Harry sighs. “Right, so lads, Harry masturbates a lot. Like a lot. And he is not quiet," Niall says, grinning and looking at Harry like he sort of admires him for it. Louis looks at Harry again. He has squared his shoulders and is looking defiantly around the room. Louis is intrigued. This could be fun. “Are you a leftie?” Louis asks, obviously looking to tease Harry. Harry sighs so profoundly that Louis is impressed with how much air he can blow out in one go. "I am not," Harry answers, looking mildly annoyed. "So, how are you getting by now?" Louis asks, generally interested. "Not well," Harry mumbles, looking genuinely annoyed. OR Harry broke his arm and can't pleasure himself the way he likes. Louis has no intention of helping him out AT ALL, but alas, here they are.

Full of Terraced Dreams | InsightfulInsomniac | [47k] In the midst of parenting a teenager on the precipice of presenting as an alpha, the new neighbors moving in next door are the least of Louis' concerns. That is, until said neighbor turns out to be entirely too lovely and also a young single parent. The only problem about this flourishing, flirtatious friendship is that Louis hasn't dated since his daughter was born thirteen years ago, and he has no idea how to navigate adult relationships as a thirty-six-year-old single dad. Although Harry seems to balance the idea of dating and parenting with more ease, he still wrestles with his own insecurities and the protectiveness of the life he's built with his son. That doesn’t stop him from falling hard and fast for his next-door-neighbor. A story of two single parents who come together as a blended family after an unexpected circumstance changes their lives forever.

Yours, Mine, & Ours | tiltreality33 | [126k] A ten year reunion puts ex-boyfriends, Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson, in the same room together for the first time in ten years. Louis' desperate to avoid the man who left him sobbing outside a dive-bar in the middle of London. It's going swimmingly until an accidental submission to the reunion's slideshow highlights the existence of the son, Leo, that Harry never knew about. Harry's determined to stake a permanent claim in Louis' life as their child's father. Louis knows Harry's temporary, and refuses to allow him to break their son's heart too. The past bubbles up in uncomfortable ways, and choices need to be made. Will Harry and Louis be able to put everything aside in the best interest of their son? Or will everything fall apart just like it did all those years ago?

buy one, get one | sunshinesoraa | [17k] “Expecting a baby, are you, Haz?” Louis smirked, eyes focused down at the UPPABaby box, his Adidas-clad feet crossed at the ankle. Harry wanted nothing more than to conjure up a sentence snarky enough to wipe the look off Louis’ face. And he could have said something back about the obscene amount of makeup palettes in Louis’ trolley, but instead, he stupidly babbled back: “No, ‘m not. Told you before, I’d only have a baby if it was yours.” or, Harry and Louis haven't spoken in five years. They get stuck together in the checkout line at Black Friday. Louis worms his way into Harry's holiday plans, and into his bed.

#28th appreciation #fic rec #my fic rec #my reads #monthly reads #larry fics

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joelmillerswife9 · 9 hours ago

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Hearts on Fire

Hi everyone! So, this story has been in progress for quite a while, but I'm so excited to share it! Again, big shoutout to @baronessvonglitter for being my proofreader/ critic <33 I can't tell you how much fun I had writing this, and I hope you enjoy it! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+

Summary: You and your next-door neighbor Joel, go out for a couple of drinks with friends. You invite him back to your house for a nightcap, which eventually turns into a steamy encounter in front of the fireplace🙈 just fyi, somethings might not make sense. Like, who has a Cigarettes After Sex vinyl during an apocalypse, but hey, it fits. WARNINGS: ANGST, SMUT, 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!! DRINKING, P&V IN FRONT OF FIREPLACE, F! RECEIVING O, READER AND JOEL TAKE A BATH TOGETHER, MINOR LANGUAGE, PET NAMES. Joel is in his 50's reader is 30

You’re both basking in the afterglow from the entertaining outing with the whole town. You’re not sure if it’s from the three whiskey sours you drank or all the dancing, but you’re indulging in an overwhelming feeling of bliss.

A feeling you thought you would never experience again. You’ve lived in Jackson for a year and a half now, after escaping your QZ in California. Everyone you knew in your past life was either dead or had escaped and when it was finally your opportunity to get out you never looked back. You were incredibly thankful when you made it to Jackson. No more torture. No more suffering. Jackson has become your safe haven, forever. And the best part about living here are the wonderful people you can call friends.

You have your best friends, Maria and Tommy.

Your favorite student Ellie, who always knows how to make you laugh.

And then there’s your neighbor, Joel.

Joel…

The one who always comes to your rescue if something in your house is broken or needs repair.

The one who shovels your driveway in the winter even though you tell him you’re perfectly capable of doing it. But of course, he never listens.

The one whose chocolate brown eyes and muscular physique ignites a wildfire inside of you that you’d never confess a soul to.

One glance. One smirk. One flex of his muscles. The butterflies in your tummy go rampant, but it’s an excitement that never gets old.

Sure, he can be a bit stubborn and quiet, but you’ve been able to peel back those layers. You always have an urge to break out in a victory dance if you can get him to chuckle or sport the tiniest smile.

…

“I can’t remember the last time I danced that much,” Joel chuckles next to you.

“Me neither” you giggle.

“You’re quite the dancer, Mr. Miller”

He tips his cowboy hat as a way of saying thank you.

A cold brisk brush along the Jackson air sending a shiver along your body. You pull your jacket in tighter trying to trap the warmth inside.

“You need my jacket, darlin��?”

You glance over at him and nod your head, “Oh no, I’m okay. We’re almost there”

Walking side by side, all you hear is the soft stomping of your boots on the snow and the coos of an owl. You tilt your head taking in a deep breath of the crisp air and slowly breathe out. The night sky is a gorgeous canvas of stars.

“Ya know, I’m not a baby I can walk home by myself”

Joel smirks under his hat. He puts an arm around your shoulder as if you’re his prized possession. You play it cool, but the feeling of Joel making contact with your body hits like a lightning bolt.

“Sweetie, a real gentleman never lets a pretty girl walk alone at night.” His southern charm is smooth as honey.

A soft snicker escapes your lips as you look down at the snow covered sidewalk. He can tell you’re slightly flattered at his words, but he stays humble.

You finally make it to your house; your cozy little sanctuary with lights dangling around the porch and a rocking chair planted next to your front door. Joel’s arm still resting on your shoulder, you fiddle in your pocket for your keys. As you walk up the porch steps, you’re oblivious to the slick patch of ice on the second step and lose your footing.

You shriek but before you hit the ground Joel’s strong arms scoop you right up.

“Whoa, easy ther’, kitten. I think those drinks are catchin’ up to ya’” the joke rolling off of his tongue.

You laugh and face him, “My hero!” You say with enthusiasm.

You raise your head up and his eyes meet yours. You’ve looked at him countless times, but this is the first time observing him up close. His strong face tells a story about years of hard work and survival. Even with all the wrinkles and scars, he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

“I.. I had a great time tonight” you’re so nervous you want to look away, but then you love getting lost in his eye. It’s hypnotizing.

“Dido”

The wind howls and a stray of your hair brushes along your face. He smirks and his finger glides along your skin.

“Don’t want these beautiful blues covered up”

God, he’s good.

Without even thinking, the words escape from your lips like a waterfall, “Wou… would you like to come in for a little bit? Maybe some coffee? Or a drink?”

Your breath hitches when you realize you just invited Joel inside your home.

“I mean..if you can’t it’s fine. I don’t want Ellie to be by herself for too long” That’s your insecurities trying to reel you back.

Joel smiles and shakes his head, “Ellie’s sleepin’ over a friend’s house. I can hang around for a little. Make sure you don’t end up breakin’ a bone”

You giggle and tell him okay. You turn your keys into the locks and glide inside.

You kick your boots off and unbutton your jacket. Joel takes off his cowboy hat and runs his fingers through his salt and pepper curls. He tosses his tan corduroy jacket over a chair and places his hat on the kitchen table. Standing in his flannel and worn-out jeans, he watches you strip off your jacket.

Placing it on the kitchen chair, you glare over to him. He’s like something out of an old western movie.

“What can I get you, cowboy?” You question leaning on your kitchen island. Your body arched like a cat pushing your bum out intentionally.

Joel’s boots patter on the hardwood floor strutting your way. He slips his hands into his pockets like he’s posing for a magazine. You wonder if he knows how attractive he is.

“You got whiskey, cowgirl?”

You sport a grin, “Jack or Jameson?”

He lips purse and his brow furrows, “Surprise me, darlin”

“You got it”. You walk to your cupboard while Joel strolls into your living room.

“Would you like me to make a fire?” He hollers from the living room.

“Sure” you yell back.

You hear the rummaging of Joel’s fire making skills and open your cabinet. You grab the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the top pantry and two glasses.

You place the cups on the kitchen counter and plop two ice cubes at the bottom of the glasses. You take a swig of whiskey and let it code your throat before pouring two shots. You crack open a bottle of soda and let the fizz dance in the liquor. A quick stir and two cherries, and your famous Jack and cokes are finished.

“You got good taste” Joel hollers from the living room.

You walk into the living room holding the drinks. Joel’s back is to you looking at your old vinyl's.

“Huh?”

He turns to you pointing at your vinyl's. A perfect mixture of vintage and modern.

“Your records. I didn’t realize we have the same taste in music”

You smile and look at the floor.

“Oh, yeah. Some are mine, others I found while going out with Tommy on patrols” You explain.

You walk over to your record player gliding your finger along the smooth wood top.

“This baby has been with me everywhere, though. Brought it with me from the QZ I was living in and dragged it everywhere I went after.”

Flashbacks of your experience in that hell hole flood your memories. The loss and pain you encountered is behind you. You are safe now. You hand Joel his glass and he thanks you. You reach your palm out in front of him.

“That’ll be 7.54. Tips are generous” you joke.

He laughs and taps your hand, “Get outta here”

You cheers and take a sip.

“Damn darlin, this is good” he compliments taking another gulp.

“Why, thank you”

You sip your cocktail and grab the cherry out of your glass. Joel watches you bring it to your mouth; the sweet fruit touching your tongue as it pops off the stem. His eyebrow furrows like he’s thinking of something mischievous.

“You mind if I play some tunes?” he asks.

“Knock yourself out”

His hands travel along the records. He lets out a low hum and slides a vinyl cover out.

“This is an interesting band name” he observes the cover with the words, Cigarettes After Sex.

Your blush and a nervous laughter escapes you.

“They’re great. One of my favorites, actually. A nice mix of slow rock and pop. I bet you’d like it”

Joel smirks and takes the vinyl out of its case. “Alright, I trust you”

You prop yourself on the couch as you watch him place the vinyl in the record player. Joel’s back muscles poke against his flannel and you can’t help but admire his physique. For a man in his 50’s, he’s perfectly broad.

He places the tonearms on the vinyl and static fills the room. Then a melody from the first song starts playing. You don’t realize it, but you’re still gazing at him when he turns around.

“You like what you see?” There’s a hint of playful seduction in his tone.

You blush, “Just daydreaming, sorry”. You hope he believes your fib.

You let out a soft sigh as Joel sits himself next to you on the couch. You take a sip of your drink and see your dark plum lipstick form a mark on the glass. The crackling of the fire and slow music sets a calming ambiance between the two of you.

Your body sinks more into the couch cushion as you watch the flames dance in the fireplace. Joel squirms getting comfortable as well.

“I can’t remember the last time I just let myself relax,” he mumbles, stretching his muscular arms out.

You throw your head back into the cushion,

“God, me too. I like keeping myself busy, but damn it feels like my brain can never turn off”

“That makes two of us,” Joel says, lifting his glass to you. Your cups clink together.

“To the night owls” you say jovially.

As time drifts, you both talk about everything from work, upbringing, life before the outbreak, things you miss doing prior to the outbreak. You both agree on how much you miss going to the movie theater and watching horror movies. Surprisingly, you have way more in common than you thought.

At one point during the interaction, he thanks you for helping Ellie in school and admits that you are her favorite teacher out of the bunch. You’re flattered about the idea of making a change for someone in a broken world.

“That’s really sweet of her. You wanna know a secret?” You raise your hand to you lips and whisper, “She’s my favorite”

Joel laughs and says, “God, I wish I could say the same”

You scoff and lightly push his arm, “Joel!”

“I’m jus’ kiddin’" being a wise cracker.

You finish your drinks and place it on the wooden coffee table. The record scratches and your favorite song from the album starts, “Heavenly”

You let out a soft moan as the melody echoes around the living room, “Ohhhh This is a great song”

Joel slowly lifts himself off of the couch letting out a low grunt.

“Don’t hurt yourself, old man” you joke.

“Shut up” he scoffs. He turns his body to yours and stretches his hands out. You eye him up and down acting like you don’t know what he wants.

“Can I help you?” Raising an eyebrow.

“C’mon, honey. Don’t leave me hangin’" he declares.

Chuckling at the request, you shake your head and sink deeper into the couch, “Mmm but I’m so comfyyy”

Joel takes your small hands into his and pulls your body up off of the sofa.

“Just one dance,” he pleads. You can’t say no to those eyes.

“Only because you asked nicely” You allow him to lead.

“There she is” encouraging you.

Your fingers lock in between his and Joel starts walking backgrounds to the middle of the room. He spins you around like a princess. Your limber arms wrap around Joel’s neck. His hands explore your body until they find your lower back. He pulls you in closer and your bodies connect. Your breath hitches and muscles tense when you catch a scent of his cedar cologne. His eyes, his body, his strong presence, his charm; Joel is walking temptation. But you’re willing to take a bite out of the forbidden fruit.

“God, please kiss me” you beg him in your mind.

Joel takes your soft hand and connects it to his. He places them on his chest; you can feel his steady heartbeat pulsing through his palm. Your other hand goes from his neck to caressing his shoulder blade. Feeling his muscles through his flannel is enough to make you give in.

Swaying side to side in the living room you whimsically serenade Joel. Your head swings back taking in every touch, every detail of Joel, every overwhelming feeling of joy from tonight. You’ve liked Joel for quite a while, hell every woman in Jackson fancied him. You’d watch women try and talk to him, but he always stayed his quiet stubborn self. You on the other hand would never dare make a move; mostly because you're best friends with his brother and Ellie is like a daughter to him. It would make things too awkward, dating a parent to one of your students.

On top of that, who has time for relationships when the world is crumbling around you? All you hope for is to survive another day in this life. As you sway in the living room, you close your eyes and let your mind wander. Your thoughts create mental pictures of what life would be like if you allowed Joel into your life. You fantasize about sharing a home that resembles you both perfectly, a mix of rustic and simple. Maybe a cabin up in the mountains or a rancher with acres of land. The idea makes you sigh.

Then, the other side of your fantasies creep in. The impermissible fantasies. You and Joel in bed unable to keep your hands off one another. Your bodies colliding and worshipping each other until there isn’t a breath left in you. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s been intimate with a woman. A spark hits your core that you haven’t felt in a while. You’d be lying if you said Joel doesn’t sneak into your mind when it’s late at night and you want to relieve some pent up stress.

You’re pulled back from your mental daydream when you feel Joel’s plump lips gently nibble your neck. You gasp at the touch and grasp his broad shoulders. He can tell you liked that. That spark starts moving down your tummy.

You face Joel and his eyes are locked on yours. You smirk and bring your body closer. You’re like Eve in the garden and Joel’s the snake. If he were the devil, you’d pay to go to hell.

“You like what you see, Mr. Miller” you decide to play along.

“As a matter of fact, I could look at this view for the rest of my life” His charm is killing you .

Your cheeks get toasty and your eyes meet the floor. But, Joel’s thumb brushes your chin bringing your eyes back to him. Your heart feels like it’s going to jump into your throat.

“No no… I wanna see you, kitten” Joel pleads.

You think if he calls you that again you’ll attack him right there in the living room.

His big rough palms cup your face and your breath hitches. His hands are warm and comforting.

“Joel,” you whisper. His face is inching closer to yours.

“We… we shouldn’t. It’s not right” you mumble.

Joel’s one hand moves from your face to your hair. His fingers tangle into your curls. Slowly the world is melting and all you can focus on are those chocolate eyes.

He lets out a long sigh and brushes his palm along your face, “You’re so damn gorgeous. You don’t need to be afraid of me”

“I… I’m not afraid. I just want to be… professional”

He laughs, “Professional? We’re not at school, sugar”

You’re embarrassed at your choice of words, “I mean… ya know… your brother is my friend… and you’re one of my students dad’s… I just don’t want things to become awkward”

Before you can say another word, Joel places his thumb on your lips; a nice way of telling you to “shut up”.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward. And we’re not breakin’ any laws. We’re allowed to feel happiness”

He’s inches from your face, his strong nose brushing up against yours giving you goosebumps.

“Joel..” you whimper. There’s a desperation in your tone. But not out of want, more out of need. You crave Joel Miller.

“Can… I kiss you? Please” He mutters.

You bite your lip; you’re overwhelmed with lust and desire. You close your eyes and surrender yourself to him.

You nod your head, “Yes” you mumble.

You feel his lips touch the tip of your nose. He maneuvers to your cheek brushing against it and goes to the other side. Then, his mouth finds the middle of your forehead.

As he travels along your face, Joel takes in every breath that escapes your body. He takes in every little sound that escapes your lips. He takes in the scent of your hair and skin, a mix of rose petals and rain. Joel is taking in every moment trapping it into his memory forever.

His thumb caresses your bottom lip which curve into a seductive grin. You pucker your lips and kiss his rough skin. His thumb is replaced by his luscious lips. Finally, your lips collide; something you’ve only fantasized about finally coming to life.

A soft moan escapes you and you grasp onto his broad shoulder. Your other hand finds his salt n pepper curls caressing them gently. Joel deepens the kiss and his tongue slips into your mouth. His hands travel from your face to your waist pulling you closer.

“Joel” you say breathlessly. His mouth explores your jawline leaving little kisses along your skin and down to your neck.

You tug at his flannel and your eyes roll back. You’re seconds away from ripping off his flannel and throwing him on the coach. Before you can make a move, Joel stops kissing you. You whine and try to pull him back. His hands cup your face.

“Look at me, baby. If you want me to stop, you need to tell me.” There’s urgency in his tone.

Joel knows if you give him permission to let him in, there’s no going back.

“For the love of God, please don’t stop” you whine.

Joel lets out a low snicker and you reach for him to get closer. His mouth is back on your neck, but his hands travel under your shirt. His warm touch on your bare skin could make you fall to your knees.

“You’re driving me crazy” Joel says with a sense of urgency. That’s it. You can’t hold back anymore.

You whimper, “Please Joel…I want you. I’ve craved you for so long…. I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t touch me.”

Without hesitation, Joel slips his strong arms under your thighs and hoist you up making your squeal. Your legs wrap around Joel’s body. You grab the back of his neck and devour his mouth.

“My room’s upstairs” you pant in between kissing.

“I’ll never make it” Joel utters.

He carries you to the middle of the room overlooking the fireplace. He lays you down gently on the floor and your back connects with the fur rug.

Without breaking the kiss, Joel hovers over you letting his calloused hands explore your curves. You tug at your shirt, but Joel’s hands overlap stopping you.

“I want to undress you.” Joel begs.

You place your arms over your head closing your eyelids, “I’m all yours”

That does it for him. Watching you sprawled out on the rug surrendering yourself to him makes his cock twitch in his jeans.

His hands are at the bottom of your striped sweater. Slowly, they glide up with your sweater and you feel the fabric tickle your skin. It travels up over your head until Joel tosses it to the side. His strong hands on your torso, he whistles at the sight of your black laced bra.

“God, baby. You’re a goddess” he dives in between your breasts kissing and caressing them. You moan as a way of encouraging him to continue.

He’s teasing you. You love it but need more of him.

His hands move south and loop around the button of your jeans. ‘Pop’ goes the button and his hands grip the sides.

“Legs up, kitten” he commands. You do as you’re told.

“Good girl” he mumbles as they slide off your thighs. The jeans are tossed in the corner next to your sweater.

He places a kiss on your birthmark below your knee. His beard tickles your skin, making you chuckle.

“What” he questions smiling.

“Just tickles”

You sit up in front of him fiddling at his flannel buttons.

“My turn” you say, giving Joel the most “come fuck me” look in your eyes.

He smirks and puts his hands on his thighs, letting you take the lead. You start unbuttoning his flannel letting it slide off of his broad body. You’re in awe of his strong physique. You touch his warm broad chest and let your nails trail down to his solid torso. Your panties soaking through the fabric just by touching him.

“Jesus, you are so sexy” You whimper.

Joel grabs your chin and brings his mouth to yours. Your tongues collide and your hands find his belt buckle. He helps you take his pants off and you’re both left in your underwear.

“Tell me what you want, darling,” Joel asks you. He wants to hear you say it.

“Mmm… I want you, Joel. I can’t take it..”

“I’m gonna take such good care of my baby girl”

he unclips your bra and it slides off your chest. Joel takes you into his arms and gently lays you back down. The embers from the fire reflect off of his chocolate eyes.

“Kitten… I need to taste you”

Your body nervously jerks at his request. Surprisingly enough, you’ve never experienced pleasure… in that way. Joel can sense a shift in your comfort, he fears he may have upset you.

“If..you don’t want me to, I won’t” Joel says.

You feel like you’re about to admit a lifelong secret to him. Cheeks start to feel toasty as you confess, “Joel… I.. no one has ever done that to me before.”

You’re waiting for him to laugh, but he actually shows expressions of surprise. He’s flabbergasted, but secretly aroused at your confession.

“Honey… nobody’s ever kissed her?”

You purse your lips and nod “no”.

“What kind of boys have you dated?”

You laugh at his remark, the situation doesn’t feel as uncomfortable. His thumb glides along your temple.

“My poor sweet girl.. you’ve been missin’ out on a woman's greatest pleasure.”

“Well.. it’s not that I’ve told my past boyfriends no. They.. just never offered and I’d feel selfish for asking”

Joel is intrigued by your innocence. How can you be so sweet?

“Babygirl, you should never feel selfish for wanting to be satisfied. Let me show you how a man is supposed to cherish a woman”

A knot forms in your tummy about the idea of Joel’s mouth on your flesh. You’ve never felt more nervous and excited. You kiss his mouth, colliding with his lips you whisper, “Okay”

His lips trail down your jaw and neck making you quiver. The adventure continues to your chest, his warm palm kneading your breasts. You shriek and arch your back when his warm mouth puckers around your pebbled nipple. Joel gently massages it with his mouth and watches you endure the sensation. As a way of encouraging him, your fingers twirl into his gray locks not wanting him to break contact. He takes his time pleasuring you with his touch and tongue. Joel feels honored to be the first to satisfy you in this way. He wants to make the moment last forever, for both of you.

His calloused hands glide up and down your inner thigh planting delicate kisses. His beard makes your limbs jolt from anticipation. He looks up at you; Your eyes focused on the ceiling, hands gripping the rug, lips slightly parted. Your legs are slightly shaking knowing what’s about to happen. Joel adores the excitement and shyness you’re expressing.

“You okay, darlin’?.. Don’t want you goin’ into a seizure” he jokes.

You chuckle softly and whisper “yes, I’m fine”

He groans looking at your lace panties, a noticeable damp spot in the center turns him on.

“Is this all for me, baby?” He says smirking up at you. Before you can respond his thumb brushes up against your panties, gently massaging your pearl. The lace rubbing up against your sensitive spot makes you shriek.

“Ohh my…. Joel…” your back arches off the rug. Joel hooks one of your thighs over his shoulder, kissing and leaving a little bite mark on the inner side of your leg, Marking his territory.

Joel fists your panties in his hand and moves them to the side. He damns all the fools you dated in the past, who weren’t man enough to pleasure you in such a way. Licking his lip, he plants a soft kiss on your pearl making your legs jerk. A gasp trails around the room. He quickly grips your thighs to keep you from squirming. You’re his now.

“Mmmmm” Joel groans seeing you glistening all for him. He kisses your sensitive spot again, this time with a flick of his tongue. Joel looks up at you, he’s in all watching you express the ecstasy he’s created for you. Lips gaped, eyes rolling back, body slightly arched and his favorite, the sweet gasps and whimpers you make all because of his mouth.

Once he’s trapped you, there’s no stopping him. His mouth rotates between kisses and suckles on your cunny and pearl making you feel weightless.

And your taste… god your taste. To Joel, you’re the sweetest peach he’s ever savored. It’s better than he ever thought it could be.

“Joel…I… fffuck” you have no words.

The fire in your core starts making its way to your sweet spot. Your body is scorching, but you’re not sure if it’s from the heat of the fire or Joel’s talented mouth.

“Joel.. please, I’m gonna come” you whimper. The pleasure is too much to handle but you pray he doesn’t hold back.

Joel latches on to your flesh a little harder, his grip on your meaty thighs gets tighter. You’re howling his name. With your flesh on his mouth, he mumbles for you to unravel on him. And you do. It’s like one million firecrackers have gone off in your body. Stars and bright lights blind your gaze.

“I’m coming… I’m coming.. Joel, I’m coming!!”

Your hands find his hair and hold on for dear life; you wonder if you could pass out from such intense pleasure.

Pushing him off your tortured flesh, “Okay, Joel. JoelJoelJoel.. please”

Joel smirks and gives one last kiss on your puffy pearl. He wipes his mouth on your thigh, the skin glistening with juices.

You have no words for him. You grab his face and bring him down to you. You taste your juices on his lips. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you feel his bulge rubbing against your slit.

“Amazing… that was amazing” you moan into the kiss.

“I need more. Please, Joel”

“I know, honey.” his hands glide along your thighs tracing your soaked panties.

“Rip em off” you command panting

He gives a devilish grin “So needy”

With one grip, your panties are torn off you. But he doesn’t toss them aside; He places them next to his jeans. He plans on keeping them as a souvenir.

With your legs wrapped around his waist, you use your legs to shimmy his boxers down lining him up to your opening. You gasp at the length of Joel; he’s huge. Your eyes widen at the idea of all of him being inside you.

“You okay?”

You look up at his chocolate eyes and nod in approval. The light from the fire creates a beautiful glow to the room. Your shadows dance on the walls with the vinyl skipping to the next song.

“Joel.. it… it’s been a long time for me” you confess. He understands. Kissing your forehead, he comforts you.

“I know, babygirl. I’ll be gentle. If it hurts, I promise I’ll stop”

Joel cups his cock in his hand lining himself. His swollen tip teases your opening, making you shriek.

“Tell me what you want, baby girl,” Joel mutters.

Looking into his eyes, your arms latch onto his broad back, “I need you inside me, Joel. I .. I need you” you pant desperately.

With that, Joel glides inside of you. You gasp and grab onto his back. Not breaking eye contact, Joel sees the pleasure fill your gaze. It’s overpowering, but divine at the same time.

You throw your head back whimpering an “Ohh god… Jo..”.

“I know, baby. Just relax for me” Joel mutters. He grabs hold of your thighs pushing himself all the way in. He grunts at how tight and wet you are. He pins your leg on his shoulder again which helps with the comfort. Then, you feel all of him.

He kisses your lips and slowly starts grinding his hips against you. You gasp as you feel him hitting your sweet spots.

“Ahhh… J-Joel” your teeth dig into your bottom lip fighting every urge to not unravel around him.

“You’re taking me so good, kitten” he hisses into your ear.

When he sees you enjoying yourself, his grinds start hitting deeper, a little faster. Deep down, you knew he would be amazing at sex. His hand cups your face and wipes a little tear away.

“Am I hurting you?” His tone concerning.

You nod, “N-no…you feel so amazing, Joel. So full.”

You’ve craved his cock, and now he’s here. You’re here together.

You rake your nails into his shoulder blade and sing sweet whimpers into his ear. He devours your neck with kisses breathing in your beautiful scent.

Your animalistic side shows itself. You graze his earlobe with a soft purr making him shiver. “Harder, baby. Fill me up” you end that sentence with a desperate moan.

He looks at you with a smirk. “You’re gonna be the death of me”

He removes your leg off his shoulder. “Hold on” he whispers.

You clasp onto his body and you feel his hands travel to your lower back and the middle part of your spine. With one strong swoop, Joel pulls you up off the floor. With his legs stretched out, your body towers over him.

Straddling his lap, he’s hitting every sweet spot. You start rolling your hips into him, trying so hard not to collapse on him. Your breasts hug his chest and his strong hands gently caress your back.

“Fuck baby, feels so good” Joel moans. You start grinding into him harder; his hands move down your ass guiding you up and down.

You gasp his name and tangle your fingers into his hair. You pull his grey locks bringing his face to you. Your mouth on his letting your tongues intertwine.

“Ride me a little harder, honey” he commands. You do as you’re told. Your hips grind harder letting his cock slam into your drenched cunny. Moans and groans echo around the room as you both endure the ecstasy.

“Joel… you’re amazing” you moan riding his thick shaft. You throw your head back and Joel is mesmerized but the trickles of sweat gleaming down your neck. He nibbles at getting a taste of your beautiful skin.

“Baby girl…ff fuck… feel her pulsating for me. She was aching to wrap around me” Joel gasps.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, “mmmhmm….”

You look at him with a fire in your eyes, “Spank me, Joel”.

There’s wickedness in his grin. “What’s the magic word, darling”

You throw your head back, “please… pleaseee”

“Good girl”

Rubbing the soft skin of your ass, Joel lays a hard SLAP.

You shriek from the pain and pleasure. A couple seconds later Joel gives you another SLAP.

“Mmmm” you moan, throwing your head back. You're clenching around Joel as you ride him. You can’t last much longer.

“Joel…I’m close… I’m so close!” You pant as your body becomes boneless. His hands make imprints on your skin.

“Me too, baby” Joel pants holding onto you.

After a couple more strokes. You feel the fireworks again. This time it was more intense.

“Aaaahhhhh” you shut your eyes, but Joel palms your face.

“Open your eyes baby, I wanna see you unravel”

You open them and don’t dare look away from him. He swears he sees comets in your eyes as you ride out your high. Sweet gasps escape your mouth as you lose yourself on Joel. You whimper over and over grasping onto his broad shoulders.

And then, Joel follows.

Joel mumbles your name, followed by a low groan. He hugs you tight, laying his forehead on yours. His mouth parts and his body spasms. You hold him close to you, letting him know you’re with him. As he’s coming down from his high, he lets out a soft sigh and falls into your chest. You take his face into your hands and gently kiss his temples.

“That was….” you whisper. Joel still has no words. All he can do is keep you near him and try to catch his breath. You gently glide your nails along his back and shoulder blade to calm his body down.

“Are you okay, Joel? You’re shaking”

Joel lifts his head up and glares at you. His eyes glassy from years of pent up tension finally released.

“I’ll be okay. Jus’…. that was intense” he heaves.

You plant a soft kiss on his forehead, “It was for me too”

All you want is to stay here in this moment together. You hug him close and he rests his head on your chest. You run your fingers through his grays and close your eyes. You sigh as you endure the warmth from the fireplace and the crackling of the wood.

“Joel, can you stay with me tonight?”

“Of course, baby girl”

Giving one last peck on his lips, you pull yourself up. Joel grunts when you slide off of his cock.

“Can I grab water from the kitchen?” Joel asks.

“Sure, honey”

Before walking upstairs to your bathroom, you grab his flannel and toss it over your shoulder.

Pushing the shower curtain to the side, you turn the faucet on. You run your hand under the water until it’s nice and warm. Pouring your lavender soap into the water, bubbles start to dance in the tub. You hear Joel’s heavy footsteps come up the stairs as you grab two towels from the hall closet. You quickly throw his flannel into your room.

There he is, standing there naked as the day. You glide over to him as he stands at the top of the steps with a glass of water. His scent is a mix of cologne and sex.

“Hey” you whisper standing in front of him.

A smile curves onto your face. He hands you the glass and you take a sip.

You take his hand and guide him to the bathroom. The scent of lavender fills the small space. You draw a little heart on the fogged up mirror.

“You’re cute” Joel says, kissing your neck from behind.

Placing the glass on the bathroom counter, you put your hair up in a messy bun. Joel climbs into the tub and you follow. Your feet reach the faucet to turn off the water.

With your head resting on Joel’s broad chest, you listen to his steady heartbeat.

“This is nice” you murmur. He agrees with a low mmhmm. You cup your hand into the suds and blow on them making them whirl around in the air. It makes Joel chuckle. He takes his arm and wraps it around you embracing your naked curves.

“I can’t get enough of you, baby girl” he whispers in your ear.

Joel takes your bar of soap and gently bathes your skin. His strong hands massage your chest and shoulders.

You slowly turn your body now laying on him. You give a soft kiss on his lips and tell him you’re glad he stayed. He agrees. Your hands find Joel’s gray locks.

“Hey, you’re gettin’ me wet” he chuckles as droplets fall on his face.

Your hands slick his grays back giving him a different look than what he usually does. Surprisingly, he looks even sexier.

“You should do this more often. Looks good slicked back” you compliment.

He moves in and kisses your forehead.

“Let’s go to bed, darlin’”

You pull yourself out of the tub and Joel admires the suds dripping off your curves. You wrap yourself in a towel and dry off. You walk into your room and take Joel’s flannel. You let the fabric hug your body and look at yourself in the mirror. You adjust the buttons and let the flannel hang off one of your shoulders. Joel struts into your room with a towel dangling along his waist.

He stops in his tracks observing you in his flannel. Your feet patter on the floor coming towards him.

“No no… stay right there”

He’s not just looking at you, he’s taking you in. He’s taking in your curves hugging his flannel. How your hair falls perfectly on your head. Your smile, your stance, everything.

“Gorgeous” he says, shaking his head.

You walk over to him and interlace hands. “Come to bed”

Walking backwards you guide him to the side of the bed. Tossing the blanket upward, you climb into your side of the bed. Adjusting your pillow, Joel’s towel slides off of his waist. He’s like a Greek god in front of you. He climbs in next to you, his body dipping into the mattress. He turns off the lamp and only the light from outside fills the room. Your heart flutters watching the snow fall from the sky. Perfect ending to a perfect night.

Your head meets the pillow and slumber immediately hits you. Lying on your side, Joel spoons you from behind letting your arms and legs pretzel into each other.

You kiss his hand and whisper good night.

“G’night, kitten” he whispers in your ear.

While your body slowly falls asleep, Joel watches the snow fall outside. He runs his fingers through your waves, you’re even more exquisite when sleeping. He places his hand on your chest feeling your slowed breath vibrate up and down.

He murmurs your name. No response; he knows you’re out.

“I love you” he whispers next to your ear. He’s wanted to say that the minute he laid his eyes on you.

His head lays back and allows sleep to take over him. It’s the first time in years he slept through an entire night.

Arms embracing, legs roped around each other cheek to cheek; he never lets you out of his reach.

Tagging my faves: @baronessvonglitter @whocaresstillthelouvre @joelsrose @stylesispunk @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @joeldarling @littledes1re @easytrooper @ajpikeisamenace @fairylights-throughthemist

#joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal #delulu #joel miller x female reader #older man <3 #female writers #fireplace

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sometimesoliloquy · 2 days ago

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I just watched Casablanca too and wow there are so many parallels between Nick and Rick. I would love to hear your thoughts about it.

Thank you for asking, honestly I would dearly love to ramble on about this lol! I really would like to do a more well-organized post with screencaps and quotes etc. but sadly I don't have the time right now, so for now maybe I'll just give the cliff notes of my initial thoughts and hope to do more later. I'll put these under the cut just in case anyone wants to watch the movie and doesn't want to be spoiled of certain details haha. I really do recommend it! (to note, it's currently available to stream on (hbo) Max for anyone who has that).

The frequent references to Rick's mysterious past, with seemingly varying views--at times the allusion seems of a more nefarious nature, whereas other times involvement in resistance efforts seem to be hinted at. This of course immediately reminded me of Nick and how the shroud around a lot of his past allows for wildly different interpretations, both from other characters and from the viewers.

Likewise, Rick is generally outwardly portrayed as reclusive and "selfish", his main modus operandi being "keep your head down and stick to your own business", but it seems clear from early on this is largely a front. He makes it clear to all who will listen that he doesn't stick his neck out for anybody, but in small, subtle gestures we see his actions contradict this. He clearly has a moral compass and wants to do the right thing--while staying under the radar, of course. This is Nick to a T, especially as we meet him in s1 of The Handmaid's Tale.

Then of course in the end, Rick makes the riskiest and most selfless move possible for the woman he loves, and for the cause (proving not just his nobility in the name of love, but for humanity in general). We have yet to see where Nick will land at the end (and personally I hope he doesn't turn out to be quite this noble and selfless!! We want a happy ending for you, Nick!!), but we have certainly seen him risk and sacrifice for his Love and for his daughter. And I mean, the 6x03 quote “I’m risking everything I have to save your husband” is right spot on.

Rick and Ilsa's love story echoes Nick and June's in that they fell in love in a sort of whirlwind nature, while Ilsa thought her husband to be dead. By design they knew very little about each other, maybe due to the transient feeling of the affair. But Rick of course can't let it go when the time comes, he wants her to run away with him. Who knows, Nick might well have actually run away with June when he had the chance if he hadn't known her husband was still alive and waiting for her in Canada!

And of course they're still impossibly, star-crossedly in love even years later even though Ilsa is now back with her (not dead after all) husband, Victor Laszlo. This is obviously where the love stories differ because Rick had no idea the hubs was still alive, or who he was, so that all comes as quite a shock, as does seeing her at all since she basically ghosted him years ago. And of course Rick has not wed into a marriage of convenience with a baby on the way (he does seem to have an on again/off again escort gf). There is a scene with a very similar vibe to 6x03 though (if a little more confrontational!), with him feeling hurt and passed over for the husband (especially when she specifically asks him to help the husband), followed by an emotional confession of her continued love for him (Rick/Nick).

Let’s be honest though, Luke is certainly no Victor Laszlo (Luke wishes. I mean he does have the air of self-importance but none of the clout to back it up if you know what I mean). Essentially June is both Ilsa AND Victor Laszlo in this story but also just happens to be saddled with a pre-war husband who she’s grown apart from and isn’t in love with anymore but feels obligated to stay with anyway.

#nick blaine #rick blaine #osblaine #nick x june #the handmaid's tale #tht s6 #tht s6 spoilers #the handmaids tale spoilers #casablanca #parallels #asks

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sebdoesthings · 4 months ago

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I'm so glad i watched Sk8 the Infinity as an adult and not a teen so I didn't turn into one of those annoying idiots who complain about "renga not being canon because they didn't kiss"

#like shut the fuck up they promised to skate infinitely with each other #under a full moon #look up mise en scene and shut the entire fuck up #as i've grown older i've come to enjoy subtle romance much more than on screen kissing #cuz whenever a couple kisses i'm like woah hey that's a bit graphic innit why don't we tone it down #maybe talk about how beautiful the moon is while not looking at the moon at all idk #i don't need you snogging on screen to know you're in love #that's usually a cheap way to show that anyway #because it's usually straight couples and no one in the industry knows how to show that straight couples like each other #outside of actions that are explicitly associated with romance like kissing sex and love confessions #so give me chemistry over kissing any day #seb watches sk8 #do i put this in the main tag?#ehhhhhhhhh #yeah sure why not #sk8 the infinity #renga #they might not even show up because of the wall of ramble tags i've put before them #oh well #also this is not to dunk on my teen mutuals i love y'all #(even though some of you could maybe entertain the idea of private conversations a little more thoroughly)#but i just remember how blind i was to subtext and themes and that sorta stuff as a teen myself

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microwavetoaster-selfships · 1 month ago

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Same ass person. I keep staring at these and wanting to say things and then nothing. Static silence. You open the tab on your computer and it gets stuck on loading and a pop-up appears saying it can't load and you should close it. That. Do not be surprised if I wave these around again in future occasions.

#I've been staring at that gif for so long now #i have like. so mant several things i want to say here about all of these things that my brain just short circuts.#and then cant say anytging #overwhelmed with all the lovely thoughts. but. in a good way.#sometimes they give his coat six buttons and sometimes they dont.#in the movie he has six buttons but i think in a lot of the game stuff it is just three. i dont know what the change is for..#he's evil and sinister and evil and villianous and a complete ass and has a whole backstory.#but also. however. stares at my screen and blinks.#there is something there deep down inside of him. Movie ending confessed that if nothing else did.#I dont know. it is getting late for me and so I'm having a mix of some dumb thoughts filter into my head.#both good and bad. I mean not BAD bad but obligatory. “oh gosh i hope he likes me” sort of thoughts.#Obligatory new. not calling him an F/O even if I have a tag for him.#“I hope he likes me” I say while being a complete nuance when it comes to admitting my own feelings about him.#Hypocrite say what.#but also. it is late for me and that is slightly why I am spilling a little here. coming out of my shell. a bit more.#waving pictures of him around and saying that i have lovey thoughts about him and.care. about. what his.#viewing of me might be. and not. blasting him with insults or threats or. hatred.#see mayhapd. mayhaps this is a me thing. maybe i should nottttt be hypocritical(mindboggling moment i know).#i say nice things about him and crawl further out my shell and in turn. recirpocatio- *I proceed to bite my phone in half #before I can finish my thought. I am completely unharmed but i bit through the battery of my phone and it exploded.*#Strangeglove💜💙#sometimes they capitalize the G in his name and sometimes not as well..#bwahdg. it's late i dont care im putting this in main tags.#sorry I've been so. i have posts to read and asks to answer which might have to come tomorrow on my free day.#I wont say he's been keeping me sane or straight because thst isn't true but. something. he's been doing something.#Most villianous scheme of his yet or something.#self ship #selfship #selfshipping #self shipping

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awynter · 2 days ago

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“Worried? N-No, I’m quite alright. It’s just been so long since I’ve been in town, I suppose. There are a lot more people than I am used to. It seems having only Mister Adam as company has made me quite the recluse." Anne straightened her posture and tried to wear a brave face. Once upon a time, she had been able to float through a room filled with nobility and have no fear. In her youth, she had been shameless and bold but such youthful qualities had been dampened over the years. She could only hope he wouldn't think her a weak and feeble woman who was incapable of doing her job.

“No, my lord. Nothing that I can think of. Unless, of course, you'd like to know the upcoming lesson plan I've laid out for Mister Adam.” She offered him a smile as a ruddy color spread across her cheeks. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. Even though she was relatively safe tucked away while inside the manor, outings like this made her realize how dangerous it could be to be noticed. There was little reason for George to be out here of all places, but it wasn’t impossible. He could travel wherever he liked now that he was the Lord of his family. But if Anne ever encountered George in the wild, would he recognize her immediately? Surely, she would recognize the damage she’d done to his face, the lasting scar that marred his attractive features, but Anne didn’t know how much her appearance had changed in the last decade.

Telling him the truth would clear up any misunderstandings and might even protect her were George to track her down, but how could she tell her boss the truth, when it could mean bringing not only shame but danger to young Adam’s life? She was supposed to be a good role model, a proper teacher for the young boy, but how could she set any examples when she was constantly running from her past? How could she perform her duties properly if she confessed her misdeeds to the man who held her life in the balance?

No, she decided. It was better to keep it to herself. For now. She needn’t trouble Liam with her problems, not when she was sure he had enough to worry about as it was. He had likely suffered enough strife and stress while he was away from home and Anne didn't need to perpetuate his woes. She would remain silent and obedient and hope for the best. And as long as she stayed out of town, she would be okay.

Things were set in motion long before Liam ever arrived back to England. The blonde wished to go back in time, see what really happened that night. Some fingers were pointing at him, and that worried him. Perhaps I should get my affairs in order...The man thought, but threw it out as soon as he did.

"It did, for the most part." Liam said with a twinge of annoyance in his voice. He only trusted a few individuals with the information at hand, there was no need to worry anyone else. Liam eyed the governess with interest, noting the nervousness radiating off her. "Is something wrong? You look...worried." The blonde tilted his head, his hat nearly falling off.

"We will be returning to the manor now, and I would suggest taking the afternoon off if you wish to rest." Liam fixed his hat, than his hands fell to his coat. It was habit, a officer of his caliber could not afford to look disheveled. "Is there anything I should know, miss Anne?"

#machiavxlli #queuely beloved

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mia-can-yap-too · 12 days ago

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pre-dating!gojo who has a massive crush on you

pre-dating!gojo who doesn't even try to hide his blatant favoritism

"i'll take over her mission. she needs rest. i'll write a doctor's note. i am a doctor. kind of."

pre-dating!gojo who constantly hits you with horrible pick up lines.

"if you keep looking that good, i might actually die. which would be horrible. for humanity.... okay, i'll shut up now..."

pre-dating!gojo who collects soda tabs so that he can trade them with you for a kiss.

pre-dating!gojo who gives you ridiculous pet names like 'my venti iced white chocolate mocha with extra syrup and sweet cream cold foam with caramel drizzled on the foam..."

pre-dating!gojo who tries too hard to be your hero, even in unnecessary situations. like when you dropped your phone and he did two backflips and defied gravity just to slam it into the wall with his otherworldly reflexes.

pre-dating!gojo who over-explains his cursed technique to you just to seem cool.

"yeah so my limitless technique literally manipulates space at an atomic level, are you even listening?? i can make space dissappear, arent i so cool??"

pre-dating!gojo who will ask for your help for the most simplest things like putting his sunglasses on for him (he asks for a kiss on the forehead for good luck whenever you do it).

pre-dating!gojo who will find a way to make everything about you. it annoys people to bits.

pre-dating!gojo who stares at you like you hung the stars, and he won't even try to deny it.

pre-dating!gojo who brags about you as if you're already dating.

"she laughed at my jokes today, thats basically a love confession! shes so perfect and oh my god her laugh its so.... shoko, you better not have your earbuds in right now"

everyone is begging that you two start dating just so he stops.

little do they know, boyfriend!gojo is ten times worse.

a/n:- even though you didnt ask for this at all, for @deathofacupid cuz girl im lowkey down bad for u. i hope you know that i think of you whenever i write for gojo. while ik that you would love to do....other things.... with him, too, you deserve the cute and the adorable and everything in between too. i hope that one day youll find your gojo who loves you to infinity and beyond because you deserve that and more. ily bro and congrats once more on 2K!

enough of the sentimental shit

Oh, you’re curious about my past works? Well, luckily for you, all the deliveries are neatly archived! Just head over to the Archive of Deliveries and browse through what I’ve sent out in the past. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

#stamped stories #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader

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tonycries · 1 year ago

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Hope They Catch Us - G.S.

Synopsis. When you’re on-screen, it’s always a rivalry to see who’s best - you just never thought that it would be the same struggle in bed.

Pairing. Actor! Gojo Satoru x Co-Star! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rivals-to-lovers, co-stars to lovers, unprotected, oral (fem receiving) slight exhíbitionism (stuff with cameras), marking, praise, Satoru is actually down BAD, cúmplay, tabloids, lowkey fluffy at the end, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k

A/N. YA GIRL IS BACKKKK ;D Also happy belated three months to this blog hehehe.

Lights, Camera, Drama: Gojo Satoru and Leading Lady’s Off-Screen Feud to SINK Box Office Darling?

“They’ll Kill Each Other!” Insider Source Spills All on the Royal Rivalry Between Hollywood’s Hottest Bachelor and Bachelorette.

Enemies of The Century or Publicity Stunt? Recent Cast Outings Sets Fans Speculating!

---

You hated him. Oh, how you hated him. All because of a red-hot rivalry that had sparked ever since the two of you took the industry by storm. And everyone from Hollywood’s bigshots to your adoring fans knew that no matter where Gojo Satoru goes, you were sure to never be within a ten-mile radius.

Well, usually.

“I…shit- I’m in love with you.”

Because avoiding Gojo like a plague really isn’t saying much when said plague was currently sitting right next to you. Eyes boring into yours, signature smirk plastered on his face while he rattles off a disgustingly sweet confession - all on the set of your latest movie.

Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, your co-star.

And to add insult to injury, this wasn’t just any movie - it was only set to be the biggest romance film of the summer. So not only did you hate to tolerate Gojo, you had to pretend to be in love with him.

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. If only the check wasn’t as tempting as it was, you think he would’ve successfully driven you to an aneurysm already. Especially considering that the scene tomorrow was-

“CUT!”

That snaps you out of your little reverie, bringing you back to the still very ongoing film shooting. You risk a glance at the disgruntled director, cheeks aching from the sappy fake smile you had to hold for this scene.

“Something wrong?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. You knew exactly what was wrong. And one look at Gojo - dressed to the nines and huffing sulkily at being interrupted in the middle of his monologue - told you that he did as well.

“It just doesn’t feel real.” The director shuffles his script, voice dropping to a sigh at your confused gazes. “The spark, it doesn't feel real.”

“What?” you silently thank your years of acting for keeping your voice steady. You squirm in your seat the longer the silence stretches. This cozy little café they rented out too tight, Gojo’s fingers intertwined with yours too hot. Too soft.

“C’mon. You are in the perfect romantic set-up.” the other man gestures wearily at the café, at the dim-lighting and the proximity of your seats. “So why do you two look like you want to just- strangle each other?”

“Ooo kinky~”

It’s the first time Gojo’s spoken up since the scene was ended early and honestly that was enough to have you fulfilling the director’s suspicions.

“That.” you give him a pointed stare. “That is probably why.”

And that just draws out such an infuriatingly light chuckle from Gojo, as he sprawls all over his chair with the audacity of someone that owned this entire set. “Lighten up. You’ve told us, n’ in the next take I’ll fix it. Easy peasy.”

If only it was that “easy peasy”. The director was anything but satisfied, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s not just me, even the public is worried whether your ‘feud’ will get in the way of such intimate scenes. You-” he jabs a finger your way. “-better pretend like you want to kiss him senseless and you-” whirling now to Gojo. “-better act like you’ve wanted nothing more for years- Not to mention tomorrow’s sex scene-”

Ah, right. The sex scene.

How could you forget? It might not be a walk in the park to giggle and make heart-eyes at Gojo, but to actually pretend to have sex with him? All on camera? Curse whoever wrote this damn script. You could’ve almost laughed at the universe’s absolutely awful sense of humor if it hadn’t been for your paycheck - and the next words that tumble out of Gojo’s pretty mouth.

“We’ll ace it, you just watch.”

You hurriedly snap your eyes to meet Gojo’s, sending him a look that says “behave”, in a way that very much makes him not want to. Twinkling with such dangerous mischief that makes your stomach flip as he hums, “Or- I’ll ace it.”

God, was it a battle to remain professional. The only thing stopping you from snapping back being the way he squeezes your hand mockingly reassuringly - to which you send him a death grip back, of course.

“Oh? Care to elaborate, Mr. Gojo?” the director asks, eyes flitting between the two of you. And you can’t even laugh at the rest of the staff for almost toppling out of their seats in an attempt to hear his answer - because you are, too. Mind whirling as you lean closer, wondering just what nonsense would come out of Gojo’s mouth.

“Well, you could say…” he trails off suspensefully, like the smug bastard he is. Looking right in your eyes as he flashes an unfairly pretty smile your way. “I’m irresistible like that.”

Exactly the type of nonsense that would come out of Gojo Satoru, of course. And one glance at the director told you he was thinking the same thing. He was going to be the death of you. You can’t help but breathe out shrilly, “You fucking-”

“My apologies, director, but our leads have a scheduled interview soon. Rest assured, we will be early on set for filming tomorrow.”

You were definitely giving Nanami a raise after this.

Because if looks could kill then Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on his grace already - and you let him know. A little over twenty times, actually, as the both of you are hastily escorted away from the set for an “emergency interview”.

It was a flimsy excuse, you both knew, but Nanami hadn’t exactly felt like cleaning up a crime scene today. Instead, settling for a swift escape, the director calling out after you two to “Look like you’re gonna rip the clothes off each other tomorrow.”

Rip the clothes off each other, huh?

With the way things were going, you couldn’t be surprised if you ripped him a new-

“C’mon, sweetheart~” Gojo gets out through giggles, that familiar cackle echoing in the narrow hallway leading to your trailer. “Y’know I was just having a little fun with that ol’ man.”

He saunters unhurriedly behind your brisk pace, easily blocking the way you swing the door shut in his face. Letting it shut with such infuriatingly smooth nonchalance.

“Fun?” you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger right in the middle of his sculpted chest.“Do you even realize the mess you could’ve made?”

“Easy there, m’not insured for these pecs just yet.” Gojo clasps your hands together. Some strange little part of your skin burning at the touch in- anger? Something else? But you don’t think too hard about it, because he’s plowing on, “Besides, a little teasing never hurt anyone.”

Such a shame he was so pretty with the stupidest mouth.

“A little teasing? You practically declared to everyone in that room that we’re gonna fuck this up.” you move to pull him down by the collar instead, clearly unimpressed.

But oh you shouldn’t have done that - because he’s so close now. Too close. Hot breath fanning your face, looking so smug as he murmurs unrepentantly, “Do you?” Chuckling lightly at your little head tilt, “Do you think we’ll fuck it up?”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep it all together. “...No.”

“Exactly. We’re good then.” he winks.

“No. We’re not fucking ‘good’.” you grit out. Wondering exactly how difficult it might be to bother the director into completely recasting the male lead for the movie. Looking up at that million dollar smile and- yeah, it would be very difficult. “You’re so insufferable. I don’t know why they cast you.”

“My good looks? My charisma? The way I’m the-” he trails off with a sigh at your glare. “Well, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine, sweetheart.”

“At least I can act and-.”

He whines dramatically, cutting off your rant. “Me too!”

This conversation was so ridiculous - but, hey, the great Gojo Satoru always did bring out the worst parts of you.

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh.”

“Then why are you so stiff when acting like you’re in love with me?”

Somehow, that makes Gojo shut up. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - gasping out a strangled little, “B-because- well-” And if you didn’t know any better you’d say that was a light blush dusting his ears.

Only for a split-second, though, because he’s grabbing you gently by your shoulders, more seriously than you’d ever seen him. “Fine. Listen, we both want the same thing right? To have pretend-sex and ace this film to win like five Oscars?”

And maybe at the heat of his newfound proximity, maybe at the way he was looking at you so goddamn intensely - you feel something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach. Swallowing thickly, you manage to get out, “I’ll be the one winning the Oscars...but yes.”

Gojo’s gaze roams all over you - from the quirk of your eyebrow to the dress hugging you so sinfully tight. “Then we’ll do it. Ace the scene.”

Traitorously, a shiver runs down your spine. And because the universe loves to play jokes on you, Gojo notices - of course, he does. Eyes lighting up with amusement and something you really didn’t want to decipher as you blink up questioningly, “How?”

“Method acting, silly.” he rolls his eyes, as if he wasn’t implying something that wasn’t seen in even the cheesiest of romcoms. “Think of it as running lines.”

If there was ever a moment where your life flashed behind your eyes then this just might be it.

“You-” you gulp, so hot all over. “You better shut the fuck up and pray your face is insured because-”

At this, Gojo throws his head back and laughs - loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say about keeping his voice down so as not to let anyone outside hear, but shit you were mesmerized. Damn, a weird little part of you kind of understood why directors loved him onscreen.

“Feisty,” he muses. “But how can I shut the fuck up when they’re second-guessing the two best actors in the game?”

“The best? Me, maybe.” you lean in closer, mouth as bitchy as ever - even when you’re so obviously crumbling bit by bit under his gaze. And he knew that. “But not you.”

“Well, only way to find out is with tomorrow’s scene, right, sweetheart?”

He drove you mad - everything from his heady cologne, to the way that overpriced button-up clung to him like second skin. But, don’t pull away - how could you? Not when he inches closer ever-so-slightly. Not when he lets those overpriced glasses slide down his nose, eyes locked so heavily on you.

Fighting to keep your words steady, “There’s nothing special about that scene, just fake moan in front of the camera, right? We don’t need any…‘method acting’.”

Gojo only raises a brow in amusement, lips curling into a grin that really makes you too aware of his little dimple by the corner. “Then why…” His eyes flicker down from his hands, searing on your shoulders, to yours - still grabbing his collar, just grazing the soft skin of his neck. Not pulling away. “...can’t you let go of me, sweetheart?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you, you really don’t give a fuck. The only thing running through your mind being that shit this was Gojo bane-of-your-existence Satoru, and he tasted so…sweet. Like those cheap lollipops he often snuck on-set. Strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because suddenly he’s pulling away mere millimeters. Whispering hotly, absolutely dripping with something dangerous, “Sooo, is that a ‘yes’ to running lines?”

“Ugh, shut up.” your lips ghost his. “And just fucking kiss me.”

And, well, Gojo doesn’t have to be asked twice. Because it only takes a split second for his lips to find yours again.

Yeah, definitely strawberry lollipops.

You hadn’t filmed any of the kissing scenes just yet, but damn you didn’t expect him to be so hot and messy - like he was drunk off of you. Licking at the seam of your candied lips, groaning softly like he wanted more more more-

“Sh-shit, Goj-”

“Call me ‘Satoru’ when we’re fucking.” he cuts you off. “Or, my bad. When we’re ‘running lines’.”

Shameless. Though, you guess you weren’t any better - not as you press yourself closer running your hands all over his sinfully thin shirt, feeling every bump and curve of his abs. “You talk too much, Toru.” you hiss, muffled against his lips.

Oh that cute lil’ nickname had all the blood rushing to Satoru’s cock, you were so unfair.

“You little minx.” Like a little punishment, he’s biting down on your bottom lip, tugging lightly at your surprised squeal. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Hmm, I doubt it.”

And then your back is hitting the couch before you can react, bouncing lightly at the sheer force. And you’re so swept up in him - the way he hovers over you, arms looping around your waist, his knee wedging between your legs - that it almost hurts for you to pull away.

“Patience.” you huff out a laugh at Satoru’s disappointed whine, eyeing those pretty pink lips mere inches away from you. You just wanted them on yours. So badly. But no, there was something more important you had to do right now. “Jus’ thought we should record our little rehearsal, whaddaya think?”

“Record it?”

“Record it.”

“Record it, hmmm?” he’s whispering, more to himself than you. Fumbling with the zipper of your dress. “So you’re sayin’ we tape it, let the camera see how pretty you look all fallin’ apart f’me.” Kissing down your neck, letting the flimsy fabric fall down, “N’ then we improve for the pretend sex. Shut all those snobby directors up by giving them the best fucking sex scene they’ve ever seen.”

“Y-yes?” you mutter, as he starts tweaking your hardened nipples through your bra, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Unless-”

“Fine by me.”

The fabric hits the floor before you even realize what’s happening. Head spinning too much from the idea of being fucked on camera - by Satoru of all people, it takes you a second to realize that this bastard fucking ripped your dress off.

“You probably broke-”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” muffled, as he kisses down your navel, blindly fumbling with his phone.

“It was expensive.”

With an impatient sigh, Satoru sets the camera up on the coffee table beside the couch. “Five new ones.” Angling it just right to perfectly capture you - in all your disheveled, horny glory, and Satoru, smugly seating himself between your thighs.

“Ready?” he asks, finger hovering over that damn red button.

Well, it’s just for rehearsal, right? Right?

“Do it.” you manage to get out, voice getting stuck in your throat at the faint ding! that rings throughout the heady room. “For my Oscars?”

“For my Oscars. N’the camera’s gonna know.”

And whatever retort on the tip of your tongue dies when he rocks his hip against yours, grinding his cock against your soaked panties. Rock-hard and so damp with precum already - so big that any and all rational thinking flies out the window.

Which is probably why you’re letting out such a pretty gasp, ‘S-Satoru, I want-“

“What?” And Satoru only flashes you a devilish grin, hands spreading your legs as far as they’d go on the couch. “This?”

He licks a long, long stripe up your inner thigh, all the way till he just meets the hem of your drenched panties. Teasing. So hot and depraved in the way he breathes in your scent.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.” Satoru grunts, looking down in awe at the damp fabric, so flimsy and see-through with your sweet juices. You slick beading through so sloppily, just a hint of the state you were in. “You don’t know how you drive me mad.”

Rip!

He’s so fucking starved that he’s just tearing your poor panties clean off. Throwing them behind him to God-knows-where before spreading your swollen folds with his thumb, showing off just how wet you were for him.

“You’re a tease.”

“And you’re fucking addictive. Look how fuckin’ wet you are. For who, huh?” he slurs, breath hot against your cunt. Circling your entrance just barely with his fingertip, teasing you like he was addicted to those frustrated moans coming out of your pretty lips.

“S’for you-” you whine, “All for you, Satoru.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

And that’s all that needs to be said before he’s burying himself nose-deep. Drunk off your pussy as he licks long, languid movements. And it wasn’t enough - never might be, actually, because only one taste and Satoru was like a man possessed.

Bullying his tongue between your folds, just dipping into your sloppy hole in a way that had your slick smearing all over his pretty face. Letting out such deep groans that had you clenching around his hot tongue.

Shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut up the great Gojo Satoru then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. Because for one in his life, Satoru’s too entranced with something else to run his mouth, so fucking satisfied between your thighs.

“Fuck- hah- think I like you better w-when hngh- you’re like this, Toru.” you purr, breath hitching as he bullies his tongue between your folds.

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius, because that only sets him off more.

And suddenly Satoru’s pulling your body closer onto his hot mouth, like you were weighless. Pushing himself so impossibly closer while he makes out deeper with your wet cunt.

“Ah! Hngh- Satoru-” you keen, tugging at his soft locks. As delirious as Satoru was pussydrunk. Drinking in all your cute lil’ whines of his name, angling your hips to lick all over like he couldn’t decide between fucking your sloppy hole or toying with your poor, ravaged clit.

“Mhm?” he murmurs, the vibrations making you squeal. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as lets your sweet juices slide down his throat. “Ya like this?” Stretching you out on his tongue, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Over and over- “Like when I tonguefuck your pretty pussy?”

“Ngh- love it- s’good. Ah fillin’ me up s’good.” you squeal, bucking your hips desperately into his pretty face, broken little whimpers leaving you at each rough push of Satoru’s tongue.

And oh Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind being on his knees every day if it meant he got to taste you like this. “Tell the camera too, sweetheart. Practice how you’ll come around my tongue.”

Those words send a jolt up your spine - or maybe it was the way Satoru was sucking harshly on your clit. “F-fuck off.”

“Mhmmm, n’ this is why I’m the better actor..”

Ugh, this fucker. And with that you fight to turn your head - looking right in the camera. Feeling so fucking lewd as you let out such pornographic moans.

“Yeah- feel s’good.” you whimper, “Wanted this for so long, ever since I first saw- ngh- you-”

And shit were you so fucking evil - at least warn a guy! Because that has Satoru’s heart lurching, almost jumping up from between your legs before it hits him with a pang - ah, right, you were just quoting your character’s lines. Of course.

Well, two can play that game.

“Yeah?” he mutters into your folds. Two fingers plunging knuckle-deep in your pussy, massaging your plushy walls. Roaming around for that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so deliciously. “Can’t believe I waited s’fucking long. Y’know how hard it was to hold back? With you wearing all those slutty skirts f’me?”

Your body is jerking violently, both at his - practiced - words, and the way he was devouring you like you were his favorite meal. His favorite taste.

So eager and in-character with the way he was setting such a dizzying pace on your poor cunt. Slick trailing down from his fingers, all the way to his wrist. So sloppy and- Pressing down. Hard. “Found it.”

And you can only sit there and take it, such cute little whines of Satoru’s name leaving you as he leaves no mercy. Jaw grinding deeper and deeper, maddening. Aching as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over. And you were so-

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Truthfully, he didn’t even have to ask - if the way you were trembling and squeezing so fucking tightly around him was anything to go by. “Go on darling. scream my name. Show off f’the camera like you do best.”

“Sh-shit. Toru- fuck yes-” you’ve got an iron-tight grip on his hair now, pulling and angling him as you pleased for more. Barely able to let out those strained lil’ moans, definitely not with the way he’s dragging your sloppy pussy all over his face. Fingers cramping up from how rough he was going - but still not stopping.

“Go on. Cum f’me.”

And then you are. Letting out such a teary, strangled moan of Satoru’s name as you cum all over his face.

And it’s not just for the camera either - because this orgasm is probably the best one you’ve had in a while. So hard that you don’t even realize you’re arching and rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Using him.

And he doesn’t stop you. Why would he? You were so pretty falling apart all because of him. He wishes he could see this more often…

“S-Satoru.” you mewl, overstimulated. Jolting with each flick of his tongue, trying to close your legs but you can’t - he won’t let you. Greedily lapping up all your sweet juices, everything that you give him.

“Nope.” he drawls, finally pulling away, delicate strings of your slick snapping as he does. Looking so fucking drunk off of you that it makes your cunt quiver exhaustedly. “C’mon now, sweetheart, you were s’pposed to say my character’s name. S’how the scene goes.”

Oh. Shit, you got too caught up. But one look at Satoru - eyes half-lidded, hair disheveled, your juices glistening all over the bottom half of his face so prettily - tells you he was much the same.

“Well…” you huff, voice shot. “According to the script you were supposed to stuff that-” pointedly eyeing the achingly hard cock straining his pants, “-in my mouth first before eating me out. So here we are.”

With a chuckle, he rises slowly. “Touché.” Looking you straight in the eyes - and probably into your very soul - as he pops his fingers into his mouth. One by one. Groaning at the taste of your sweet sweet juices while he sucks them clean. “But I don’t think I’d last one second with those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

And it almost makes you want to tease him for it - one of Hollywood’s biggest It Boys but you can’t handle a lil’ blowjob? But all of that gets stuck in your throat as Satoru starts peeling off his shirt ever-so-slowly.

Shit, you think. All mouthwatering curves and dips, all the way from his toned, milky shoulders down, down, down to those neat tufts of white peeking out from the hem of his underwear. Sculpted like he was handcrafted so meticulously - a fucking masterpiece, you had to admit.

One that made you wish you took a longer look at all those shirtless magazine covers instead of throwing them out. One that had your thighs squeezing in such anticipation.

And Satoru seemed to be admiring you just the same, eyes locked on your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing - so ready for him. Distinctly aware of how pathetically needy you were being in front of the blinking camera, you crane your head to glance at it. Was it really capturing-

“Now now, first rule is to never look at the camera during this scene.” Only for Satoru to squish your cheeks together, forcing you into an embarrassing little pout as he turns you back to face him. “Look at me.”

And oh you can’t not look at him.

Especially when he tugs his pants down, just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, so fucking long and pretty. Smearing glossy precum all over his abs, flushed your favorite shade of pink, rock-hard and so so angry. Shit, he was so hard it looked like it hurt.

“Satoru…” you breathe, legs wrapping around his slutty waist to pull him closer. Only needier despite that little nagging voice wondering how the fuck you’d take his sheer size.

“Sweetheart?”

“I remember he didn’t do a lot of waiting in the script.”

And God were you right - but Satoru doesn’t think he could’ve kept this act of restraint up any longer even if you weren’t. Too impatient, too starved, his sanity dancing away from him with each second his fat cock wasn’t stuffed inside your pretty cunt.

“Mhm.” he purrs, one hand reaching down to drag his fat head up and down your slit. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the way your lip wobbles in frustration. Up and down up and up and- “You’re right.”

And then it’s like something snaps.

Because it only takes a split-second for Satoru to start splitting you apart on his massive cock. Big fat tears pricking at your eyes at the feeling that he was pushing all the way into your lungs.

“Sh-shit, s’fuckin’ tight-” he lets out a low grunt at the slight resistance, taking everything in him to not just fuck into your snug pussy and use you like his little plaything. “You gotta hah- relax, pretty girl.”

You needed to relax more - to breathe maybe, just something. You weren’t even in the right state to wonder whether that little nickname was in the script - and God was Satoru thankful for that. Because all you can think of is how you never imagined what the bane of your existence would look with his cock stuffed in your dripping cunt - but now that you’ve seen it, you think you’ll imagine it for many lonely nights to come.

“Hey, now. Don’t get camera-shy just yet.” Satoru gives your ass a playful smack. “After all, this is only the best- part-”

Each word is punctuated with shallow, mindless little thrust to fit himself inside your dripping pussy. Such cute lil’ whines leaving your swollen lips that he really can’t help but tease you a bit. Leering down at your fucked-out face with a smirk, “Or- my bad. Forgot such a scene would be hard for a rookie.”

Oh, did he know how to press your buttons just right.

Because immediately, you’re blinking away the delirious haze in your eyes, voice so adorably shaky - but determined - as you grit out, “Bring it on, you B-list wonder.”

That’s all that has to be said before he’s finally bottoming out inside you, mercilessly. Inch by fucking inch. You gasp as his twitching balls smack your ass so lewdly, feeling his veins beat in such a slutty lil’ thump! thump! thump! against your heavenly walls.

“T-Toru- big- ngh- too fuckin’ big. M’gonna break mpf-” his lips claim yours. Partially because it’s been way too long since he’s kissed your pretty lips, and partially because Satoru might just cum right then and there if he let you run your mouth.

So he lets his hips do the talking instead.

Cooing into your mouth at each little ah! ah! ah! every time he stuffed you full of his dick, quick, experimental thrusts to try and find that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so prettily.

“Sounds so beautiful, sweetheart.” rocking his hips faster into yours. So hard you were sure he’d leave marks. “No camera in the world can pick up how fuckin’ perfect ya are. Can’t ngh- pick up those cockdrunk lil’ heart eyes.” Angling your chin just so that your sinful expression is caught on camera, “Shit do ya even know you’re doing those? Might just make me lose it for real tomorrow. Might just make me sneak you off to the dressing rooms n’-” Manicured fingers digging into your hips while he fucks you in jagged, purposeful strokes. Hitting that one spot. Hard. “Fuck you all over again.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he smugly hits that magical spot over and over-

And it was so sloppy - so filthy with the way Satoru still had remnants of your slick all over his lips, matching the way you were soaking his cock. Fingers moving down to draw erratic little patterns on your clit, making it even messier.

Close - too close.

So, so desperate and debauched.

“C’mon. Show the camera. Tell the camera how much you love it.”

“Ngh- f-fuck you.”

“Oh? Who’s fucking who now?” he’s laughing at your absolutely wrecked state. You can feel Satoru twitch inside you as you mumble out such delirious little praises to the camera - were they coherent sentences? You’ll never know, because the next words that fall from his lips have your mind reeling.

“God, m’addicted to you, my girl.”

“That’s not- ah- in the script, Toru.” you hiss. Close.

“I know. And neither is that.” he leaves such uncharacteristically gentle kisses down your neck. Miles away from the relentless place on your poor, abused pussy, fucking you deeper and rougher every time despite already bottoming out. “Does it have to be?”

“Th-that doesn’t ngh- make sense.” you gasp into his open mouth.

“Doesn’t have to.”

Maybe it’s the way Satoru’s panting those words against your lips. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking right in your eyes while he says them - like it would kill him to pull away. Maybe even that fleeting little kiss he leaves against your lips.

Because before you know it, you’re cumming and cumming so hard that you wonder whether you’d make it out alive. The only thing you can do is throw your head back and take it, thighs quivering, Satoru’s names spilling from your lips in such broken little whines while he thrusts so sloppy. Once. Twice.

“Ah- this is gonna have me fallin’, huh?” And then he’s letting out such a low, muffled moan of your name, filling you up with rope after rope of his cum.

What?

It’s so messy - his cum overfilling your poor pussy, spilling out and coating his twitching balls. Shit, you can’t even worry about whether it would stain that overpriced couch below you. Not when Satoru’s whispering out sweet- lines from the script?

“Fuckin’ beautiful underneath me. Always was.” Hips still fucking into you - not even thinking at this point. “Always will be. Such a vision onscreen, sweetheart.” So thick and hot, and dribbling all the way down your legs with every movement.

And then Satoru’s lips are finding yours again, tasting so unfairly sweet while he drinks in all your cute breathless gasps. “Such a vision f’me.”

Those weren’t from the script either.

Something soft. Something scary. Something that has you looping your legs tighter around his waist, letting him collapse onto you. Pulling him closer, in fact, because now that you know the weight of his body on yours, it just felt so right.

It takes a moment of silence for you two to catch your breaths, the still rolling camera being the last thing on your minds. Neither willing to speak first, because shit Satoru might’ve gone to countless red carpets and film sets but this - you are what strips him away from all the glamor and fame. Until he was just, well, embarrassingly Satoru.

The Satoru that was now shifting shyly in your arms, trying to get up. “Uh- Hell of a way to run lines, huh? Better check the camera n’ see where to impro-”

He might be one of the biggest actors in modern Hollywood, but Satoru didn’t fool you - not one bit. So without a word, you’re tugging him back to rest against you. Heart lurching just a little bit as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Like a little hideaway - from the camera, from the world, hell, maybe even from you.

“Y’know,” he flinches ever-so-slightly at your teasing tone, giving you a playful bite. “I have one area of suggestion and it might just be that you’re too good at ‘running lines’.”

“...Good enough to win those five Oscars?”

“No.”

“Then guess I better prove it to ya, huh? Is the camera still on, sweetheart?”

Just then, some weird little part of you thinks that, hell, maybe you don’t hate Gojo Satoru after all.

Not anymore, at least.

---

The Enemies-To-Lovers Trope of The Century?! Hollywood’s Biggest Rivals Sport Matching Hickeys (And Smiles) On-Set of Upcoming Film.

Oops! Gojo Satoru's Phone Wallpaper Accidentally Exposed: Surprise, Surprise It’s His Leading Lady! More on Page 6.

“No Comment. Though, I Have Moved Trailers. Twice.” Anonymous Manager Speaks on Latest Movie Rumors.

Director Is All Smiles As He Raves About Upcoming Romance Movie. “Hell, If I Didn’t Know Any Better I’d Say They Were Really-”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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teltinsurvivor · 3 days ago

Text

The truth is that Jack is aching to get off the ship with every fiber of her being. She isn't sure why, but it feels as if there is a pressure inside her chest that is threatening to explode with each moment she spends aboard. An ugly, empty kind, like a black hole. Maybe she's just been on ships for too damn long. Maybe being inside some place like this - undeniably a ship in space, with the low humming of the engine and the windows displaying nothing but a vast blackness with some specks of distant stars - brings up bad memories. This isn't Purgatory. She is free. Jack is sure she has the upper hand here - that she could kill everyone if she wanted to. (Couldn't she? Surely she could. She has pulled off seemingly impossible escapes before. Too many times.). She probably won't even need to, even if her overly vigilant instincts say otherwise.

Yet, she still can't shake the feeling of being a prisoner. And all that obsessive digging into her files didn't make the situation better.

While she only agreed to come aboard for the Cerberus files in the first place, and obsessively dug through them for so long that she failed to remember the last time she ate, she regrets how long she spent with her eyes glued to that omni-tool screen. She wanted to stop a long time ago. Wanted to stop at five different points while reading the files, but Jack has seen the ugliest sides of human existence, experiences that led her to become the kind of person that would rather know the truth to shield her mind from information that might harm her spirit. Something that led Jack to doing something akin to keep walking through shards until your feet give in.

"I didn't do shit other than going through my files," Jack confesses, tone still just as annoyed as earlier, though it is a little more leveled, not shot back quite as quickly as that earlier response that had been stemming from a place of soreness.

Then, it dawns upon her that she might have more freedom than she thought she has. "I didn't even realize I was allowed to look at dossiers now."

That is a tempting idea. Having information on people meant having power over them. If she could look at Okeers dossier, surely she could also look at Miranda's.. or his.

"You're making it sound like there's some way for everyone to access each other's dossiers."

Maybe there is, and she has to know. If the others could dig in her files, she should be able to do the same.

"Got enough of reading for today, though. You wanna tell me what kinda krogan we're dealing with? In any case, it'll be refreshing to have someone aboard who's not full of shit."

Even if it may give that impression, Jack has no intentions of implying that Shepard is full of shit, but there's the suspicion, and words usually leave the convict's mouth so unfiltered that what she says is not always what she would've said had she thought more about it. As for the krogan, Jack has always appreciated their honesty. For as aggressive as they may be, they usually don't play mind-games. If they want to kill you? They're upfront about it. No beating around the bush, no lies.

For a brief moment, she wonders what her dossier says about her. Shepard must have read it.

#shepcdr #yishai shepard #jack is reeeeady to go to korlus!!

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

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

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