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kingkat12 · 1 day ago

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pervert, pervert, pervert (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: syntribation/masturbation, voyeurism, reader is a FREAK

summary: working for Mr. Godfrey was making you a nervous wreck-- how were you supposed to deal with it, other than the way you knew a little too well?

word count: 5,613

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a/n: this one goes out to all the girlies that KNOW. you know the feeling when that part of your jeans rubs up against your clit when you shift in your seat? yes. yes, you know, don't you lie to me xx

I bought the magazine.

I wasn't planning to, I swear.

But there it was, staring at me from the newsstand like a dare; Forbes, special feature, The Man Who Rebuilt an Empire. And right there on the cover, in crisp matte print, was my boss. His sculpted nose, the high curve of his cheekbone, the impossible shadow of his jaw-- Roman Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey.

I had only worked for him for a week, but I was already spiraling. I thought I'd be able to keep my fascination with him under wraps for at least a month, yet alas; I handed the cashier a crumpled five, grabbed it like it might disappear if I waited too long, and stuffed it in my bag before anyone could see.

I took it home. Ran a bath, lit a candle, and stared at the magazine cover like it might blink first. Honestly, I didn’t even read the article, I just... looked. And it was then that I realized how outright gorgeous Mr. Godfrey's nose truly was, how the sharp angle of it was something so unique that I couldn't take my eyes off it, and I think some broken, wicked part of me liked that it took my breath away, liked how it made me feel-- small, unworthy, aching.

And this morning?

This morning, that nose was five inches from my face.

I stood outside the glass office doors balancing his coffee, trying to breathe through the memory of last night; not too much milk, one cube of brown sugar, stirred exactly three times. Through the glass, I could see Mr. Godfrey seated at the head of the long table, surrounded by advisors and business partners, speaking with the same detached authority he always did. He didn’t need to raise his voice-- he simply existed, and everyone fell in line by birthright.

I stepped inside as quietly as I could. My heels made a soft click against the polished floor, and no one turned their head. That was the way it worked-- I was background. Necessary, but unimportant. And still, as I walked toward him, I felt every molecule of air bend around his presence, like gravity shifted in his direction. Of course the universe would bend to someone so gorgeous.

Mr. Godfrey looked good. Unbearably good. It was undeniable, simple as that. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he sat with the ease of someone who knew he was being watched, but never needed to look back to confirm it. He was of such wealth that his posture alone wasn't even a performance, but nature-- spine straight, one hand resting casually on the table, and the other lifted a document with slow, deliberate precision. It was clear that he was focused, and that the meeting was of importance, meaning I had to act accordingly on my fifth day of work.

But then... he licked his bottom lip.

It was subtle, almost absentminded, but I felt it in my knees. My throat tightened, my grip on the mug stiffened, and suddenly, the heat from the coffee felt like a warning in my palms.

Get it together, pervert. Why couldn't I be normal about this? I blamed it on Forbes.

I was close to him, now. Close to him and his perfect nose, so close that I could smell the sharpness of his cologne. Then, when I leaned forward, just slightly, to place the cup on the table before him, I caught it-- the upturn of his nose. The Forbes nose.

It was stupid, the way I fixated on it. But there was something about the slope of it, the arch, the way it gave his face that hint of aristocratic cruelty-- I had stared at it for too long on that magazine cover last night, and now here it was again, real and breathtaking.

Stupid little me lingered for three seconds too long.

Maybe four?

Until, like a snap of a band around my wrist, Mr. Godfrey's eyes shot towards me as his face remained turned to his business partners; caught you.

My breath hitched as he continued to speak like he wasn't glaring at me with the wrath of God, and the break of my fourth wall jolted through my spine. Fuck. My hands, traitorous and clammy, fumbled under the weight of his stare. The coffee sloshed hard against the rim of the cup, a dark arc of heat kissing the lip of the mug, a wave that threatening to spill. I gasped, audibly, stupidly, as the liquid nearly tipped toward the floor, and for one horrific second I thought it would splash right across Mr. Godfrey's papers, his lap, his perfect goddamn suit.

No one moved, but I heard someone gasp across the table, sharp and quiet.

I jerked the cup back just in time, barely keeping the liquid contained by steadying it against the heel of my palm. The saucer clicked, clacked, harder than it should’ve, as I set it down too fast, too loud. My fingers hovered above it like I’d placed down a live grenade.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes dragged over me like a blade, like he could see the heat blooming across my cheeks, the pulse thudding in my neck, and the tiny tremors in my fingertips. His eye didn’t twitch, his lips didn’t part, but he saw... oh, he saw everything.

I mumbled something between a sorry or excuse me, or maybe it was just the sound of my soul fleeing my body? I turned away so fast that I nearly clipped the edge of the conference table with my hip, narrowly avoiding it.

I fled back toward the door, the burn of Mr. Godfrey's green eyes following me all the way through the glass wall. The clack of my heels bounced hard off the walls, and I sat down behind my desk right outside, ready to sink through all the floors of the skyscraper and disappear for all of eternity.

"Stupid," I hissed, barely above a whisper. "Fucking idiot. Stupid, stupid."

I knew this would happen. Of course it would. The second I took this job, I knew it was a risk. I just thought I’d have a little more time to prove myself before I humiliated myself in front of him, but no. One week in, and I was already the secretary who couldn’t even serve coffee without looking like she’d had a small stroke. Perfect impression. Just perfect.

My heart was pounding too fast-- I couldn't think. My body was on high alert, skin buzzing with residual panic and something darker, warmer. I just needed it to stop.

I shifted in my seat, trying to exhale through the tension. Mortification still gripped me by the throat, but beneath it was that other feeling, the one that made my skin feel too tight, my stomach flutter-- I crossed my legs. The stretch of my pencil skirt whined softly at the motion, and I squeezed my thighs together just enough to send a tiny shiver of release through my core.

Just enough to breathe.

This was what happened when I spiralled, when I got overwhelmed and overstimulated-- I had learned how to self-soothe the odd way. Years of buried anxiety attacks that crept up in school, at family dinners, in public places where I had to keep my composure, I found my own escape, my own... coping method, if I may.

My fingers clicked open the first email in my inbox; it was some logistics guy from the New York office. My nails tapped the keys too quickly, like I was being timed, like I could answer fast enough to undo what just happened, but the friction of the seam of my pantyhose grazing against my underwear made it bearable.

Made everything bearable.

A sigh escaped before I could stop it, quiet and embarrassed, and I ducked my head to hide it behind the screen. It wasn’t even about pleasure-- not really. It was about calming down, about surviving the fact that I’d just made a complete fool of myself in front of the most terrifyingly beautiful man I’d ever met.

The man whose cologne I could still smell.

The man whose voice still echoed in my skull.

The man I had fantasized about the night before while staring at the cover of a fucking magazine.

It was only last year that I found out what I was doing technically counted as masturbation. I remember blinking at the screen, reading some late-night advice column, and feeling that horrible, guilty heat crawl up my neck. But honestly? I didn’t care. No one ever saw. No one had ever noticed. It was just a small shift in posture, a soft clench of my thighs. I could easily make myself cum without anyone ever noticing, so what was the harm? It was discreet, it was harmless, and most importantly, it worked.

My cheeks burned. I scooted forward in my chair with a sheepish little smile tugging at my lips as I replied to a second email, this one from the Dubai office. My fingers were fast and competent, my face was calm and professional-- I was the image of a well-oiled machine.

... Even as I got off beneath the desk with my thighs.

I even managed to act normal when all of Mr. Godfrey's business associates left his office (see, I was a pro!), and I sent them off with a polite goodbye and a sweet secretary-smile. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious-- just a secretary doing her job.

But then... he stepped out.

Mr. Godfrey.

He didn’t walk past me, didn’t leave-- he simply leaned against the doorframe of his office like a man who knew he didn’t have to say anything to make his presence known.

I didn’t dare to look up, but I could feel his green eyes scour me like x-rays, like spotlights. They drilled into the top of my head, down my neck, across my back; it made my breath catch in my throat. I pressed my thighs together harder, half in panic, half in instinct, as shame flooded me like a second skin; the same shame that made my adrenaline spike.

He cleared his throat-- "Good morning,"

I nearly jumped in my seat at being addressed, and immediately unfolded my legs before daring to meet his gaze. "Good morning, Mr. Godfrey!" I hoped my cheerful voice would overshadow the nervous twitching of the outer corners of my mouth. It wasn't my favorite thing to know that a telling-off was looming over me, especially from someone with authority-- usually, that ended up with me bursting into tears.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes burned themselves into mine, and something told me he was imagining an alternative universe where he could shoot lazers through them and obliterate me in an instant. "The way you dress," he snarled. "It's disgusting."

"... What?"

Narrowing his gaze, he folded his arms over his suit-clad chest, getting his hair out of his eyes with a nod of his head. If this had been a movie, my vision would've gone pink and hazy as time slowed to show the way the softness of his hair flowed with the kick of his neck, falling perfectly into place as he looked at me. "You represent me," Mr. Godfrey threatened. "From the way that you move, to the way that you dress. Let down your hair."

"O-Okay?--"

"And are your hands unsteady, or are you just pathetically clumsy?"

Mr. Godfrey could've squeezed my tongue between the tips of his fingers and dragged it out of my mouth with force, and that would've felt the same as I felt now, trying to speak. "Not usually," I confessed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't sleep well and... and the cup slipped. It won't happen again, I promise." Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, you gorgeous man. No more studying his side-profile. Please, please. No more getting off to that Forbes magazine. I could be good, please, please.

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Godfrey let out a disappointed groan. It was almost as though he wanted me to snark back at him like I had done in my interview, yet I knew that'd get me kicked out of the company with no less than a dime in compensation. "Why didn't you sleep?"

What? Why he was he making normal conversation with me? This wasn't usually how this worked. He'd come in, tell me what I needed to do for the day, and call me in for his ridiculously specific coffee after a while. This was new. "I got a bit distracted, sir,"

"With what?"

"With... reading," The words on the front page over and over as I scanned the beautiful upturn of his nose? Exactly.

"What do you read?" he asked, now seemingly interested.

Fuck. "Nothing that would interest you, sir,"

There was a sparkle that appeared in his eyes. "Try me,"

Having to rake through my brain for random book-titles was nerve-wracking, especially when Roman Godfrey was staring me down with his green challenge burning a hole through my skull. I decided to be honest; "The last thing I read wasn't very appropriate, sir. I shouldn't say," The last thing I read that wasn't Forbes, that is.

Mr. Godfrey allowed his eyes to widen, just a little. Finally, that seemed to crack through his harsh mood this morning, and he let out a scoff that sounded an awful lot like a pitied laugh. "Lie, then,"

"Pardon?"

"Say the first book that comes to mind. One that seems smart,"

"Well..." This was beyond intimidating, yet I complied. Amusement simmered in my chest, somewhere. "War and peace. Leo Tolstoy."

That seemed to do the trick. With a nod of approval, Mr. Godfrey pushed away from the doorframe with a handsome smirk. "Good," he hummed. "That's a dull one."

"Have you read it, sir?"

"Yes," Tapping his fingers against the wood of the door, he cocked his head to the side, scanning me; "Now, let down your hair."

Rapunzel, Rapunzel?

Oh.

Letting my smile falter, I reached for the claw-clip I had in my hair and put it on my desk, looking up at Mr. Godfrey with eyes pleading for approval. I felt pathetic, really, yet there was something satisfactory about his scary tone. Then, without thinking, it fell from between my lips-- "What else disgusts you about me, sir?"

No, no, stupid!

I just felt so eager to fix myself, to comply-- fucking pathetic.

Mr. Godfrey's smirk fell in an instant, like a drop of water hitting the ground.

It felt like I had broken some sort of agreement by opening my mouth like that. Holding back my snark was certainly something I had to work on, especially in front of the most powerful man in Hemlock Grove.

His eye twitched, barely noticeable. Then, he turned on his heel, imposing the most squeaky, uncomfortable squeak of his shoes on the walls of the office like it'd be punishment enough for my behaviour-- automatically, I pressed my thighs together and shivered.

Mr. Godfrey slammed the door shut, making me jump in my seat. It felt like I was getting sonically beat black and blue, and I proceeded to cross my legs now that he was out of sight.

Hopefully, this day would get better soon.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... It did, but in the most peculiar way.

Later that day, whilst I rummaged through Mr. Godfrey's spam folder for mails I could've missed, I got a notification from my personal work email, which was was odd-- no one ever sent me mails directly, since they all knew I waded through Mr. Godfrey's inbox and was easier to reach there. Hence, I checked it out the second it ticked onto my screen, and... well.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Disgust And So Forth

Dear secretary,

I trust that you will sleep better tomorrow. Coffee that is stirred correctly is always appreciated, yet coffee that threatens to spill all over my new suit which cost me $5,348 is not.

And regarding your inquiries about my disgust, I would like to point out that your nails are unkempt and therefore distracting when I pass by your desk and see you type. I suggest you find yourself a manicurist. What is fashionable in nails these days?

I'm happy to answer any other questions you have for me via email, should you so desire.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Never had I ever scooted forward on my chair as fast as now. My head snapped to the side, looking directly through Mr. Godfrey's glass office, hoping to catch him looking at me with that boyish smile I'd assume came accompanied with this email, yet-- nothing. He was certainly not looking, nor did he seem like he had just typed out this email. His green eyes were glued to his screen, his long, slender fingers reaching for a marker to circle the paper in front of him as though he was correcting something, deep in work and though.

Was someone in the office pranking the newbie? Then again, who else could've typed out this email?

Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Enlightenment And Epiphanies

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I must apologize once more. The incident this morning was utmost unfortunate, and it shall not be repeated. However, I would like to specify that I do not have the funding to dry-clean your suits as compensation if any accidents were to happen. Am I legally bound to do so, sir? I do not believe I saw that in my contract. I could have perhaps afforded that luxury, had I not had the salary of a secretary.

In regards to your observations about my nails, I must say I take offence. Just because they are short, does not mean that they are not looked after. As for styles, I believe French tips are rather in at the moment. What colors are appropriate for the office?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

I hit the send button with dread pooling in my stomach. I pulled a face despite knowing he could see me at any moment. Did I take it too far? Why was Mr. Godfrey sending me emails in the first place? This could probably get us both into a long, disciplinary meeting with HR if they found out about our odd emails.

I did my best to sneak another peek at him through the glass walls of his office, yet there were once again no signs of him having seen it or having reacted to anything unusual. Was I maybe overanalyzing this? Was this maybe normal behaviour at an office job? Since this was my first job ever, I decided to give Mr. Godfrey the benefit of the doubt until I saw his next email pop up on my screen unusually fast.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clearing Up Legalities

Dear secretary,

You are not legally required to pay for my dry-cleaning. Still, I hope there will be no need for any dry-cleaning at all after you get the appropriate amount of rest for the night. And by law, your salary is more than satisfactory for a person with a bachelors degree and no other job references or experience.

And as for the nails, I had no idea they were called French tips. In my experience, the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs; I will refer you to the phenomenon of French fries.

Color?

Lilac.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I had to bite down on my lip rather harshly to suppress the girly giggle threatening to escape me. I shouldn't be feeling this giddy over an email from my boss-- maybe he was just being friendly? Maybe he was aware that his behaviour and tantrums were odd and sometimes hurtful? It was surely that!

Excited by the sudden rush of energy at work, I crossed my legs; that was when I realized to which depths I was truly excited. It was highly inappropriate to masturbate over mails from my unbelievably attractive boss, yet here I was, shamelessly shifting around on my chair to make sure the seam of my pantyhose scooted to the most pleasurable place between my legs. With a sheepish look of relief spreading across my lips, I typed my answer.

From: You

Subject: The Spirit Of Napoleon Lives On

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I'm relieved to hear that my duties do not span paying for your dry-cleaning. Thank you for clearing that up, sir.

I will also make sure to be more critical of things that are tied to the French from now on. You certainly have a point. Next time I am in France, I shall make sure to keep it in mind. Anything else I need to be made aware of, sir?

And lilac is a pretty colour. Am I allowed any other designs?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

My lower abdomen was pooling with dread, excitement, and oddly profound arousal. Suppressing a choppy exhale, I dared another glance at Mr. Godfrey, once again hoping to catch him looking at me with my heart stuck in my chest-- yet, again, nothing. Now, he had even stood up, pacing back and forth in front of his desk with his long legs, reading the paper he had been marking over and over. Was it maybe a speech he was preparing? I had no idea. As his secretary, I should've probably had some idea, at least. Was I maybe doing a bad job? Perhaps.

In the meantime, I hoped to relieve myself of the way my heart was beating with anticipation. Maybe if I got off, I'd relax? I hadn't managed to, earlier. Maybe then, I'd calm down and treat these emails as what they really were, simply a boss trying to be kind to his new and anxious employee?

A few more minutes passed by, and I made myself busy by googling nail salons and various nail designs. I even dared to play some snake on my Google browser to pass the time.

Then, finally, when I had built up a nice, steady rhythm with my legs clenching and unclenching, letting the pantyhose stroke up against my clit through my dampening underwear, the anticipated email ticked in.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Appropriate Fashion

Dear secretary,

There are no rules in place about nail designs. Nothing is prohibited, but please make sure to be tasteful. We have some important people coming in next week, and I am not too keen on my secretary not looking the part.

Actually, I cannot seem to remember who it is we are welcoming; is it some oligarch from Azerbaijan? Cannot find it on the schedule. Need to know.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Some part of me wanted him to order me to get the French nails, to get them specifically to his liking and taste-- the second my mind got into that mind space, I uncrossed my legs, clearing my throat as I started looking for who next week's guest actually was. I was unraveling. I needed to get myself together.

And just as I was about to read the long name of the rich, lavish business partners from Azerbaijan (Mr. Godfrey had been right after all), someone teasingly knocked on my desk.

My eyes darted up over the top of my computer, and my smile immediately widened-- "Peter!"

There he stood, the only friend I had made during my time at Godfrey Industries. He worked in the legal department, and was Mr. Godfrey's paralegal that showed up from time to time. He was also one of the few people that dared to pass the threshold of my desk and venture into the dark forest, also known as Mr. Godfrey's office. Here, clad in a suit, staring down at me with a charming grin, Peter Rumancek leaned over my computer as he spoke, his brown hair falling softly over his eyes; "How are you doing? I see that your head's still intact,"

"Barely," I breathed, straightening my skirt-- I was undeniably happy to see Peter. Every time he came around, he either made me laugh or made my day. "I nearly spilled coffee all over Mr. Godfrey at a meeting earlier... It really set him off, so I suppose I'm going to be sent to the Guillotine at the end of the day. You passed by at the right time."

Peter huffed. "Is this goodbye, then?"

"It seems so... Au revoir, Peter,"

"Oh, sweet melancholy," He straightened up with a smirk, trailing his fingers across my computer. "But, uh, is bossman busy?" Nodding toward Mr. Godfrey, Peter made a face-- it was clear that he dreaded going into the office. "Need to go in and ask about the ongoing case."

And with complete certainty that Mr. Godfrey didn't care enough to look my way (as always), to even give me a second of his attention, I turned to look at him with the perfect view I had. Which was why, when I immediately met his striking green eyes, that my breath hitched with horror. Surprisingly, he seemed rather amused by my antics, briefly passing his eyes between Peter and I as if to mock me for flirting with his paralegal-- caught you. But Mr. Godfrey didn't spend much time caring or tending to my life, and he returned to whatever he was doing behind his enormous computer screen in no time.

Something about the way he seemed outright entertained by the fact that I had a life outside of being stepped on made my blood boil and my heart ache. I turned to my friend, the paralegal, and nodded solemnly, not saying a word.

Peter caught what had happened, letting out a breathy oh. He nodded too, mostly to himself, before he retracted his hands into his pockets. "I might meet the Guillotine before you," he joked, hoping to get a reaction out of me before walking into his impending doom.

But I could only stare at my computer, mortified. My right leg gave into a bounce, and some odd feeling I couldn't place kept gnawing at my chest and made me nauseous-- I didn't think before I spoke; "The French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs,"

Peter blinked. "What?"

"What?" I echoed-- it was as though I hadn't been the one to speak. Had I just quoted my boss's email? Fuck. I was really falling apart, wasn't I?

In an attempt to save face, I tried to plaster on a smile. A twitchy one, at that. "Sorry, I'm spacing out. Mr. Godfrey is in his office, yes, but what's the case about? Do I have you listed on his schedule for today?" Grabbing the mouse to my right, I clicked back into the schedule, looking for Peter's last name while managing to squeeze in a quick glance into Mr. Godfrey's office again-- he wasn't looking at me anymore. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, despite knowing I shouldn't.

Peter scoffed, tapping his fingers against my desk. "Well, I shouldn't be telling you this actually, but this information might save you down along the road, so..." He lowered his voice, reluctant to tell me; "It's about the last secretary. She's suing him."

My gaze snapped up to meet Peter's.

Shit.

The image of her with the bunched up paper between her teeth, her mascara running down her cheeks, along with the odd tear along her skirt, flashed before my eyes.

What had happened to her?

I couldn't think about this-- not right now, not with the humiliation of Mr. Godfrey's gaze mere meters away. "You're on the schedule," I breathed. "He's probably waiting for you right now."

Peter caught my disturbance, yet decided not to comment. He had already said more than he was legally allowed to say, anyway. "Okay... Will I see you at lunch?"

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Sure,"

Peter gave me a half-hearted salute and walked toward the double doors, probably eager to be done with my odd behaviour for now. I could hear the low click of his shoes against the wood floor as I glued my eyes to the screen, or at least pretended to, hyper-aware of every movement in my periphery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Peter approach Mr. Godfrey's desk-- it was odd how my boss immediately looked so nice whenever he spoke to anyone that wasn't me.

It was humiliating to think it was funny to him that I could have anyone be interested in me. Everything about it made me want to cry; why did I need Mr. Godfrey to like me so much? It was so obvious that he thought I was a cretin of sorts, so why did I need him to think otherwise so badly?

To distract myself, I finally answered his email. Maybe it was time to stand my ground?

From: You

Subject: Revolution - The French Way

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

You will be welcoming Mr. Aliyev next Thursday at 14:00. He is not an oligarch, but the son of the president of Azerbaijan, and he will be here to discuss a collaboration with Godfrey Industries regarding oil, and our shared ambition to extract profit while spending as little money, or effort, as possible.

I'll draft up talking points, as I did for your last meeting.

Also, I do look like your secretary. You would not have hired me in the first place if I did not. Your remarks about my appearance are unwarranted. Were I shuffling through the building wearing sweatpants, you might have a point. However, I am not. I will change my nails, but I will keep my skirts. They are office-appropriate.

After all, I am not working at Vogue.

Kind regards,

Your secretary.

I hit send.

And then I immediately wanted to die.

That was it-- my rebellious email had been enough to make my heart patter with excessive force, and the second I hit send, I feared I'd faint from the anxiety. I was okay with possibly saying this out loud to his face, but in an email? That email could get me fired. Blacklisted. Dragged to HR and spat out like gum from beneath someone's shoe.

Mr. Godfrey could ruin me if he wanted to, and that was the part I hated; how badly he could wreck me, and how little it would take. However... that was also the part that made my heart beat faster. Pervert, pervert, pervert.

I started to feel light-headed from all the worrying, and that's when I crossed my legs again-- searched for that sweet, aching pressure. The relief was the only thing that helped, and the only thing that quieted it all down.

Peter passed me by shortly after, but didn't stop to chat. He nodded at me, flashing me a charming, apologetic smile, and I allowed myself to sink into my seat with pleasure as his back turned to me and he disappeared down the hall.

It felt wrong to do this at the office, perfectly in eye-sight of my boss, yet he had pissed me off to the point where I couldn't care. If he was going to treat me like shit, I had to make myself feel better, right? On top of that, I had an odd feeling I was close-- resting my head in my palm, propping my elbow on my desk, I stirred the mouse across my computer in random motion as I melted.

My thighs clenched tight. The desk shielded me, the chaos around me offered cover, and I let it happen. Again.

Was I sick for doing this? Probably.

Did it matter? Not in this moment. Not when the pleasure bloomed sharp and fast, not when my breath faltered and I shuddered at the ghost of Mr. Godfrey's voice in my head, the threat of him, the humiliation of him.

I tried not to worry about the lack of following emails from Mr. Godfrey; he was probably not going to respond to it anyway. He had better things to do. Knowing him, he'd ignore me from now on, and maybe even pretend I didn't exist for the rest of the day. The idea that I was figuratively not seen, not cared about, not paid attention to, made me more secure about pulling this off, getting off like this, without being noticed-- not that anyone had ever caught me doing this anyway. They wouldn't know what they were looking at anyway, even if they saw me.

I made a fist in front of my mouth, clenching and unclenching, feeling my clit rub against that perfect spot in the seam of my pantyhose; it felt so unbearably good, and I had done this enough times to know how to cum quickly.

So finally, when I felt it crash over me, when I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath, I finally felt relief. Relief from the humiliation, from not being respected, from being treated like I was nothing-- at this moment, I felt at peace. Blissful peace.

I cleared my throat, allowing a cheeky smile to form across my lips. There was a huge thrill in being able to get away with getting off in the office in broad daylight, to be the nasty piece of shit Mr. Godfrey saw me as-- maybe he could see right through me? Maybe that was the real reason he hated me, because he recognized something twisted and depraved inside me that mirrored him?

I couldn't stop myself from smiling, drunk on shame and secrecy. So, with a newfound sense of confidence, I allowed my eyes the victory lap; to look into Mr. Godfrey's office and feel like a God, to know he could never figure me out, that he could never, ever have the fucking brains to know. He thought he was such a fucking big-shot, he thought he could stomp all over me, he thought he could intimidate me into making myself smaller?--

I froze.

Green.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were staring right back at me, wide with recognition.

I held my breath. My blood ran cold.

He knew.

Mr. Godfrey didn't blink, didn't look away.

Leaning forward, refusing to break eye contact, his fingers ghosted over his keyboard...

And then, the notification ticked in on my screen.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Warning #1

Dear secretary,

I rather like your skirts. Keep them.

PS: I saw that.

Kind regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries

(a/n: did I just do that? yes. have I ever seen anyone else write about this? no. did I need to take it into my own hands? YES. MWAH GIRLIESSSSS HOPE U ENJOYED<33333)

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@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

#roman godfrey #roman godfrey x reader #hemlock grove #bill skarsgård #fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #bill skarsgard #oneshot #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard fanfiction #hemlock grove fanfiction #hemlock grove season 2 #peter rumancek #OH HOW I LOVE THIS NEW SERIESSSS EEK

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airas-story · 2 days ago

Note

pre-iron man movies but strange is already the sorcerer supreme

How dare you do this to me. I have SO MANY THOUGHTS... choosing a focus for this one was hard and I just wanted to delve into all the background for how these two came together in THIS iteration, but whoo boy, would that be a project. (The bunnies are fighting to the death, right now.)

Tony paused as he exited the casino, Happy a step behind him. Stephen waited by the car, dressed in ‘casual’ clothes. “Happy, you’ve got the car?”

Happy sighed. “Got it, boss.” Happy moved past Stephen without a greeting. Happy was certain, and had told Tony several times, that Stephen was hiding something.

Given Tony knew exactly what Stephen was hiding, he couldn’t exactly reassure Happy. He wasn’t even sure he knew everything.

“You missed your award ceremony,” Stephen noted.

Tony hummed, stepping close. “I saw the preview, it was all about Howard again. As long as they keep making award ceremonies for me all about him, I’m going to keep skipping.”

“Fair enough,” Stephen acknowledged. He wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist. “You’re lucky. There was a reporter here, waiting to ambush you.”

“Not here now,” Tony observed. “What’d you do?”

Stephen smirked. “I might have created an illusion for her to chase. She’ll be rather frustrated when you disappear.”

Tony laughed. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Not likely,” Stephen said. He leaned in for a kiss. Energy sparked beneath Tony’s skin. He’d had JARVIS scan and analyze their kisses—with Stephen’s permission—and they created literal energy. Tony hadn’t analyzed their sex, yet, but he suspected it’d put their kisses to shame.

He pulled back. “I thought you were in Topsy-Turvy this week?”

“The Toptugain dimension,” Stephen corrected easily. “I leave tomorrow morning. Same time you leave for Afghanistan.” There was something in his voice, something off.

Tony examined him. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen admitted. “The time stone is keeping something from me. Something’s on the horizon. I’m concerned.”

Tony never knew what to say when Stephen talked about Time and his Mystic duties. “Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out,” he promised. “You always do.”

#ironstrange #stephen strange #tony stark #triple drabble #fic

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fawnme1 · 3 days ago

Note

hi mei, could you please write about arthurtv (friends to lovers fluff), where he asks if he can rest his head on your lap while watching tv?

STAY AWHILE || ARTHURTV

summary; the request.

a/n; thank you for this, i hope you like it!!

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

The cushions dip beside you just as you’ve settled in, and you don’t even need to look to know it’s Arthur. That familiar smell of coffee and clean laundry, the quiet shuffle of his socks on your carpet — it’s all become second nature by now. You glance over at him, a smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth as he dramatically flops onto the sofa like he’s just completed some epic quest instead of, you know, walking from the kitchen.

“You good?” you ask, one brow raised.

Arthur groans in response, flinging his arm over his eyes like a Victorian damsel. “Absolutely shattered. I swear, filming today aged me about a decade.”

You snort, tucking your legs up beneath you. “Oh no, poor old man. Should we start looking at retirement homes now or after dinner?”

He peeks at you through his arm, grinning. “Rude. I’m a delicate soul and you mock me in my time of need.”

You roll your eyes but your smile softens a little as you shift to make more space. Even though the two of you have been friends for years — through bad haircuts, questionable crushes, and about a thousand cups of tea — there’s still something about these quiet evenings that feels a bit… different lately. Like you’re both hovering on the edge of something neither of you has dared to name.

Arthur sits up for a second, glancing between you and the empty space on the sofa before hesitating. His hand rubs the back of his neck — a tell he probably doesn’t even realise he has.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice suddenly more unsure than usual. “Is it weird if I ask to, um… rest my head on your lap? Just for a bit. My neck’s killing me.”

Your heart does this stupid little flip, but you manage to keep your expression casual.

“Yeah, of course,” you say, trying not to sound too breathless. “That’s not weird.”

He lets out a breath like he was half-expecting you to say no, and you bite back a fond smile as he slowly stretches out, settling his head gently across your thighs. It’s tentative at first, like he’s testing to see if you’ll flinch or pull away — but you don’t. You wouldn’t dream of it.

Your fingers hover awkwardly for a moment before they find his hair, brushing through it gently. It’s softer than you expected. Arthur sighs — like, audibly sighs — and you swear you feel him melt into you just a little more.

“This okay?” you ask softly, not sure if he’s already half-asleep.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes fluttering closed. “Feels nice.”

You glance at the TV but can't focus on what's playing. Not when his face is right there, tucked so close, his lashes casting tiny shadows on his cheeks, the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw. He looks peaceful, more relaxed than you've seen him in days.

The silence is warm. Safe. Your fingers keep moving through his hair and he leans into the touch like he's been waiting for it for ages.

"Y'know," he says eventually, voice low and a little scratchy, "this might sound mental but... I've thought about this before."

Your fingers still.

"What, lying on someone's lap?"

He opens one eye, and there's this lazy half-smile on his lips that makes your stomach do a somersault.

"No. I mean — your lap. You."

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to just this tiny space between the two of you.

“Oh.”

Arthur watches you, still smiling, but there's something tentative there too. Like he's testing the waters, unsure if he's gone too far.

"I've been thinking about us a lot lately," he admits quietly. "How it's always felt... easy. Good. And maybe I'm an idiot for saying this now, while using you as a human pillow-but I like you. Not just as a mate."

You blink, fingers unconsciously resuming their soft motion through his hair. He closes his eyes again, maybe to avoid the look on your face, maybe because he's scared of your silence.

But you're not shocked. Not really. Maybe you've known all along, buried the feeling under too many movie nights and inside jokes.

"I like you too," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes open again, slow and searching.

"You do?"

You nod, your smile growing without permission. "Yeah. Not just as a mate."

He grins then, full and genuine, and it lights him up in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Well," he murmurs, settling in again, "this is definitely the best nap spot I've ever had."

You laugh, swatting lightly at his shoulder. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm your ridiculous now, right?"

“God, that was so cringe.”

“And yet you’re still playing with my hair.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop. You don’t want to.

The TV flickers on in the background, but you both ignore it, content to stay just like this — finally, impossibly, beautifully more than friends.

#fawnme1 #arthur tv x reader #arthurtv #arthur frederick

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ineedseveretherapy · 1 day ago

Text

Truth or Dare pt.2

TW: suicide/heavy topics

After about 30 minutes of waiting Leo finally just decided to wait for them in his room. He sat down on his bed and stared at the ceiling letting his thoughts roam.

Well... This should be interesting...? Now you got everyone involved in your stupid little problems, how does it feel to be nothing but a nuisance.

He rolled over and covered his ears with his pillows trying to block out the voice in his head.

So, what are you going to do now? Sit here and wait like a goddamn idiot? You could just... y'know, end it now. Make all their problems go away, be more productive then this wouldn't it?

"For once in my goddamn life could you shut up?"

Oh don't act like you disagree with me, you know i'm right.

"I'm not listening!"

Oh look who's suddenly all self aware? You think pretending to block me out is gonna solve anything? What happens when Donnie, Raph and Mikey come huh? What happens when they find out? Your just gonna add more problems to the already long list that you created in the first place. Some brother.

Leo groaned,

"Can Donnie just hurry up already..."

Donnie walked down the hallway with Raph and Mikey. Filling them in on Leo's situation wasn't the easiest thing in the world, Mikey was crying a lot and Raph almost had a panic attack. He was consoling Raph as Mikey walked ahead of the two of them, they were heading for the living room to talk to Leo.

"Raph you need to be calm when we talk to him, right now I think it's best not to overwhelm him."

"I'm trying Donnie, I really am..."

"Donnie!"

"Yeah Mikey?"

"Didn't you say Leo was in the living room!?"

Donnie's heart dropped and he rushed to Mikey's side. He surveyed the living room, he wasn't there. Now he felt like he was going to have a panic attack.

"Ok, let's not freak out, I'm sure he's- he's probably in his room!"

Donnie looked down at MIkey, both equally concerned.

"C'mon."

Leo flinched as he heard a knock on his door, it was Donnie.

"Come in..."

The door opened to Donnie, who looked just as worried as when he'd left, Raph, who looked like he'd seen a ghost, and Mikey, who was obviously holding back the urge from both assaulting him with a hug and interogating him with Dr. Feelings. Leo didn't really know what to say so he just looked at Donnie. Donnie looked equally confused, but it didn't take long for Raph to walk up.

"Hey Leo..."

He bent down to meet Leo's gaze and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Donnie told us about... your conversation. Do you mind if we talk with you?"

Leo nodded his head and Raph let out a shaky sight. He sat down next to Leo on his bed. He'd never seen Leo like this before, so fragile and vulnerable, like he could break at any second. He didn't really know how to keep going without crying at least a little bit, thankfully he didn't have to.

"Leo why didn't you tell us any of this?"

Leo looked over at his little brother, the pain in his voice was apparent, it didn't really hit him until now that, this was just as hard for them as it was for him. Leo looked back down at his lap again.

"Didn't wanna bother you guys..."

Leo made sure to mumble his response in hopes his brothers wouldn't hear, unfortunately for him Mikey was paying very close attetion.

"YOU DIDN'T WANNA BOTHER US!?"

His words shocked Mikey. Leo flinched at the sudden shift in Mikey's tone.

"Mikey..."

Raph put an arm around Leo. Mikey turned his head to his older brother, enraged and hurt by the calmness in Raph's voice. How could he be so okay with this?

"I'm sorry, but has to hear how stupid that is!"

His head turned back to Leo as a knot in is his stomach started to form.

"You do understand how stupid that is, don't you?"

Leo shrugged, refusing to make eye contact, he didn't want to see the pain he was causing his brothers.

"Leo, we really need you to talk to us... We just want to know what's going on..."

"I don't really think you'd like the answer..."

Mikey was losing his patience,

"THAT DOESN'T MATTER! WE-"

"Micheal."

Mikey turned his head to Donnie, he knew he shouldn't be freaking out but it was hard not to. He was overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling right now and it all ended up translating as anger.

"We're not getting anywhere with this."

"Dee's right. Leo-"

Leo had been zoning out and snapped back to reality at the sound of his name causing him to flinch slightly. Seeing Leo get so scared at nothing but his own name was like a punch to the gut for Raph, he tightened his grip on Leo's shoulder.

"Leo, look at me."

Leo hesitantly looked up at his older brother. His gaze was met with a warm smile, however it failed to make him feel any better.

"We're not mad, and your not in trouble... We just need you be honest... We can't help you if we don't know what's going on."

Leo looked over at Mikey, and then at Donnie, and then at his lap once more.

"Ok..."

Raph sighed, relieved that they were finally getting somewhere. Hopefully this wouldn't be as hard as they thought, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

"Ok, uh... Mikey, you wanna start? Please, be calm..."

The little turtle shook his head as he took a step closer to Leo and stared firmly into his eyes, which were still looking at his lap.

"How many times have you tried to... kill yourself...?"

The words passed through his throat like a heavy brick. It was so shocking that any of them are having this conversation, with Leo of all people, their faceman! Sure Leo always had a bit of an obsession for validation, and Mikey always noticed how his self esteem was almost always lower than he made it out to be, but nothing ever this severe. How? How could he miss something THIS BIG? How had he never even noticed that his brother was in so much pain... what did he do wrong...?

"Leo...?"

"...A couple times..."

Mikey bawled his hands into fists.

"How many times is a couple times...?"

"About...2, or... 3 or..."

Leo paused,

"6..."

The room was hit with immediate silence. All three brothers felt as if they had just been shot, or at the very least stabbed. Donnie was frozen in his place, his mind racing. Mikey made a little gasping sound when Leo answered and covered his mouth with his hands, as he began to shake and tears began to form. Raph's grip on Leo's shoulder became so tight that it felt like his bones were about snap in half, his heart beating a mile a minute. Raph felt like he was going pass out. Leo looked up at his brothers, all in a perpetual state of shock, and without further thinking he put his hands up and panicked.

"BU-BUT I DIDN'T ACTUALLY GO THROUGH WITH ANY OF IT I SWEAR! I'M FINE! I'M STILL HERE, SEE?"

The three turtles started daggers into their brother. He made it worse... Leo immediately shot his head back down, wish he could take back this entire afternoon.

"Y'know..."

Leo sighed,

"You guys can say if your mad..."

"MAD!? WE'RE WORRIED!"

"No. No Mikey that's an understatement. We're not worried, we're scared- I'm scared! I'm terrified! I'm supposed to be your big brother! I'm supposed to protect you! To care for you! To keep you safe!"

Raph's voice began to crack and his hands begun to shake.

"I'M SUPPOSED TO LOOK OUT FOR YOU! BUT NOW I FIND OUT THAT UNDER MY WATCH YOU'VE ALMOST COMMITTED 6 TIMES AND I HAD NO IDEA!? WHAT KIND OF BIG BROTHER AM I!?"

Tears began to form in Raph's eyes, he felt like his whole world was shattering around him.

"Raph..."

Leo watched as his older brother shook and cried. It made his heart bleed knowing that he was causing his brother so much pain! This was all his fault anyways! God! why did he have to be like this!

"Raph no you-... I-I.... I didn't-... You couldn't have known, you-..."

Leo was starting to spiral as he felt his own body begin to shake. He could hear a faint yet sharp voice in the back of his mind,

Look at what you did... Raph's about to have a heart attack and it's all your fault! You see what your dumb little problems are doing to this family?

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry! I-I-I... this wasn't..."

Leo's breathes became short and sharp, a giant knot began twisting in his stomach, he almost thought he heard a ringing in his ears. Donnie, who had been quietly observing quietly from the doorway, noticed Leo go into a spiral and the sight of both his older brother and his twin breaking down made him want to scream. He took a deep breath, and walked over next to Mikey.

"Leo... breathe... you need to breathe..."

Raph looked over at Leo as he took in deep shaky breaths.

"I'm sorry..."

Leo spoke in such a monotone voice, he wasn't even paying attention to what he was saying anymore, he was stuck spiraling in his own head.

"Don't apologize! It's not your fault!"

"Yes it is... made you cry... I deserve it..."

Raph grabbed both of Leo's shoulders, turned his body around causing Leo to look up at him.

"Why would you think that you deserve any of this!?"

His voice cracked as he spoke in a pleading tone of voice.

"BECAUSE ALL I'M DOING IS HURTING YOU GUYS!"

Leo felt tears roll down his cheeks.

"THAT'S NOT TRUE!"

Leo looked at Mikey,

"IT'S NOT!? LOOK AROUND YOU! LOOK AT YOUR HANDS! HAVE YOU BEEN ABLE TO DRAW OR COOK EVER SINCE YOU OPENED THAT PORTAL!?"

Leo then looked at Raph,

"AND RAPH! TELL ME WITH ALL HONESTY THAT YOU'VE BEEN ABLE TO TRAIN AND FIGHT WITHOUT ANY DIFFICULTIES! EVEN WITH ONLY ONE WORKING EYE!"

Leo then looked over at Donnie,

"AND DONNIE CAN'T EVEN LEAVE HIS ROOM WITHOUT HIS BATTLE SHELL! I SAW THE SCARS! I'M NOT DUMB!"

Leo moved his head back in Mikey's direction.

"SO TELL ME THAT I HAVEN'T HURT YOU GUYS!"

"YOU HAVEN'T! IT WASN'T YOUR CHOICE TO OPEN THAT PORTAL LEO, IT WAS MINE! AND I'D DO IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN IF IT MEANT THAT YOU WERE SAFE! THAT YOU DIDN'T DIE!"

"BETTER ME THAN ONE OF YOU GUYS!"

Mikey gritted his teeth as he also began to cry.

"NO! NO IT'S NOT! YOUR LIFE ISN'T ANY LESS IMPORTANT THAN OURS LEO! YOU MATTER! YOUR IMPORTANT! YOUR OUR BROTHER AND- AND..."

Mikey pulled Leo into a tight hug as he began sobbing in his arms.

"Wel love you Leo..."

"Mikey..."

"Don't! Don't you dare speak!"

Mikey choked on his tears as he heard Leo's heartbeat slowdown. Leo sat there, for some reason, something clicked in his mind, they did love him. Of course they did, they were his brothers, he always knew they loved him so why did he all of a sudden feel like it was some new discovery.

"I..."

He crumpled into Mikey's arms, tears bursting from his eyes. His sobs felt like a foreign sound, they were sharp and pained, but it was what he needed, he needed this, even though it hurt. Raph took one look at Leo and Mikey before scooping them up in a teary bear hug. The three turtles were one emotional mess, all sobbing and shaking. Donnie walked closer them and put a hand on Raph's shell, he was teary eyed just like the rest of them. After a while, they calmed down and Leo had this strange warm feeling in his chest a feeling he hadn't felt in months.

"I'm sorry guys..."

"No! Stop apologizing!"

Mikey grabbed Leo's face forcing Leo to look at him.

"Leo! Look at me! We! Love! You! You're our brother and we love you! Repeat that back to me!"

"I'm your brother and you love me..."

"Your life matters!"

"My life matters..."

"Good! Don't you dare forget that!"

Leo smiled at his younger brother, a real, genuine smile.

"We're here to help you Leo. We're going to help you, I promise you. But you need to promise me that you're going to be honest and let us help you, promise?"

"I promise..."

Raph smiled and nodded,

"Good."

Leo turned his head over to Donnie, the two looked at each other knowingly. Donnie walked over and gently pulled Leo into another hug.

"No more sneaking out!"

Leo chuckled, and hugged his brother back tightly.

"Ok."

"You're such a dum dum..."

"I know..."

After that night the boys were quick to inform Splinter and April on Leo's situation, and the next couple months were spent helping Leo heal but also helping the others heal as well. Mikey had weekly family meetings and scheduled private meetings with Leo as Dr. Feelings, Raph would help Leo find ways to ground himself and silence his mind by meditating with him every day, and Donnie would always be there for Leo to vent about anything he was to scared to vent to Raph or Mikey about. He was finally getting better, and he wasn't doing it alone.

I wasn't actually planning on doing a part 2 but i'm glad I did. anyways I hope you guys like it!

pt.1

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #heavy topics #mental health #tw sui talk

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chaos--s · 2 days ago

Text

platonic yandere! shapeshifter

general warning for murder.

There was something off about your dad.

He was so nice. All the time now.

It wasn't that you were complaining about the sudden change in behavior necessarily, but it completely threw you off. Why was he fixing you healthy snacks when you told him you were hungry? Instead of how reacting like how he would normally react, asking you to fuck off and quit disturbing him.

But now he has a pleasant smile on his face as he cut up some fruit and plated it with so much care. "Eat up, wouldn't want my little kid getting hungry now." He would say.

Or, before you went to sleep.

Your dad follows you to your room now to tuck you in, read you a few bedtime stories and even stayed by your side when you brought up your nightmares to him and how you couldn't sleep because of them.

"Don't worry, daddy will stay by your side and fight any monster who dared to hurt you." He would say as he sat next to your bed, smiling down at you as he hummed softly.

This was unlike him. It was too unlike him. He's never called himself "daddy" like that, not even when you were younger. But you ignored it, chopped it up to him feeling nostalgic.

You sat at the dinner table, waiting on a nice homecooked dinner that your dad would never make. In his life. He usually left all the cooking up to you, scolding you if you didn't make it exactly like how he expected you to.

Your dad walks up to the table with one of your favorite dishes. "Just how you like it!" He's ecstatic, placing down the plates with a huge grin on his face as he served the food to you.

"Are you okay, dad?" You finally ask. He stops for a second as if time itself froze before continuing to serve you.

"Why wouldn't I be sweetheart?" He has the same pleasant smile on his face. "I-I dunno, you just seem..." You trail off, not wanting to ask anymore.

"Hm?" He sits near you, tilting his head. "You can ask me anything, I won't get mad." His voice was soft. He had his hand on yours, as he looked at you expectedly.

Well, that's the issue. You scooted back, shaking your head.

"It's okay, I can ask later. I just... can't wait to dig in." You slap on a smile and pick up a spoon. Your father seems convinced enough and doesn't ask any further, content with just watching you eat. The food was so good that it makes you want more, your stomach rumbles in agreement.

Your dad laughs at the noise and gets up, picking up the pan with the remaining food. "A growing kid should be eating more, come gimme your plate."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Ah, don't need to worry about your old man. I'm fine just watching you eat." He's never said that before. "C'mon, eat up!"

Right. You hesitate but continue to eat with your father's lingering stare, trying not to acknowledge the creeping thought in the back of your mind. Your dad's nice now. He's nice, he's changed. He's sorry that he treated you like shit before that's why he's acting like this all of the sudden.

–

You've been having sleepless nights and tonight was no different, you were laying in your bed staring at the ceiling.

You tried just shutting your eyes and forcing yourself to sleep but you would open your eyes minutes later anyways, so you gave up on that. Your father told you to go to him whenever you couldn't sleep, something about cuddles.

You threw your blanket off your body huffing an annoyed sigh, clearly tonight you weren't going to be getting any sleep.

You rolled around for a few more seconds before sitting up. Water. Water would help you sleep, you walk out your room and into your kitchen. The moonlight shone through the sheer curtains in your kitchen, illuminating the kitchen.

It was nice, you poured yourself a glass of water. The peace was cut short when something slams into your window, it was loud. You flinch, spilling some of the water on the counter.

You turn your head slowly, dreading what you were going to see outside.

"Thank god. Y/n open the door, open the fucking door." You thought you were going crazy, maybe sleep deprivation was getting to you, but the man slammed his bloodied fists on the glass again, staining it with more blood.

"Let me into the house." It was your father. You could barely recognize him with all the gashes and dried up blood mixed with grime and dirt on his face, but it was him. "Y/n, please." He pleads.

You slowly nod as you walked to your front door, your dad sighing in relief as he walked around the house. You opened the door and your dad practically collapsed into your home, you stumble backwards as he held the doorway panting.

"Dad...? What happened?" He looked up. "I don't- it doesn't matter, is it here?"

You stared at him for a moment, utterly confused. "What?"

"Is it in the fucking house." He raised his voice slightly, his voice was hoarse. This was more how your father acted, not the kind act he had put on. "I-I don't know what you're talking about!"

He sighed angrily, pushing you out of the way, stumbling to the dining room. "It kept rambling on and on about taking care of you and- and... fuck." He held his head in his hands, mumbling to himself.

You walked up behind him, now being able to see the injuries more clearly. It looked like he'd been through war, his wrists had rope marks that were still raw and angry, his body was littered with wounds.

"...How long have you been gone?" You ask, you knew what was going on. Your suspicions were proven right, to your horror.

The thing that was in your father's room wasn't your dad. These past few weeks, the thing that has been calling itself your 'father' was some fucking shapeshifting entity that kidnapped your actual dad. Of course your gut feeling was correct. Your dad couldn't completely change his personality out of nowhere.

"We have to go." You kept your voice low. "It's still here."

Your eyes kept glancing at your father's bedroom door. It was still sleeping, hopefully. Your father nodded as he gets up, his legs are weak so he stumbles. Catching himself before he falls, his hand gripping the counter edge.

Everything was playing out like a horror movie as you heard glass breaking, his hand had slipped.

A door creaks open and you knew it was awake, your father's eyes widened in fear as he backed away. It still took the form of your father but it was impossibly tall, much taller than your actual dad.

"You're...alive." It's voice was glitching. Struggling to keep its anger in check, but somehow still sounding like your father. "How annoying."

Its hand morphs into a tendril as it stabs your father in his head, the only thing you hear is the last breaths of your father as he apologized. To you.

Its tendril morphed back into a hand, covered in blood. Your father was dead. It turned around to you, it's face sad as it watched you back away from it.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, kiddo." It's still wearing your father's face. "Don't be scared. I would never hurt you." It's lying, it's lying. Your father's dead body was still there, his blood covering your kitchen floor.

What else could you do but run? You hear it still calling your name as you ran out into the open, trying to get away from your home. You didn't get far.

You scream as you're lifted up, you hear its cooing voice as it tries to comfort you. Its voice is no longer like your father's, it's deeper now and less human. Unnatural.

"It's alright, I'm sorry baby." It coos again. "It's okay, we're okay."

"You killed my dad!" You sobbed out.

It shook its head. "He deserved it. Having such a sweet child like you, he didn't take care of you like a proper father. Seeing you cry at night because of him." Its voice was cracking again, anger seeping through. "He should've suffered a fate much worse than that. But let's forget about him, hm? I believe It's way past your bedtime, sleepyhead."

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #tw yandere #parental yandere #familial yandere

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ponderingmoonlight · 2 days ago

Note

Hello, i have some request for you. Can you make Sin-ha x fem!reader, where Sin-ha confesses his feelings to fem!reader that he has kept to himself for months? Thank you ❤️❤️

sorryyyy this took me so long but I hope you still enjoy 🤍🫶

Confession of love in the dying sun

Pairing: Shin-Ah x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,4k

Synopsis: You always admired him from afar, never once thought about the possibility that the blue dragon might hide the same feelings you try to cover up. Until you find yourself right next to him at sunet...

Warnings: none, this is pure fluff for all my starved bbys out there, Hak is Hak lol

The quiet rustling of leaves fills the air as you sit beside Shin-Ah, the forest around you bathed in soft golden light.

Oh, how much you’ve missed this peace and freedom. Since the day you stumbled upon Shin-Ah, your life was filled with nothing but dread, anxiety, and fleeing. When was the last time you were able to rest against a tree to get caressed by sunlight? You can’t put a finger on it. But what makes this day even more special is a certain someone right next to you.

You glance at him, noting the usual calm in his expression - masked eyes fixed on the horizon, mouth unreadable, pale skin almost glowing in the rays of sun. He's always been a mystery, a gentle shadow by your side you enjoyed since meeting him in that cave. But today, there's a tension in the silence between you, thick enough to stir your heartbeat.

"You’ve been quiet," you begin, nudging his shoulder gently.

He doesn’t respond right away, his fingers tightening slightly around the hilt of his sword resting across his lap. Then, without looking at you, he speaks.

“I’ve been holding something in… for a long time.”

Your breath catches. There's a weight in his voice that makes your chest tighten, an unknown depth to his words. Shin-Ah was never one to speak about his feelings, always hid himself well behind that mask. Is it because both of you grew closer and closer over those past weeks, because he saved your life back then in that cave?

“I didn’t know if it was okay to say it. I didn’t want to make things strange between us,” he continues, his voice lower now, vulnerable in a way you've never heard before.

“But it’s been months, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it.”

You turn to face him fully, heart pounding. He finally meets your eyes, and though the mask covers half his face, the intensity in his gaze pins you in place. This almost sounds like a…confession.

No. It can’t be. Why would someone like him fall for an average girl like you? Not when Yona is around all the time, not when he’s bound to her by blood. Surely, he talks about something else-

“I care about you,” he finally admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. I think about you constantly - when we’re fighting, when we’re resting, even when it’s quiet like this. And I’ve tried to bury it, but it won’t go away.”

He hesitates, as if fearing your reaction.

“I love you.”

The world seems to still for a moment - only the soft breeze moving through the trees dares to make a sound.

He loves you.

Shin-Ah just told you that he…loves you.

Your chest feels like exploding any given minute, your limbs failing to work while you can’t help but stare at his mask with glossy eyes.

“I don’t expect anything,” he murmurs.

“I just needed you to know.”

You stare at him, still too stunned to really speak, waiting for the part where he tells you all of this is a joke. Truth is, you were never able to keep your mind off him as well, always pondering about the thoughts behind his mask, admiring him from afar fully aware of the fact that he’ll never be yours truly.

The silence stretches, but not uncomfortably. Just... full. Full of emotions you weren’t ready to face, but maybe always knew were there. Oh, if he only knew. If he only knew how many times you’ve watched him sleep. If he only knew how you enjoyed those precious little moments with only him and you. If he only knew how often you almost blurted out those same words.

I love you.

Shin-Ah loves you.

“I…”Your voice catches, and you swallow hard, trying again. This is not the time to feel ashamed.

“I’ve wondered if you felt something. You’re always so quiet, but… the way you look at me. The way you always make sure I’m safe, even if it means putting yourself at risk.”

He doesn’t speak, just watches you, still and tense, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment.

Your heart is racing now, but your voice is steady.

“I care about you too, Shin-Ah. A lot. And I think… I think I was scared to say anything. Scared I was just imagining it.”

He blinks, once, slowly, his expression behind that mask unreadable, but his breath seems to catch.

You smile, soft and a little shaky.

“But I’m not imagining it, am I?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he mutters.

“You’re not.”

You reach out, gently placing your hand over his while taking his mask off with the other.

“Then… I’m glad you told me. Because I don’t want to keep pretending either.”

For a long moment, he just stares at your hand over his, gorgeous ocean-deep eyes lost in the way your fingers look intertwined with his.

Then he lifts his gaze back to yours - gentle, adoring, like you’ve just given him the entire sky.

“I’ve waited months to hear that,” he admits softly.

And in the stillness of the forest, with the last light of day sinking behind the trees, Shin-Ah smiles. Delicately, way too tender for anyone else to see. To be honest, you’ve never seen him smile like this, his eyes gleaming with nothing but love. You don’t dare to open your mouth, don’t dare to break the silence with even a movement of your limbs.

The silence between you is no longer heavy - it’s warm now, filled with something warm and new. Shin-Ah’s hand shifts beneath yours, his fingers curling gently around yours as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t squeeze it.

You lean in slightly, just enough for your shoulder to brush his, bare skin feeling like burning alive by the sheer touch.

Now or never.

“You can kiss me,” you whisper, barely audible.

“If you want.”

His breath hitches. You see it in the rise of his chest, the slight widening of his eyes behind the mask. Slowly, cautiously, he lifts his free hand and brushes his fingertips along your cheek, as though still unsure this moment is real.

To be honest, you weren’t kissed before. Not truly, not with intention, not by someone who looked at you with the same affection in his gaze. You always wondered what it might feel like, to be loved by someone you love as well, to feel his lips pressed against yours.

Then he leans in.

The kiss is soft - hesitant at first, like a question. His lips are warm, gentle, and respectful, like he’s memorizing the feel of you. You close your eyes, leaning into him, and he deepens it just a little, just enough to let you feel everything he’s held back for so long.

You can’t help but allow your arms to wrap around his neck, to feel him just a little closer. Oh, countless nights you imagined this exact moment, always telling yourself that it’ll never become reality. And now, Shin-Ah is holding you right between his arms while kissing you tenderly with the last rays of sunshine illuminating the scene

.When you pull apart, barely a breath away from each other, you feel your heart thudding in your chest, wild and content all at once.

And that’s when a voice breaks the spell.

“Well, well, well,” Hak drawls from somewhere behind you.

“What do we have here?”

You both jump, startled. You turn your head so fast you nearly knock into Shin-Ah’s shoulder. There stands Hak, arms crossed, smirking like a cat who’s just found your secret stash.

“Really, Shin-Ah? Months of silent brooding and this is how you break the tension? In the middle of the forest, no less?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

Shin-Ah doesn’t respond. He just stares at Hak silently, though you swear you see the faintest tinge of red creeping up his neck.

Hak glances at you, his grin widening.

“I guess I’m happy for you two. But next time, give a guy some warning before I walk in on what looks like the final scene of some romance novel.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands.

“Hak - seriously?”

He laughs, loud and unbothered, already turning back toward the path.

“C’mon, lovebirds. Try not to make out too loudly behind me.”

You glance back at Shin-Ah, both of you caught between embarrassment and laughter. Then, shyly, you reach for his hand again - and he takes it, lacing your fingers together as if he’s never letting go.

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kat-rafe · 3 days ago

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coming home

rafe!reader

It was a whirlwind when Rafe got back from Morocco. He had kicked Sofia out of his house and out of his life, for good. So when he came running back to me, I was startled.

It had been years since Rafe and I dated, we broke up a couple weeks before Ward faked his death on the yacht. It’s been that long. We obviously saw each other around the island, but did not talk unless we were in the same conversation group at a function.

So that brings me back to now, right now with Rafe standing on my front porch. The slightly grown out buzz cut still looks good on him, the tan he got from the Moroccan sun. Still a hunk, maybe even more now than back then.

“Hey,” is all I say. It sounds so pathetic because I once knew Rafe like my own palm, but he has changed so much since then. So the man standing in front of me, staring at me, has familiar eyes but still he became a stranger.

“Hey,” he says back, probably thinking the same thing. That I’m also a stranger to him, that he doesn't really know anymore, maybe even wondering what he's doing here. “You’re not going to let me in?” he speaks up again. Then I realize that I’m not exactly welcoming. So I move out of the way, making space for him to step into my family home.

There’s a deafening silence as he walks into the kitchen, and settles on a bar stool at the kitchen island.

“Not to be rude but what are you doing here Rafe?” I bluntly ask him. Something I didn't dare to do back when he was my boyfriend. I wonder if he still thinks I’m challenging him by the tone of voice. But he doesn't look faced at all?

He leans forward, elbows on the counter, hands clasped like he’s holding back from reaching across the marble to close the space between us.

I cross my arms. Not defensive—just grounding myself.

“You could’ve texted,” I say.

He smiles at that. It’s small, sad. “You changed your number. Remember.”

He’s not wrong.

I watch him for a long moment. It feels like time folded in on itself, like I’m seventeen again, confused and in love and trying to make sense of his chaos. But I’m not that girl anymore. And he’s not that boy. His shoulders are heavier than they used to be, like life’s been stacking weight on them every year since I last knew him. But there’s something else too—an edge worn off. A softness.

“But you’re still standing,” I add, because I know how easy it is for Rafe to disappear into self-loathing.

“You never used to show up like this,” I say, folding my arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Unannounced. No plan. Just… here.”

He shrugs, looking down at his hands.

“Didn’t really think it through,” he admits. “Just got off the plane and drove.”

“From Morocco?” I arch a brow.

He almost smiles. “Technically D.C., but yeah. Was there before. I don’t know,” he adds. “I just got back, and… it felt like the first place I needed to go was here.”

I pause, and when I speak, my voice is steadier than I thought it’d be.

“You went there with the Pogues, right? That whole wild treasure hunt?”

He laughs once, low. “You make it sound like a summer camp.”

“Well,” I say lightly, “that’s kind of how the island talked about it. Rafe Cameron, off to find glory and gold like some fever dream.”

He looks up at me then, something sharp and searching in his eyes.

“It wasn’t glory,” he says. “It was running. I didn’t realize it until halfway through. When the dust settled, and I still felt like shit.”

I nod slowly. “And Sofia?”

He flinches. “Broke up with her. Should’ve done so earlier, honestly. She just… filled space. Not in a good way.”

I let the silence stretch, waiting. He knows I’m not just making small talk — I’m waiting for the real part. And sure enough, he finally leans forward on the kitchen island, his forearms tense against the marble.

“There’s something else,” he says.

I tilt my head. “Go on.”

“It’s Sarah,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.

That gets my attention. “What about her?”

“She’s pregnant.”

My breath catches, and for a second I just blink at him. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “John B’s. She told me while we were over there. I was the last to know. I think she’s — they’re still trying to process it.”

I exhale slowly. “Wow. Okay. That’s… big. And young, she’s what… like nineteen now?”

“Yes it is,” he agrees, voice flat. “I didn’t know how to feel. Still don’t, really.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something vulnerable, like he’s holding onto a thread too tightly.

“She told me after we’d already been through everything,” he says. “Ward dying. South America. Everything I’ve done to harm her. All of it. I guess maybe we’ll be able to get closer?”

“She might have too much on her plate at the moment,” I say.

“She might. It just reminded me that no matter how much I want to fix things, some stuff is already broken.” He looks at me now. Really looks. “That’s why I came here. You’re the only thing from before that doesn’t feel like it collapsed.”

I’m quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. Then I step around the counter and sit on the stool across from him.

“You want to know what’s changed the most?” I ask.

He nods.

“I used to watch my language around you. Tiptoe through my thoughts, thinking if I stayed small, you wouldn’t spiral into an awful and violent person I didn't recognize.” I hold his gaze. “But I don’t do that anymore.”

Something shifts in him — a little shame, maybe. A little relief.

“I want to know what happened to you, Rafe. All of it. The pain. The mess. Not just because I care — but because if you’re going to sit here in this kitchen, you don’t get to leave parts out.”

He breathes in like it stings. But then he exhales slowly, and nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Ask anything.”

And I do. I ask it all. About Ward. About Morocco. About how he felt watching Sarah retreat into another life, a Pogue life, while he stood still. I ask about the fights he didn’t tell anyone about. The long nights he spent trying not to fall back into old habits. Him technically becoming an uncle now that Sarah’s pregnant. The guilt. The aching and familliar silence he came home to.

And he answers. Not perfectly. Not eloquently. But honestly.

At some point, I make tea, and he helps without asking. It’s domestic in a way that doesn’t feel forced. When we sit down again, the air between us is softer. Lighter.

“You know,” I say finally, curling my fingers around the mug, “I don’t know what this is.” I say looking at the space between us as if I can see the light and almost loving atmosphere between us.

“Me neither,” he replies.

“But it doesn’t feel wrong,” I add.

He looks over at me, something unspoken flickering in his eyes.

“No,” he agrees. “It feels like the first thing I’ve done right in a long time.”

And we sit like that for a while. With nothing figured out. No promises. Just the warmth of shared space and old, unfinished truths finally spoken aloud.

#rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks

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faorism · 12 hours ago

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[lev:red 3.04 spoilers, very suggestive in the most mundane of ways?] while there are many closer by their house or hq, when they have the time eliot walks thirty minutes off route to go to a small family-owned pharmacy because he knows they offer hand packing of pills. probably why they're still in business; rare thing these days, and eliot may not have allergies, but he knows the resistances and sensitivites he's developed over the years, and he knows they can pack his shit right.

their home supply just ran out of simple antibacterial cream, and so eliot makes his way over. he notices parker, of course, a few minutes in, but he doesn't call her out and she hangs back. trailing him. watching him.

when he's picks just a tube of the cream, he hands it off to his side and (as expected) finds parker there with a basket. he peeks in and sees tampons, one of every kind of floss they have in stock, and a small bottle of the multivitamins hardison prefers, as well as (like a troubling promise of what their night might be like) lube, two boxes of sesame street band-aids, and glucose monitoring lancets.

eliot sighs, picks up the lube, and says silicone? really gonna need that? we still got some at—at her devious smile, eliot tosses the tube back in. right.

before he can drop his hand, parker snaps forward and steals it. she holds it up, examining the knuckle of the index finger. it bears the mark of where her canine tore into the flesh just a few days before. the area around it has now reddened, although it's thankfully not swollen or hot to the touch. yet.

it's still bothering you? you would think your body would have gotten used to my—parker chomps her teeth—by now.

agitated it fending off the goon squad, i reckon. eliot flexes his fingers. close enough to the bone im keeping an eye on it.

parker pouts thoughtfully, pressing a thumb into where he's most tender. should i pick up condoms?

made sure to not break their skin, so we should be good on exposure. there was once when he wouldn't have dared over a paper cut, but eliot has calmed down, putting more trust into PrEP and his ability to subdue without bloodshed. if you need them for your plans, wouldn’t hurt?

parker glances down, calculates, and then skips off. eliot follows as she snatches a box of latex gloves instead of condoms, hot & cold strips, and... yup, alright. she has definitely plans, judging by her pausing over the incontinence bed pads.

eliot shakes his head. deciding between comfort or absorption?

parker nods. given the greater utility, he reaches for the latter but perhaps his movement prompted her, because she snatches forward for one outside his usual dimensions for the widest.

no sharps in my ass, parker.

parker glares at him. i know that! she then... huh, shoves the basket at him and storms off. she lets him see her bump into a display to steal a chocolate bar on her way out.

her outburst surprises eliot. makes him pause. review their conversation tor any other obvious signs of distress, and finding no more agitation than her new usual since hardison left.

but she has been off.

eliot dutifully checks out (making sure they ring up the chocolate as well) and he doesn't have to go far to find parker. she sits on the old coin operated dolphin outside the shop.

gonna tell me what that was about?

when parker doesn't answer right away, he pats his pockets and puts the two quarters in, making parker rock back and forth morosely.

i take good care of you, parker finally says.

course you do, darling. it was a bad joke on my part. you're a good dom—

its not about that. ill do anything for my family.

eliot squeezes her shoulder. i know that too.

parker finishes off the chocolate and waits until the dolphin stops before she continues, voice small and eyes avoiding contact: was i too... she waves up and down her body. ...me this time?

how you figure?

bre got hurt. i scared the nana haters and they took too long and bre had to make a distraction, so. my fault.

oh, park...

she jumps up at her name and starts walking home. eliot matches her pace. he stops her, pulls her into the shadow of a building. parker is at a height with eliot, but sometimes it cna be so obvious how much more lean she is than him but how small she looks when she's feeling pathetic. eliot covers her jaw with his hand not busy with the bag of newly purchased items; he can see where she bit him against her skin.

i know they're, like, trafficking victims. but im still so angry at them.

we get heated during cases. harry had his own moment. you and soph conspired to get bre up there in just that case, right? parker shrugs, noncommittal.

im supposed to be better than that. im me.

that aint how this works.

it should be.

eliot kisses her lips softly, which she tolerates, especially as he puts their foreheads together. they stand close.

i had your back. you had mine, when i had to fight, figuring out how to get into the room fastest. sophie and me, maybe we overlooked how much anyone targeting a nana would make you invested and protective. oversight from sophie as our mastermind and, eliot swallows with a wobble, me as your partner. especially...

especially?

with hardison gone.

parker tenses up. oh.

i miss him too. i always miss him when he's gone away. miss you when—

in a breath, parker slips out of eliots grasp and starts speeding away, to the point eliot has to jog to catch up.

okay. i understand now. im done with those emotions right now.

alright darling, eliot says softly, seeing parkers walla go up rather than get emotional in public.

wanna go home. gonna poke and fuck you so hard.

eliot is excited to have sex with parker, whatever wild and potentially messy it will be. but as he scrolls aside parker, he knows he loves this too: walking by her side, supporting her, with hardisons name on his tongue.

#leverage #the grifter job #leverage redemption #eliot spencer #parker leverage #faorism work #of hearth and home and other promises #leverage spoilers #leverage redemption spoilers #redemption spoilers

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viktorapologist · 2 days ago

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Aaaaa I inhaled this chapter right when it came out but didn’t have time to get my thoughts together until now. Buckle up guys, I need to scream about how cute this fic is again.

I’ll put it under the cut to avoid spoilers, but if you love banter, beautiful imagery, and season 1 scientists jayvik falling HARD for each other, please read this fic.

Starting off the chapter with Viktor finding Jayce asleep at his desk in the lab? AAAAAA HE WAS UP ALL NIGHT RESEARCHING someone wrap a blanket around this sweet sweet man. He deserves a little kiss on the forehead.

I also think the use of excerpts from the books Jayce was studying as a way to incorporate new lore about how hanahaki disease works in-universe is genius. It flows so naturally with the narrative, you don’t feel burdened by the world-building at all, you almost feel hungry for more because it’s unraveling the mystery of how to cure Viktor.

Okay every time Viktor thinks a thought about loving Jayce, the flower petals choke him a bit more. The breath is being STOLEN FROM MY LUNGS TOO god damn it his love for Jayce is endless. Fucking “everlasting devotion” flowers, just end me now I can’t take Viktor pining for so many more chapters, I will lose my mind on his behalf.

What makes this story so addictive is that the pining of Viktor and obliviousness of Jayce are intertwined with constant banter that shows just how close they are, how comfortable and trusting they are. There’s no real reason either of them should be afraid to voice their feelings for each other, based on their friendship. And yet? Aaaaaa the tension and softness of these two are perfection.

As they argue over the list of names Jayce compiled to narrow down Viktor’s love prospects, a part of Viktor seems to sabotage himself. Subconsciously he wants to confess to Jayce, he can’t help but follow that sliver of hope that Jayce will figure out the truth and love him back, no matter how scared he is of rejection. It’s that same feeling when you have a crush on someone, and you don’t want to admit it to your friends out of embarrassment, but so desperately want to make the feelings real by speaking them aloud, so you make them guess! (Idk if that’s relatable but I know I’ve done that)

I loved seeing Jayce try to solve Viktor’s feelings like a puzzle. It’s so accurate to his character. He treats it like he’d treat an experiment in the lab. Always analyzing, testing hypotheses, reformulating his expectations when new data comes in, questioning everything. He’s never rude about it though. He always course-corrects when he feels like he crossed a line or was too invasive. 10/10 would die for him

The part where Viktor is choking and his whole field of view is just concerned Jayce? UH HOW DARE YOU? They are so??? I’m at a loss for words. Jayce is described so beautifully here, and so fucking tender. Damn, he really loves Viktor more than anything in this world, doesn’t he? When will he become aware? How much will Jayce suffer because he thinks Viktor loves someone else?

I can’t wait for the next chapter! This really is such a joy to read.

Before Your Sun Sets | Chapter 2 is out! 🌸

Read the second chapter now

Start from the beginning

#before your sun sets #fic rec #by the way op #I can read your French tags!#uhhh j’ai étudie à l’école mais je ne sais pas bien écrire #this is what happens when you study multiple languages but master none of them lol #nevertheless #thank you for another beautiful chapter #this month has been hard but your updates every Sunday keep me motivated to get through each day

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thunderstar-supernova · 4 months ago

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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 · 13 days ago

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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"

4K 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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