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iniquitousyearning · 6 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th. mattheo - virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART TWO | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

summary: pls read part one first for a lil buildup. also. im laughing at myself bc there was a perfectly good bed…right there…

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, virginity loss, PIV, so much dirty talk, so much patience from mattheo, (more of a realistic virginity loss bc it’s not always easy), praise!!!!, slight degradation, fingering, multiorgasm, handjob, best friends lil sister trope.

Mattheo Riddle was so accustomed to this. The pulse of adrenaline in the dead of night, the quiet hum of anticipation stretching every second longer than it needed to be. You weren't naive to that, not to him, nor the danger he carried so effortlessly in his stride. He wore it like a second skin.

But you—you were not accustomed to it. Not to any of this.

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

Too perfect. Too on the nose, like the castle itself had been watching you both for months and had decided this was the moment it would indulge you.

"You're late." Mattheo's voice cut through the quiet.

His back was to you, suit jacket discarded on an old oak desk against the wall, dark curls falling just above his collar as he stood by the window, eyes fixed on the lake. The moonlight made the ripples dance, just like the tension in the room.

You took a step toward him, silent.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

You gave him a small, nervous smile, hoping it would ease the weight of his stare. "I didn't realize you were the type to keep track of time."

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

"You've a lot to learn, little girl," he teased, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did nothing to mask the conflict in his eyes. It was meant to disarm you, but it only made the air heavier. His jaw tightened. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite sure," you breathed, stepping closer, close enough to admire the sharp line of his jaw, the soft stubble. "You're the one who's hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

You let out a small huff, your hand moving up to find his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Mattheo Riddle was nervous.

"You've been making me wait for months," you whispered. "I don't think a little rushing would hurt."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on your hand as it trailed over his chest, lower, teasing. Every touch was a flame against his skin, every breath between you a match struck in the dark. He wanted you, more than anything, but the weight of it—the wrongness, the danger—clawed at his conscience.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck.

"You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I'll regret nothing." Your fingers slipped lower, grazing his crotch, moving with nothing but instinct and need. Biting your lip, you felt the outline of him, hard and aching under your palm, and squeezed—he grunted, snapping his hips, and you throbbed. "Shit, Mattheo..."

"You are—fuck..." Mattheo's voice was a ragged breath, the words drawn out like he'd been holding them back for months. "...such a little tease."

You let go as quickly as you'd squeezed, and he growled against your skin, fingers tightening in your hair. Your hands found his face, pulling him in, crushing your lips to his. You moved with intent, pushing him back until his thighs hit the edge of the desk, and he groaned again—this low, guttural sound that sent a thrill through you.

You smirked into the kiss, tasting his frustration, savouring the way his defences cracked open. When you pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen, eyes dark with want.

"I learned from the best," you whispered, teasing as your fingers slid down, finding the buckle of his belt. He watched you, every breath uneven, as you worked at the latch, pulling the leather free. "You've had months of fun tormenting me," you continued, moving to the button, the zipper. "Kissing me, only to say it was a mistake. Grabbing my ass every chance you could. Talking sweet when my brother wasn't looking..." your smirk deepened, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "...it's my turn now."

His pants sagged around his hips as you undid them and he cursed under his breath—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

"You think you're in control here?" His fingers slid up your hips, dragging your dress along with them, baring your skin to the cool air. "You think you have any goddamn idea what you're doing?"

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked. His thumbs hooked around your panties and in one swift motion, they were gone—torn down your thighs before he urged you back onto the desk, parting your legs with his torso.

You were breathless, chest heaving, pulse thrumming wildly. His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

You stared up at him, mind empty, until—

Smack.

His palm came down on your inner thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of sensation straight to your cunt. Your skin stung from the contact, but that wasn't the part that made you gasp. It was the heat, the way it surged through your veins, flooding your abdomen in a slow, aching pulse. You liked that.

"I asked you a question." His lips brushed against your ear, breath warm as he leaned in. "Two, actually."

You couldn't think, mind swimming—the press of his body, the rough timber of his voice, the weight of his hands as his fingers teased, climbing higher, brushing closer to the ache between your thighs. You sucked in a breath, trying to recall what he'd asked, trying to focus anything but the fire he was lighting in you—

But then, his fingers slipped further, closer, just barely brushing your slit, and your hips jerked involuntarily, chasing that touch.

"No—I don’t—“ the shame in the answer barely mattered. His fingers were so close, so close. "Gods—I just know I want you—"

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

Your nails dug into his back and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, wetting his fingers in your arousal before gliding back up to your clit and tracing over it.

"Oh—Gods—" you whinged, moaning into his shoulder.

Mattheo’s hands were experienced—that much was certain. Those fingers knew exactly how to move, precisely how to trace light, delicate circles over your clit that made you twitch, squirm— nerves stripped as you took in the new sensation. It wracked every inch of you, and you could feel him savouring your helplessness, drawing out every ounce of tension that had been building between you for months.

“You’re soaked.” You could hear the disbelief in his voice. “...filthy little thing for me, aren't you?"

"Gods, Mattheo, yes—" your eyes rolled, thighs twitching against his hand. "I am—ohh—"

"Yeah?" His tongue traced a slow, wet path up the side of your neck, teeth dragging over your pulse. "You like this?"

His words were enough to make you want to scream, but no sound formed—just a low, broken moan that spilled from your throat, raw and shameless.

"Answer me," he murmured. "You ever orgasm from this before? Hm?"

"No—" your voice choked, trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look at him, something like shame pooling in your stomach. "Oh, fuck—"

"No, what?" His fingers pressed harder, circles growing faster, more insistent, and his voice—Christ, his voice— "I asked you two questions, little slut. Keep up. You wanted this."

"Yes—mmf—I like it—" you whined, the words a desperate spill from your lips, too flustered to form anything coherent. "And no—Gods—you're the first to...to touch me like this..."

He figured as much but the admission tore through him nonetheless, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a groan—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a reminder. His hand dipped lower, a finger pushing inside you without warning, pressing deep into your slick heat, and you cried out, your body tightening, pulsing around him, vision swimming.

"And this?" His voice was a smirk against your skin. "You let anyone else inside you like this?"

You knew he already knew the answer. You both did. He was reveling in it—the way he had you, trembling, helpless. You'd never heard him like this, never heard him so crass, so unfiltered, and the way he spoke made your whole body flush with heat.

"No." The word was a strangled moan, barely a breath. "Gods—Mattheo—you already knew that—"

He crooked his finger inside you, and your back arched, the stretch unfamiliar yet mindnumbing, his thumb working your clit. You felt teeth nipping at your earlobe, a hum into your eardrum—his body thrumming with the satisfaction of finally, finally letting himself have you where he wanted.

"Perhaps I did." He added another finger, curling them inside you, his teeth scraping along your neck in a smile. The groan that slipped from your lips was desperate, pained in its pleasure, your body reacting to every new inch of him. "Fucking hell—you can barely take two..."

Your head shook, words failing you. "Gods—Mattheo—I...fuck..."

A low grunt rumbled from his chest, his fingers moving quicker, slick with the evidence of your desire. "Feels good?"

"Yes—" you moaned, breath hitching, vision blurring as he pumped his fingers in and out, building something inside you that you couldn't name, something new, something overwhelming. "I feel—oh, gods—something...happening—"

"You feel something?" His voice was mocking, drenched in that innocent, teasing tone that had you falling apart. "Yeah? What's happening, princess?"

You couldn't find breath, couldn't form the words to answer him. The pressure inside you was mounting, intensity unbearable, your body tense and straining toward an edge. You clung to him, breathless, desperate for more, desperate for something, anything—

"I don't—" your voice broke as his fingers curled deeper, wetness flooding between your thighs, his thumb relentless. "Pressure—fuck—so much—"

He nodded. "Yeah? Pressure in that pretty stomach? Feels fucking good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck—yes, yes," your lids fluttered. "S’good—"

"You're so close." He watched you, drunk on your downfall, and smirked as you neared the edge. "You're going to cum for me."

Sanity shattered in your throat—words trapped, swallowed by the tension, leaving only the soft, unbridled whimpers you once might've once found embarrassing. But there was no shame now, not when you were this close, the pressure coiling tighter in your core, ready to burst.

"Ohh—" you managed, lungs sputtering, head tipping back. The sound of your voice, the way you moaned, was foreign, unfamiliar to your own ears. "Gods—oh fuck-"

"I know," he cooed, sweet like sugar. "I know."

You were a mess. Too close, too overwhelmed—everything was him. His scent, the heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers working that magic that had your body convulsing before you could even cry out, before you could process the way your vision blurred with the force of it. The climax hit like a wave crashing over you, and your moans were swallowed by his kiss, his lips on yours the second your body tightened, shaking against his hand.

He was relentless, rough and insistent, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole—drowning out the world as your body pulsed around his fingers. You’d never felt such an intense sensation, lava coursing, replacing the blood in your veins. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a low groan vibrating through him, the sound making your spine tingle.

"F-fuck," he muttered, pulling his fingers from you, glistening and wet. "Messy little thing."

The words sent a shiver through you, not just from their meaning but from the way he said them, like something perverse, intimate. Your chest tightened with the warmth of them.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

"Shut up," you whispered, stomach flipping at the way he said your name, the way it dripped from his mouth like honey. "Have not."

"I've known for a while, you know," he mused, his voice so low, so quiet. "Don't think I haven't seen it—the way you look at me." He kissed your skin again, working his way up, each press of his lips something sacred, moving closer to your mouth. "The way you can't get enough of me."

You could kill him for it, for the way his words sunk into your bones, making all the feelings you've buried rise to the surface, pulling you under. He just had to go there—had to milk every inch of your composure out of you, because it's not enough for him to have you disarmed physically—sexually—he needed to have you disarmed emotionally, too.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is how right he was. Arrogant bastard.

"Stop talking," your hand drifted down, grazing the bulge in his pants, your fingers slipping under the waistband, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was reckless. You've never done this before, but God, you wanted to. "Stop talking and teach me."

The room tilted—the world off its axis. His breath caught, choked in his lungs as he grabbed your face and pulled your lips to his—his kiss wild, his tongue insistent, running along your gums and wrestling with yours for control.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth as you tugged his boxers down, freeing him, your hand wrapping around him. Hot. Hard. "Wrap your fingers around it, princess. Gentle strokes. Just like that."

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, thick, raw and open. You tightened your grip, stroking him slowly, experimentally, and he hissed through his teeth, a groan vibrating through his chest.

"You're so big," you murmured, forehead against his, the words spilling out without thought. "So thick..."

"Fucking minx," he moaned. "Stroking me and telling me how big I am—fuck—you're not as innocent as everyone thinks."

"Only you know this," you whispered, your hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, pulse soaring as he groaned. "Does it feel good, Matty?"

"Fuck—Christ—" his breath was jagged, words ripped from his throat like they barely wanted to come out, hips jerking mindlessly. "Tighter, mm—little tighter—"

Your cunt throbbed—each whispered invocation of a god not his own, of something he didn't believe in, forced a shudder through you. That's how you knew. Knew how lost he was. He’d no mind left at all if he was muttering muggle gods.

"Like that?" Your fingers squeezed around him, your gaze burning into his as you looked up through fluttering lashes.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Yeah—shit—just like that," he gritted out, grip on your hips bruising, but you welcomed it. Needed it. "Fast learner, aren't you?"

"You're a good teacher," you whimpered, a sound that was barely yours as his fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your slit, teasing you open again. "Oh—"

"You've always been a little teacher's pet," he groaned, thrusting into your hand as he slipped a finger inside you. The stretch made you wince, pleasure and pain blurring into something that sent sparks behind your eyes. He watched you, gaze molten. "Fuck—it’s gonna hurt, you know that, right?"

The ache spread through you, but you didn't flinch. "I know," you whispered as his thumb found your clit, making you gasp. "I trust you."

"I know you do." His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning. Your hand tightened on his length, the heat between you flaring, and you moaned against his mouth, shaking with the need for more.

"I want you," you breathed, each syllable shivering on your lips as you clenched around his fingers. "I've wanted you for months—"

Months? No, it had been years. Years of wanting, needing, watching from afar, heart in your throat. Years of avoiding anyone else because no one was him. You knew he’d felt the same and it killed him. It wasn't logical, wasn't supposed to be like this—not with you, not now, not his best friend's little sister, not him whispering sweet, dangerous things while knuckle-deep inside your virgin cunt.

It was as if you both shook those thoughts from your minds at once. You’ll think about the implications later.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

Hate him? The very idea was laughable, absurd. You could never hate him. Not even in those moments you tried, not even when he deserved it.

"I could never hate you," you murmured, drawing him closer, lips trembling against his. "Just—please—"

Something shifted in his eyes, and he knew. Knew what you needed. What you both needed. You were vulnerable, trembling, but you trusted him—completely. You’d been in his life for so long. You knew he’d never hurt you. He could see it your eyes, the trust, the in the way your body bent to his touch.

"Alright," he said softly, a hand running up your body to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Alright."

His fingers slid out of you, leaving you bare and breathless, and you swallowed. This was really about to happen.

"Lay back," his voice cut through your haze. "Legs to your chest."

The command wrapped around you like a vice, tightening the anticipation, and you fell back on your elbows, staring up at him as you raised your legs. Vulnerability crept in, making your thighs tense, but Mattheo was there, spreading you open with firm hands, pressing himself against your slick. His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't. He guided himself against you, the press of him at your entrance an unbearable ache. He was hot, hard, huge—and despite the wetness slicking down your thighs, your body resisted, too tight, too unsure of this.

You whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away, but he stayed, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, whispering something that sounded like comfort but burned like fire. It hurt more than you expected, more than any of the fantasies you had dared to entertain.

Doubt curled through your chest, what if you couldn't take him? What if—

"M-Mattheo..." his name broke in your throat as you clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. He tried to push in again, but your body resisted. "It—you—you can't fit..."

"Shh," his lips ghosted over yours, his hand slipping through your hair, trying again, moving slow, controlled. "You're just—so goddamn tight—"

The way he said it sent a spark through your veins. It was filthy, shameless, and it lit you up from the inside, despite the pain. No one had ever spoken to you like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tears pricking as he tried to work you open.

And then—he was in.

"I-it hurts," you hissed—pain lighting up your spine as he worked his cockhead inside you, pushing against the resistance of your walls. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inch a battle. The pressure was unbearable, the sting so sharp it was paralyzing. "Oh, fuck, Mattheo—"

He groaned, a sound from deep within his chest, his head bowing, sweat creeping over his brow.

"Shhh, I know—I know..." he murmured through shredded cords, fighting to maintain control as his hips paused, barely halfway in, just enough to make you feel like you might break. "S'okay...you're doing so good..."

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Why—mmff—gods..." you could barely speak, the words tangled in your throat. "Why do you have to be so big—"

A strangled laugh escaped him, though his eyes stayed shut tight, his jaw clenched—cock twitching inside you.

"I don't—fuck—know." His fingers brushed your lips, covering your mouth gently. "Don't go talking like that—not right now—"

You might have laughed, too, if your body wasn't so taut, strung tight with tension and pain and something far more profound. He was barely inside you, his words making your insides clench, drawing another groan from his lips at the squeeze.

His hand held your jaw, palm pressing lightly over your mouth, enough to breathe, to speak—

"Why—" you knew what he meant, knew the warning in his eyes, but you couldn't stop yourself. "—not?"

His breath hitched. "Because—" he swallowed hard, words coming through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your jaw, a warning in his grip. "Because—fuck—your mouth will get you in trouble."

Oh. That was what he meant.

"But—oh fuck—you're so...big..." the words slipped out before you could catch them, a disgruntled moan falling from your lips as he sank all the way in, filling you so completely it was dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the sensation of being pried open—it was all too much, and you cried out, unable to stop the sound from spilling out. "Ohhh—so big—"

"I said, fuck," he cursed, hand clamping firm over your mouth now as his body shuddered, as he ground his hips gently into yours. "—don't say that."

It was too late. You didn't need to say anything further. He could feel it—he could feel everything in the way you clenched around him, barely letting him move—so goddamn tight it was almost painful—he could feel it in the look in your eyes, in the trembling of your body beneath his.

"I can feel you thinking it," he grunted as you squirmed beneath him, every movement making him twitch inside you, drawing another choked groan from his throat. "Merlin sakes—"

You knew he wasn't used to this. To slowing down, to drawing out the tension like this, to the maddening slowness of every motion. He wanted to lose himself, to break you open hard and fast, to take and give and take again until both of you shattered into something unrecognizable. But he couldn't—not with the way your eyes glistened, not with the way you gasped and whimpered as he filled you.

"No talking," he sucked in a breath against your neck, his hips rolling into yours in slow, unbearable waves. "Only if you need me to stop."

He was breaking. So were you. Every thrust was an exquisite kind of torture—an ache that twisted and stretched, dulled only by the flick of his fingers against your clit. His lips pressed along your neck, kissed along the line of your jaw, groaning with each deep, patient push, carving his way into you as you clung to him, your mind floating through the fog of pain into something different—something overwhelming.

Your head fell back. “Oh—Oh gods—“

Each gasp felt like it might be your last as that something built deep inside you, tight and unfamiliar, an ache that didn't hurt but begged to be released. And he felt it too—Mattheo felt it, the way your body pulsed beneath his, the way you tightened around him like you couldn't bear to let him go.

"Bloody fuck—are you—are you going to—" his words were ragged, broken. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't hold himself together. "Are you—"

“Mattheo—” your voice trembled, a breathless moan as your back arched, pressing into him, your body seeking more. The pain was null now, replaced by an overwhelming pressure, something tight and aching and good—you felt every inch of him inside you, every pulse of his cock as he moved, slow but relentless. “Mattheo—oh gods—”

"Fuck—" he bit down, teeth sinking into your neck as his fingers swirled your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. "You're gonna make me—"

You choked because there was no space for words, no breath for anything but the raw sound of your bodies—moans, gasps, ragged inhales tangled together as you both hurtled towards something inevitable. The light of the moon radiated the man above you and that was all you could register other than the rising crescendo of your climax—something so intense it scared you, almost broke you apart—your body seizing, trembling, as his fingers pressed harder against your clit, as he thrust deeper.

And then, there was only one more blink until you shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through you in oceanic motion, muscles clenching around him so tightly he could barely move—and then he was there, too, his body jerking as he groaned into your skin, his release ripped from him in jagged gasps as you milked him without mercy. He slumped on top of you, fingers digging into your skin, the two of you pulsing together in the aftermath, the room spinning, your bodies still trembling from the force of it.

The world was slow to return, the roar of sensations fading into something quieter, softer. The weight of him on top of you was grounding—his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Neither of you moved for a long while, just basked in the silence, kind that settled in after something irrevocable had passed between two people.

And then, Mattheo pushed up, enough to meet your eyes. Your chest ached at the softness inside his own.

“Are you—” he swallowed as he drank you in, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the flushed cheeks. His words hung in the air as if he didn’t know how to finish the question.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

Mattheo nodded too but didn’t move, still buried inside you, just taking you in. Then, gently, he shifted, pulling back with a slow, careful movement that made you wince slightly. The second he’d pulled out, you felt different—more aware of the vulnerability you’d just laid bare, more aware of the line you two had just obliterated into absolute shambles.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—

You nodded again, the smallest smile pulling at your lips, though your heart was still racing, the enormity of it all sinking in.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

His jaw tightened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” His voice was barely audible, like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Of course he was thinking it too—how could he not? This was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist, no longer something you could hide behind banter and stolen glances and secret kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the heat still radiating from his skin. “It does.”

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 months ago

Text

It's Been Calling Me

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.

So sure, until you're not.

Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!

Word Count: 10.9k

“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”

“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“

“They are.”

Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.

“You sound quite certain of that.”

“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”

“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”

“No thanks, I’m-“

She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“

“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”

“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”

You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.

“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”

It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.

“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”

“Changed how?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Try.”

You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“

Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”

It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”

——

This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.

But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.

You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.

And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.

You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.

A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes.

He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop.

But he doesn’t.

And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.

——

Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.

“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”

You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“

“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”

It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story.

“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“

Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?”

“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”

“Every-“

“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”

Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”

“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”

“Changed from-“

“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“

“Everything?”

You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.

“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”

Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.

“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”

——

You can see him. You’ve never seen him before.

He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either.

But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him.

He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life.

But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.

Because he does not look okay.

He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car.

The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.

His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.

He’s really pretty.

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.

Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-

Metal hand.

One metal hand.

——

Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy.

“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat.

“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“

Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”

You frown. “Need to know?”

“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Therapist reasons.”

You give her a flat look. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Yes, it is. Name.”

“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”

Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”

“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“

“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“

“It’s Bucky.”

He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.

That’s part of the problem.

“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”

“He told me.”

——

This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.

There are a truly staggering amount of goats.

And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.

His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.

You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.

He turns and looks at you.

Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.

At you.

He can fucking see you.

“Hello?”

You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.

It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.

“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.

He’s right in front of you. Staring at you.

He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.

This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.

“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.”

He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.

“That’s a weird name.”

He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.”

Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.

He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours.

“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth.

Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“Before? What do you mean-“

“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”

He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue.

You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before.

It’s kind of electrifying.

“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”

“About me?”

He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.

“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”

Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to.

It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile.

“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”

You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.

“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”

“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”

You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”

He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else.

“Yeah. Goats.”

“Did you name them?”

He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”

“You named your phone?”

“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”

“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”

“Better than Bucky.”

He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.

It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.

“You’re kinda mean, doll.”

“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”

He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.

You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it.

“Will you come back if I let you name them?”

He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.

But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”

He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”

———

“Did you ever learn his last name?”

You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”

“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”

———

“You’re back!”

Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.

Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.

You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.

At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.

He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.

The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.

He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.

But he doesn’t.

And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole.

That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean.

He never seemed to mind.

And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.

You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.

You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit.

You mostly just like him.

“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”

“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”

“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.

“Should I be worried about you dying?”

“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“

“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“

“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”

You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.

“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“

Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”

“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”

“But-“

He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”

You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”

Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.

“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.

This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.

This seems less like a dream every night.

You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.

“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter.

“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”

You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.

———

“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”

You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-

“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”

You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”

Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“

“Not like this.”

———

“This is new.”

You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.

“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”

You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like-

“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“

“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”

“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”

“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.

He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”

“My apartment.”

“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”

You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home.

The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.

You think.

You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.

And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-

“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.

He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.

And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.

“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.

And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.

And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:

None of this is real.

———

“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.”

You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.

———

“You got that moose expression again, doll.”

You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“

“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”

He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.

“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“

“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”

“I don’t have a moose face-“

“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“

“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”

“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”

He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”

There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now.

“What about a wolf face?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”

“I don’t know what that is-“

“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”

You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.

And everything feels alright again.

———

“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”

You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.

“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”

“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”

You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”

———

You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.

Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.

Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.

Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.

Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.

And maybe that’s it.

Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need.

You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.

But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.

And now you’re here.

You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear.

And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.

But you can really feel this.

And it’s heaven.

You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.

You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.

It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.

“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“

You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“

It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.

“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”

Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish.

“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“

“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“

Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.

You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name.

It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-

“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“

He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.

He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.

You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.

He’s naked now too.

And he’s perfect.

His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-

Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”

You’d have to be insane to say no.

You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in.

“You-“

“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“

He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.

“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”

You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“

“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“

“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“

He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“

“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“

You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.

Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.

He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.

You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.

You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.

Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.

You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.

“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”

He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-

Happy.

You’re happy.

This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go.

Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.

“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“

“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”

He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.

And you really don’t know why he’d laughed.

You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.

He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm.

He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time.

He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues.

You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying.

And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.

———

“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”

“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”

“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”

———

These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.

And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces.

But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone.

And you don’t know how to move on.

It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.

What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.

You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.

And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.

It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean.

Alone.

You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.

———

“And after the blip?”

“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.

———

During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.

So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.

When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize.

And he’s there.

Bucky’s right fucking there.

You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant.

He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck.

“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“

You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head.

He has two hands again. You don��t really care why.

Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.

But he’s back. And you feel real again.

———

There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John.

He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out.

And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider.

You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.

But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.

“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”

“Because he’s real.”

———

Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.

Dreams.

He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.

Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.

A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried.

He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.

Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side.

He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.

A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.

She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.

He could imagine a pretty girl.

He couldn’t imagine Her.

Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself.

She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.

She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.

So She had to be real.

Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real.

It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms.

He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.

“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”

“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”

Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”

“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”

It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.

“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”

Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.

Soulmate.

“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”

Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“

“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”

Oh.

The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.

Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.

But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was.

“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”

“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”

Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“

“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”

“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”

He knew She had. She’d told him She had.

Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.

Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”

“But-“

“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”

And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word.

Soulmate.

She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate.

He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.

And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his.

He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it.

But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.

He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.

He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.

It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“

“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”

He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“

“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”

That wasn’t good.

“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“

Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”

“See what?”

“Just come to the fucking office.”

Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.

Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.

He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.

So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.

Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this.

All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.

Her.

In person.

Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.

Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name.

It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.

“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.

She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.

She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.

She was real.

Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.

Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.

“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.

“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”

He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”

Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky.

There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.

“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”

End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.

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oito-cc · 1 year ago

Text

PORES — skin pores for more realistic looks

i made those to get less softness and bring some realism in my ocs' skins. just sharing in case someone finds it useful. i recommend reshade's smart sharpen shader for more sharpness.

⭐ INFO

base game compatible (bgc).

10 swatches (4 types with different opacities).

teen to elder, all frames.

available in skin details (forehead, mouth crease, freckles, left lip mole, birthmark, eye socket), facepaint and occult details (brow and mouth details) categories.

disabled for random.

⭐ EXAMPLES (click for better quality)

⭐ NOTES / T.O.U

compatible with most skintones.

i tried to show the difference, but i don't know if i succeeded.

you can use it in your skinblends and etc, just credit me.

don't reupload, but you may include it in sim dumps.

⭐ DOWNLOAD

simfileshare / patreon (free)

any problems, PLEASE tell me. feel free to tag me if you use it, i will love to see it!

#ts4cc #ts4 cc #s4cc #ts4 acc

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valeisaslut · 30 days ago

Text

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. four

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐒𝐇𝐄.

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listen to the song linked for a better and more realistic experience, hope you like it and think it fits them as much as i did <3

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: Trapped in a carefully crafted illusion, you and Ellie have spent the past month playing the perfect couple for the world to believe. But in the quiet of a hotel room, away from the world’s gaze, a song takes shape between you. A melody that feels too raw, too real, like something neither of you meant to reveal. And as the music flows, so does the unspoken truth—this isn’t just an act anymore. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: fluff, LOTS of tension, nothing big acc happens but is SUPER important for the story and plot, shows my undying love for music, fake dating, cursing, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The past month had been nothing short of chaos—an intoxicating, inescapable kind of madness. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, endless headlines, and a public that simply couldn’t get enough of you and Ellie.

The entire world crowned both of you as Hollywood’s latest and most interesting It Couple. Your names trended daily, your faces plastered across billboards, magazine covers, and endless Twitter threads dedicated to analyzing the tiniest details of your interactions. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of fingers, even a single shared breath in the same frame was magnified, dissected, and spun into theories.

You expected the attention. The speculation. But what you hadn’t expected was for it to stick. To grow. To spiral into something much bigger than the both of you, something neither of you had full control over.

But Rachel was right—relationships, real or not, fueled careers. Publicity was a currency, and right now, you and Ellie were cashing in.

Overnight, you had become a rockstar’s girlfriend, an effortlessly cool counterpart to her reckless charm. Your name carried a new kind of weight—more intrigue, more edge. Meanwhile, Ellie’s past scandals and messy headlines were wiped clean, replaced with a precisely curated narrative of stability, of mistery wrapped in romance.

Both of you had the press wrapped around your fingers, feeding the public’s insatiable hunger, heightening the anticipation for your upcoming albums.

Everything was working perfectly.

Well, almost.

This romance was an act, a carefully crafted illusion designed to sell a story. But as more fake dates passed, as more carefully orchestrated appearances blurred into late nights, it stopped feeling like fiction. The teasing, the banter, the way she’d lean in just a little too close when she whispered in your ear, the way her fingers would slip under your clothes when no one was looking—it wasn’t just for the cameras anymore.

And the way she looked at you… that was the worst part. Because when the flashes faded and the crowds disappeared, when it was just the two of you slipping into the quiet of a hotel room, a dimly lit backstage greenroom, a late-night car ride with the city stretching out endlessly beyond the tinted windows, the lines blurred.

And the “rules”?

They weren’t just bending anymore.

They were begging to be broken.

Now, another morning. Another hotel room. The remnants of last night lay scattered like evidence—a familiar, beautiful kind of mess.

Whiskey glasses half-empty, a bottle of wine tipped over on the nightstand, clothes draped over furniture, carelessly discarded in the haze of lust. The air was heavy, thick with the remnants of cigarettes and the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the skin and the sheets.

Sunlight spilled through the massive windows, casting lazy golden streaks across the tangle of limbs and the mess of unruly hair. It traced the curve of bare shoulders, the rise and fall of slow, steady breaths—turning the remnants of the night into something almost soft, almost tender.

In the hush of the morning, it was easy to forget.

Easy to sink into the illusion that outside these four walls, the world wasn’t waiting with cameras and microphones, ready to twist something as simple as a glance into another headline.

Here, time moved slower, suspended in a half-conscious state between dreams and reality.

Just her.

Just you.

And whatever the hell this had become.

You stirred against the pillows, consciousness creeping in at the edges, reluctant to pull you from the weightless comfort of sleep. The bed was warm, the space beside you still faintly imprinted with Ellie’s shape, but empty.

A few feet away, perched at the edge of the mattress, she sat with one leg drawn up, the other resting on the floor, hoodie slung lazily over her shoulders, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The loose fabric did nothing to conceal the way her tattooed back muscles flexed with each movement, her fingers untangling the mess of wires at her feet.

She hadn’t noticed you were awake yet.

Her auburn locks were an absolute mess, sticking up in odd places, and for just a fleeting moment, she looked younger, softer. There was something achingly familiar in the slope of her shoulders, in the easy way she just existed in the quiet.

As if this wasn’t a hotel room in some foreign city. As if you hadn’t spent the past month pretending this thing between you was just an act.

You watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, letting yourself look at her—really look at her. Before the world demanded smirks in place of softness, sharp words instead of silence, half-truths masked as teasing. Before the world could steal this version of her away from you.

And then, as if drawn by some unspoken force, she turned.

Her gaze found yours, soft with sleep, yet sharp in its awareness. Something flickered in those green eyes, quiet and unreadable. She didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. She just looked at you, studying your face like she was trying to etch every detail into memory.

Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached out. The backs of her knuckles ghosted over your cheek, featherlight, tracing the curve of your jaw before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a warm sensation you tried—and failed—to ignore.

Her thumb lingered at your temple, just for a second. A hesitation. A silent question neither of you dared to voice.

And then, as quickly as she had touched you, she was gone.

She turned her attention back to the wires, fingers deft and practiced as she untangled them, as if the touch had never happened. As if she hadn’t just traced the shape of you like you were fragile, something worth remembering.

The spell broke. The world righted itself.

But your skin still burned where she had touched you.

The gentle clink of a guitar cable against the amp, the soft click of knobs turning. A second later, the first note filled the room—unhurried, each strum rolling into the next.

You groaned, cracking an eye open fully. "Really? First thing in the morning?"

Ellie barely spared you a glance, her fingers drifting into a slow, steady rhythm.

"Sorry babe…" she muttered, exhaling as if she had been holding her breath too long. "I just… have this fucking melody in my head. I don’t wanna lose it."

You made a noise of protest, throwing an arm over your face. "You’re insufferable."

She smirked at that, plucking another note, her voice dipping into something lower, amused.

"And yet…" she murmured, "you keep ending up in my bed."

Your lips parted for a retort, but you swallowed it down, pressing your arm further into your face instead. There was no point in denying it.

Because she was right.

You always did.

A few seconds later, you eased your arm to peek. Her head was tilted down, watching her hands move over the fretboard with effortless ease, like the chords were something she was pulling out of the air itself.

There was something intoxicating about watching her like this—completely lost in it, focused, unaware of how fucking good she looked in the lazy light of morning. The sound lingered, like the kind of melody that only existed somewhere between a dream and a memory, slow and hypnotic. Almost intimate.

Your brows pulled together.

"That’s… actually really good."

Ellie finally looked up, an eyebrow raised. "You think?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, hair falling into your face as you listened, really listened. The way the chords lingered, how she let the last note stretch a second longer than expected, the slight hesitation in how she moved between them—it felt intentional.

Words and lyrics began to swirl in your mind, floating effortlessly like they were born from the melody Ellie was playing. They felt right, like they belonged perfectly to the rhythm she’d found without even trying.

"Keep going." you murmured.

Reaching blindly for the notepad on the nightstand, your fingers brushed across the edge of the pages before curling around the pen Ellie stealed from god-knows-where.

Without thinking, the words spilled out, falling from your lips as if they had been waiting for this moment.

"She… she lives in daydreams with me…"

It was barely above a whisper, unpolished, something that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The moment it left your mouth, it did.

Ellie’s head snapped up, fingers pausing on the strings.

"She’s the first one that I see…" you continued, voice steadying, gaining weight. "And I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…"

A slow grin spread across her face. Not her usual cocky smirk, not the teasing half-smile she threw when she was trying to get a rise out of you—something softer, something real.

"The fuck was that?"

You shrugged, heartbeat a little too fast, face warming up.

"I don’t know. It just… came."

Ellie nodded towards the notepad.

"Write it down."

Your stomach flipped. You bit your lip, then did exactly that.

Ellie’s eyes never left yours as she continued to play, her body moving instinctively with each chord. The muscles in her forearms flexed and relaxed as she adjusted the pressure on the fretboard, focusing entirely on the music.

You tapped the pen against your thigh, your gaze on her fingers, watching the way they moved. More lyrics began to unravel in your mind, slipping past your thoughts.

“Nine in the morning, the man drops his kids off at school...” you hummed, voice soft, testing the air around you as if searching for the right words.

Ellie snorted, fingers momentarily slipping on the strings. “What man?”

You blinked at her, confused.

She looked at you, brow raised, guitar still going. “The guy in the song. The fuck are you talking about?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the irritation from your voice. “Just a random guy I saw across the street yesterday. But imagine this—this song isn’t about him. It’s about someone else entirely. A girl from a fantasy.”

Ellie paused for a second, considering your words, her expression softening with a thoughtful nod. “Huh. Alright. Go on, Shakespeare.”

You shot her a playful look before continuing to scribble words down, humming and trying to find the perfect ones to describe the concept you just found.

“And he’s thinking of you...”

“Like all of us do…”

Your last words were a whisper, barely audible, almost too honest. Like a confession.

"Sends his assistant for coffee in the afternoon," you murmured, scribbling the line down, "around one-thirty-two. He knows what to do"

Ellie groaned dramatically, shaking her head. “Fucking hell. You’re fast with those lyrics.”

You glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. “What? It’s just how I work. Now keep playing.”

Ellie exhaled, a small, impressed grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Fine, ma’am,"

You let the words tumble out, the melody weaving itself around the lyrics in perfect harmony. Everything around you seemed to disappear, as if nothing else mattered but this—the music, the words, and the space you shared.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…" The first line left your lips again, now fitting perfectly against Ellie’s steady melody.

You didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered, her fingers tightening around the neck of her guitar.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…”

Ellie let the last note hang in the air for a moment, the room thick with the sound.

She hummed in approval, her gaze steady on you.

“That’s really sick”

Then, she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully as she caught your gaze.

“But it’s kinda lesbophobic of you to write this about a man”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand in mock embarrassment. “Oh, shut up, it slaps. And i already told you, it’s about a girl.”

Ellie chuckled, setting the guitar down just long enough to stretch, her muscles shifting beneath the ink that covered her arms. The sight of it made your breath catch, just for a second. She glanced over at you, her voice a little lower now, as if the air between you had thickened.

“Gotta admit…” she murmured, her eyes dark with something unreadable “your raw singing voice is amazing.”

You swallowed, heart thudding against your ribs as you forced out a casual, "Yeah, well… don't get used to it."

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something else there now, heavier. Her fingers flexed against the body of the guitar, like she wasn’t sure whether to pick it back up or let the silence settle in.

You looked down at the lyrics scribbled across the notepad, the ink slightly smudged from where your palm had rested against the page. The song was unfinished, hanging in the air between you, waiting.

Waiting for who?

Waiting for what?

Ellie broke the silence first.

"This fantasy girl… who is she?"

Your hand stilled over the notepad.

Ellie tilted her head, something sharp—knowing—lurking behind her curiosity.

You swallowed. "I don't know."

A lie.

Ellie didn’t know what the hell was happening to her.

She’d looked at you a thousand times before—across dimly lit restaurants, over the neck of her guitar, through the haze of cigarette smoke and exhaustion after a long night in the studio.

But this? This was different.

The weight of her gaze settled in your chest, thick and pressing, making it hard to breathe. You weren’t used to her looking at you like this—open, unguarded, as if she was actually seeing you.

Not just the version of you she joked with, not just the version of you that the world saw, but the real you. The one who wrote in hotel rooms at ungodly hours. The one who overthought everything. The one who kept getting tangled in something she didn’t have the words for.

And maybe that was what scared her the most. That you—this raw, unfiltered version of you—had somehow become the thing she kept chasing. The thing that was lingering in every corner of her mind, bleeding into every song she played, every lyric she wrote, every melody that lived rent-free in her head.

You shifted slightly, the fabric of her shirt slipping further down your shoulder, exposing warm skin to the low light. And for some reason, that was the thing that made her stomach twist. Not in the way she was used to. Not in the way that ended in tangled sheets and careless goodbyes.

No, this was something else.

Something quieter. Something that had been building, slow and unrelenting, creeping in through the cracks she hadn’t even realized you’d left in her.

And then Ellie moved again, fingers finding the guitar with effortless familiarity. The melody resounded again, but now softer, like she was testing the waters.

She could feel it in her hands before she even processed the thought—fingers moving, plucking at the strings without hesitation, as if the melody had been there all along, waiting to be carved out.

It came effortlessly this morning, guided by something unspoken, something just out of reach. The way you looked at her, the way you bit your lip absentmindedly, the way the light caught on your cheekbone. It was music. You were music.

And before she could stop herself, before she could even think, it was spilling out of her again.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…"

Her voice humming your lyrics—low, raspy, barely more than a whisper—wrapped around the words like a confession, rough yet impossibly gentle. It sent something sharp curling low in your stomach, dangerously close to longing.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is."

The song lingered in the space between you, settling into the quiet like a secret neither of you were ready to confess.

But in that moment, you didn’t have to.

Mid-strum, she let out a slow breath and rolled her shoulders.

Then, almost out of nowhere, she said, "I told you that I learned to play guitar from Joel, right?"

You nodded, surprised by the shift in topic and feeling the weight of the legendary name. "...Yeah, you did"

She nodded, her fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like she needed something to anchor herself.

“He never cared about playing things the ‘right’ way. Wasn’t about that for him.” She exhaled, gaze distant, like she was somewhere else. “He always said music wasn’t just about the notes—it was about feeling it. Living it. That if you played it right, it could make sense of things that didn’t.”

You watched Ellie carefully, seeing a side of her you hadn’t expected. The way she spoke of Joel, the way her fingers tightened on the guitar like it was a lifeline.

“You ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure what it meant—Joel, music, or something else entirely.

Ellie let out a breath, tilting her head to the ceiling before shrugging. But it wasn’t casual—it was heavy.

"...Yeah" she admitted, voice quieter than before. "I’ve been kind of a dick to him, honestly."

You didn’t say anything, just let her talk.

"He made everything feel easier. Even the shit that wasn’t." She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. "When we played together, it was like... I don’t know, like none of the bullshit mattered for a little while."

Her fingers stilled on the strings.

"He used to tell me, ‘There’s no wrong way to play a song, Ellie. Just how you feel about it.’" She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Guess that’s why I never cared about music theory or technique or whatever. Just wanted to feel it."

You nodded, understanding more than you expected to.

The weight of the moment settled between you, pressing into the space where words didn’t need to be. For a second, it wasn’t about the song you were working on—it was about the simplicity of what music meant to both of you.

“Guess that’s how this song came out, huh?” you said, your voice almost teasing but with a note of sincerity. “No wrong way. Just… feeling it.”

“Yeah, exactly. You just... you just let it happen.” Ellie caught your eye and grinned, a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Pretty deep for a song we wrote in a hotel room, huh?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this to turn into some big existential moment, but here we are.” You chuckled, shifting on the bed to get a more comfortable spot. “Maybe it's the afterglow”

Ellie let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Oh yeah? That what we’re calling it now?"

"I mean, think about it—" You gestured vaguely, a teasing edge to your voice. "The post-song haze, the melody and lyrics basically coming out of nowhere. It’s the artistic equivalent of afterglow."

Ellie hummed in consideration, tapping her fingers against the body of her guitar. "Okay, fine, I’ll give you that one. But music’s kinda like that, y'know? It creeps up on you. You think you’re just messing around, and then suddenly—bam—you’re confronting shit you didn’t even realize was still in your head."

You felt the weight of her words settle, the vulnerability that was so rare for her, but so real in that moment.

“Yeah, it does. Like, maybe this song wasn’t meant for me to write by myself. Sometimes, it’s just... the right person at the right time that makes it all click.”

Your words resounded in her head.

The right person at the right time that makes it all click.

You were that person.

Ellie tilted her head, murmuring low as her fingers never stopped their movement on the guitar.

“Maybe it was meant to be something we did together.”

A silence fell between you again, but it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the understanding of something bigger than both of you. Something beyond.

Like it had a life of its own.

Ellie broke the silence, her voice light but knowing. “You know, I never thought I’d be sitting here, writing a song like this with anyone.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged again, her gaze flickering to you, then back down to her guitar. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d just write songs with Jesse, Dina, and nobody else. But it’s... it’s amazing, doing this. With you.”

You reached for the notepad again, feeling the weight of the next line coming to you. “Then let’s make it count. Let’s finish it.”

Ellie smiled, the familiar spark returning to her eyes. “You got it.”

And with that, the room once again filled with the sounds of the song, both of you lost in the music, pushing and pulling at the notes, the chords, and each other—creating something new.

The next hour, the room was still filled with the soft hum of Ellie’s guitar strings, each note careful as she played the song you two had crafted over and over. It was still raw, still finding its final form, but with every repetition, it felt more real. More polished. And it was really good.

You sat cross-legged on the bed as Ellie played, her fingers moving over the strings with more confidence each time. But you couldn’t help but watch her and wonder what the hell was going through that unreadable mind of hers.

She shifted, sitting back slightly, guitar still resting on her lap, letting out a long, almost frustrated sigh.

“Alright, so we make this entire song in the span of an hour, and now what? Do we just let it die here?” She nudged the notepad towards you with her foot, the corner of her mouth pulling up in that mischievous grin you’d come to know far too well.

“We don’t have to record it,” you said, your voice a little too steady. “I mean, we didn’t even plan to write it, right? It was just… something that happened.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Something that happened?”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly, still holding that knowing look. “Come on. You’re telling me you’re not at least a little curious about how this sounds with some actual production? Not just… us in a hotel room?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just better left as a thing we did for ourselves,” you said, attempting to sound casual. "Not everything needs to be recorded."

Ellie clicked her tongue, clearly not impressed. She tapped the neck of her guitar rhythmically, glancing over at you. “That’s a nice idea, but you and I both know you’re lying to yourself right now.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. You're not the first person to get all deep and philosophical about a song only to end up recording it.”

You stared at her, then laughed despite yourself. “You really think I can’t just not record it?”

“Please,” she scoffed. “You’re itching for this to be out there. You wanna hear how it sounds with a full band behind it, don’t you?”

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether you were more frustrated with her or with the fact that she was right.

“Maybe…” You trailed off, giving her a small smile. “But it’s not like it has to be something big.”

“Big, small, whatever. The point is—" She paused, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you crackling with tension. "We’re making something that feels real, something that’s ours, and it deserves to be heard.”

“I don’t know…” You exhaled slowly, looking away for a moment. “This is very different from my music. I’m not sure how it’ll translate.”

“It’s very different from my music too, but it’s just that fucking good.” She was almost daring you to argue, like she was waiting for you to backpedal.

“I’m not arguing that it’s really good. But it’s… soft. You know?”

Ellie chuckled, crossing her arms. “Soft, huh? That’s how you’re gonna describe it?” She shook her head, almost in disbelief.

You crossed your arms, matching her defiance. “It’s just not what I’m used to. I don’t usually write this kind of stuff.”

Ellie tilted forward, her gaze steady. “Look, I get it. You’re afraid of doing something different. It’s not a big, loud anthem. It’s a quiet, real song that means something.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Not completely.

You fell silent, feeling a mix of dread and anticipation building in your chest. This was it. It wasn’t just the song anymore—it was you, stepping into something new.

“So what, we just go into the studio and see what happens?”

“I mean, yeah. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? We both make a hit? Break the internet with your beautiful voice and my amazing solo?” She said, grinning like she’d already won. “Or maybe we just have fun. Either way, I’m in.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re relentless.”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. A challenge? A plea? Or maybe deeper, but you weren’t ready to name it.

“We’ve been through a hell of a month—don’t you think it’s time to do something that actually has meaning? Something that’s actually real?”

The words hit harder than you expected.

Because she was right.

Nothing in your life was real. Your smile, your image, your carefully curated personality that just existed for the cameras. Every interview rehearsed, every appearance staged. Even this so-called relationship was nothing more than another performance.

But music?

Music was the only thing that had ever been real. The one unshakable, non-negotiable truth of your existence. The thing that kept you tethered when everything else felt hollow. The one part of yourself that hadn’t been twisted, edited, and repackaged for consumption.

And Ellie knew it.

She saw through all of it. Past the script, past the headlines, past the bullshit. And maybe that was what scared you the most.

Your breath hitched, something inside you shifting, clicking into place like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing. It was time to stop caring about how the world wanted to frame you.

Because if nothing else, at least this—whatever the hell this thing between you was—could create something real. Something honest. Something that actually mattered.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s do it,” you muttered, exhaling like you were about to regret it. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when it turns out all weird and experimental.”

Ellie let out a sharp, triumphant laugh, her fingers already tapping an impatient rhythm against her knee. “Hell yeah. That’s the spirit.”

You shot her a look. “And don’t get any ideas—I’m not doing this for you.”

“Oh, please.” Ellie’s grin was all teeth, smug and satisfied. “You totally are.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, it didn’t really matter anymore. Because the second the words left your mouth, you knew it was already done.

And as much as you told yourself you should be careful—as much as you tried to ignore the feeling curling low in your stomach—something inside you, quiet and reckless, was already looking forward to whatever came next.

The studio was alive with a hum of anticipation, the faint buzz of equipment and the subtle echo of footsteps as you adjusted the mic stand, your fingers brushing the cool metal. The engineers had already set everything up, the recording equipment primed and ready.

It was just you and Ellie now, standing on the edge of something that felt too personal yet impossible to keep hidden.

You took a steadying breath, rolling your shoulders as you positioned yourself in front of the mic. Ellie sat off to the side, her guitar resting against her knee.

She had already laid down the instrumentals, the soft hum of her melody wrapping around the space like a thread holding it all together.

Now, it was your turn.

You inhaled slowly, eyes closing as you began to sing. The words of the song slipped past your lips effortlessly. It was the kind of moment where it felt like the music was taking control of you, and everything else melted away.

Your voice stretched into the space, the words slipping into the quiet between notes. There was something raw in it, something that cracked through your usual performance.

You could feel Ellie’s gaze on you, her focus unwavering, but her usual teasing smile was nowhere to be found. She was listening—absorbing the emotion you were putting into the song.

You held the notes a little longer, the emotion building as you sang. It was simple, something you had done a million times, but in this moment, it felt different.

You kept singing, the lyrics still scrawled messily across the notepad in handwriting so illegible only you and a pharmacist could decipher it. As the final note hung in the air, fading into the quiet of the room, you exhaled, fingers loosening on the mic.

Almost instinctively, you turned to Ellie, searching her face for something—anything—that would tell you what she was thinking.

Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. It was like she was trapped somewhere else, still feeling the weight of it.

And then, without a word, she reached for her guitar.

The familiar chords rang out softly at first, her fingers moving over the strings like a whisper, hesitant yet sure. She played softly at first, almost as if testing the waters, letting the sound of her guitar blend with the tail end of your last note. The rhythm was soothing, a gentle echo.

But then, just as you thought she was going to ease into it, Ellie’s fingers shifted, and the solo erupted into the room. Like she just got a divine inspiration.

It wasn’t just music. It was something alive, untamed, filled with unspoken emotions. Her hands flew across the fretboard with the kind of precision that only came from knowing exactly how to make an instrument sing.

Knowing exactly how to make an instrument say something she couldn't.

The sound built around you, sharp and electric, filling every inch of the space like a storm breaking loose.

The engineers behind the glass exchanged glances, nodding along, clearly impressed. But you couldn’t look away from her. She was just so lost in it, eyes half-closed, completely in sync with the music, her body moving with each note.

The final note rang out, vibrating in the air before fading into silence. Ellie exhaled, letting her hands drop from the strings, her chest rising and falling from the energy of it. The studio was still, the only sound the distant hum of equipment and your own uneven breath.

You stilled there for a moment, breathless, still processing what had just happened. Ellie looked at you, a small, satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Well…" Ellie murmured, voice still slightly hushed, as if she didn’t want to break whatever was left of the moment, "that felt pretty damn good."

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You weren’t kidding about that solo."

"Told you. Guitar’s like a second language."

The night had settled in by the time you and Ellie finally sat back, the last echoes of the song still lingering in the quiet of the studio. The rest of the team had packed up and gone home hours ago, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space, surrounded by empty coffee cups, the lingering scent of guitar polish, and the faint hum of the amplifiers still cooling down.

Ellie stretched her arms over her head before slumping back into the couch with a groan. “Jesus, I think I just aged ten years.”

She let her head tip back against the cushions, exhaling loudly. “If this shit doesn’t at least get us a Grammy nom, I’m gonna start throwing hands. Nominations drop in a month—let’s just drop it next week and shake things up.”

You smirked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Oh yeah, because that’s why we did this. For the awards. Not for, you know, the love of music or whatever.”

Ellie scoffed, lifting her head just enough to shoot you a look. “Hey, I love music. I also love validation. Sue me.”

You smirked, stretching your arms over your head. “So we just randomly drop this track like we’re Beyoncé?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because you and my band are exactly like Beyoncé.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just saying, the timing is perfect. This song hits, it gets people talking, then—boom—albums drop next month, and we ride the wave.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “Or we just look like we’re trying too hard.”

Ellie scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Okay, first of all? Rude. Second? That’s the game, babe. Build hype, get streams, make money, and do it all over again.”

She smirked. “You know, the thing we’re really fucking good at.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“We always were. We just finally caught up to it.”

Your gaze flickered to her, but she wasn’t looking at you. Instead, she reached for the remote, pointing it at the soundboard. “Anyway. Let’s hear it again.”

With a lazy press of a button, the track began to play through the speakers. The first soft notes filled the room, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace, yet somehow new. You exhaled slowly, sinking into the sound.

Your voice wove through the melody, steady yet raw, laced with something unspoken. Then came Ellie’s guitar—rich, electric, sharp in all the right places. The solo hit, wild and untamed, yet perfectly in sync with everything else.

But Ellie suddenly frowned.

“Nope. No, no, no. I need to fix that part.” she muttered, already reaching for her guitar. “That transition into the bridge? It’s good, but it could be better.”

“Ellie, we’ve been at this for hours. It sounds perfect.” you protested, but she was already plugging back in, tuning absentmindedly as she muttered to herself.

“Just one more take,” she insisted, brushing her fingers over the strings, testing the sound. “I swear, just one. Then I’ll be done.”

You sighed, shaking your head with a tired smile. “Fine.”

She started playing again, her fingers moving effortlessly over the fretboard, chasing perfection. The solo filled the space between you, between the rise and fall of your breath, between the erratic thrum of your heartbeat and the tightening in your chest.

But the music wasn’t what had you frozen in place.

It was her.

Ellie played like she always did, because she didn’t just know the guitar—she was a part of it. Every note came effortlessly, pouring from her like something inevitable, a feeling too strong to hold back.

And you watched her, not just in passing, not just because she was there, but because you couldn’t not look. Because something about this moment, about her, held you captive.

The way her eyes fluttered shut as she let herself get lost in the music, the soft crease in her brow when she leaned into the heavier notes, the way her fingers moved—confident, sure.

The way the muscles in her forearms flexed with each shift, veins peeking through the skin as she held down the chords, calloused fingertips plucking the strings like she was pulling something straight out of your ribs.

Like this whole song was about you.

Like she had done this for you.

Something inside you twisted, sharp and breathless. A flicker of recognition sparked at the edges of your mind, something old and undeniable, that had always been there but had never made itself known.

Your throat went dry. Your heart stuttered. Your hands felt too still, too heavy in your lap. And you panicked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t sudden.

This had been there all along.

It had been buried under layers of denial, tucked beneath every sarcastic remark, hidden behind every casual touch and lustful night, sitting between the lines of late-night high conversations. It had been lurking in every stolen glance, every fleeting moment where the world felt just a little too small when she was near.

You had fallen for her.

And really fucking hard.

From the very beginning, and you hadn’t even realized it. From the first time you saw her, slouched in that goddamn booth, whiskey glass hanging lazily between her fingers, looking at you like she already knew something you didn’t.

From the first time she whispered in your ear, voice low and teasing, meant to make you squirm—and it did. From the first time her fingers grazed your skin, casual but charged, a warning and a promise all at once.

From the first time you went to that damn hotel room with her.

You had told yourself it was just sex. That it was nothing. A transaction between two people who found temporary relief in the heat of a moment and then walked away unscathed.

But that was a lie.

Because that first night? That first night ruined you.

You still remembered the way she kissed you, rough and desperate, like she was trying to drink you all at once. The way she had stripped you down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but the raw, undeniable truth of it all.

You pretended it didn't mean anything. You got up. You got dressed—in her clothes—and then walked out of that hotel room like you hadn’t just left a piece of yourself behind. Like you weren’t already unraveling at the seams.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that decision would alter everything. That it would pull you into something much bigger than the both of you—a whirlwind of blurred camera flashes and endless headlines, of fake emotions that didn’t feel so fake, of rehearsed appearances that started to feel too real.

That morning, you thought you were walking away.

But really, you were stepping straight into something you’d never be able to escape.

Straight into her.

Because it was just that easy to get lost in her. In the way she moved, the way she touched you, the way she made you feel like the only thing that mattered in the world for just a little while. And the more you gave in, the harder it became to pretend you weren’t already gone.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with her.

Ellie was untouchable. A heartbreaker. A groupie-fucker. She burned through people like cheap lighters, flicked them open, used them until they ran out, and tossed them aside without a second thought.

She didn’t do love. She barely did attachment. You’d heard about it. Hell, you’d even seen it.

She was reckless and shameless and easy with her affections—until she wasn’t. Until she got bored. Until she found someone else to light up and burn out just as fast.

And somehow, without even trying, she had done the same to you.

And now, sitting across from her, watching her get lost in the music, feeling the weight of everything that had led you here, it all slammed into you so hard it made your head spin.

Ellie struck the final note and let it ring out, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Okay,” she breathed. “Now it’s perfect.”

She turned to you, eyes shining with that stupid, infuriating confidence of hers, and it made your stomach drop. Because she had no idea what she’d just done to you. No idea that in fixing one tiny flaw in the song, she had broken something irreparable in you.

With a casual press of the button, she played the song again. And this time, it was different.

Not because the notes had changed. Not because the mix was better. But because you knew. Because there was no turning back from this. Because suddenly, every lyric felt heavier, every chord sharper, every second more fragile.

She leaned back, kicking her boots onto the table, stretching like a lazy cat. “Alright, verdict?”

You forced yourself to speak, to pretend like your entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis. “Eh. Could be worse.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me? Could be worse?”

“I mean, I dunno. Feels like the guitar is a little… show-offy.”

Ellie looked genuinely offended. “Show-offy?”

You shrugged. “Just saying, it’s a lot of wailing.”

“Babe, that was one of my best solos. That was—you know what, you don’t deserve to hear my genius ever again.”

You kicked her lightly with your foot. “I’m kidding, relax. Your little wailing session was nice.”

“Nice?” Ellie clutched her chest like you had physically wounded her. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into this song, and all I get is ‘nice’?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, okay, fine. It was—what's the word? Transcendent?”

She narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. “Damn right it was.”

Then she smirked, reaching for her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. And you let yourself laugh—let yourself sink into the moment, into the ease of it. Let yourself pretend, just for a little longer, that everything was exactly as it should be.

Pretend you weren’t drowning in something you were never supposed to feel.

But there was no escaping it now. No undoing the realization that had cracked through you like lightning splitting the sky. No unknowing the way your heart beat differently when she looked at you, no taking back the way her presence had rewired something fundamental in you.

This was the point of no return. A moment so sharp, so irreversible, that it changed everything in its wake.

Because from the very start, you and Ellie had been heading straight for impact—drawn together by something neither of you could fight, totally inevitable.

And It had all begun the moment you collided.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 →

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OMFG GUYS. THIS DUMBASSES FINALLY FUCKING REALIZED WHAT WE AAAALLLL KNEW SINCE THE BEGINNING!!! GOD SAKE NOT EVEN MYSELF CAN WAIT FOR CHAPTER FIVE. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

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see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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