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boopiemadz · 21 hours ago

Note

okay this literally came to me in a dream but like lowkey pre crash travis and (fem) reader r like best friends and go to one of lotties houseparties and trav ends up getting way too drunk and emotional so reader has to drive him to her house and take care of him (and maybe tells reader he has feelings for her 🫢🫢) because i just know this man YAPS when he’s drunk

TS IS SO CUTE OML. I might combust reading this back bro, I love a good drunk confession 🤭🤭🤭. I cant put effort into adding warnings anymore so, just dont read if sensitive ig... anyways here u go bae!

[Drunk words are sober thoughts]

You and Travis weren't the kind of best friends who told each other everything. You were the kind that didn’t talk about feelings, because if you did, the whole thing might shatter.

You’d met in middle school during a group project. Ever since, there was this weird, stubborn loyalty between you. You were one of the only people who saw the soft, quietly funny, sometimes-stupid version of Travis that lived underneath all the brooding.

Now, in senior year, nothing had changed, except that everything had. Every brush of his hand against yours stuck in your head for days. Every time you made him laugh, it lit you up like a light switch.

But you didn’t talk about that. That would ruin everything.

“Lottie’s throwing one of her weird mansion parties tonight.”

You glance up from your locker. He’s leaning against the one next to yours, arms crossed, doing that thing where he looks anywhere but at you when he’s trying to sound casual.

“So?”

“So,” he shrugs, “you’re going, right?”

“Do I look like I want to get wine drunk next to Jackie and her cocky boyfriend?”

Travis snorts. “Kinda. Yeah.”

You squint at him. “Wait, do you want to go?”

“I mean... if you go.”

And there it is, one of those sentences that hovers in the air, daring you to make it mean more than it does.

You lean your shoulder into your locker and smirk. “Wow. You’re inviting yourself to hang out with me?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. Barely. “I’m just saying. Could be fun.”

You pretend not to notice how his voice goes soft when he says that. How he never uses that tone with anyone else.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

By the time the sun starts to set, you’re regretting your outfit and the fact that you even agreed. Lottie’s house is the kind of place where even the people who hate each other pose for pictures together.

You pull into Travis’s driveway and honk once. He jogs out a second later, unzipped carhartt jacket over a worn tee, hair still wet from a rushed shower.

“Hey,” he says, climbing in. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” you say, a little too quickly. “You look like... you.”

“Wow. That’s flattering.”

You grin as you pull back onto the street. “You’re welcome.”

The ride is quiet after that, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that’s normal for you two, like pressing pause on the world before walking into the chaos together.

When you get to Lottie’s house, the party is already alive, music pulsing, kids swarming the porch, smoke curling out from the side yard.

Travis hangs back a step as you approach the door. “If I end up getting alcohol poisoning,” he mutters, “you better not leave me for dead.”

You nudge his arm. “I’d drag your half-conscious body to safety. Maybe.”

“You’re such a good friend.”

But he says it in a weird voice. Half-teasing, half-sincere.

---

After a while, Travis disappears, something about needing another drink, or maybe just needing a breather. Either way, he slips off into the crowd, and you don’t follow.

You find the girls again, this time in the living room where someone’s pushed the coffee table against the wall and turned the place into a dance floor. Music blasts through the speakers. Van grabs your hand before you can second guess it. “Get over here, party girl!”

You laugh, already pulled into the middle of the room, where Jackie and Taissa are dancing like they don’t care who’s watching. Natalie’s nearby too, drink in hand, swaying lazily with a detached kind of rhythm.

“Where’s your brooding boyfriend?” Van shouts over the music, still holding onto your wrist.

“He’s not my…” You try to yell back, but Jackie cuts you off by spinning into you, hands on your hips, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my god, shut up. Just dance!”

You do.

At first it’s just goofy, half-dancing, half-laughing, letting go of whatever weird weight’s been hanging around your neck all night. Suddenly, you’re pressed between Tai and Van, all hips and hair and the kind of reckless freedom that only happens at house parties hosted by girls with no limits.

Taissa’s behind you in a second, grinning against your shoulder. “Look at you! Who is she?”

You laugh so hard it burns, head tipped back, hands in the air. Someone’s grinding against you, one of the girls, and for a second you stop thinking about Travis entirely.

You feel electric. Unstoppable.

“Holy shit,” Natalie says from the couch, watching the chaos unfold. “You’re like... five seconds away from making that boy combust.”

You slow a little, breath catching. “What boy?”

She just raises an eyebrow. “You know exactly which one.”

But before you can reply, someone stumbles past, and your heart lurches a little.

Because it’s Travis.

He’s across the room now, red Solo cup in hand, hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes scan the crowd like he’s trying to find something, or someone. But he doesn’t see you yet.

When he does, he stops dead.

You freeze, too.

And for a second, the noise fades.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something.

But then someone calls his name, probably one of the guys, and he vanishes again, swallowed back into the crowd like he was never there.

You stay rooted in place, pulse loud in your ears, warmth still buzzing from the dancing, but now with a different kind of burn.

Mari leans in, hair stuck to her cheek. “You should probably go find your boy.”

You pretend not to hear her.

But your feet are already moving.

---

The air upstairs feels hotter, heavier, like the party's heat and sweat followed you up. You weave through the crowd, past couples pressed against walls and kids laughing too loudly, until you finally spot him, slumped sideways in an armchair in what looks like some weirdly formal sitting room.

Travis has his legs sprawled out in front of him, drink in hand, jacket missing, hair a mess. He’s flushed and a little glassy-eyed, talking to someone who’s not even listening anymore, some JV soccer girl already halfway out the door.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. “Are you alive?”

He blinks like it takes him a second to recognize you. Then he grins. “There she is.” You fold your arms. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish.”

He holds up his cup like it explains everything. “Hydration.”

“Right. Is that what we’re calling vodka now?”

“Could be,” he says with a crooked smile. “Also could be tequila. I genuinely don’t know.” You step closer, studying him. “You look like you’re losing a very polite fight with gravity.”

“I’m winning, actually. This chair loves me.” You raise an eyebrow. “That why you’re trying to flirt with underclassmen now?”

He snorts. “She started it.”

You smirk. “So what, you rebounding from something?”

Travis shrugs, a little too dramatically. “Maybe I’m just putting myself out there. Y’know, seeing what happens. Might hook up with someone. Who’s to say?”

You stare at him, and for a second you’re not sure if you want to laugh or drag him out by the collar of his T-shirt. “Really?”

He shrugs again, all fake casualness. “It’s a party. People do stuff.”

“You’re so bad at pretending not to care.”

That gets him. His grin falters just slightly, and he looks down at his cup. “I’m great at not caring, actually.” You sigh. “Okay, come on.”

He glances up. “What?”

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“What? No, I’m thriving.”

“You’re slurring your words, and I think that chair is the only thing keeping you vertical.”

You offer him your hand. “Come on. You’re not hooking up with anyone tonight. I’m taking you home.”

“Home-home or like... your house home?” You snort. “You think your parents would be okay with this?”

He pauses. “Okay. Yeah. Fair.”

Travis grabs your hand, warm and heavier than usual, and lets you pull him up, wobbly on his feet. “This is, like, deeply embarrassing,” he mumbles.

You grin. “Nah. This is just very on-brand for you.”

As you guide him through the hallway, you hear him mutter under his breath: “At least it’s you.”

You don’t ask what he means.

---

The drive home is quiet at first, aside from the low hum of your car’s old speakers. His window is cracked, letting in the cool night air, and he’s slouched low in the seat with one leg bent up awkwardly, head leaning against the door.

After a few minutes, he speaks.

“You’re, like... such a good driver.”

You glance at him. “Thanks?”

“Like, I feel very safe right now,” he adds, dramatically patting the dashboard. “This car? Sanctuary.”

He turns his head toward you slowly, like it takes effort. “Did you know you’re my best friend?”

You blink. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“Yeah, but like...” He pauses, squinting out the windshield. “I mean it. You’re, like, my actual best friend. Not a fake one. Like... the real-deal, ride-or-die, would-hide-a-body kind.”

You smirk. “I’d bury a body for you, but only if you stop talking like you’re in a soap opera.”

“I’m being serious.”

You glance over. He’s staring at you with his cheeks pink from the alcohol and honesty, head still tilted, curls falling into his eyes. “If I was gonna kiss anyone,” he says suddenly, “like, tonight? At that party? It’d be you.”

You nearly swerve.

“I didn’t,” he adds quickly, hands up like you’re about to arrest him. “I’m not. I just... thought about it.”

You grip the wheel tighter. “Okay. Time to shut your mouth, Romeo.”

He snorts, slumping back again, grinning. “Whatever. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insists, half-asleep now. “It’s cute.”

You roll your eyes and flick the turn signal. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Aw, come on…”

“Nope.”

“But I said something sweet…”

“Exactly.”

---

Inside, you flick on the dim kitchen light so the house doesn’t feel too silent, then walk back and sit down in the middle of the couch with a sigh, expecting him to collapse beside you.

Travis follows like a puppy, blinking at you as if trying to calculate something complicated with his very alcohol-slowed brain… and then promptly drops down sideways, head landing in your lap with a muffled, content groan.

“Seriously?” you ask, freezing.

“Mmhm.” His eyes flutter shut. “This is good. You’re warm. Don’t move.”

You glance down at the mop of dark curls now sprawled over your legs. “You’re literally using me as a human pillow.”

“You’re the softest thing in this house.”

“That is not true. We have like a million blankets.” He grins, eyes still shut. “They don’t smell like you.”

Your heart does something dumb and weird.

You huff a breath, trying to ignore the way he’s curling in slightly, knees bent over the armrest like he lives here, like this happens all the time. One of your hands hovers awkwardly in the air before giving up and settling on his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk,” you mutter.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

There’s a beat of quiet. His breathing slows a little, not asleep, but closer to peaceful. He shifts just enough to glance up at you through heavy lids.

“You were dancing with Jackie.”

“Yeah?”

“Grinding,” he says, a little accusatory.

You smirk. “A little.”

He narrows his eyes. “Hot.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe I got jealous,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Was that before or after you tried to flirt with that sophomore?”

“I wasn’t flirting. She offered me a Capri Sun.”

You snort. “Right. Seduction by juice pouch.”

You sit there, fingers gently brushing through his dark hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sound in the room. The silence stretches, stretching tighter as the alcohol slowly fades from his system, leaving something raw in its wake. Travis shifts again, his hand grazing your leg as he adjusts himself in your lap.

You glance down at him, his eyes still hazy but now more focused, an intensity in them that makes your pulse quicken.

"Hang on," you mutter, breaking the silence. "I’ll grab you some water."

You slide off the couch, careful not to disturb him, but he lets out a soft groan of protest, his arm reaching out to catch your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, eyes barely open.

“I’m just getting you some water,” you reassure him, offering a small smile as you tug gently out of his grasp. “I’ll be right back.”

You leave the couch and walk to the kitchen, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness of the house. You open the cabinet, fill a glass with water, and take a deep breath. Something about this night, about the way things have shifted between you two, is weighing heavily on your mind. You can't shake the feeling that something is about to change.

You return to the living room, the cool glass of water in your hand. Travis is sitting up now, his gaze fixed on the floor, but you can see the way his hands twitch with restlessness.

“Here,” you hand him the glass, your voice a little more unsure than you’d like. “Drink.”

He takes the water from you, fingers brushing yours for a split second. He’s quiet for a moment, drinking deeply, before he sets the glass down and meets your eyes again. There’s something different in his gaze now, something more vulnerable.

"You know," Travis says, his voice low, hesitant, "I don't really... know how to say this."

You frown, stepping a little closer. "Say what?"

He shifts slightly, his eyes flickering to your face and then away, almost like he’s battling with himself to find the right words. The tension is thick, the air between you both charged with something unspoken.

He exhales, a sharp breath, and finally says, “I don’t know how to act around you sometimes. I try to keep it cool, but… I can’t. You’re my best friend, and I think about you all the time. More than I should. More than I want to, really.”

Your heart skips, but you stay quiet, your chest tight as you try to make sense of his words. There’s something vulnerable in his tone, something that tugs at you. It’s not like him to be this open, this raw.

“I don’t wanna mess things up, but I can’t help it,” he continues, his voice soft, almost like he’s confessing something he’s been carrying for too long. “If I were gonna kiss anyone tonight, it would be you, I meant that when I said it. I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

The words hit you like a wave, catching you off guard. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands suddenly cold as they hang limply by your sides. The air feels thick, suffocating, and for a moment, you wonder if you heard him right. You try to step back, your heart racing.

“Travis, I…” You stammer, the room spinning slightly as your thoughts scramble to catch up with his confession.

He quickly notices the hesitation in your face and his expression falters, turning slightly panicked. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I needed to tell you. I don’t want to just hide it anymore. You deserve to know.”

You take a deep breath, your mind racing. “But you’re drunk. This isn’t…”

“I’m not just drunk,” he interrupts, his voice steadier now, more intense. “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I’m not just saying this because of tonight. I’ve been trying to ignore it, pretend like it’s not there. But it is. And I can’t just go on like everything’s normal when it’s not. Not anymore.”

His eyes are searching yours, so deep, so desperate for an answer, and in that moment, everything feels too much. You take a step back, unsure of what to do with the knot in your stomach, the confusion swirling inside you.

He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with the way this is going. “I’m not expecting anything from you,” he says, his voice quieter now, a little sadder. “I just needed to tell you.”

The silence stretches between you both, heavy and thick. You feel the weight of his words sitting in your chest, and despite the way your mind is spinning, you can’t ignore the pull in your stomach, the way your heart aches with something you can’t quite name.

You finally move toward him again, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You sit beside him. He looks up at you, eyes soft, his vulnerability almost unbearable to witness.

“I don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “I don’t want to be a mistake.”

He shakes his head, “You’re not a mistake,” he says firmly, his voice low and full of certainty. The words hang in the air, thick and charged with tension, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, carefully, you close the distance between you both, your lips meeting his in a tentative kiss.

At first, it’s soft, careful, like both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what this will mean. But then, as the tension breaks, the kiss deepens, and suddenly it feels like everything falls into place. His hands move to your back, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your hands threading through his hair as you kiss him with everything you’ve been holding back.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, hearts pounding in your chests.

“I’ve wanted this too,” you whisper against his lips, your voice trembling as the weight of your own confession settles in.

He smiles, his forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

You close your eyes and let yourself relax into his arms, knowing that this isn’t just a drunken mistake. This is real, this is happening, and for the first time, you both feel like you can finally be honest.

As you both slowly pull back and settle down on the couch, your heads finding a comfortable position against the cushions, you slip your hand into his, your fingers entwining naturally. You close your eyes, your heart still racing from everything that just happened, but it’s not scary anymore. It feels right.

Travis’s voice breaks the silence, soft and full of contentment. “I’m glad I finally told you.”

“Me too,” you reply, letting out a sigh of relief as you snuggle closer to him.

With his arm around you, you both finally drift off to sleep, your hearts beating in sync, leaving nothing left unsaid.

#yellowjackets #bleh #yellowjackets fandom #viral #travis martinez #travis martinez fanfic #fanfiction #travis martinez x reader #yj #drunk confessions #fluff #cute #fluffy #my hearts doing flips #love love love #my huzz #req!

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r-memberme · 2 days ago

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the way he loves you | k.m

⎯⎯ You feel the danger in him, yes—but it’s yours now. Like a wolf who’s chosen to circle only you.

warnings: blood, violence, Klaus being in love.

It isn’t his smile that makes you feel safe.

It’s not even his hands, though they could shatter a throat or cradle your face with the same ease.

No, it’s the stillness.

The calm in him that shouldn’t exist. The quiet between heartbeats when he looks at you like nothing else is real. Not the world. Not the war he’s always carrying in his bones. Just you.

That calm is terrifying—and you love it.

You love that he doesn’t need to raise his voice. He simply is. And the world obeys.

You love that he never asks you to be gentler. Never flinches when your voice is sharp, or your eyes are tired, or your silence is louder than your presence. He just watches you, with that steady patience carved out of centuries. Like he understands that softness is not always kindness. That love does not always bloom in the light.

He has killed for less than the things you’ve cried about. And yet, when you crumble in front of him, he does not vanish. He stays. Not with apologies or platitudes—but with quiet, devastating loyalty.

People call him evil.

You know better.

There is something holy in the way he chooses you. Something old and blood-bound and quiet, like a vow written in a language no one speaks anymore.

You should fear him.

But you only ever feared being unseen.

And Klaus Mikaelson—he sees everything.

༊*·˚

You’ve seen it before—what he is, what he does.

A man crying in an alley, coughing blood into his hands. A body dropped in a garden like an offering no one asked for. The red still warm.

And Klaus didn’t flinch.

He wiped his knuckles on a handkerchief like someone raised to value silk over sin. Not ashamed. Not even angry.

Just—done.

The thing is, he never hides it from you. Never dims the horror, never cloaks the violence. There is no mask, no performance.

He lets you see the truth of him, raw and ruinous.

And you stay.

That’s what unsettles everyone else—not what he is, but that you’re not afraid.

Because when he walks into a room, the air tightens, the light bends. People go quiet. The world shifts.

But when he looks at you?

You don’t feel small. You feel invincible.

Like nothing could ever touch you as long as he stands at your side. Like the sharpest thing in the room would be the way he touches your wrist when no one’s looking.

You feel the danger in him, yes—but it’s yours now. Like a wolf who’s chosen to circle only you.

And sometimes, in the quiet, you wonder: What does it say about you, that you find comfort in his darkness?

That you sleep best when his hand is on your waist, warm and heavy, like a promise to destroy anyone who dares wake you.

That he whispers “Mine” not as a warning, but as a lullaby.

༊*·˚

They call him a monster.

Not with that word, necessarily—no, people are more careful than that. More cowardly. They say he’s dangerous, he’s not right, he’s not human. They say you should leave before you disappear too.

Your friends no longer visit. They lower their voices when his name slips out, like it might summon him from the shadows. As if he isn’t already behind you, always, waiting like a storm that only knows how to protect what it loves.

They don’t understand. They never did.

Because what they see is teeth and blood, violence wrapped in velvet. They see a man who could end the world with a word.

But they don’t see how he quiets for you.

How he softens when his thumb brushes beneath your eye in the mornings. How he kneels between your knees with reverence, like the wildest thing in him would bow just to hear your voice.

How he says “tell me where it hurts” and means it.

They never noticed that when the room cracks open with fear, you always walk toward him, not away. That his shadow doesn’t frighten you—it shields you.

They never see how his eyes change when you're near. How the ancient, endless rage in him hushes.

How he breathes easier when you're close.

Let them call him what they want. Let them flinch, let them run. Let them build walls and pray behind them.

You’ve seen what’s on the other side of those prayers—emptiness. Cold hands and colder beds.

But here?

Here, in the arms of something the world fears?

You’ve never felt safer.

You’ve never felt more like yourself.

༊*·˚

You’ve never admitted it aloud. But you love the power he has.

Not because it makes him feared. But because it means he’ll never kneel to anyone but you.

You’ve watched him bend men in half with nothing more than a look. You’ve seen entire rooms fall silent when he walks in. His presence pulls at the walls, ancient and immense. His rage could level cities. His wrath rewrites the air.

And still—still—he touches you like you’re a relic from a gentler god.

There’s a kind of holiness in the way he undoes you. In the way he tears the world apart and then wraps what’s left around you like a cloak.

You are not naïve. You know what he’s done. You know what he is. But you’ve never once feared his hands. Not even when they’re bloodstained.

Because you know where that blood comes from. It’s never yours.

You love the violence of his love. Not because it’s cruel, but because it’s true. He would tear down heaven if you asked him to. He would burn the stars if one of them hurt you.

And sometimes, when you close your eyes in the hush between his heartbeat and yours, you realize:

You don’t just feel safe with him.

You feel invincible.

You, who once flinched at raised voices. You, who once apologized for taking up space. You, who once made yourself small enough to be overlooked.

You walk taller now.

The world opens for you when he’s near—not out of fear, but recognition. As if the universe itself knows: this one is loved by something unstoppable.

And maybe, just maybe, that makes you a little monstrous too.

But if that’s the price of being his?

You’ll pay it in full.

With teeth. With fire. With your whole damned soul.

༊*·˚

You’ve never trusted the light. It lies too easily.

It flatters what should be feared, softens what should burn. It drapes horrors in white silk and calls them holy. It hides things—shame, violence, the jagged shapes of grief—and tells you they were never there to begin with.

But Klaus— Klaus is all night and no apology.

He walks like a ruin and speaks like scripture. His love is carved from bone and sealed with blood. It’s not wrapped in velvet or doused in sugar. It’s raw. Terrible. True.

There is no pretending in his world. No softness that hasn’t been clawed from the wreckage.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

Because you’ve known liars with kind eyes. You’ve kissed mouths that said forever and meant until it’s inconvenient. But Klaus has never hidden what he is.

A wolf. A storm. A god, maybe.

But never a lie.

He tells you the truth even when it hurts. Especially then.

You remember the first time he killed for you.

It was sudden. Bloody. Brief.

You hadn’t even screamed. Just stood there, heartbeat ringing in your ears, as a man who meant you harm crumpled to the floor like paper set aflame.

And Klaus had turned to you, face unreadable, waiting for your fear. For your disgust. For your retreat.

But you hadn’t moved.

Because something cracked open in your chest—a silence long held. Not horror. Not revulsion.

Something else.

Recognition.

He didn’t try to explain. Didn’t beg forgiveness. He just looked at you like a creature braced for the blow.

But you didn’t look away.

Because in that moment, you understood something no one else ever had.

You weren’t horrified.

You were seen.

All of you. The quiet fury. The ruined softness. The ache that never found language.

He saw it. And answered with teeth.

And maybe that’s why you love him.

Not in spite of what he is.

But because of it.

Because for the first time in your life, someone didn’t ask you to be smaller.

He asked you to be honest.

And when you stood still in the ruin he made for you, he didn’t ask you why.

He just reached out, blood still warm on his hands, and said,

“You never have to be afraid again.”

And you believed him.

Because night may be long, but it never lies.

༊*·˚

You sleep best with him beside you.

That shouldn’t be true—but it is.

Even when his breath barely stirs. Even when the only sound from him is the faintest growl caught in his throat, animal and ancient, like his dreams speak in a language no one else survives.

Even when his arm around you is heavy—not with comfort, but with possession.

Even when the world fractures outside the window. When his enemies multiply like vultures circling a god too long unchallenged. When his name burns through cities like a curse.

Still, you sleep.

Because nothing— Not fire. Not death. Not centuries of wrath— Will ever reach you while you’re in his arms.

And if it dares?

It will bleed for trying.

You know this. The same way you know the shape of your own hands.

He would tear down kingdoms for your peace. He would salt the earth behind him if you so much as wept.

And that power—the vast, merciless gravity of it—it doesn’t scare you.

It anchors you.

You rest your hand against his chest now, feel the unnatural steadiness beneath your palm. There is no heartbeat. Just the echo of something older, deeper. Something that moves for you and only you.

And all you can think, with a calm that frightens no part of you, is this:

Let the world fear him. Let them whisper and flinch and curse his name.

I belong to him.

And maybe that should terrify you.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like the only place that’s ever been safe.

why can't men be more like him???? Oh to be loved by someone as immortal and dangerous as him...🤍

taglist:

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

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𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.4

Authors Note: Hi guys! Here is another chapter for this series. Next chapter may be in 2 days, as I did a double post today. I hope you enjoy, I’ll try to get the next part finished soon. Lots of love xx

Summary: You experience a mix of nervous anticipation and excitement as you fly to Monaco, battling with the growing curiosity about the mysterious group chat and finally arrive at the Café de Paris, unsure who you are about to meet.

Warnings: mild swearing

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mimisweetz @mits-vi @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never knew the drive to the airport could feel so loud.

It wasn’t the traffic or the occasional honk outside the Uber window, it was you. Your thoughts. Your pulse. The way every single breath seemed too shallow to calm anything inside you.

Your suitcase sat beside you, looking far too confident for what it carried. Clothes, charger, passport and about ten pounds of pure emotional panic.

The driver had the radio on, something mellow and easy. You wanted to hate it. How dare the world be normal right now?

You opened your phone.

The group chat was its usual circus.

Pastry: Bet someone forgets their passport again. Place your bets now.

Norrified: I nominate MadMax.

MadMax: Unbelievable slander.

SmoothOperator: I hope you all lose your luggage tbh.

Hulk: Aw, it’s like watching children before a field trip.

And then, quietly, almost like a whisper -

Hammertime: Safe travels, everyone. See you soon.

You stared at it longer than you needed to. Re-read it like there was some hidden message in the spacing.

He hadn’t messaged you privately again. Not since the night you said yes.

That should’ve calmed you.

It didn’t.

You typed.

[Private Message - Hammertime 💬]

User (You): On my way.

Sent.

You chewed your thumbnail, watching the message sit there. Unread.

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was too soon to expect something.

Then, he read it.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

You sat up straighter.

Hammertime: Me too.

You waited.

And waited.

But that was it.

You could have screamed. Or laughed. Or thrown your phone out the window.

Instead, you clutched it tighter.

User (You): You’re not going to say anything else?

Three dots. Stop. Three dots again.

Hammertime: I could. But I’m afraid I’d say too much. And I want the first time I see you to say it all.

You didn’t reply.

You just stared out the window.

Fingers clenched. Chest full.

The airport was fifteen minutes away.

You had no idea what came next.

But you were already falling.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The airport was cold.

Not freezing, just the kind of chill that settled beneath your skin and stayed there no matter how tightly you pulled your hoodie around you.

You sat hunched over your coffee, watching a little kid drag a stuffed giraffe across the floor while their mum tried not to spill juice on her boarding pass.

Everyone was headed somewhere.

You were headed toward a maybe.

Toward someone you only knew through words on a screen. Through late night private messages and soft, unexpected confessions. Toward Hammertime - whoever he really was.

Your phone vibrated in your lap.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

It never got old seeing his name. It always made your breath hitch a little. As if your body still hadn’t caught up with the fact that he was real. That this thing was real.

You opened the message.

Hammertime: You’re at the airport?

User (You): Yeah. You?

Hammertime: In a car. Driver’s quiet. Or maybe I’m just overthinking.

User (You): Same. I haven’t blinked in ten minutes. Might be in shock.

You hesitated before sending the next one.

User (You):This is…kind of crazy, isn’t it? I don’t even know any of you and I’m flying across the world just to meet you guys.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back.

Hammertime: Yeah. But it also kind of makes sense. In a weird way.

You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself.

User (You): Still not telling me who you are?

Hammertime: What if it’s better like this for now?

You paused.

Because somewhere, you agreed. Knowing too much might make it too real. Too fast. And right now, you still had the space to imagine who he could be. And that was comforting, in a way.

User (You): Then say something else. So I don’t freak out and run for the nearest exit.

Hammertime: Okay. How about this -

I’ve read our old messages more times than I’ll ever admit out loud. And I’m still not tired of any of them.

Your fingers stilled over the screen.

Your chest ached in the softest way.

User (You): You’re not what I expected.

Hammertime: Neither are you, that’s the best part.

The boarding announcement echoed across the terminal.

You stood slowly, tucking your phone into your pocket like it was something fragile. Like it held everything you were afraid to hope for.

The gate ahead was open. The flight was ready.

You stepped forward, heart pounding, still not knowing who he was.

Still wanting to find out.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The descent began with a jolt.

Not the dramatic kind, just enough to remind you that the ground was getting closer and so was everything you’d been avoiding feeling since the moment you clicked accept on the Monaco invite.

You pressed your forehead lightly to the window.

From this height, Monaco looked like a scattered dream. Hazy blue coastline, winding roads, terracotta rooftops tucked into cliffs like secrets. It was all too postcard perfect, and yet somehow it made your stomach flip.

This was real now.

No more hiding behind usernames and late night texts. No more watching from the sidelines, pretending you weren’t holding your breath every time Hammertime messaged you something quiet and kind in the middle of the chaos.

Your phone vibrated the moment the plane wheels kissed the tarmac.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

You didn’t even hesitate this time.

Hammertime: Touch down?

User (You): Just landed. It’s beautiful here.

Hammertime: It is, wait until you see it at night.

That stopped you for a second.

Wait until you see it.

Not “it.” You.

User (You): Is this the part where I ask if you’re picking me up?

Hammertime: I could. But then that’d ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?

You smiled, exhausted but somehow wired.

User (You): So I’m just supposed to wander through Monaco and hope someone gives me a wink and a clue?

Hammertime: More or less. Don’t worry.

You’ll know. I’ll make sure of it.

You sat there in your seat long after the seatbelt sign blinked off, hands curled around your phone, heart beating out a rhythm you didn’t recognise.

Half of you wanted to run. The other half couldn’t wait to see what came next.

You stood slowly, grabbing your bag slipping into the stream of strangers all headed toward something.

And maybe, just maybe, one of them was him…

The air was heavy with movement.

Wheelie suitcases hummed across polished tiles. People laughed, called out and argued softly in a dozen languages. The smell of jet fuel still lingered faintly beneath the sharper notes of espresso from the nearby café and the citrusy perfume of a woman brushing past. It was overwhelming and yet strangely still. Like a moment stretched just past its breaking point.

You were barely paying attention. Eyes half lowered, thoughts tangled around Hammertime’s last message. His quiet certainty that you’d possibly know him if you saw him.

And that’s exactly when it happened.

A sharp, sudden impact to your shoulder sent you stumbling a step back, suitcase jerking to the side.

“Oh - shit, I’m sorry.”

The voice was smooth. Low. British. And deeply familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, though you couldn’t place it. You looked up.

And then froze.

He stood barely two feet from you, tall and grounded in a way that made everyone else around him blur. His hoodie was pulled low, but not low enough to hide warm brown eyes - soft but searching. His skin caught the airport light like bronze kissed by sun. There was a quiet strength in his posture, like he was always bracing for something but hadn’t decided whether to fight it or embrace it.

Then you smelled him.

Warm spice. Clean linen. A faint, smoky cologne that wrapped around you like a second skin. You inhaled before you could stop yourself. It was unfair how someone could smell like that.

He looked at you with slight concern but no panic, his hand half lifted like he’d thought about steadying you but decided against it.

“No worries,” you managed, your voice a little higher than usual. “I wasn’t watching either.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. Small, almost secretive. The kind of smile that might come with hidden thoughts and unsent messages. The kind that could unearth something in your chest if you weren’t careful.

“I guess we’re even then,” he said, and his voice had this warm rasp to it that made the hairs on your arm stand up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t know why. You couldn’t look away from him and somehow, you felt like he couldn’t either.

Then someone behind him called out, voice casual but loud.

“Yo, we’re out front!”

He gave a soft sigh, dipped his head in apology and rolled his bag back toward the exit with that same quiet grace.

You stood there, suitcase handle warm in your hand, heart thudding unevenly. There was no lightning bolt. No grand reveal. Just something subtle and tugging and wrongly familiar.

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

But something inside you whispered, you’ve felt this before.

Far ahead, just before disappearing into the crowd, he glanced back.

So did you.

But neither of you said a word.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the city’s distant hum of the rush of scooters, the glittery clatter of luxury, the salt heavy breeze filtering through the slightly cracked balcony window. You dropped your suitcase by the edge of the bed and stood there for a second, just breathing.

You’d made it.

Monaco.

The words didn’t feel real, not even standing in the middle of the sleek, sun drenched hotel suite. Everything was light marble and clean edges, a bottle of sparkling water on the table like it was daring you to pretend this wasn’t out of your league.

And yet, here you were. One accidental group chat, one too kind stranger, one missed connection in an airport later.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out your phone, and stared at the screen for a long moment.

GridGremlins 🛠️

127 unread messages.

You hesitated, then scrolled to the bottom.

Your fingers hovered for just a beat, then you typed -

User (You): made it to Monaco. Barely survived the airport traffic. And yes, i did get shoved by a suitcase. Thanks for asking.

Immediately -

SmootherOperator: ayyyy someone’s officially entered chaos territory 🇲🇨🔥

Norrified: don’t forget to wave at Charles’ cardboard cutout in the gift shop. it’s tradition now.

Baguetteboi: wait wait wait - you’re here? in monaco?like actually?

Pastry: Enjoy your stay.

HoneyBadger: welcome to the jungle 🐒

You grinned, shaking your head at the chaos. But it was the next message that made you still, even though you knew you were waiting for it.

Hammertime: Glad you made it. Let me know if you need anything.

Simple. Short. But enough to send a tiny storm through your stomach.

Your fingers danced over the keyboard, hesitated, then typed -

User (You): Thanks. I almost got taken out by a guy in a hoodie at arrivals. Airport’s wild.

Three dots appeared. Then stopped.

Then appeared again.

Hammertime: Damn. Some people just have no spacial awareness.

You smirked.

If only he knew.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later than night.

Monaco glittered outside your window, the distant hum of the city barely reaching you, muffled by the heavy curtains and your own thoughts. The night felt far too still for a place this alive.

You were curled up on the hotel bed, a soft weight in the pit of your stomach as you scrolled through your phone, the bright screen illuminating your face in the dark room.

Then a message from him.

Hammertime.

The simple appearance of his name made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d been alone with your thoughts for too long now, the quiet pressing in as the city pulsed on outside.

You opened the message.

Hammertime: How’s the view from your window?

You smiled softly at the question. It felt intimate, somehow. Like he wasn’t asking about the lights or the scenery, but something deeper. Something more.

User (You): It’s stunning. The lights are so bright they make everything feel like it’s glowing.

You paused. It felt like there was more to say but you weren’t sure what exactly. So, you put your thumb over the keyboard and waited, watching the blinking dots.

Then they appeared.

Hammertime: Good. Monaco should make you feel that way. Like everything’s lit up just for you.

You felt warmth in those words, the kind that wrapped around you when you weren’t expecting it. You pressed your lips together, wondering if this was what it meant to be pulled into someone’s orbit even without meeting face to face. His presence was there, steady and constant, even through a screen.

User (You): Are you always this straightforward?

A pause. Too long. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, unsure if you’d said too much. You kept your eyes on the screen waiting for him to respond.

Finally, it came.

Hammertime: Only for the people that matter.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t have time to process the weight of the words before another message came.

Hammertime: Don’t feel pressured to respond, by the way. I know the city’s overwhelming. But I wanted to make sure you knew, you’re not alone out there.

You swallowed hard, reading the message again. The thought of being not alone in this strange city felt comforting, but it also stirred something else in you. It was the first time since arriving that you didn’t feel like an outsider.

User (You): Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.

The reply felt hollow compared to the weight of his words, but you didn’t know how to articulate what you were feeling. How do you explain that someone’s kindness could fill the spaces in your chest you hadn’t realised were empty?

You turned your phone face down on the bed, the room too quiet now. You stared at the ceiling, the soft hum of the city below seeming to match the thrum of your pulse.

Somewhere out there, he was too. Close, but still so far away.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun filtered through your hotel room curtains, casting a warm glow across the space. You had been up for a while now, but your mind felt clouded, uncertain.

The beauty of Monaco was undeniable, but so was the growing tension in your chest. The entire city seemed to hum with energy of luxury cars zipping by, tourists flocking to the shops and the sound of waves crashing against the coast.

You took a deep breath trying to shake the nerves, and reached for your phone. The group chat had been vibrating non stop since you’d woken up.

GridGremlins 🛠️

MadMax: Alright, we’ll be meeting up at 12. You ready for it?

SmoothOperator: No turning back now to meet our newbie . 😎

Hulk: Be there on time. Or else. 👀

Baguetteboi: We won’t wait. Don’t make us look bad. 😅

Pastry: If you’re not at the Café de Paris by 12, we’ll assume you chickened out.

A brief laugh escaped your lips. You couldn’t help it. Their playful yet demanding tone was something you had grown to expect. The more you read, the more the reality of this meeting settled in. You had no idea who they were behind their usernames, but soon you’d find out. You didn’t know what to expect, but that didn’t stop your pulse from quickening.

User (You): Fine. I’ll be there. You won’t regret it.

MadMax: Good. 12pm at the Café de Paris. Don’t be late. We’ll see you there.

Hammertime: Looking forward to meeting you.

Your stomach fluttered at his message. Despite everything, there was a certain comfort in Hammertime’s tone. It was almost as if he understood the nerves you were feeling without having to say anything more.

You tucked your phone into your bag, grabbed your jacket and headed out of the hotel. The streets of Monaco were already lively, even though it was still early. Tourists were making their way through the cobbled streets and the unmistakable scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air. You could hear the low hum of conversations as people passed by and the occasional honk of a car added to the rhythm of the city.

The walk to the Café de Paris wasn’t long, just a few minutes. But with each step, your nerves grew. It felt like you were walking toward a moment that was going to change everything, though you couldn’t quite place why.

When you finally reached the café, the outside seating area was filled with people enjoying their morning drinks. The café itself was charming, with its large glass windows and classic French architecture. But it wasn’t the café that had your attention, it was the people around it. You scanned the crowd looking for any sign of the group, but there was no immediate indication.

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel the weight of the moment - everything that had led you here. The group chat. The messages. Hammertime.

Taking a deep breath, you adjusted the strap of your bag and approached the entrance, trying to steady your nerves. The door creaked open with a soft sound as you stepped inside, feeling the cool air conditioned breeze greet you.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine #x reader #formula 1 #f1 smau #f1 text au #formula 1 fanfic #lh44 x reader #f1 drivers #lewis hamilton x you

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angel-writes-here · 2 days ago

Text

Covenant

Choi Seunghyun x AFAB! Reader x G-Dragon Synopsis: Things end. Things begin. Sometimes things reconnect. Warnings: SMUT, fingering, unprotected p in v (Plz be safe), oral (both receiving) angst, fluff A/N: Part 8 has arrived! Please comment if you'd like to be added to my taglist! Thank you for your patience. Shout out to my girl @breakmeoff for your help and inspiration on my writing. I def couldn't have done it without you and I genuinely am so proud of you, boo. Can't wait for part 4 of your Chan fic! 😘 Part 7 🎞Please silence your phones, grab some popcorn🍿 and your favorite blanket, get comfy, and do thoroughly enjoy the chapter! 💜💜

Seunghyun watches you disappear inside, but the frustration in him bubbles to a point of action. He exits the car, following in behind you.

“Y/n!” He raises his voice. You stop dead in your tracks, not daring to turn around to face him.

“We aren’t done talking about this,” he says as he catches up to you.

“Yeah, we really fucking are. Go. Home.” Your eyes cut at him; his adrenaline is pumping.

“Y/n,” he tries to pull you close, but you yank yourself away from him. You turn on your heels to walk to the elevator. He follows after you. You push the close door button on the elevator, you know the one that never seems to work, and just as you think you’re home free, Seunghyun slips into the elevator.

“I want to be with you.”

You scoff at his words with a sarcastic smile and roll of your eyes.

“Why is that funny?” The elevator opens to an elderly couple. The poor woman is slow, using a walker to help her into the small space. You notice, what you assume to be, her husband and how he looks at her. It’s similar to how you’ve caught Jiyong looking at you. The care and patience he has for his lady as she makes her way in stirs your heart and your already heightened emotions.

The sight warms your heart. It’s what you had hoped for. What you had wanted when you were little. Patience, kindness, understanding and love.

Love.

You watch as the elderly gentleman places a sweet kiss onto the woman’s temple, the sight daring tears to come up. You peer over at Seunghyun who hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You turn away and only then does he see what you seen. The kindness, gentleness and patience he displays with his lady.

The elevator dings and you walk out quickly fishing out your hotel key card.

“Go home,” you demand of Seunghyun.

“Not until we actually talk.” He says simply. The door unlocks and you both walk in to see Jiyong sitting on the bed.

“Hey-oh,” he says surprised to see his best friend. Seunghyun huffs.

“Ji, can we have a minute?” Jiyong looks to you.

“We don’t need a minute because you are leaving.”

“What the hell, y/n, you promised!” He raises his voice in frustration.

“Yeah, so did you. For better or worse. Sickness and in health.” You mock rolling your eyes. You fling yourself into Jiyong who holds onto you, looking up at his best friend.

“I’m not going to stop fighting for you, y/n,” he says. You cling to Jiyong even tighter after the words leave his mouth.

You hear the door shut behind him and once it does, your cries intensify.

“Maybe you should talk to him, jagi.” He whispers. You peer at him, your eyes obviously angry.

“I have nothing to say to him.”

Seunghyun walks into the house, Hae readily greeting him with a glass of wine.

“Baby, how was the funeral? Is the bitch in the ground now?”

“Watch your fucking mouth, that was my sister in law!” he snaps. Hae looks taken aback.

“You do remember it’s me you love, right?”

“When have I ever said I loved you?” Seunghyun asks as he takes a sip of wine. She scoffs with a roll of her eyes.

“You’ve had a long day so I’ll let that one slide.” She sets down her glass.

“Come on, let’s get in the shower, wash the stress of the day off.” She smirks.

Seunghyun allows her to pull him with her to the bathroom. She strips turning on the shower, Seunghyun begins to feel numb. He begins to feel like he’s missing something.

“Ok, I guess I’ll help,” she says breaking him from his thoughts.

“No, don’t touch me, I’ve got it,” he says stepping away from her.

“Ok,” she backs off and slips into the shower under the warm water. Seunghyun steps in behind her, the steam from the room overwhelming.

“I missed you today,” she says as she runs her hands along his chest, his muscles taut under her touch. He’s looking off to the side, distracted.

“Seunghyun,” she moves his face to look at her, the water cascading down her body. She runs her hands down it, trying to capture his attention, but quickly realizes she’s getting no reaction.

“Nothing? Are you serious?” She asks as she looks down at his flaccid member.

“Hmm?” He looks to her, visibly confused as to what is happening.

“Oh my god, you’re thinking about her?” she gasps.

“Hae,” he sighs scrubbing a hand down his face, as a slight shiver runs down his spine. He politely pushes his way to the water.

“I can’t believe you,” she complains.

“You’re actually thinking about some other woman.” She scoffs once more.

“What did you actually think was between us, huh? Some kind of actual romance that would lead to marriage and kids? A life where we’re happy together? Growing fat and old together?” His tone is sharp, cutting,

“Psh, kids? Ruining this body? I don’t think so.” He rolls his eyes as he grabs the soap.

“Hae, you’re fun, but nothing serious was ever going to be between us.”

“You don’t mean that,”

“Yeah, I do.” He lets the water run over his body again.

“And why the hell did you tell Y/n your name is on the deed. This is my house and you know it! You don’t have a damn thing to do with it.”

“Seunghyun I swear if you leave me for that bitch I’ll tell everyone the truth.” She tries to bargain.

“Do whatever you want, Hae. She’s done with me anyway.”

“Good, then we can get back to our lives,” she goes to rub his wet strong shoulders but he shrugs her off.

“No, I’m done with you. Thanks for the fun but it’s time to get the fuck out of my house.” Her mouth hangs open.

“You’ll regret doing this to me, Seunghyun. I swear if it’s the last thing I do I’ll fucking ruin you.” She steps out of the shower and dries off. She walks out of the bathroom slamming the door shut behind her. The pressure and stress of the last couple days hangs over Seunghyun like a weight. His eyes fill with tears, tears that he lets flow freely in the comfort of his own shower.

He never thought he’d see the day where you had so much power over him.

He misses you.

Back at the hotel you’re cuddled up in bed with Jiyong, a movie playing but you aren’t watching. You’ve been in and out of sleep for the last few minutes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“What good would it do? Our next step is obvious, divorce.”

“Is that what he wants?” Jiyong asks slowly.

“It’s what I want, and quite frankly what he wants doesn’t matter to me. He’s got Hae who lives with him and sleeps with him and does whatever else with him. He doesn’t need me. Hell, until last week he didn’t even care about me.” You huff.

“And yet you feel conflicted,” he mumbles and you sit up off him to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Y/n, I’m not faulting you for it, but it’s obvious. You say you’re done, but if you were, you wouldn’t get so worked up over it. You’d be indifferent. You wouldn’t care.”

The pang of hurt is in your chest, and you know Jiyong can see it. If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t have called you out about it.

“It’s only natural that you do,” he assures you.

“No, I don’t,”

“Y/n you’ve spent most of your time with him the last year and a half,” he sympathizes.

“Jiyong, I don’t care anymore. I’m so exhausted.” Your head falls into your soft hands.

“Y/n, baby, I know you’re tired, but don’t shut him out.” He wraps his arms around you.

“Why the hell are you advocating for him? He’s the one who thought you would blab his big secret.”

“I know, but emotions were high.”

“So, he can just insult your character.”

“I didn’t say it was right, but he’s my brother. I’m going to forgive him.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” you mumble.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls back and places a delicate kiss on your sweet lips.

Seunghyun is lounging in his chair in the living room, his first bottle of wine is done and the second has just been opened. The house is quiet, Hae packed her things and disappeared, at least for now. He look around the home, how still and lifeless it really is. He finds himself missing the comfort of knowing you were sleeping upstairs.

He picks up the phone, no missed calls or texts. His chest stings. You hadn’t thought of him. There’s no way you did. Not after what you knew. Not after what Hae told you.

Still, he tries to call you anyway.

You hear your phone buzzing on the table.

“It’s him,” Jiyong says as he hands it to you.

“What do I do?”

“Answer it,” he encourages. You take a deep breath, heart hammering in your chest as your anxiety heightens.

“I’m right here,” Jiyong reaches over and rests a reassuring hand on your leg.

“H-Hello?” your voice is weak as Jiyong takes your hand, placing a delicate kiss on the back of it.

“Y/n, don’t hang up,” he slurs.

“Seung? Are you ok?” your voice turns frantic when you hear his state.

“I’m sorry,” he tries to say but it’s hard to understand him.

“What, Seunghyun where are you?”

“Home,” he giggles as he takes another drink but he tips the glass too far back and spills it on himself.

“Ahh, damn it!” He shouts into the phone causing you to jump. Jiyong looks at you concerned.

“Are you ok?” He doesn’t answer, all you can hear is distant grumbling and something about a “fucking broken glass.”

“I feel like I should check on him.” You chew on your bottom lip and Jiyong gets up, grabbing his car keys.

“Let’s go.”

The two of you pull out of the parking lot, a couple people have their phones out and while you know you’ll pay for it later, the only thing that matters right now is checking on Seunghyun. Even if you do still want to divorce him.

You arrive at his house, using your key and walk in to find him passed out on the floor. You look to Jiyong who shuts the door behind him and helps you pick him up.

“Bed?”

“No, the shower, cold water should wake him up.” You two struggle to carry the rather tall man to the bathroom, but with strength and determination, you get it done. You turn the shower on, ice cold water pelting Seunghyun’s skin. He shakes his head before raising up, discombobulated and confused.

“What the, turn that shit off, fuck it’s freezing!” He yells and tries to stand up, Jiyong helping him as you turn the water off.

He gets his senses about him, his eyes widening when he realizes you’re actually there.

He goes silent.

Embarrassed.

Ashamed.

Clueless really.

“I’m fine,” he says as he looks down at his now soaked pj’s.

“No, you aren’t, you called me drunk then something broke and I was worried about you, and,” You stop as you realize you let the quiet part leak out.

Jiyong was right, you do care.

“Fuck me,” you scoff at yourself in disbelief. You walk out of the bathroom as the realization hits you. Even after all the bullshit. You still care.

“I’m going to grab you some clothes,” Jiyong pats his friend on the back. Your standing in the kitchen when Jiyong pops his head in.

“You ok?” He asks before seeing your frustrated look.

“Damn it, Ji.” You giggle humorlessly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even be here.” You shake your head.

“Y/n, have you stopped to notice who isn’t?” Jiyong trails off. He reaches out his hand, and you lace your fingers together. He walks you into the only bedroom downstairs to get Seunghyun’s clothes.

You look around and Jiyong motions to the room.

“Really look.” You begin to do so, not sure what it is at first, but it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Hae isn’t here,” you whisper.

“No clothes, no shoes, no perfumes, nothing.” He adds as he picks out a shirt and sweats.

“It’s like she was never here,�� he muses.

“And yet she was because I could hear them almost every night I was.” Jiyong purses his lips, knowing you have a point. Seunghyun changes as you and Jiyong wait on the couch. He walks out slowly, still a little buzzed from the wine. He looks down at the two of you before a plastic smile stretches across his face.

“You don’t need to be here, I’m fine,” he says as he walks to the kitchen to get another bottle of wine.

You get up to meet him at the island. You notice he’s sweeping up the broken glass.

“Careful,” he says noting your now bare feet. He gently pushes you back, his hands sending a spark through your body. Your breath hitches at the feeling.

Damn it.

You watch as he finishes up one last sweep.

“You are completely infuriating.” You mumble as you look up at him.

“What?”

“I should fucking hate you, I shouldn’t even care and yet here I am, concerned about you after the day I’ve had. Not to sound selfish, but it should be about me and my feelings. Not you and your fucking problems. Not about us and our shit.” You take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down.

“You’re right, I never should’ve called.” He says.

“I’m sorry.”

“You really shouldn’t of,” you grumble, “But I’m glad you’re ok.” He purses his lips, not meeting your eye contact.

“I’m going to give you guys some time to talk,” Jiyong rubs the back of his neck.

“She doesn’t want to talk to me, so you guys can go back to your hotel room. I’m sorry I bothered you.” Seunghyun grabs the bottle off the table and steps off into his room.

“Jiyong,” you say before he presses a sweet, passionate kiss to your lips.

“Go, I’ll pick you up whenever you’re ready.” He smiles.

“How are you ok with this?”

“Now’s not the time. We’ll talk too, ok?” He hugs you tight. Your arms wrap around his neck, not having him with you is like losing a safety blanket. You’re exposed. Vulnerable. Raw.

You say goodbye before going to knock on Seunghyun’s door.

“Can I come in?” you ask through the door.

“Sure,” you hear him say. You slowly creep the door open, he’s laying on the bed, legs sprawled, sweatpants hanging low on his hips and no t shirt. The tv is on and a bed side lamp casts a faint golden glow to the room. While his eyes are on the TV, he’s not really paying attention, he barely hears it over the hammering in his chest.

You slowly pad over to the bed, hesitating to see what he’ll do.

Nothing.

He feels the mattress dip and casts his gaze to you. Neither of you talk at first, silence settling between you; the one thing you know like the back of your hand.

You finally get the courage up to speak.

“Where’s Hae,” You don’t look at each other only at the tv.

“I dunno,” he says before taking a sip of wine.

“You want some?” he offers you the glass and you don’t hesitate.

“Please,” you say as you take it from his hand. The liquid goes down smooth, it’s not too sweet, not too bitter. Just right. You look over noticing the bottle.

T Spot.

“This a new one?” you ask raising the glass a little.

“Yeah, we haven’t put it out yet,” he still won’t meet your gaze. You finish the small amount left in the glass before turning your body to face him.

He mimics your actions. Both of you just take a moment to look at each other.

“How are you?” he asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper. You purse your lips.

“Overwhelmed. Confused. Hurt.” You raise your brows as your eyes flit to the wall behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He wants to move toward you, hold you, but he doesn’t. He stays still.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles. You look at him, studying his nervous demeanor.

“What the hell happened today? The reporters, fans? What was that?”

“I have no idea. Y/n, I swear I didn’t tell anyone but my team and they knew not to call anyone.” He takes your hands in his, his eyes communicating sincerity.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. Regardless of what we were going through I wouldn’t call them and betray you that way.”

“Then how did they know? The only people who knew were you, Ji, Yongbae, Daesung and your team.”

That’s when it hits you.

“I guess I have your sister to thank for dying. She’s giving me my man back.”

You gasp.

“Hae,” you whisper. Seunghyun’s eyes go wide as he remembers telling her everything that first night.

“She even came and rubbed it in my face! Told me that this was your way out, that the company could use this and the two of you would be together, oh my gosh how did I not see this!” You smack your hand to your forehead.

“Wait, she said that to you? Why didn’t you tell me?” You avoid his gaze.

“I thought she was right.”

“When was this?”

“The night before we went to look at caskets.” Seunghyun sighs.

“Y/n you should’ve told me she talked to you. I would’ve at least tried to straighten it out.” His hand tentatively comes up to cup your cheek. You don’t lean into it, but you don’t lean away.

“Did you ever feel anything for her?”

“No, she was fun, a good stress reliver, but nothing more than that. I swear.” His voice is steady, but pleading with you to believe him.

“I swear to you, I don’t want her.”

“What do you want?”

“What I wanted that night I had enough liquid courage to say it.”

You look between his eyes.

“You.” He whispers. He tests you, his hands tugging on your arms to pull you into his lap.

“I won’t let her hurt you ever again. I swear it. Baby if I had known,” he sighs.

“Baby?” you question.

“Is that ok?”

“I don’t know.”

He nods in response and his hands rest on your sides as you look at each other.

“I still want us to have a chance,” he whispers after a beat of silence. You close your eyes, resting your forehead against his.

“I still care about you,” you admit, brushing your nose against his.

“Those things you said about me,”

“Jagi, I was in a bad place, I didn’t give you a fair shot. You aren’t a pain in my ass, you aren’t annoying, and at the time both of us were in this to use each other.”

“What changed your mind,” your breath hits his lips and he shutters.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t a thing where one moment I hated you and the next I didn’t. It was gradual, but I had a hard time believing it. Because I knew you deserved better than me.” His hands are cupping your face, his thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks.

“That night I heard you, in the bathroom at the airbnb,” he begins and you blush, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but I knew you hated me and I wouldn’t force it. I was cold because you deserved better. So, when the time came and I had to let you go, you could move on and I could let you go as easily as possible.” He takes a breath; your eyes are closed as you listen to him.

“But then you kept trying.” He laughs to himself with a soft smile.

“That jacket, the letter from a fan,” he smiles nostalgically, “You didn’t have to do that. And I realized that no matter how cold I was, you were willing to try. And I knew you were good for me, not just my image, but me as a person. Y/n I’m better with you in so many ways. I perform better when I know you’re watching me, I think better when you’re around. I’m a better person. Because you make me want to be one. Somone you can be proud of. Someone you can be happy, elated, to be seen with in public. I know it’s not been easy but I swear to you I’m trying.” He exhales shakily as the words settle between you.

“Hae is gone? She isn’t coming back?” Your voice cracks slightly.

“Hae who?” he asks playfully, trying to lighten the mood. Before any other thought can enter your head, your lips crash to his, deep and slow at first, testing the waters. Seunghyun’s fingers contract against your plush hips. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as your mouth opens, allowing his tongue to explore.

Soft moans are swallowed between you; your hands tangle in his dark locks as he pulls your body flush against his.

“I want you,” you breathe against him, heat rushing your body. His hands go to the hem of your shirt as your hips grind down against him. He groans into your mouth and slowly raises it. You break away, taking a moment to catch your breath as he removes your shirt, your breast displayed before him bare.

He kisses your lips again, hands running up and down your sides. He moves his lips to your jaw line, peppering open mouthed kisses to it as he works his way down your neck, nipping and biting. His tongue flicks out, licking a stripe up your neck. A soft whimper spills out from your throat. His hands are slightly rough against your skin as they explore every inch of your nude top half. His thumbs brush over your hard buds, a small gasp leaves your lips as he brushes them.

“Feel good?” His voice is low, slightly teasing.

“Mhm,” is all you can say as he does it again, your head sloping back. His mouth connects with your left bud, swirling his tongue around it. Another moan escapes your lips as you force your head back up to look down at him. His eyes are closed, not a single thought in his head except for one.

To please you.

Your nails lightly scratch his scalp.

“Mmf, so good,” you pant as your hips grind down onto his already hard cock. You blush slightly.

“Getting me off making you hard, baby?” You whisper to him and he groans against you. His mouth releases you before giving the same treatment to the other side.

“Fuck you’re gonna feel so good inside me,” you moan. His hips buck upwards causing you to smile.

“Someone’s eager,” you tease before he’s pushing you backwards, your head close to the end of his bed. He kisses down your sternum, tongue coming out to lick as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your skin. You watch as he descends lower to your sleep pants. He peppers kisses like he’s worshipping your body just above your waist band.

His eyes flit to yours, silently asking permission and you nod, your lower lip drawn between your teeth. He slips them off easily as you lift your hips up. He kisses up your leg, taking his time, savoring the moment as you watch.

He settles between your legs, thighs being praised by his lips and tongue, low moans falling from his lips. You can feel the pulse in your core, wet, warm and needy. You can feel it pulsate at the anticipation.

He spreads your folds with his index and middle finger, tongue lightly lapping up some of your arousal. Your eyes flutter closed before you feel him hook his arms around your thighs, bending them back just enough to open your core up to him.

“Fuck you’re so pretty,” he groans before his tongue licks a stripe up your dripping cunt.

“Fuck,” you breathe out. His tongue dances around your clit, like a man who knows exactly how to get you off; as if he’s known your body his whole life. His tongue swirls, licks, and flicks over your bundle of nerves causing your hips to buck against his face.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe out. Your heart starts to beat faster, heat flashing to your body.

Seunghyun’s hips rut into the bed, the friction causing him to growl, sending little vibrations into your core. Whimpers fall from your lips left and right as his tongue continues to circle your bud.

“Fuck, I need you,” you moan out. Seunghyun’s too far gone to give you just one release. He tests your tight hole with one finger, quickly adding a second, curling them up to hit that sweet spot that makes your toes curl and body go rigid with pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp out as your hips start to roll with his thrusts and Seunghyun takes that as a challenge to finger you faster.

You’re a writhing mess beneath him and he loves every single bit of it. He watches your body as it arches off the bed, the sight alone should be photographed and hung in his bedroom. He feels your gummy walls clamp around his fingers more and more.

“I’m close,” you groan as he hits it harder, with only a few more pumps your walls clench his fingers and your muscles go stiff, back arching once more as he pumps his fingers slowly, helping you ride out the release he’s been dreaming of giving you.

He watches as your body lowers itself back onto the mattress, your chest heaving up and down.

“Fuck that was amazing,” you breathe out, the ceiling being your only focal point. Seunghyun drags his fingers out of you slowly, his lips kiss your clit softly, causing your legs to slightly shake.

He kisses your pelvis and your stomach, kissing his way up to your lips. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, allowing you to taste what he did and you moan.

“Lay back,” you mumble against his lips. He climbs off you, resting his back against the pillows lining the headboard.

You straddle his waist, kissing his lips first, moving down to his jaw, grazing your teeth against it, causing him to chuckle at your teasing.

Your lips move to leave an open-mouthed kiss just blow his ear, a low moan leaving his throat. He can feel you smirk against his skin.

You continue your assault on his body, kissing down his chest, tongue brushing over each nipple as he hisses at the pleasure. You kiss down his navel, his happy trail meeting your lips as your fingers hook into his sweat pants and boxer. He lifts his hips up, allowing you to pull them down. You watch as he springs free, hard and leaking.

You lick your lip subconsciously.

“Come on, baby, it doesn’t bite.”

“But I do,” you tease as you wrap your fingers around the warm flesh. You teasingly place a kiss to the head. Your run your lips down the side, looking up at Seunghyun who gulps when your eyes meet. His mouth falls open slightly at the feeling of your wide, wet tongue ghosting over the underside of it.

“Fuck,” he breathes. You smirk to yourself, licking a fat wet stripe up him before smiling innocently, slowly pumping your hand on his cock.

“You fucking tease,” he hisses as his head hits the headboard of the bed.

“You want me to stop?” You ask innocently as your hang unwraps itself from around him.

His eyes fly open and he shoots you an apologetic look.

“Or maybe, maybe I should edge you. Make you work for it,” you smirk just before wrapping your lips around his head, tongue swirling causing him to grab the sheets beneath him.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps as your head lowers. Its deep, from the back of his throat. Your head bobs up and down, slowly but surely making sure to take all of him in, your nose hitting his pelvic bone, a slight choke can be heard as you force yourself down.

Seunghyun feels his own heart rate increase, flashes of heat spring to his body. His hips lift off the bed, a bit of a surprise before you force them down with your hands.

“Fuck, y/n,” the way he says your name has a pulse returning to your core, causing you to rub your thighs together. But it’s not enough, as you pick up the pace with your you mouth, hallowing out your cheeks, you reach down and touch yourself, causing a moan to erupt, thus pulling Seunghyun’s hips up once again from the bed.

He opens his eyes to see yours closed and an arm visibly molded down the center of your body.

“Fuck,” he whimpers out at the sight. You’re too lost in your own pleasure to care or look up.

“Come here,” he pants and you open your eyes. He pulls you to him, kissing your lips rough, teeth, tongue and lips all at once, it’s a wonder no one lost the tip of their tongue.

“Fuck yourself on my cock,” he pants and you position your hips. He helps you sink down, your mouth falling open as you gasp at the full feeling, the stretch hurting in such a good way. Your head falls to his shoulder for a moment while you adjust to his size. He strokes your hair lovingly before he feels your hips begin to rock and he smiles kissing the side of your head.

Small whimpers are poured into the crook of his neck as your body responds quickly, walls beginning to clench around him. You pepper kisses to the base of his neck, sweat lacing his skin.

“Fuck,” you let out a broken whimper as your hips begin to move faster.

“Let me help you,” he whispers before holding your hips up, his feet splaying out in front of him and his hips thrusting upwards.

Your mouth hangs open even further as your brows knit together.

“Fuck,” you drag out as your voice bounces from the velocity of his thrusts. Seunghyun grunts as both of you feel the coil in your stomach beginning to heat up.

“Oh god,” you rest your forehead against his as your breathing turns into panting, both of you feeling the euphoria on its brink.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper as your eyes shut.

“Hold it, just another second,” he grunts again as his hips move incredibly faster, skin slapping skin as he hits your sweet spot as hard as he can every time, causing pleasure to override your senses, the only thing you can feel is the white-hot intensity of your orgasm building. Seunghyun can feel it in the way you clamp down on him.

“Fuck, cum for me,” he moans out, and with another thrust your orgasm bursts. Your body shakes, your toes curl and your eyes are screwed so tight they hurt. Your mouth hangs open as the over whelming pleasure rides in, forcing you to go rigid at how powerful it is. Within seconds Seunghyun’s own orgasm is following, filling you up with his own seed. His body goes still, holding you up as you take every last drop of it.

Both of you pant, foreheads resting together as your body are held together as one. Covered in sweat, raw emotion visible.

“I love you,” he whispers as he looks into your eyes.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, both of you finally admitting it to yourselves.

Tags: @breakmeoff @ilovethe141 @tom-hollands-blog @tabibabib @gdgirl21 @thelovelybireader @hyunjifilm @bcfcpsh @patheticgirl127 @1950schick @sayugarper

Please do not repost my work

Covenant Masterlist

Love notes, comments and requests are truly appreciated!

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panerasbox · 2 days ago

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—COVERED IN YOU; 2 Days To Go

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader.

Genre: angst, smut

Word count: 1,065

content warnings: infidelity, smut, toxic relationship dynamics

summary: Melissa Schemmenti kisses like she fights—hard, hungry, and a little mean. What starts as stolen moments turns into a messy, all-consuming affair neither of you can quit, no matter who gets hurt.

30 DAYS OF MELISSA SCHEMMENTI MASTERLIST

Melissa Schemmenti kisses like she fights: hard, hungry, and just a little mean.

The first time it happens for real, not some passing brush of lips, not one of those should’ve-been-nothing moments in the dark—it’s on a Tuesday, in the back hallway behind the gym. She corners you like it’s instinct. Like her body decides before her brain can catch up.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she mutters, fisting your shirt, eyes flashing emerald under the emergency light’s slow flicker. Her voice is rough, like shouted too loud, or maybe it’s just the sound of restraint cracking.

“You have a boyfriend,” you shoot back, even as your back hits the wall. Even as your lips part, already betraying you.

“Yeah,” she growls, inches from your mouth, “and he doesn’t kiss me like this.”

And then she shows you.

The kiss is a collision—teeth knocking, breath mingling, hands wild. She tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum and something deeper, something sharp. She’s all over you, clutching like a lifeline, like she’s scared she’ll break the moment if she stops. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to. Not now. Not after all those lingering glances, the close-lipped smiles, the shoulder brushes that stayed longer than they should’ve.

You kiss her back like you’ve been waiting for it since the second week of school. Like the way she says your name when she’s pissed off has been living in your dreams for months.

The second time, it’s in her car after school. Cold rain sheets down the windshield, the heater blasting stale warmth into the silence. Your hand drifts to her thigh, half in curiosity, half in need, and she doesn’t stop you. Instead, she leans back against the seat, her breath catching as your fingers curl just slightly.

She moans your name like it’s a confession. Like it’s the only thing in her chest she knows to be true.

“I can’t stay long,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “He’s taking me out tonight.”

You pull back just an inch. “You’re going with him after this?”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t care. But you do.

Melissa doesn’t lie. Her eyes lock on yours, open, unflinching. “Yeah.”

You nod like that doesn’t split something inside you. “Right.”

But she doesn’t leave. Not right away. Instead, she leans in again, slower this time. She kisses you like she’s memorizing you. Like she’s scared she won’t get another chance.

Your hand slips beneath the waist of her pants. She’s wet already, warm and aching under your touch. Her head drops to your shoulder as she whispers, “I can’t stop. Even if I wanted to.”

You think that should scare you.

It doesn’t.

By the time winter break rolls around, you’re already lost.

You’ve had her bent over her desk, biting your shoulder to keep quiet. You’ve stripped her bare in your apartment, made her cum with your mouth, your hands, your name echoing off the walls like a hymn. You’ve snuck kisses in the janitor’s closet, touched her under the table during staff meetings, watched her come undone in a bar bathroom with your hand between her thighs.

You know her. Intimately. Brutally.

You know how she sounds when she’s close, how she breathes your name like a dare. You know how she stares at her phone after she gets dressed, thumb hovering over his name like maybe she’s thinking of telling him. (She never does.)

You’ve met Captain Robinson. At a fundraiser. He’s tall. Smiles easy. Melissa calls him “baby” and kisses his cheek like she didn’t ride your thigh in her classroom an hour before.

It makes you want to scream. Or cry. Or tear the whole world down around her just to see if she’d choose you from the rubble.

But then she texts you that night, “I miss you.”

And you answer.

“Come over.”

She always does.

Every. Single. Time.

Melissa shows up at your door at 11:42 p.m., soaked through from the rain, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyeliner smudged. She looks like sin in a leather jacket and thigh-high boots, eyes blown wide with need.

“I told him I was meeting Barb to go over work stuff,” she says, voice hoarse, half-laughing like it’s a game. Like it’s not eating her alive.

You yank her inside.

The second the door clicks shut, she’s on you. Her hands are frantic, greedy. Lips hungry. You stumble backward, slamming into the wall, her mouth still fused to yours. She’s biting now, a growl in her throat as she palms your chest and shoves your shirt up like it’s in the way. Like everything is.

“You shouldn’t want me like this,” you manage, breathless, as she licks a stripe down your neck.

“I shouldn’t,” she spits, voice ragged, nipping at your collarbone. “But I fucking do.”

Her skirt’s up around her waist before you even make it to the bedroom. No panties. You don’t even pretend to be surprised.

“You planned this?” you groan as she grinds her bare heat against you, already soaked.

Melissa’s laugh is wicked, low in your ear. “I’ve been wet for you since lunch period. Couldn’t even cum when he touched me last night. Not without thinking about you.”

You lose it.

You throw her onto the bed, tearing her shirt open, kissing every inch of her like it belongs to you. She arches under you, her breath catching as your mouth finds her breast, your hand between her thighs again, fingers sliding in deep.

Her voice is wrecked, ruined, when she gasps, “I’m yours. Just—fuck—don’t stop. Not tonight.”

You don’t.

She comes shaking, legs wrapped tight around your waist, nails digging into your back, her body trying to tell you what her mouth never will.

After, she’s quiet. Her breath evening out. Red hair wild across your pillow, chest still rising and falling like she ran a mile to get here. And maybe she did. Maybe every night is a sprint toward something she’ll never admit she wants.

She takes your hand. Squeezes once. Her thumb brushes yours like she means something by it.

You know what this is. You’ve always known.

It’s not love. It’s not safety.

But it is real.

Even if it’s stolen. Even if it’s already half-wrecked.

Even if the ivy’s already winding too tight around your ribs to cut away clean.

a/n: “Oh, goddamn / My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand / Taking mine, but it’s been promised to another”

the narrator of the song belongs to someone else (husband), but the person who truly understands her pain and takes her hand is this other, forbidden woman. “Promised to another” reads like a reference to compulsory heterosexuality.

i know this isn’t about wlw, but it just fits so perfectly.

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kakashiislut · 7 hours ago

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꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Starry~ Isack Hadjar OneShot

Warnings: Nothing Really.

Prompt: late night itch to talk to isack

Author: would love some requests on what to do. :)

Masterlist

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The pounding of the rain against the dark windows shook you to your core. It was pitch black outside, but the stars and occasional passing cars dimmed your room just enough through the glass. You laid on your bed, body splayed out like a puddle. Your hair wildly spread out across your pillow. Your eyes fixated on the ceiling, you couldn’t shake that feeling. That itch.

It crawled into your skin like a tick ready for a meal. Goosebumps littered your stomach and the soft strumming of the music in your ears gave you too much confidence. It’s 2:30 am dammit and you were wide awake, yet so sleepy. Reaching over, your fingers glides over your phone and you swiped it open. You’re itchy. You have an itch and it needs to be scratched. Now.

The ring back tone rang once, twice, then click. It was a soft breath, then an even softer “hello…” it wasn’t a question, not a statement, not even a greeting. It was…familiarity. “Hi.” You spoke softly back at him, the phone lazily laid across the side of your face, your AirPod crushed under your right ear. “I was…’oping you’d call” The tenderness in his accent was like a drug to you. You sighed a sigh of relief and maybe even sexual pleasure.

“Seen the stars…reminded me of you.” You whispered back, isack just laughed softly. “Didn’t think you’d be up.” And isack laughed even more at that.

“Eet’s an itch you can’t scratch… unless it’s me, non?” You almost giggled at how thick his accent became when he was sleepy, but you knew you didn’t wake him up. He was waiting, waiting for you. You tried to stay away, tried to block him on everything, including your mind and run away…but he was genuinely like a drug to you. He didn’t know why. You used to be best friends…until one day you weren’t. And it’s YOUR fault. You both know that. But isack doesn’t know why.

It started with a mistake, stole some alcohol from your parents at 17 and you guys drank. Shared a daring kiss and everything changed right then and there. Kissing was nice, then it was making out, then it became more and more. Until you guys were eating eachother whole, until your skin was stuck onto his and his onto yours. Your friendship blurred and you knew that…so one day you just…stopped.

You stopped talking to him, stopping supporting him, stopped watching the races, blocked him, deleted him. Destroyed him from your life. It wasn’t platonic anymore, it was romantic how you felt for him and that scared you.

“What made you…finally call, eh?”

“I seen the stars.”

“Ahh…ze stars…” he snorted, but in reality, he held back tears. “I missed you.” His throat bobbed nervously and he stared at the ceiling of his own room. It wasn’t dark outside like it was for you, but he wished it was. He wished he was by you.

There’s a deep silence, one that was actually uncomfortable.

“I left because I love you.”

Love..not loved. Love. It meant that there was hope, meant that there was more than just a confession. Isack closed his eyes, “you left when I started loving you too…”

You wanted to cry really, for being such a bad friend, but isack was always so nice to you. “I love you.” You spoke, and without a heart beat, he softly repeated it back to you. You’ve told eachother that you loved each other before, but this time…it simply was different.

“I love you.”

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

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thunderstar-supernova · 4 months ago

Text

Something i think about is this lady who started knocking on the gas station door nonstop for like 4 minutes while i waz taking my lunch and 10.and i interupted it bc she was stressing me out

And she looks at me and goes, like a dissapproving mother gesturing at one of the cars parked out front, "this young man has been waiting 30 minutes for you to open!"

And i. Just. Wasnt having it that day, i was tired and alone so i just deadpanned and went "i was trying to take my ten with my lunch. I'm alone so i'm not going to get my break otherwise, thanks. Come in."

She got REAL embarrassed real quick and mumbled "oh okay" and i rung them both up. The dude just didnt care but she ran out of there so fast lmao

Listen if you see a gas station is closed up for lunch cut your losses and go, you have a car most likely and theyre almost definitely alone if they have to lock the store. Actually fuck off lmfao

#its not that serious but people piss me off with that #like understand. these are never peoe who desperately need gas right now. most of those people just use the pumps taps for card right #they usually just want snacks #needs to be Right Now how dare you make me wait #treat cashiers as people please im just hungry

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talaok · 28 days ago

Text

Be the one to do it

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You've always had a crush on your neighbor Joel, and once your friend Jordan suggests you ask him to help with a little "problem" of yours, it turns out he had never been such an unattainable dream.

Warnings: basically pwp. smut| big ass unspecified age gap, virginity loss, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, kinda breeding kink and size kink, dirty talk, he talks you through it, Joel calls reader with a bunch of pet names and probably more stuff but i need to go to sleep.

a/n: this is the farthest it can get from original. you've probably read 10 other fics with the same premise but i just wanted to write some sweet and filthy virginity loss sue me

"I can barely get a sentence out around him and you think I'm gonna ask him to have sex!?"

"well yeah" Jordan laughed "It makes sense"

Your friend was looking at you like she'd just suggested getting ice cream, while what had really just come out of her mouth was really, exponentially different.

"you're out of your mind if you think-"

"just shut up" she interrupted, rolling her eyes "It would be a fucking walk in the park"

Your eyes widened exaggeratedly at that.

Did she have any idea about what she was suggesting?

The last time you'd interacted with Joel Miller all he had to do was ask how summer break was going for your face to get as hot as the sun and for you to end up muttering some nonsense and running away.

"He'd never say yes"

Again, Jordan's eyes rolled back.

"Y/n listen I love you but sometimes you can be real fucking dumb," she said, fighting a smile "The guy probably hasn't gotten laid in years!" she huffed a laugh "And with you? With a hot young piece of ass like you!? No guy on the planet would say no"

"You-you're just saying that... and you don't know him"

"I know men"

__ __ __

You didn't even remember how you'd gotten there, all you knew was that Joel Miller was right in front of you, opening the door to his fucking house.

"Hi"

Your face was already getting warm and your voice was just an inch above unhearable.

"Hi darlin'" he greeted you, smiling with that slow, easy smile that made you want to cry every single time.

How could a human being be so hot?

"Come on in" he nodded behind him "What's goin' on?"

Now here was the problem. You had no plan whatsoever, and this was setting itself up to be a complete shitshow.

"I..."

You weren't even meeting his eyes, you could see him trying to catch a glimpse of your gaze but you couldn't do it- to be quite frank you were already starting to panic... and to regret your decision.

"you want something to drink?"

You looked up at him, your mouth slightly open as your words died on your tongue.

Jesus, he was handsome.

You hadn't gotten the chance to really look at him before, but now there he was in all his glory… huge strong muscles fighting against his shirt and all.

"c'mon, I'll get ya some water"

You didn't miss the smirk on his lips as he caught you ogling his arms.

Definitely not off to a good start.

He handed you a glass of water, and you took it, willing your hands not to shake.

The golden light of the afternoon sun seeped through the curtains of his kitchen windows, illuminating the space with a calmness that completely contrasted with your state.

"boy problems?"

You almost flinched at the sound of his voice.

"gotta beat somebody up?"

He must have thought you were dumb with the way you were staring at him all wide-eyed, not daring to speak a word.

You needed to think of something, preferably right now.

"n-no, nothing like that” you shook your head, forcing a smile.

A beat of silence passed before you decided to take back already what you’d said.

“well actually sorta"

He frowned, shifting his stance from one foot to the other.

He was waiting for you to expand on your words, but the birds chirping on the nearby trees were the only sound in the room.

"you can talk to me doll, I ain't gonna bite"

You could feel your cheeks get hot.

Jesus it's like everything he did was scandalously sexy- every time he spoke with that sweet drawl of his, every pet name he used for you... he could have peeled his clothes off slowly as he gave you a lap dance and the effect on you would be the exact same.

"Well I just..." you started "I've got a... problem"

He looked even more confused.

Were you about to tell him you're pregnant? No that would be impossible, he'd never seen you with any guy around here... but maybe at college.

For some reason, the thought of you with another guy... with a boy... didn't sit right with him.

Actually, he knew the reason, throughout the summer he'd caught himself staring a little too long at you more times than he'd like to admit- it was like all of a sudden you had grown, and the sweet little kid living next to him was now suddenly a gorgeous woman. He didn't really know what to do with that information, with the inappropriate feelings and urgings weighing in his gut every time his gaze fell upon you and you squirmed embarrassed like a shy little thing.

"alright..." he urged you to go on.

"Sarah's not home right?"

His brows drew closer together as he frowned.

Why would you ask that?

"She's at a friend's"

You nodded, suddenly looking more resolute, even if the way your teeth tortured your poor bottom lip was enough of a tell of how nervous you were.

You had decided. Jordan was right. There was no harm in trying, and if it didn't go right you'd just avoid him for the rest of your life.

"I'm a virgin Joel"

You saw his eyes widen before your own words had even registered.

"O-oh"

That's all he could stutter. I mean what was he supposed to say? That seconds before he thought you were about to tell him you were pregnant? That he could not understand how someone as beautiful as you, with the billion contenders he was sure you had, still had not found a single one to have sex with?

"And I... well the thing is that I don't want to be anymore"

He tried to get back to how cool and collected he was before- you were here to talk to him after all, the least he could do was be as helpful as possible.

"right" he cleared his throat "you want some advice on how to navigate this thing?"

The silence and the look on your face told him quite the opposite.

What were you here for then?

"No- I- the thing is that... I was wondering if maybe you'd agree to-" you bit your cheek as you finally spat it out "to be the one to do it"

Joel was sure his heart had stopped.

"babygirl-" The words had barely left your mouth and he was already stopping you.

You felt tears prick your eyes... you knew that tone.

"I'm sorry it was a stupid-"

Goddamn you Jordan.

You were already planning to run out the door when he spoke.

"darlin' I'm pushing forty here"

That's not what you expected him to say. He wasn't disgusted, or amused, or angry...

"yes but-" You tried to speak but he was talking over you again.

"you're twenty... you ain't even old enough to buy a six-pack, I-I- that ain't something you're supposed to do with me"

Joel would have never admitted it, but he was saying those things mostly to himself- to desperately fight the instinct that took over him the moment you explained the reason you were at his house... the instinct to take you up the stairs and fuck you so good no one else would ever compare.

"b-but it's what I want"

You weren't giving up. You didn't know what, but there was something about the way he was going about it that told you there was still a sliver of a chance.

Only there was a lot more than a sliver... and the way you were looking up at him with those desperate doe eyes was upping your chance as you spoke.

"I trust you, Joel," you said "You're the only man that I know that I would trust with this"

He sighed, shaking his head "If your dad found out- Jesus I wouldn't live to see another day darlin'"

Your hand found his chest, strong and solid as rock beneath your palm.

"I won't tell" you murmured, your words verging on pleas "I-I won't tell anyone Joel I promise" you swore, looking up at him as his own eyes bore into yours.

"You're the only one I want to do this with... the only one I trust"

You could see the resolution, the fight, leave his face.

How the hell was he supposed to say no?

Christ, not even a priest would have that amount of self-control.

"fuck sweetheart" he shook his head before looking up, a long breath leaving his throat "You're gonna get me killed"

You didn't even try to hide your excitement.

Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you asked "Is- is that a yes?"

His eyes- his beautiful, big, hazel eyes were back on you.

"'f course it is"

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt.

It was really happening.

You were gonna lose your virginity to Joel fucking Miller.

"A-are we gonna do it now?" you asked, almost breathless with joy "I-I mean only if you feel like it of course"

"If I feel like it..." Joel couldn't help but laugh "You really have no idea do ya?"

Your mouth parted in confusion.

Did you say something wrong already?

"About what?"

A beat passed as he stared down at you, almost amused.

"About whatcha do to me, sugar"

__ __ __

The door to his bedroom closed with a soft click, and all of a sudden, you were the only two people on earth.

His eyes didn't leave you for even a second, and although you felt very much on the spot, you liked his gaze on you.

"If you change your mind at any point darlin'," he said, walking closer to you until his right hand could gently move some hair out of your face "You tell me, and I'll stop, ok?"

"mh-mh" you nodded, although you were more than sure no changing of mind would happen... God, you didn't even know how long you'd dreamed of this.

"Don't gimme that doll, use your words" he corrected you, his thumb drawing circles on your cheek "Later too"

"O-ok, yes, I-I understand"

He smiled, amused.

"there's no need to be nervous sugar, we'll go real slow ok?"

"y-yes"

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"what can I do to make it better?"

You had an immediate answer in mind. The only thing you had been able to think about since he got this close.

"Can... could you kiss me?"

Jesus H. Christ.

Joel had to fight the urge to laugh. He'd drop to his knees and lick every inch of you if you asked, and you were wondering if he could kiss you...

"I can do whatever you want, babydoll" he murmured, as he slowly leaned closer.

You placed your hands on his big strong chest as you raised yourself on your tiptoes, and before you knew it... his lips were on yours.

You were holding your breath as the sound of your beating heart pounded in your ears.

This was really happening- this was real-

But before you had time to take it all in, the sweet feeling of Joel's lips on yours, of his beard, his nose, his hands, it was like something switched, a knob turned in his brain, and Joel wasn't kissing you anymore- no, he was devouring you.

He'd tried to go as soft and slow as he could but the moment you let out a little whimper... it was like he got possessed.

The hand on the back of your neck forced you impossibly closer as the one on your waist tightened enough to bruise, and he was... his tongue was desperately savoring every inch of your perfect mouth, swallowing all your pretty sounds.

His lungs screamed for relief but breathing was the last thing on his mind.

He'd never kissed like this.

Your panties were soaked once he finally pulled away.

He was about to apologize for losing control, but by the way you were looking at him, there was nothing to be sorry about.

"I'm gonna take off your clothes now doll, ok?"

You nodded, your breathing ragged, your cheeks on fire.

With just one kiss, he'd rendered your mind an empty mess. You doubted you could remember your address at the moment.

"What did I say 'bout usin' your words?" He murmured, his thumb tracing the shape of your swollen mouth.

"Sorry," you whimpered weakly.

He wouldn't have heard you if he had been but an inch away.

"Y-yes, you can take my clothes off"

He smiled at that, leaving another soft kiss on your lips before both his hands reached underneath your shirt.

His big, warm hands detoured to caress your sides, leaving shivers in their wake, before he brought your top up until he slid it off.

His eyes fell on your tits, still covered by your bra, and he looked up at you to check if you were alright before oh so slowly undoing the clasp and letting the garment fall to the floor.

He had to stifle the groan climbing up his throat because Jesus, he wanted nothing more than to take each of your perfect fucking nipples in his mouth and suck until begged him for more...

but he didn't, he let his self-control win this time as he reached for the waistband of your shorts.

He watched like a hawk every inch of skin that he uncovered until the shorts pulled at your feet and you stepped out of them together with your sandals.

Your breathing still hadn't gotten back to normal, and every fucking inch of your skin was on fire, burning with the intensity of his gaze.

He didn't say anything as his fingers slid past the waistband of your panties and with a quick movement pulled them down, leaving you completely bare.

Not able to stop himself, he groaned this time, his hands taking a tour of your body from your collarbones, to the valley between your breasts, to your belly, until his thumbs were but an inch from where you were burning with desire for him. But he didn't touch you there, no, his hands reached your waist as he stared at you 'cause god bless his heart, but he couldn't stop looking.

He liked his lips, as if he was hungry- starving- and you let out a small whimper, realizing you had held your breath all this time.

"You're... perfect babygirl"

You prayed he wouldn't judge you when he saw the mess that had become of between your thighs.

He can't say stuff like that and expect me not to melt.

His eyes were finally back on you, and the pure lust in them almost made you gasp.

He looked like a completely different man.

"Sit on the bed"

Your brain took a second too long to register his words.

I mean it's not every day you're naked in front of Joel Miller.

Joel's old mattress creaked as you sat on it, and you stayed there, diligently frozen in your spot as he took his sweet time to come closer.

He wanted to preserve the image of you sitting on his bed, naked, waiting, looking like a damn dream, in his brain for all the lonely nights of the rest of his life.

He stood there, towering over you, looking down at you as you looked up at him, and you felt even smaller.

You were about to speak, to beg him to please do anything, touch you in any way, put you out of your misery, when he crouched down, his eyes now level with yours.

His hands found your thighs and another whimper escaped your chest.

"Spread your legs f'me, doll"

And so you did, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Good girl"

This time, it wasn't a whimper that fled your mouth, but a small little moan.

Fuck

Heat rose to your face again and you looked away, embarrassed.

Of course, you liked to be told you're a good girl.

"None of that" Joel tsked, his right pointer forcing you to look back at him "Eyes on me"

You were so turned on you wanted to cry. But you didn't, you nodded, and just like that... Joel was leaning closer and his mouth... oh god his mouth had found your neck.

You gripped the sheets as your whole body started going on fire- as his mouth left hungry wet kisses under your ear, on your pulse, on your collarbones, on your tits, and when his lips wrapped around your right nipple... when his tongue toyed with your hard bud you swore you saw heaven.

Soft little moans started spilling from your mouth as he sucked and sucked and sucked, his hands going to support your boobs, pushing them together as his mouth went from one to the other again and again until you didn't even remember what it meant to breathe like a normal person.

It felt so good.

Who knew it would feel so fucking good?

Joel only stopped when your nipples were swollen and utterly drenched with his saliva, and you were about to protest when you felt his mouth traveling south...

"Joel" you whispered.

He looked up at you with that sexy fucking smirk on his face, not stopping the trail of kisses down your belly.

"Yes, doll?"

"What are you-" your sentence was interrupted by a gasp when his lips found your mound "W-what are you doing?"

His smirk only widened as his mouth dived lower.

"I'm gonna lick your pussy now darlin'" his low and lustful voice was enough to make you orgasm alone.

You could only blink, and then swallow, and then open your mouth... just for no words to come out.

Joel chuckled before kissing your inner thigh, sending a shock of pleasure to your core.

"'s that ok with ya?"

"Yes," you heard yourself blurt out before you even knew it, which made him laugh, a soft, vibrating laugh that fanned your core and rendered you all the more desperate.

"That's good to hear" he grinned, his mouth lowering until he was kissing your lips... your other lips.

Oh Jesus Christ

You spread your legs wider to accommodate him and he hummed in approval, taking them in his hands and forcing them on his shoulders.

Oh sweet Mother of Christ

He granted himself one look at your perfect, beautiful fucking pussy, before his eyes were back on you, and his tongue darted out without warning and licked your whole core like an ice cream cone.

"Oh"

Your hips spasmed for a second but before you had time to feel embarrassed, his tongue was back in action, only this time he was eating you as if he were starving.

He groaned in pleasure at your taste as his tongue explored every inch of you he could physically reach. His nose was rubbing against your clit and his beard felt so nice against your skin and oh god if you thought you'd seen heaven before you were wrong because the moment his lips wrapped against your bud angels opened up the pearly gates for you.

"Oh my god" you cried, your left hand getting a mind of its own and grabbing Joel's soft hair "Oh my fucking- Oh wow"

This was nothing like what you'd experienced before- nothing your own fingers had ever produced, this was... so so good.

"You taste so fucking sweet sugar" he groaned into you, sending another wave of pleasure through you "y've got such a perfect lil pussy babygirl" he continued in between lapping at your core "wish I could have it for breakfast every day"

You could only moan in response, and you could feel his smile on your skin as he watched the effect he was having on you.

Goddamn, you looked like an angel biting your lip as you moaned for him, your face flushed, your hand in his hair... this was the best decision he ever made- who gave a fuck if your dad put him in the ground, at least he got to see this.

"Gonna come for me doll?" he teased once he heard your cries get louder and your grip on his hair tighten "Gonna let me taste all your sweet juices like a good girl?"

Those words, once again, had their effect because in no time your hips were grinding onto him and breathless gasps were forcing their way out your throat as the best orgasm of your life shuttered through you,

"Just like that" he praised you as you rode the high "thatta girl- give it to me baby"

You were only partially aware of where you found yourself as you came down from the orgasm.

you were breathing heavily, your eyes closed as Joel made his way up your body, his lips pecking every inch of it until he finally kissed your mouth.

"You ok darlin'?"

Your eyes opened at once, the dreamiest look in them,

"I'm great" you grinned, making him smile before he kissed you again, slowly this time, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He only pulled away when you whined, your hands gripping his arms desperately as your body begged for more.

He sat up on the bed against the headboard, and it was then you finally realized he was still fully clothed...

You were naked from head to toe and he was still dressed... you had no idea why but that made you even hornier, which is why you hastily sat up.

"A- are we gonna do it now?"

He huffed out a laugh as his hand invited you closer.

"not quite yet sugar," he cooed as he guided you to sit on his lap, your back against his chest and your ass against... oh wow.

You could very much feel through his jeans the print of what felt like his huge cock right against your backside.

You couldn't help it, you shifted your butt, not so subtly grinding against him, and when his only response was to grab your waist, you couldn't help but do it again... and again, until you not only heard, but felt a groan rise up his chest.

"babygirl..." he murmured against your ear, making you shiver "You might wanna stop that"

You bit your lip, doing it again "Why?"

He inhaled sharply, his grip tightening "'cause baby, if you keep on goin' I'm gonna come, and you ain't gonna get what you came all this way for"

That made you want to stop and keep going at the same time.

The thought of Joel Miller coming because of you doing what you were doing...

"Don't ya even think about it sugar" He anticipated your actions as if he'd read your mind. You felt him smirk as he kissed you right under your ear.

To that you surrendered, stopping your movements at once.

He hummed, satisfied, inhaling your scent as his right hand slowly moved down your belly.

You held your breath as his fingers found your clit and his mouth your neck.

You couldn't see Joel from this position, but you didn't need to, you could feel him.

His ring and middle finger started circling your clit in a slow and precise motion and moans were already spilling from your lips.

"Joel" you breathed.

"'m right here" he promised, his voice husky, clouded by his lust.

His fingers continued their torturous path until he found your hole.

You could only gasp as his fingers dived inside of you.

Oh god.

"You ever done this to yourself doll?" he asked, his fingers thrusting in and out of you lazily.

You could both hear how unbelievably drenched you were, but that was the very last thing on your mind... what seized your attention at the moment were the sparks of pleasure Joel was igniting in your core.

"mh?" he hummed once you didn't answer, still kissing your neck.

"I-I did" you swallowed, your words interrupted by yet another cry when his fingers curled, sending much more than a spark of pleasure to your brain "Like... like twice"

"just twice?" Joel asked

"It just... it doesn't feel good"

His movements continued, making your breathing get more and more uneven.

"How does it feel now?" he accentuated his words by making whatever gesture he made that had your walls tightening around his fingers.

"G-good"

"Now that ain't gonna do" he cooed, his fingers all of a sudden leaving your core.

"B-but-" you were about to protest turning his way, but his voice took over.

"'s alright darlin', gimme your hand"

You looked down to see his hand waiting for yours, and without even thinking you did as he asked.

He placed his palm big palm on top of your hand, engulfing it, and he guided it down your body, past your belly button, until you were right where he was seconds ago.

"use these two fingers" he instructed, showing you the ones he was talking about.

"good, now get 'em all nice and wet" he murmured, guiding them through your slick folds to do just what he'd said.

You were back at your hole and your mind had stopped working.

You were just a doll, following his every instruction, watching closely his hand move yours as your core ached with desire.

"Now slide 'em in" he whispered, his honeyed voice hypnotizing.

And so you did, you pushed your ring and middle finger inside of yourself.

Why was this so fucking hot?

"Now go in and out" his words were your command, literally.

Again, the sound of your slick pussy spread through the room as you did as he asked.

"how's that feel?"

You weren't gonna lie, not to Joel.

"It's... it's ok" you breathed "Not as good as before"

He smirked, his tongue darting out to lick your pulse as his free hand traveled higher, finding your boobs.

Well of course it felt better before his fingers were two times yours.

"curl your fingers" he ordered, his palm caressing your tits "Like this," he said, showing you exactly what he meant.

He did almost like a "come here" motion, and although skeptically, you replicated it, and well... Joel Miller knew what the fuck he was talking about cause goddamn...

You cried out at the sudden burst of pleasure.

"Again"

And so you did it again, only this time, Joel's fingers had found your left nipple, and the way they toyed with it just as you fingered yourself made the feeling triplicate.

"Keep doin' that babydoll" Joel breathed, his mouth leaving hot, wet kisses on your neck and shoulders as his fingers tweaked your pretty nipples.

"just like that" he hummed as you cried out louder and louder, as you squirmed above him, your free hand gripping his thigh to have something to hold on to.

"that's it... look so pretty like this sugar" he continued "making yourself come like a good girl..."

Jesus his cock was begging for attention... this was the hottest fucking shit he'd ever seen.

Your legs were starting to close as your orgasm approached, and your voice, calling out Joel's name, was getting more and more desperate.

"so good" he groaned, his fingers pinching your nipple without warning "Y'look so perfect when you come babygirl".

That's the last thing you heard as a tsunami of pleasure overtook your whole body.

You were pretty sure you were shaking and wailing like a madwoman, but all you could really be sure of was what happened once you finally reopened your eyes.

You felt so very spent and you hadn't even done what you came here for yet.

Joel's eyes were boring into yours, his hands caressing your sides.

"Still with me?" he asked.

"Yeah," you smiled wide once again.

You felt like you were lying on a cloud, no thoughts or worries going through your head... just pure bliss.

"You still sure about this sugar?"

You had no hesitation.

"Yeah"

He smiled, kissing your lips for a brief second before leaning away.

The moment you realized he was finally taking off his clothes you were wide awake.

You sat up just as he discarded his shirt to the floor.

Je-sus.

This wasn't the first time you'd seen Joel shirtless. It wasn't a coincidence you chose to sunbathe every time he was mowing the lawn...

Yet, the breath was still knocked out of you.

He was broad, like seriously so. He was big and although you couldn't say he had a six-pack it was plain obvious the man was strong.

You didn't think it was possible, but you were getting even wetter.

You wanted nothing more than to let your palm caress his chest, the sparse hair on his pecs, the v lowering towards his pants...

Speaking of which, a gasp fled your throat the moment he took off his jeans, and by the time his boxers were off your mouth hung open in awe... and worry.

"you're..." you had to swallow to try and get some water to your dry mouth "Joel you're-- huge"

You weren't looking at him as he laughed, but at the big scary cock against his stomach bobbing with the movement.

"how would ya know, babygirl?"

You had to force yourself to look away from his manhood, and once you did, you found his gaze again.

"I... I've watched... stuff"

A side of his mouth twitched mischievously at the confession.

"Oh yeah?" he teased "My good little girl watches porn? 's that whatcha telling me?"

Why was it hot in here all of a sudden?

"N-No I just..." heat rushed to your face as you bit your lip "I-I mean-"

He laughed, cutting you off "'s ok sugar, I won't tell"

You could only offer him a little smile because to be honest, your focus was still on the reason you'd even broached the subject.

Your eyes were back on his dick, and while yes it was a worrying size, it also sparked curiosity and need deep inside of you. Which is why you moved closer to him, kneeling on the bed so that his cock was right before you.

And holy mother of God.

"Can I..."

You didn't even need to finish the sentence.

Jesus, if he were to be honest even just seeing you in this position was getting him close to coming.

"You can do whatever you want babydoll, I told ya"

You nodded, hesitantly leaning a little closer.

"I-I've never..."

"As long as my dick is in your mouth I'll be a happy man darlin'"

You gulped, biting your lip as you tried to understand where to even begin, and just then, a tiny bit of precum leaked from his manhood- so naturally, you acted on your first thought... and licked his head, tasting the tang of him.

You heard him inhale sharply as you continued licking, first just his head, then the sides, every ridge and vein... but it was only when you finally wrapped your lips around him that he lost it.

"Fuck"

He groaned like an animal and that only gave you all the more reasons to go further, forcing his dick into your mouth until it hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag.

"Fucking- Jesus Christ"

You looked up at him now, your hands finding his legs as you bobbed your head up and down, sucking so very well every inch you could fit... which was barely half.

He'd gathered your hair to the back of your head, but he wasn't guiding your movements, it was all you.

"Babydoll" he rasped, "I think that's enough"

But you didn't wanna stop. This was so hot... feeling him in your mouth, hearing him moan for you...

"Baby" he grunted "I ain't gonna be able to fuck you if I come down your throat"

Those crude words brought you back to reality... and made you even hornier.

You pulled away from his dick, letting it slap back against Joel's stomach.

"Lay down f'me"

You did, without question.

He stifled a groan at the sight, at the fucking image displayed before him once you obeyed his command and spread your legs.

Fuck.

He looked at your eyes, watching for any sign of doubt, of a second thought... but he found none.

It was then he finally took his cock in his hand, giving it a much-needed pump and making you swallow drily.

He was silent as he guided his tip to your folds, making it slide between them and catching on your clit... but you weren't.

You were letting out all sorts of little cries and whimpers and moans as he toyed with you.

But you too, fell silent once you felt him stop at your entrance.

"Mh-" you were starting to hum, biting down your lip as he began pushing inside when he suddenly stopped.

"Fuck- forgot the condom"

You blinked, trying to make sense of what had happened as he reached into his night table.

"Joel" you called for him, making him turn around, condom in hand.

"'m sorry darlin', should've remembered sooner"

But that's not what you wanted to say.

"Joel can we..." you gulped "can we not-- use it?"

He frowned as his dick damn near exploded.

You wanted him to fuck you raw?

"Jesus sweetheart you tryna kill me today or somethin'?"

You smiled, your hands fidgeting.

"N-no I just... this is my first time... I- I wanted to feel it, y'know?" you murmured "A-and I'm clean and if you... if you use it with all the other women then you must be clean too, so..."

Joel had the urge to laugh.

"That ain't what 'm worried about, pretty doll"

It was one thing your dad finding out he'd fucked you... a different thing if he'd fucking got you pregnant.

Your mouth formed an o shape as you remembered.

"O-Oh no, I-I'm on the pill"

I shouldn't do this.

There's still a risk.

I'm old enough to be her father I shouldn't be doing this for countless different reasons.

I shouldn't.

I really fucking shouldn't.

And yet Joel had already gotten rid of the condom and had made his way on top of you.

You smiled before he kissed you, taking away all the oxygen from your lungs.

"I need you to relax now sugar" he murmured, his hand guiding his dick to your entrance once again.

"O-ok" you nodded, feeling the very tip of him push inside you.

"Just like that" he praised, kissing you again "Doing so well f'me"

It burned.

The stretch got more and more demanding as he tried to push himself deeper into you.

"Ah!" you gasped, your hands gripping his biceps as he kissed your neck.

"I know baby, I know"

"I-it's big" you cried, planting your feet on the mattress to try and ground you.

"You want me to stop?" he asked, looking you in the eyes, although yours were shut close.

"N-no" you shook your head "I just... " you hissed from the pain as he slid in an inch further.

"You can do it babygirl" he whispered, still planting kisses everywhere he could reach.

"B-but it's too big" you whimpered desperately as he still kept going. It felt interminable.

"Don't ya worry 'bout it honey" he said, moving some hair out of your face "I'm gonna make it fit"

That got him the first little moan of pleasure, which coincided with you letting him get an inch deeper.

"Yeah you like that?" he cooed "You like the idea of me filling you up with my cock to the very brim?"

You moaned again, louder.

"I know you do sugar." one of his hands had traveled between your bodies to find your clit, making you cry out even louder "Want nothing more than to be full of me, do ya?"

"'s ok sweetie, we're almost there" he promised, his breath sending shivers up your spine "You're taking me so well... letting me stretch this perfect little pussy for the very first time..."

It still burned, but the worst was done, and his words were making you forget half the pain.

"such a good girl" he cooed "There we go, like that, lemme in babygirl... fuck"

You'd done it.

"Oh my god" you gasped.

You felt utterly and completely full, like your body had been missing a part of it all this time.

"Joel" you cried, your grip on his arms tightening.

"You ok sugar?" he asked, although you could hear the restraint in his voice.

"Yes" you breathed opening your eyes to look at him "Yes please do- do something"

He smirked as he gave you a quick kiss.

"I'm gonna start moving now, ok?"

You nodded hastily "Y-yes- please".

And so what could he do, if not exactly what you'd asked?

He retracted his hips just to thrust in again, and... wow.

"O-Oh my god" you cried, as he did it again, finding a slow and oh so very deep pace.

He was rolling his hips, grinding against your pelvis every time he trusted in, making fireworks explode in your body.

"Fuck, doll" he groaned, his pace quickening "Y'feel so good... so tight for me"

You could only moan at his words, your legs wrapping around him.

"it's like you were made for my cock" he said, staring at you although your eyes were closed.

He didn't want to miss even a second of this.

"To let me fuck you like you need" he hissed, having to refrain himself from coming too soon.

That had been a danger since the very first inch of him had entered you.

You just felt so fucking good.

"You're such a good girl baby, y've got no idea" he groaned, kissing and licking your neck "Taking me so well"

"J-Joel!" you basically screamed once the fingers on your clit resumed their work.

"I know baby" he cooed, continuing to fuck you thoroughly "I know it's a lot, but you can take it"

The sound of your skin slapping with his bounced off the walls with each thrust together with the creaks of the mattress.

"I-I- Joel" you kept on crying, your breathing getting more and more ragged as your belly tightened expecting the approaching orgasm.

"what is it darlin'?" he purred, "need me to fuck you harder, softer?" he murmured "Tell me what you want and I'll give it to ya baby"

"M-more"

He could only smirk as he picked up his pace, now slamming into you harder, feeling your walls tighten with each thrust.

"Oh god- O-Oh shit--"

"C'mon doll," Joel groaned as your nails dug into his skin "Be a good girl and come for me- let me feel you come around my cock"

He didn't even need to ask.

"like that" he rasped as your eyes shut tight and you cried as loud as your vocal chord permitted "Just like that- good fucking girl"

Each molecule of your body rearranged itself as the orgasm overtook your body, mind, and soul.

You were sure you had ascended to another universe, the only thing that grounded you was Joel's words as he reached his own peak.

"Fuck doll, 'm gonna come" he grunted " 'm gonna fill you up babygirl- like that- take it sugar-- take it all"

It took a long while for you to gain back consciousness, and when you did, you found yourself lying under Joel's blanket, his hand gently drawing patterns on your arm as he... he was watching you.

"There she is"

You could only find it in yourself to smile as you leaned closer to him, leaving a soft, quick kiss on his lips.

"Thank you, Joel"

5K notes · View notes

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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