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ahundredtimesover · 1 year ago

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I Want You to Stay (01) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 12k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: Happy 2024, everyone! 🎉 Dropping this tonight as a welcome to the new year and the start of the wild journey that is this story. It's a different JK that I'm used to writing. It's also a different arrangement for me as the story is still being written, so just a heads up that updates won't be as regular compared to before, but they'll definitely come (pls don't come at me hehe 😁)! This is also a painfully slow build-up with lots of details and office talk so please be patient! I don’t know how this will turn out and be revived but I hope you enjoy! 💕

Also my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight as always 🥰

Jung Hoseok’s smile is like a ray of sunshine - warm on cool mornings, radiant on sunny afternoons. It’s light and infectious, but more than anything, it’s genuine. There’s comfort in the way his entire face beams and how the rest of his body follows; there’s this sense of openness that makes it easy to be around him, that makes it easy to work for him.

It was 10 years ago when you first encountered that smile - bright and encouraging as he welcomed you and the rest of the interns to his family’s company. It slowly dissolved the anxiety you were feeling over being 1 of 12 chosen students to work for one of the leading real estate and property development corporations in the country. You’d see it again two years later as an employee, and you recall how he perked up at the sight of you, having remembered those eight weeks you spent preparing the conference room for their meetings and serving the executives their coffee.

You wouldn’t have expected that five years after that, you’d be seeing that smile everyday as his executive assistant, and it was one of the things that made the job bearable. Despite the long hours and the amount of work you had to do and events you had to accompany him to, working for Hoseok always felt worth it. Despite the insane amount of pressure he was put under and the stress he had to endure, Hoseok somehow always managed to smile.

He was serious when he had to be, but there was joy in how he did things. He allowed himself moments of calm, of time to check in on his support team for a few laughs. He’d spare himself a few minutes a day to sway to the soft music he plays in his office, he’d preside over meetings with vigor, and he’d start and end every interaction with anyone with that smile - the same smile that assures you that all your hard work is appreciated and which encourages you to keep learning.

It’s that same smile that he has on right now, as he hands you a custom-made cake with ‘you worked hard’ written on it. He says the words as your eyes turn to him in surprise.

“Thank you for all that you’ve done,” Hoseok says. “I know you were new to the role just like I was but you made everything so easy for me. I’m gonna have to get used to being without your brilliance, Ms. Cho. I hope you never doubt yourself ever again.”

Your astonished face turns into a pout, as it dawns on you that it’s Friday, the first unofficial day of you no longer being Hoseok’s executive assistant, given his appointment as President not long ago. Yet despite the big change he’ll be experiencing starting next week, he’s the one affirming and comforting you, something that’s rare for someone of his stature and something you’ll definitely miss.

“You know I don’t cry, but I just might,” you respond, earning you a chuckle. “But really, I… I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on me. I know my credentials weren’t like the others but—”

“Ms. Cho,” he interjects. “The only credentials those other applicants had were the universities they went to, but none of them matched your level of skill and dedication to the role. I can assure you that none of them would’ve managed the past three years like you did. I should be thanking you for dealing with all the craziness with me.”

“You’re a good boss, it’s that simple,” you return the compliment now. “You were patient with me and challenged me to be better without putting me down. That does a lot for a person’s confidence, you know?”

“I know that now,” he smiles again. “But really, I don’t think I could’ve asked for a more competent right-hand woman. Jungkook’s lucky he’s taking my position with the most capable assistant to help him out.”

At the mention of the man’s name, your face sours, something that Hoseok picks up, earning you another laugh.

“Not a fan of him, I see,” he eyes you curiously.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Jung, but your cousin is not you,” you explain. “I may have only seen him a handful of times but those are enough to let me know that he does not smile.”

“Yes, I do confirm that,” Hoseok chuckles. “Jungkook’s quite the perfectionist and very much a workaholic. But he’s brilliant and creative and you’ll learn a lot from him, too. He’s being primed to co-lead the company with me and he needs a strong support for that and I think that’s you. His father thinks that’s you, and for the CEO to think so means a lot, ___. Uncle has seen how you work and was adamant that you remain in this role, especially with his son assuming the Vice President position.”

You know that Hoseok means to reassure you, but you suppose your insecurities over having this role and even being in this company won’t ever really go away. You didn’t graduate from a prestigious university in Seoul like most employees here did, and in this society, that usually means everything. You’re thankful for the trust that you’ve been given and you agree that you worked hard for it, too, but it will always be overwhelming; even then, it sometimes still feels undeserved.

At your silence, Hoseok speaks again. “___, as your former boss and as your friend, I’m here to back you up. Jungkook’s family but if he, for some reason, acts like a hard-headed jerk, you let me know, okay?”

He turns serious now, as he silently asks for you to promise him that you’ll speak out if you need to. Hoseok knows what you went through under Mrs. Byun, the former manager who abused her power over you until her own slip-up caused her downfall years later, and he doesn’t want you to go through that again.

“Okay. But I didn’t mean to imply that he’s a jerk just because he doesn’t smile,” you clarify. “I guess I meant to say that… I’ll miss working for you. That’s all. We somehow always got a laugh in, no matter how stressful things were. I’ll miss being with A-yeong, too.”

“I know you also meant to say that I’m the best boss you’ve ever had,” Hoseok chuckles, though you don’t miss the sadness in his eyes, too. “But I’ll just be two floors above you. You’ll still see me everywhere. And A-yeong’s gonna miss you, too, that’s why she can’t let you go without having dinner out, that I’m apparently not invited to.”

“We’re just gonna gossip about you, don’t worry,” you tease, appreciative of the fact that his wife has been kind to you all these years, apologizing to you on his behalf during the rare times he’s cranky, and gifting you little things from their trips abroad. “But thank you again, Hoseok,” you continue, dropping the formalities when you mean to speak to him as a friend, because that’s what he is, and it’s a rarity in this industry where those in power tend to take advantage of those below them. “You’ve treated me well, and I’ll never forget that.”

“Thank you, ___,” he smiles once more. “I’ll finish setting up my new office now. I’ll see you there in 30 minutes, okay? I know Jungkook officially starts on Monday but he wanted to get all the administrative stuff out of the way as soon as possible and since my old room is being sanitized, he’ll be staying at mine the whole morning. HR has everything he needs to sign so please get those documents from them before heading to my office.”

“Oh, so he’s coming today?” You ask, unable to hide the mix of surprise and disappointment in your voice. You’re clearly uninformed about this. “Didn’t he just arrive last night?”

“Yes, he did. I thought he’d at least spend today resting but no, he called me an hour ago to say he’ll drop by this morning so he can get straight to business on his first day,” Hoseok explains, shaking his head at the thought of his cousin wanting to get straight to work. “I know it’s short notice so you don’t need to brief him or anything yet. You’ve been buried in organizing all my files this past week after all.”

“Okay, but I’ve got everything organized for him already anyway in case he wants to start,” you say, having prepared all the documents he’d need to ease into his role more smoothly, knowing it’s your job to help him with that.

“Of course you have,” Hoseok chuckles, impressed as always with how on top you are of everything. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

You sulk in your seat once he’s out of view, whining internally because much as your files are ready for your new boss, you’re the one who isn’t. You’d held off on mentally preparing yourself for meeting the Jeon Jungkook, second son of the current CEO of Jeon Corporation and the new Vice President, thinking you’d have the entire weekend for that, so you’re caught off guard at having to face him today. It’s one thing to move on from no longer having Jung Hoseok as your boss - that itself took you months to process and accept; it’s another to have to get used to assisting someone else, someone you know is completely different in attitude and approach to his work.

Jungkook used to be an executive in the Singapore office, the Southeast Asian headquarters of the company. In your three years as Hoseok’s assistant, you’d only seen Jungkook a few times, such as when he’d fly to Seoul for an official visit or a family gathering but you never interacted, as you didn’t really have a reason to, especially since you were always busy with making sure the event was running smoothly.

But you’d definitely noticed him, partly because the female staff always talked about him when he was around, and partly because next to his parents and his cousins, who are all personable in their own ways, Jungkook sticks out like a sore thumb. You’re not exaggerating when you say that you’ve never seen him smile - not for the pictures and not when he’s talking to the other executives and employees, a contrast to his father’s infectious charm and his mother’s youthful energy.

You’ve gotten used to Hoseok’s passion balanced with his thoughtfulness and joy - you always enjoyed the videos that A-yeong would show you of their weekends doing ballroom dancing because it’s what he loved to do with her. You’re unsure how you’ll manage assisting someone who’s the complete opposite. You’ve heard of Jungkook’s abilities though; his father always spoke of them with pride. Creative and innovative, he’d say of his son, but he always lived in his head, too, and perhaps that’s why even if he can socialize with others, he prefers not to, given that you’d always seen him at the bar after said events, drinking on his own.

You didn’t think those times that you’d one day be having him as your boss. You didn’t expect the appointments to come this soon, nor did you expect to still be in the company by the time they happened. But here you are, about to meet him and hoping to the heavens that whatever preconceived notions you have of him based on what very little you know would be proven wrong.

Wanting to calm yourself down before meeting him, you head to the management support team’s office for a cup of tea in the pantry, but you’re stopped by Do-hyun, one of the project assistants.

She hugs you like she always does, even if you rarely ever return it, and she whines like you expect her to, given her unusually pouty face.

“It’s only been an hour but I already miss Mr. Jung,” she laments. “Why did they appoint him as President so soon? They could’ve waited for another year or so, or at least let him take us with him!”

You find yourself being the reasonable one this time, as you pull her away from you so you could talk to her properly.

“We always knew he was going to be President, Do-hyun. But then the Board decided to make Ji-woo head of the Singapore office after their uncle stepped down, and that meant Hoseok had to take his sister’s place,” you explain, knowing how generational corporations like this work, with family members rotating in the executive positions. “And much as he’d like to take us with him, the position already comes with its own team. He’s just two floors above us, though. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we popped in every once in a while to say hi.”

“No, I’m bitter,” she pouts again, earning her a laugh from you.

“Well, at least the new Vice President isn’t a stranger,” Manager Lee chimes in.

“I heard the CEO’s son doesn’t smile,” Do-hyun counters. “How do we go from assisting someone who literally gives all of us the energy to work each day, to someone who doesn’t think there’s anything worth being happy about? I also heard he’s a workaholic, so what if he demands that we can’t leave the office until he does? And that he’s kind of a fuck boy, so what if he has a scandal that we have to—”

“Yah! Those are just hearsay, and we don’t listen to those,” you warn her, not wanting the team to start on a bad note because of some rumors about your new boss that may or may not be true.

And if those are, it’s your job to make sure that those are handled properly and that there’s no friction between the management support team and the Vice President. The thought suddenly hits you and you feel nauseous. You’ve never had these worries with Hoseok because he always prioritized the team - he made sure that tasks were properly delegated, that you all took your well-deserved break, that you weren’t burnt out, that you all knew he got your back the way you all got his.

But then again, it’s natural to be anxious about change, especially when what you had was already the best it could’ve been. And much as you were the one worrying about this earlier, you’re now the one who has to reassure the team, especially the younger members, that things are going to be okay.

“You’ll meet him soon, and I’ll make sure he’s properly oriented with everything before he sits down with you all,” you say. “Let’s just be optimistic about this, okay? Manager Lee has been here a while and he can guide all of us when it comes to adapting to changes like this.”

The rest of the team nods, voicing their agreement about being open and welcoming to your new boss.

“Okay, good. Now let me get my tea before I combust,” you chuckle, heading towards the adjacent room.

You’re busy taking breaths in between sips of your hot drink when you see a familiar face in the room through the glass window, prompting you to head back outside.

“Mr. Ri,” you greet, causing the man before you to turn towards you. “What are you doing here? Does Mr. Jeon need anything?”

Knowing you’re referring to the elder Jeon, Mr. Ri shakes his head.

“I’m here as Jungkook’s chauffeur and bodyguard, actually. His father appointed me, wanting people he trusts to help his son,” he clarifies. “I’ve just driven him from his penthouse.”

“Oh,” you say, unable to control the way your face falls a little. “So, he’s here.”

“He is. He said he wanted to get things done today so he doesn’t waste his time when he starts next week. He’s at Hoseok’s office right now. I believe he’s supposed to sign some documents?”

“Oh shit,” you blurt out, immediately setting down your half-finished tea and rushing out the door to speed-walk to your desk, ignoring Mr. Ri’s demand for you to slow down.

With what little you know of your new boss, he seems like the type to not excuse tardiness, so you take your files, head to HR to retrieve some documents, and then proceed to Hoseok’s office. You try to catch your breath as you head towards the door, which opens before you get to knock, revealing Bitna, the President’s assistant, who greets you with a sweet smile.

“Hi, ___. I was just about to call you,” she says. “CEO Jeon is inside as well. Just walk in, they’re waiting for you.”

You cross the small hallway as the door gently closes, and you stop in your tracks the moment you hear Jungkook’s voice.

“I still prefer my old assistant,” he says, obviously displeased. “He was very organized, highly educated, and well-traveled. While this Ms. Cho didn’t even study in a top university in Seoul. And Hoseok says she doesn’t know any other foreign languages when that’s one of my requirements.”

“Son, you’re being too harsh,” CEO Jeon chides. “Ms. Cho is a top performing employee, very hardworking and dedicated. She’s worked here for eight years and she imbibes all our values; she knows the company culture and knows the ins and outs of things with how she’s been exposed to them. Ask your cousin; Hoseok speaks highly of her.”

“___ is great, Kook. She’s incredibly organized and highly analytical and observant. She doesn’t need a Seoul education to be good at what we need her to be good at,” Hoseok argues.

“I still want my old assistant. It’s more convenient that way. Lucas already knows how I work and what I require of him,” Jungkook insists. “I’m just saying that I need things to be efficient and she and I can’t be adjusting to each other when there are multiple projects that I’d much rather give my attention to.”

“And I’m saying that Ms. Cho probably knows more than you do when it comes to these projects,” the elder Jeon counters. “Plus, your old assistant would have to adjust to life in Seoul and that’s harder. It’s just not practical, especially since you’re due to start in a few days. You have other things to worry about. ___ is there to make your life easier. Give her that chance to do her job.”

“But I—”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” you greet, not wanting to hear whatever unfounded things that Jungkook has to say, even if you have your own preconceived notions about him which, you remind yourself, are partly founded. Barely five minutes in and you already can’t stand his judgmental and entitled ass.

You walk towards the middle of the room where they’re congregated on the couches, with the elder Mr. Jeon and Hoseok smiling at you while Jungkook merely glances at you, his jaw clenched, perhaps irritated at the fact that you’d overheard him completely misjudge and undermine your abilities without even knowing who you are.

“Good morning, Ms. Cho,” CEO Jeon says. “I know you’ve seen him a few times but I’d like you to officially meet my son and the new Vice President, Jungkook.”

Jungkook turns to you with a disinterested look but he doesn’t meet your eyes. You bow as a sign of respect, even if it’s the last thing you think he deserves.

“My pleasure, Mr. Jeon,” you respond. “I was told that you’d like to proceed with administrative matters this morning. I have all the documents with me and I can explain each one to you before you sign them. I’ve also consolidated all the things you need to know prior to your meetings next week,” you add, handing him an iPad. “This has the resumes of each member of your management support team, including their professional and development goals. Mine are there as well, so you can read about my credentials and achievements in this company the past eight years, which I think have tremendously helped me in performing my duties satisfactorily. There’s also a folder of team profiles of each of the departments you’re overseeing. You’ll also find closure reports of completed projects from the past five years, progress reports of ongoing projects, and approved and working proposals of upcoming ones. I’ve included summaries and key figures for each of them. You may read them prior to your meetings, and if there’s anything missing that you’d like me to include, I can have them ready by the end of the day.”

“Hmm,” Jungkook hums, as he scrolls through all the folders you’ve prepared for him.

In your periphery, you can see the other two men holding in smiles as you seemingly render the younger man speechless, but while he assesses all that you’ve provided to him, you’re given time to observe the man seated before you. Other than his slightly longer hair, not much has changed from when you saw Jungkook in last year’s gala.

As he drags his tongue across the inside of his cheek with his scrunched eyebrows in judgment, you’re reminded that this is the first time you’ve seen him up close. And even from his angle, you can tell.

He’s unfairly handsome.

He’s got dark expressive eyes, soft-looking pink lips, and a sharp jawline that complement his lean figure. You understand why the staff are enamored by him even from afar and - if the rumors about him are true - why women would shoot their shot with him at clubs, in hopes they’d be the lucky one he’d choose to be with for the night.

The illusion breaks, though, as he turns to you with a hardened gaze.

“I’m sure I’ll find something that’s missing,” he states.

“If they’re relevant and necessary, I can have the files ready by today,” you respond, knowing full well that you’ve included every possible document that would be of use to him.

“I’ll be the judge of what’s relevant and necessary, Ms. Cho,” he counters.

“Of course, Mr. Jeon,” you say, conceding. “Whatever it is, then I’ll make sure to have them ready for you as soon as possible.”

Jungkook hums in response, turning his attention to the HR documents this time, breezing through the text and ignoring your brief explanations of the contents before signing at the bottom of the pages. You inform him of sections he’s missed, and he groans at having been corrected but you don’t mind. He’s the one who chose to do all this now and in here, in front of his father and his cousin.

Once he’s done, he hands you the signed files and holds your gaze. “Is there anything else, Ms. Cho?”

“I suppose that is all, Mr. Jeon. Unless there are other things you want to assess, or people you want to ensure are qualified to assist you with your functions,” you say.

Jungkook huffs in displeasure. You can sense the tension build, as irritation paints his face. It’s at that moment that his father chimes in, suggesting that you introduce him to his team.

“You can maybe also orient him on the current projects and partnerships,” the older man says.

“That can wait. I’ve had enough of engaging for today,” Jungkook responds, his voice cold, detached.

“In that case, let me lead you to your floor, Mr. Jeon.”

You step back and wait for him to walk ahead, before you excuse yourself from the older men. You don’t miss the sorry looks on their faces, and you give them a smile as if to say that it’s fine, that Jungkook’s someone you can handle, and his obvious displeasure towards having you as his assistant doesn’t faze you. It doesn’t change the fact that you wish he wasn’t your boss though, or at least, that he wasn’t such a jerk like what he’s being right now.

Walking behind him as you both head towards the elevator, you see the way he carries himself - hands in the pockets of his sleek black trousers, his eyes focused straight ahead, nothing like Hoseok who was always gesticulating as he spoke to you every time you walked side-by-side from one place to another.

Jungkook stands in front of the doors, seemingly waiting for you to press the buttons and you do it before he could even express his annoyance. You stand in front this time, then make sure you hold the doors open for him to exit, and you resume your spot behind him as you walk down the hallway.

“On the left are two small meeting rooms and one conference room,” you start, thankful that there’s not much to tour him around on this floor, given that everything is exclusive to the Vice President. “On the right is a seating room, and up ahead is an archive room. Down the—”

“I’ve been here before, Ms. Cho,” Jungkook interjects as he looks at you blankly. “This is my family’s building; I’m very much aware of how the floors look like.”

Not rattled by his disruption, you nod and smile, wanting to show him that whatever intimidation or humiliation he’s trying to make you feel isn’t gonna work on you. You know if you show any sign of frustration, that will just give him a reason to have you replaced and despite your clear dislike for the man, you need this job, especially this position that allows you to pay your rent in a safe part of town and send money to your family every month. At this point, that’s the only thing that will keep you going.

Approaching the management support office, you walk faster and make sure to enter the room before he does, signaling the team with your eyes that their new boss is coming, your silently frantic gaze telling them to be on their best behavior because their usual antics won’t work on Jungkook the way they did with Hoseok.

Once Jungkook appears, everyone bows and greets him, and you can sense them holding their breaths as they look up, taking him all in. You see him eye each person, and you can tell he’s already assessing them individually. You take it upon yourself to introduce each one, stating their name, where they studied and what course they took, describing their primary role in the team and their specific strengths. You see him follow your words, nodding and humming as you go, and you think he’s processing the information and making sure he remembers them.

There are no pleasantries; Jungkook just goes straight to the point.

“I’m sure you have concerns about having a new boss and the changes that come along with it. But I’m here to tell you now that you should get over whatever those are, as I’d like the adjustment period to be as short as possible,” he starts. “My cousin is brilliant at his job and so am I, but we work very differently, so whatever you got used to doing with and for him, don’t expect the same with me. I demand excellence and efficiency from each one of you because that’s what I commit myself to and that’s the only way that this team will be able to do its job. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the team answers in unison.

“We commit to those as well, Mr. Jeon,” Manager Lee says. “As the head of your support team, I will make sure that all our deliverables are of high quality and that things will run smoothly so that we may properly do our job of assisting you.”

“That’s good, and that’s what I expect,” Jungkook says, nodding at everyone before walking out the door to head to his office, with you trailing him from behind.

“Is my room still being sanitized?” He turns to you.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did it need to be sanitized? And why today?”

“It’s protocol, sir. We also had a sendoff for Mr. Jung yesterday so the room smelled of food. And he instructed for this to be done today so that I don’t need to come here tomorrow, as he doesn’t like any of his staff working during the weekend,” you reply. “This should be finished this afternoon. I’ve also purchased the oil for your diffusers. The room will be ready for you by Monday.”

Jungkook merely hums and looks around, specifically at your designated area with your desk and shelves at the back, then takes a call before turning to you again to say that he’s heading out to meet his friends.

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Jeon?” You ask, thankful that you don’t have to deal with him for the rest of the day.

“No.”

“Okay then, sir. I’ll meet you at your apartment at 6:30 AM on Monday. Is that time alright?”

“Sure,” he responds, then turns around and starts walking out. “Just keep your phone on. I work during the weekend.”

He’s gone before you can even respond, and you rush to the support office once you’ve heard the elevator ding that indicates that he’s gone. When you get there, you’re greeted with everyone’s frowns, with Do-hyun close to tears.

“I don’t like him, ___. He looks so unapproachable and too serious!” She complains. “I miss Mr. Jung. Is there an opening in his team? Should I just resign?”

“Aish!” You reprimand her. “Don’t speak like that. And don’t let those few minutes determine everything for you.”

“Well, those few minutes are enough to tell me that I don’t like him. No matter how good-looking he is,” Chin-sun says.

“He is, right!” Do-hyun chirps now, a complete 180 from seconds ago. “I’ve seen him around but I didn’t think he’d be even more handsome up close! It just sucks that he’s a grinch and that makes all the difference. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have a girlfriend! He’s probably too snobby and—”

“Yah! You really need to stop it with those rumors,” you scold her this time. “That’s your boss. His personal life is none of our business. Where do you even hear these things?”

“Every washroom in this building, basically. Staff are always gossiping there, you know?” Do-hyun responds.

“And since when do we listen to gossip,” you scowl at her. “Sure, he’s not our favorite person right now but we don’t have the right to make claims about aspects of his life. And where are people even getting those ideas!”

“People talk, I guess,” she shrugs. “And he’s often spotted in clubs with those Kim brothers so maybe they see things. I’m not saying they’re all accurate… just that rumors often have some truth to them, you know?”

“No, I don’t, and we shouldn’t be sticking our noses in places where they shouldn’t be,” you say.

“Fine, but it’s just a heads up,” Do-hyun says, turning serious now. “You’re his executive assistant, and you have no choice but to stick your nose in places because personal and professional lines are often blurred in your situation, and that’s just how our world’s set up.”

“She’s right,” Chin-sun chimes in. “I mean, you need to know his personal schedule, go to his apartment, do errands if you need to, maybe buy a box of condoms if he runs out… You just got lucky that Mr. Jung’s pretty chill and has a wife who’s even nicer than he is. Your only problem was that he was damn scared of everything that moved and wasn't human.”

You’d laugh at the last statement if you could, but you know they’re both right. Hoseok wasn’t perfect, and neither was his marriage, but it never reached a point where you had to be put in a compromising position because you were his assistant who, by nature of your work, had to be privy to some of his personal matters. The most involved you were was when he and A-yeong had an argument and they used you as their messenger, but even that was more of a miscommunication issue than anything serious. They apologized to you after and promised to never put you in that kind of situation again.

But with Jungkook as a single man, you’re unsure what personal business you’d end up being involved in. You just wish it wasn’t something that would test your principles and cause you to lose your job. Regardless, whatever that would be isn’t something you can even really talk about with others.

“Well, I don’t wanna think about any of that right now,” you sigh, knowing you’ve got enough to worry about, such as how you’re going to start surviving everyday assisting a man who clearly doesn’t want you around.

But if he’s gonna be a hard-head about it, then you’re just going to have to match him. You got to where you are because you’re determined to prove yourself constantly, and you’ll just show him that he needs you, and he doesn’t really have a choice unless he wants to argue with his father.

You try to encourage your team once more and give Do-hyun that rare hug in comfort before going back to your desk, intent on finishing all the presentations for your briefing with Jungkook next week. You begin setting up his room by mid-afternoon, using a photo of his Singapore office as a basis since you were told that he prefers a certain style for his furniture and decor. You’re no stylist but over an hour after you finish, you think you did pretty good. You were so into designing the space that you didn’t notice the time fly by; before you know it, it’s 6PM, because you can hear A-yeong right outside calling for you.

“Hi,” she chirps, hugging you in greeting. “Are you ready?”

“I’ll just pack my things,” you say, walking to your desk.

A-yeong takes a peek at the room and praises your efforts. “This looks so different from how it used to be. And that’s good because those cousins have such different tastes. But I think Jungkook will like this. He’s into the masculine and moody vibe, so good job, ___.”

You know that despite her kindness, she wouldn’t lie, and you could only hope that she’s right. You think it looks nice, but it’s what he thinks that matters; you’ll just have to wait until Monday to find out.

As you’re about to leave, Hoseok appears in the hallway and asks how you are. Your scowl pretty much gives you away.

“I’m sorry about Jungkook, ___. He’s stubborn and a hot-head sometimes but he isn’t always like that, and this isn’t me making excuses for him,” your former boss says.

“Why, what did he do?” A-yeong asks worriedly.

“Basically implied that I’m not qualified for this role, among other things,” you respond. “But it’s okay. Not like I haven’t heard that before.”

“And you know that’s not true,” Hoseok comforts you. “He’s not good with change, that’s all, and you know how these appointments were all pretty short notice and he’s just been frustrated ever since. But whatever it is he said, don’t take them to heart. He’ll get a word from me, and he’ll definitely get one from his father.”

You want to say that it’s not easy to just disregard what Jungkook said; he’s your boss after all, and all that matters is what he thinks about you. But you’re not one to air out these feelings to Hoseok now that you’ve experienced a bit of what it’s like, so you just shake your head and ask the older man to let it go.

“He’s probably just tired,” you make an excuse this time, not wanting to discuss further with Hoseok. “And he had that assistant for over five years. I can understand wanting that familiarity and convenience. I’m just gonna have to adjust; there are a lot of things going on right now and he’ll need to focus on the projects, not his compatibility with his assistant.”

“But that matters though,” Hoseok insists. “I got things done because we worked well together. He’s gonna have to meet you in the middle with this one. And I’ll make sure that he does.”

“I know you said you want to look out for me but I don’t think it’s a good idea if you intervene this time, Mr. Jung,” you say, letting him know you’re serious and you mean business. “I’ll be okay, don’t worry about me.”

You give him a comforting smile, and you hope it’s enough to quell Hoseok’s own worries and it works this time. He returns it before letting you and his wife go, and it’s the Thai dinner and incredible desserts that somehow make up for your not-so-great day.

You think the weekend will give you the peace you need to face your dreaded week - you do your errands and chores on Saturday and go to the market and watch a movie by yourself in the cinema the next day.

All it took was a text from Jungkook that Sunday evening, asking for copies of certain policies and disapproved proposals from the last five years, that just had to ruin it, as you spend the entire evening consolidating the files, making you already wish it was Friday.

Jungkook’s apartment building is one of the Jeon properties that you haven’t been to yet, as it’s one of the newer massive residential structures that they built three years ago. You enter the sleek-looking lobby then submit your documents at the reception in exchange for your own access, and you internally marvel at how luxurious everything looks.

You get to the 42nd floor, and it seems that there are only two units here. You walk towards the one on the right, choosing to be on the safe side by ringing the doorbell. It’s Monday, after all, and it’s your first time here; you don’t want to just enter without him permitting you to do so.

You’re about to press the button again after a minute of no response, when the door opens and you take a moment to process the sight before you.

There, standing just a few feet away, is Jungkook with nothing but a pair of black gym shorts on, his taut chest glistening in sweat, and his entire right arm covered in black and colored ink. His hair is damp and ruffled, and it’s probably due to the boxing he’d just done, as evidenced by the wraps on his knuckles and the way he’s panting heavily.

You get your senses back and look away, not wanting to look affected by his half-naked form, even if you’re the one who has to catch her breath this time because much as you dislike the man, you can’t deny that his body is something that definitely deserves to be praised.

“You’re here,” he speaks first, surprise laced in his voice as he takes in your obviously flustered form.

“I asked if 6:30 AM was a good time to come, Mr. Jeon,” you answer, glancing at him before looking at whatever you could behind him. “Perhaps I misheard your confirmation. I can wait downstairs if you’re not yet done with your exercise. My apologies for coming in early.”

You don’t actually have anything to be sorry for; he did confirm the time, and he’s the one who decided that working out at this hour was a good idea, knowing that his assistant’s scheduled to come. You would’ve appreciated it if he says you don’t need to apologize, but he doesn’t.

“It’s fine, I just finished,” he huffs.

He leaves the door open for you to enter then heads straight to the large room on the right, which looks to be an indoor gym. You allow yourself a few seconds to look at his retreating form, quietly gasping as his broad shoulders and slender waist blind you a little, then scolding yourself for doing so. You stay rooted by the kitchen and look around the spacious penthouse as you wait for him to return. He exits the gym wearing a loose white shirt now, combing his hair with his fingers as he drinks a bottle of water.

“So, Mr. Jeon, uh, I would prepare Mr. Jung’s outfits for the week and then help his house staff make his breakfast. I run down his schedule as he eats. Are you okay with the same arrangement?”

“Sure. I just don’t have any staff with me so you’re on your own. I’m fine with anything though. I’m not usually hungry in the morning,” he says before walking to the other side of the apartment.

You follow him, careful not to enter spaces you’re not given permission to, which is why you stand by his bedroom door before asking to come in.

“How will you prepare my clothes from there?” He huffs. “Of course you can enter. Just be done before I finish taking a shower.”

You nod shyly and then head to the walk-in closet that thankfully has a separate door from the bathroom. He’s already unpacked his clothes, although not everything has been organized. You spot a few suits that are ready to wear, and you fix those first, taking note of asking him if there are things he wants dry cleaned or pressed.

You leave his bedroom in time, hearing him slide open the door as you make it out, and proceed to make his breakfast. There’s really not much you can create with what little he has, so you make do with eggs and toast and whatever spread you find in his cupboard.

Jungkook walks into the kitchen not long after, the dark gray suit looking immaculate on him as you expected. Spotting his crooked necktie, you immediately walk up to him to fix it, unaware of how he holds his breath with how close you are. Noticing his body stiffen, you step back right away, apologizing for not asking permission first.

He looks away and says it’s fine, then sits on the spot at the dining table where you’ve set up his meal. He stares at it for a good few seconds, prompting you to explain yourself.

“That’s… that’s all I could make with what you have, Mr. Jeon,” you say. “I can arrange for online groceries for you, as well as dry clean and pressing for your clothes and—”

“I’m having someone come in to clean my place and do all of that,” he says, as he takes a bite of his food. “So, what’s my week like?”

You start to enumerate the conference and lunch meetings he’ll be having this week, including who they’ll be with and their purpose. They’re mostly with the department leads to discuss updates on processes and current projects, and you’re thankful that Hoseok involved you as much as he did, given that Jungkook’s questions are more specific than you expected.

Sure, he’s a Jeon and obviously works in the same company, but the Southeast Asian projects are different from the ones being implemented in South Korea, and while he used to oversee overall compliance to design standards, he’ll now be in-charge of setting those very standards this time. As Vice President, he’ll be involved in crafting policies; he’s also free to manage his own construction projects, and that’s what the support team is for. Given his much more expansive role this time, there are more departments and projects to oversee, and definitely more executive decisions to make.

You suppose it’s why his questions don’t stop, even after he’s cleaned up and you both find yourselves in the backseat of the car and on the way to the office. He looks through the iPad with all the files you gave him, and you see the notes he’s made on them as you turn to him to answer his queries. Even if you know that he’s also still assessing you - perhaps on your knowledge and attention to detail - you can’t help but admire his thoroughness. You may have also cursed him in frustration for making you work on a Sunday, but he seems to have done way more than you, given that he went through all the documents over the weekend. You suddenly don’t feel too annoyed.

But of course, he has to ruin it again.

“I need these annotated versions of the project and departmental documents ready before my meetings with the respective teams,” Jungkook says, his voice low and stern. “And I expect progress reports to be as detailed as possible, so make sure to check them first before they get to me. The ones you gave need revisions. I believe you’re trained enough to know immediately that these are lacking.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond, noting his instructions on your notebook while internally yelling, given that you’re unsure of the need for them before the meetings.

Surely, he could give you some time to work on them, but with a meeting with one team in the afternoon and seven more the rest of the week, and on top of the other things you need to do for him, you already know you’ll be cramming to get everything done.

You try to manage your breathing. Somehow, your habit of pressing your nails against your palm when you're stressed has miraculously come back today. It was something you developed while working under Mrs. Byun, which you eventually got over after working for Hoseok. You feel the anxiety build up, especially as you look at the half crescent marks on your skin, and it’s times like this that you wish your best friends were based in Seoul instead of Busan, so you’d at least have people to comfort you when things are a little tough.

It’s not to say that work wasn’t overwhelming before. It definitely was, but Hoseok always found a way to make everything bearable and he was always reasonable with what he demanded of you. Now you’re stuck with a man who already makes you feel like your hard work isn’t enough.

You make it to the office with no other words said and a thick tension in the air. It follows you to the elevator and into Jungkook’s room, where he dismisses you so he can prepare for the first meeting of the day. You rush to your desk and get on with your tasks, making sure to work on the annotated project file that he needs by the afternoon.

It’s an hour later when you find yourself in the conference room for the meeting with the management support team. You prepped them just 10 minutes earlier, and while you tried to hide your frustration, your unusual lack of energy told them enough that it wasn’t exactly a good start of the day.

They come in one by one, and you take the time to prepare Jungkook’s coffee, remembering from his former assistant’s notes how he wants it. He’d put it off earlier, given that he prefers to drink his protein shake after his workout, so this is the first time you’re doing it for him.

His eyes flit from the coffee in front of him to you as you place it on the table.

“Two espresso shots and half teaspoon each of milk and sugar,” you state, wanting to confirm that you got it right.

He merely takes a sip, places it down again, and then starts the meeting.

How bold of you to assume that he’d thank you or even acknowledge it, as if he’d shown you even the tiniest amount of gratitude for anything you've done for him since Friday. Which he hasn’t.

You let it go and proceed to sit next to him, your eyes and ears ready for what you already predict is gonna be a long meeting.

It ends over three hours later. As you expected, he had a lot of questions. He made sure that each member had time to explain their current tasks and how they will monitor the projects assigned to them. You didn’t miss the way he’d acknowledged them with “good” and “well done,” and thanked them after they finished. He only nodded at you after your turn, with his eyes barely meeting yours, and for all the confidence you built over the past three years, you can’t process how it’s his non-acknowledgment that’s just going to undo all that. And quite frankly, you’re unsure if that’s on him or if that’s on you.

Half of the meeting was spent discussing the big project that he wants to take on as Vice President. There’s a property they recently acquired - a non-operational arts center that he wants to revive by adding a performance hall, small theaters, a grand library, function rooms, and a permanent exhibition presenting the buildings that his family had developed over the years to showcase their architectural designs.

You saw the excitement in your team members’ faces. Hoseok took over with several unfinished projects so you all had to focus on those. Aside from Manager Lee, this is the first time that you’re all handling something new and different. Even you felt the excitement creep in, a welcome emotion given how your day’s been going, but that shattered once he said that he wants it done by June of next year in time for an International Media Festival happening in August. The 12-month period he’s giving is too short with everything he wants to do, and you saw that the team felt the same.

You go to them after Jungkook leaves for a lunch meeting, and their sighs and pouty faces tell you enough. Mr. Lee does his job of encouraging the team, and you add that you’re all gonna be supporting each other through it all. Sure, you’d have to match Jungkook’s ambition and thoroughness, but you should all take it as a challenge.

You’re clearly not convinced yourself as the words come out of your mouth, but you don’t have time to debrief with them, as you still have that meeting with the design department that you have to prepare for. You take two biscuits and a cup of tea, and you decide that this is enough to last you throughout lunch, given that you’ll be spending the entirety of it working on the files.

You don’t realize that an hour and a half have passed until you hear footsteps and see Jungkook’s form appear in the hallway. You stand to greet him, with him asking if you’re done with the annotated documents.

“I’ll send it in five minutes, sir,” you say, hoping he’ll at least give you that.

“Okay,” he responds. “Come to my office after you’ve sent it.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, quickly finishing the last two pages once he closes the door.

You rush to get everything done and click send, then you head to his office and prepare yourself for more questions. It’s quiet inside as you watch him behind the desk, with his legs crossed and his eyebrows furrowed as he reads the document. You answer one of his questions and it’s at that moment when your very empty stomach decides to make itself known.

You freeze on your spot, as the grumbling sound starts low, getting louder for a few beats before it temporarily stops. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, and you press your belly so hard with your fingers in hopes that that would do anything, even if you’re too far gone at this point. Your only hope is that it was all in your head, but Jungkook’s eyes flitting to you tells you otherwise. The only other sound in his room is the air purifier, but it’s not remotely loud enough to drown out your intense hunger.

It goes again, and all you can do is look away; humiliating yourself was definitely not the plan for your first day as Jeon Jungkook’s assistant.

“Do you need to step away, Ms. Cho?” He asks, not meeting your eyes.

“Oh, it’s not… uh,” a bowel emergency or something, you want to say. “I just had a busy lunch break.”

You settle for that, a hint that you’d spent its entirety doing something in such a short notice. Hoseok would always be apologetic whenever he had you do something during your break; he always made up for it with a nice meal as thanks. You doubt you’d get anything close to that from this man.

Jungkook hums and surprisingly doesn’t ask for anything else. He dismisses you and orders you to go ahead and prepare the conference room for the next meeting, and you do just that, dropping by the pantry for a muffin that you eat in four bites, in hopes that it would be enough to shut your stomach for the next three hours.

Right as you exit, Jungkook picks up his phone to make a call. And then another one.

“Mr. Ri, please pick up the pastries that Ms. Cho ordered at the food hall,” he instructs his chauffeur. “She’s too busy right now.”

“Will do, Mr. Jeon.”

Taking minutes of a meeting when you’re starving is not a good thing. You know this because you’ve done this so many times, like during monthly executive meetings and the quarterly board meetings that have you spread out thin. It’s also not rare to miss out on lunch because there’s a report to finish or a site to visit; during events, you go on a day with having barely eaten anything.

But just because you’re used to it, it doesn’t mean that your body has fully adapted, because here you are, eyeing the croissants in front of you, your mouth watering at the gloss and softness of the pastry. They’re so tempting and also out of reach, given that you need to be entirely focused on the discussion that you’re documenting, and munching on something is out of the question. You don’t even know where this is from and you think maybe the design department called for snacks but it’s really not helping your concentration.

You hope the way you’re nibbling your lips doesn’t give you away, but Yoongi from across the table picks it up, as you get a notification of his message.

[From: Min Yoongi] you didn’t have lunch, did you?

You ignore the prompt on your laptop and respond to him with a look instead. You know your pouty lips will give him his answer, and he merely shakes his head at the confirmation.

You do your best to shut out the sight and scent of the food before you, absorbing instead the discussion so you can note this down properly with just minimal edits needed. You have a lot of documents to work on for the next few days after all, and that’s on top of the file reorganization that Jungkook asked you to do.

It works after you hang on by a thread for two and a half hours, a little earlier than you expected to finish. All you want is to sneak out that croissant and maybe some tarts, too, but your heart breaks when you look up and find the boxes empty.

You let out a sigh, relieved that your boss didn’t hear you because he’s already on the phone and heading out the door. But it’s that same time that a plate of food appears in front of you, and it feels like the gates of heaven have opened. You’re not surprised anymore to find out who it’s from.

“Eat,” Yoongi says from next to you. “I could see your hands shaking from across the table.”

“What about you?” You ask, your lips in a pout once more.

“You know I don’t eat these things,” he shrugs.

He doesn’t, and you know this, too. You also know he called dibs on these earlier, seeing as his staff were quick to get them, and he’d saved these so he could give them to you.

“Ten years later and you’re still trying to make sure I eat, huh?” You say, nudging him with your hips to tease.

“If I don’t, who would?” He responds, walking out of the conference room with you. “You have a bad habit of not doing that.”

“Well, duty calls. What can I do?”

“Take care of yourself even if it’s hard,” he replies.

“Says the man who rarely does it himself,” you chuckle.

“You know, the best advice I give are the ones I don’t actually follow, so disregard the fact that I don’t even do what I say because they apparently work,” he says. “But I mean it, ___. Eat this now.”

“Thanks, Yoongi,” you smile, taking a piece of pastry and eating it in two bites.

Your puffed out cheeks cause him to laugh, and despite still being hungry after this, you suppose it’s enough to not make you faint at this moment.

“And eat a proper dinner, okay?” He follows up.

“I’ll be off late, so I’ll just grab something from the convenience store,” you say. “That’s as proper as I can afford tonight.”

“Aish, fine,” he shakes his head. “But let me get you coffee at least. Those tarts won’t taste as good without one.”

“That would be life-saving,” you dramatically say. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

“Don’t know. I mean, I’m not that great,” he shrugs.

You playfully roll your eyes. “I’ll save the compliments once I have the coffee.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he feigns annoyance, gesturing for you to get back to your desk then walking the other direction.

You take your seat and clean up the document, deciding that you’ll just review the meeting minutes tomorrow so you can get on with other pressing matters. It’s 20 minutes later when Yoongi returns, a tall cup of coffee on one hand and a banana loaf on the other.

“This is all they have left,” he says. “I hope it can last you until tonight.”

“It will,” you smile. “Thank you again. No one looks out for me here as much as you do. And that means a lot, more than you know. I don’t think I would’ve survived all these years without you.”

“Wow, all because of coffee and snacks,” he laughs, teasing.

“It’s a fair trade. You feed me during my greatest need, I boost your ego,” you tease back.

“Yeah, whatever,” Yoongi huffs in submission, but you know he enjoys it.

You’re thankful that after everything that’s happened, you’re still able to maintain the friendship that you created when you were a mere intern and he was just starting out his career.

“Anyway, I’m quickly meeting Jungkook and I need the portfolio of the contemporary arts institution joint project from 2019. It was VP-led so I assume it’s still here? Unless it’s in the archive room,” he continues.

“It’s within five years so it should be here,” you say, turning to the shelf behind you to confirm.

You spot what you need and make the attempt to pull it out but your fingers barely even touch the rack.

“Need help?” Yoongi asks.

“And what help could you give, huh?” You tease again, earning you a playful groan.

“You brat.”

You laugh and pull out the small stool you keep for times like this.

“Just make sure I don’t fall and embarrass myself further today,” you say, climbing up the steps then pulling out the heavy folder.

You feel Yoongi’s arm move from where it was near your waist to over your head, as he lightens the load. You both try to balance it and laugh at your distorted faces in the process, and it’s moments of relief like this one that you’re glad you’re afforded after a long day like today.

From inside the room, Jungkook sees you through the window, your eyes crinkling as you laugh along with Yoongi, head of the design department and one of his very few friends in the company. It catches him off guard, as he realizes that since meeting you last Friday, he’s never seen you laugh, much less smile or even have an expression that isn’t agitated or serious.

He knows that that’s probably on him. He’d spoken ill of you after all, something he regretted once he saw the frustration on your face when you made it known that you were in the room with them and had definitely heard everything he said. But he’d been tired and HR confirmed that he could bring Lucas over as his assistant; CEO Jeon was the one who vetoed that decision.

Jungkook had already mentally prepared himself for the ease of his transition, knowing that he’d be assisted by someone who knows how he works and the quality of outputs he expects, only to come here and be told by his father that the current staff will stay, and that you - someone he’d only heard of as Hoseok’s assistant - will be the one assisting him from now on. Your resume didn’t even impress him.

Jungkook doesn’t like change and when he has to undergo it, he needs as much of what was familiar and convenient to remain; that’s the only bit of control he can have and he hates not being in control of things. You just happened to unluckily be at the receiving end of his anger.

But unlike what he expected, you stood up to him in the subtle ways you could. He’s been so used to people just following him, partly because his way is always the best but also because he commands that respect, and he knows his capabilities enough to know that he deserves it as well. So when you answered back, he felt rattled and just a little bit uneasy. He was unable to backtrack after, but he didn’t really plan to.

That doesn’t mean that he didn’t plan on being a bit of a jerk today, too. He’d been exhausted working over the weekend after going through all the files you gave him that he snoozed his alarm so many times and ended up doing his workout later than he intended. When you rang the doorbell and stood by his door with your skirt and satin top, he suddenly felt lightheaded.

He mentally smacked himself once the thought that your pastel colored outfit brought out your eyes more than the monochrome ensemble from last week floated in his head. He just hated that not only are you thorough with your work, you have to be beautiful, too. He’d never admit to anyone that both of those things make him nervous, and it’s the only reason why he thinks he needs to establish his authority so that he doesn’t get rattled the next time you counter him.

That’s why he demanded more work, which he didn’t intend to take up so much of your time, like your lunch break. He’d seen how your hands shook while you were taking notes during the meeting, prompting him to end the meeting early so you can have something to eat of what he’d bought but he’d left before he could find out if there was anything left for you.

Maybe there wasn’t enough, as he also witnessed Yoongi hand you what seemed like food with coffee that the man also got for you just minutes ago. The smile you gave him was bright and sincere. Jungkook doesn’t think he’d ever see that directed at him, considering how he’d been to you on his first day, but maybe that’s also good; that could be his defense. Maybe it’d help quell that initial attraction that he doesn’t want and cannot allow at all to grow.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t agitate him to see you a bit too close with his friend, because with the way you seem so comfortable and with the way that Yoongi sports that rare smile, it almost feels like there’s something there.

Jungkook is the son of the CEO, and having personal relationships within the company isn’t exactly advisable, but he’d gone to university with Yoongi and their introverted personalities instantly clicked. The older man is perhaps the only non-relative company employee that Jungkook kept in touch with when he was in Singapore, not that he even really talked much to his family outside of work anyway.

But in all the years of their friendship, his friend never mentioned any relationship - nor the makings of one - with another staff member. Jungkook hates how his curiosity is slowly getting to him. Maybe a few more moments would tell him more, but something about the scene happening outside his room is making him nervous and uneasy, so he decides to step in.

“Hey, Yoon,” he says as he opens the door. “Can we discuss now? I have to meet my parents for dinner in an hour.”

Your bubble with Yoongi bursts at the sound of Jungkook’s voice, and you immediately return to your seat. Your friend nods at you then enters the room, leaving you the peace and quiet you need to plop down on the floor for a quick snack of your loaf before going back to work, glancing inside every once in a while to see how the two are going, and perhaps confirm the friendship that you didn’t expect the two would have.

“This building is a good starting point,” Yoongi agrees with Jungkook. “If this is the general feel you want for the Arts Center, I can look into other projects and designs and come up with ideas. I’ll just ask ___ for the files I need.”

“You two seem close,” Jungkook says too quickly.

Leaning back against the chair, Yoongi processes the question that he didn’t expect he’d hear. More than that, he tries to read what’s underneath it, knowing that his friend’s tone of voice and feigned stoic expression mean something more.

“You could say that,” Yoongi replies. “She did say that no one’s looked out for her here as much as I have. And that she wouldn’t have survived all these years without me.”

“So you’re actually friends?”

“Yes.”

“Were you more?”

Yoongi chuckles, the question giving him the answer he’s looking for. Jungkook may often be too serious but he can be transparent sometimes, too.

“Does it matter?” The older man asks.

“Just don’t want to be surprised, that’s all,” Jungkook shrugs. “If there’s an employee relationship happening under my nose, I should at least know.”

“It happens here a lot,” Yoongi responds. “I mean, it gives people something to gossip about but it’s how things are - work sucks sometimes and we want someone to hold at the end of a terrible day.”

Feeling like he won’t get an answer to a question that Jungkook doesn’t know why he felt the need to ask in the first place, he just shakes his head to concede.

But it’s what prompts Yoongi to reply.

“We met when she was just an intern,” he says. “We used to take the same bus then found out we both came from Daegu. Then she was employed and we were both on the logistics team before I was reassigned and she got the EA role.”

Jungkook merely hums, taking in the information.

“I also asked her out before,” Yoongi continues, earning him a surprised look from the younger man. “You just can’t help what you feel sometimes, you know? But she turned me down, said she didn’t want to lead me on because she didn’t feel anything more. She also doesn’t like being involved with a co-worker, so yeah.”

“How are you still friends?”

“Asks the guy who’s still friends with his ex,” Yoongi laughs.

“Chaerin and I are civil, there’s a difference. And we haven’t spoken in years.”

“You loved her, though,” Yoongi counters. “I never got to that point.”

“This isn’t about me,” Jungkook huffs.

Knowing it’s a topic that his friend doesn’t like talking about, Yoongi relents. “I moved on. That was years ago,” he says. “And it seemed like she needed someone. I mean, she’s not from here and her friends aren’t here, either. She appreciated the friendship even if she said she didn’t think she deserved it. I guess that made me really get over her, you know? That’s all she wanted and needed from me; it was better than not having her around.”

“How brave,” Jungkook remarks.

“You mean mature?” Yoongi corrects. “Yes, that’s what I am, and it’s the best I could be for her. Especially since she’s got a boss who makes her miss lunch because somehow, there’s just so much to do for your first day on the job.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jungkook groans.

“I will. Only so you could feel bad.”

“I already do. That’s why I…”

“Bought the pastries,” Yoongi finishes. “I mean, I didn’t order them.”

“Was any even left for her?” Jungkook sighs, remembering how he was internally screaming for you to just get from the box and he’d been the jerk to not offer you some even if it was technically for you.

“Sort of. I put some aside for myself so I could give them to her.”

“You sure you don’t like her anymore?” Jungkook cocks an eyebrow, an attempt to hide his uneasiness over something he doesn’t understand. He finds you attractive, that’s it. He doesn’t know why his mind searches for more answers.

“You don’t have to like someone romantically to be nice to them, you know?” Yoongi responds. “And she needed it. Heavens know the support she’d need now that she has to deal with your rude ass.”

Jungkook sighs, but the remark is a welcome one because he did tell Yoongi not to treat him differently just because he’s the Vice President now. He also partly agrees. But he sees the effort; his friend wouldn’t call him out for how he does things, so the most he would do is offer help to you. And Jungkook could maybe take advantage of that, as Yoongi stands up to leave.

“Hey, could you, uh, grab dinner for her at the food hall? And not say it’s from me?”

“The food hall’s closed,” Yoongi says.

“The cafe down the street, then?”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” the older man groans.

But Yoongi knows his friend, knows the distance he creates from the people around him, knows his need to have control over everything, including his feelings, and knows the walls he builds because it’s easier to keep others out rather than do the hard task of letting them into a space that’s become comfortable because he’s been the only one inside for so long.

So Yoongi does as he’s asked. He takes the money then heads to the cafe to order pork cutlets and curry. He returns and sets them on your desk to your surprise, and you ask what it’s for.

“Just thought you deserve more than just convenience store instant noodles and gimbap given the day you’ve had,” he says.

“Hey, those are delicious,” you pout, but wanting to melt at how good the rice bowl smells. “But thank you, again. I owe you a lot, Yoongi. I mean it.”

“Just make sure to eat on time so I don’t have to buy your dinner again,” he teases. “I mean it. You have to stay healthy, okay?”

“Okay,” you smile brightly. “Get home safe tonight.”

Jungkook glances out the window and holds back a smile himself at how innocent and genuinely happy you look. There’s this joy that you seem to enjoy to yourself and he sees that, he understands that. And somehow that’s enough to lessen the guilt for now.

He still doesn’t know if he’ll ever see that smile directed at him or if he’d ever want that because of how disarming it is. But seeing it from afar is enough; it’s trivial and short enough to let him bask in it without having to climb out of his walls. He’ll watch you from behind, he thinks. He just wishes he doesn’t push you away in the process.

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ch0llies · 14 days ago

Text

EARNED IT | MATTHEW STURNIOLO PT.2

read part one here

brothersbestfriend!matt x innocent!reader

You're an 18-year-old high school senior, the innocent little sister of Matt's best friend. Which means off-limits in every way. But 22-year-old college hockey player, Matt can't ignore the way you cling to him, asking dangerous questions with trusting eyes. You don't understand the fire you're playing with- but Matt does. And he's burning to teach you what happens when you get too close.

story warnings: oral (fem reviving), masterbation, lowkey corruption kink (if u squint), brothers best friend, pet names (sweetheart, angel), age gap (four years), etc. all characters are of age. If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 6k

ib: @ariestrxsh ‘s young god

You pause in the doorway, your breath catching at his words. Earn it? Your stomach twists. Matt watches you with that lazy, knowing smirk that makes your skin itch.

Your fingers tighten on the doorframe. “How do I… earn it?”

Matt’s smirk deepens. He steps forward, closing the space between you just enough to make your pulse stutter. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw, barely touching but enough to make you feel dizzy.

“You’ll know,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “When you deserve it, I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath shudders, heat crawling up your spine. You don’t even know what you’re asking for but the way he’s looking at you, the way your entire body is reacting, makes you desperate to find out.

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “But-”

Matt just chuckles, shaking his head as he backs away, hands sliding into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. You look down. His arousal is gone now, or at least, hidden well enough that he’s in control again. Unlike you.

“Go to bed, sweetheart.”

His voice is final, dismissive, like he’s already won whatever game you didn’t realize you were playing.

You bite your lip, hesitating for just a second longer before turning on shaky legs, stepping out into the hallway and returning to your room.

The next morning you try to act like nothing happened, but the moment you step into the kitchen and see Matt leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, wearing that damn fitted black tank top and grey sweatpants again, you feel your entire body react.

His gaze flicks to you immediately.

He notices the way you freeze.

The way your thighs instinctively press together.

The way your lips part slightly, like you’re remembering exactly what they felt like against his.

He smirks. Like he knows. Like he owns every single thought running through your head.

Your brother, completely oblivious, slaps Matt on the back as he walks past. “Dude, you good? You look like you slept like shit.”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still locked onto yours and that’s when you finally notice the deep purple eyebags under his eyes. He always had eyebags, but your brother was right. These looked worse.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Didn’t get much sleep. Mind was elsewhere.”

Your breath catches.

Your brother shrugs, already grabbing cereal from the cabinet. “I told you not to stay up. We gotta commute back to campus tomorrow morning. We only got today to get our sleep schedule back in check.”

Matt exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his smirk growing as he watches you shift on your feet, still burning under his gaze.

You sit at the kitchen table, trying so hard to act normal, to pretend that your body doesn’t still burn from last night. But it’s impossible when Matt keeps looking at you like that- like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, exactly what your body still craves.

“What the fuck?!”

Your brother’s sharp voice shatters the illusion, making you flinch. Your eyes snap to him just as he’s stepping closer, his expression twisted in disbelief, his gaze locked onto you.

No- your neck.

Your stomach plummets.

His eyes widen, his jaw tightening as he glares at the unmistakable mark just beneath your jawline. The dark, deep, evidence of everything you were trying to keep secret.

Panic floods you.

“I-”

“Who the fuck did this?” His voice is sharp, angry, his fists clenching at his sides.

You freeze, heart hammering, throat dry. You can’t say Matt.

Matt is right there.

Standing beside you, silent. His expression unreadable. He’s watching you, waiting- not stepping in, not making excuses, just waiting to see what you’ll do.

You scramble for something- anything- to say, but before you can, your brother scoffs, his lip curling in disgust.

“You kidding me right now?” His voice is lower now, sharp with anger. “You know who gets hickeys?” He takes a step closer, voice cold “Sluts.”

Your stomach drops.

Heat rushes to your face- not from embarrassment, but from humiliation. You shake your head quickly, trying to explain, but nothing comes out.

Matt stiffens beside you.

“Yo,” his voice is calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Lay off, dude”

Your brother whips his head toward him, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”

Matt crosses his arms, jaw tight. “She’s eighteen now, man. She can make her own decisions.”

Your brother laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, fuck off with that bullshit, Matt. That’s still my sister.” His glare snaps back to you. “And you? You let some random asshole mark you up like that?”

You flinch, your breath shuddering. “I-”

“You have no fucking self-respect, do you?”

Your throat tightens, burns. Your hands tremble as you grip the table, heat stinging behind your eyes. You feel exposed, humiliated, like a child being scolded for something you barely even understand.

Matt’s jaw flexes, his fists clenching at his sides. His whole body tenses, like he’s barely keeping himself in check. But he still doesn’t step in. Not unless you decide you want him to.

Because this is your secret to tell.

Your brother scoffs again, shaking his head. “Fucking pathetic.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you shove yourself up, your vision blurring. “Fuck you.” Your voice cracks, half anger, half tears, but you don’t care.

You turn on your heel and storm out.

You hear Matt curse under his breath, hear your brother mutter something, but you don’t stop. You run down the hall, slamming your door shut behind you before collapsing onto your bed, pressing your face into your pillow as hot, embarrassed tears spill down your cheeks.

It was late now. Almost midnight- maybe even one in the morning. You’ve barely moved from your bed since breakfast, too embarrassed, too humiliated to face anyone, especially Matt.

He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t defend you the way you wished, but he also didn’t throw you under the bus. He let you decide whether or not to reveal what happened. But still some part of it was just so embarrassing.

The house is quiet, everyone already in bed. You shift under the covers, your oversized t-shirt sliding against your bare skin, your thigh-high socks still hugging your legs, providing some comfort.

The door creaks open.

A dark figure slips inside, moving carefully, deliberately. The door shuts again with a soft click and you hear the lock slide shortly after.

Your heart stammers, your stomach flipping as the shadow moves closer, the dim light from the hallway illuminating just enough of his face.

Matt.

You sit up quickly, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, your voice a hushed whisper. “Matt?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice low, soothing.

Your pulse races as he steps closer…. closer…. until he’s right in front of you.

He drops to his knees.

Your breath stutters.

He’s kneeling in front of you, his broad hands and long fingers resting on your thighs, his eyes flickering up to yours, dark and unreadable.

Your lips part, confusion swirling in your chest. “What are you-”

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is soft, rough around the edges, like he’s been holding onto the words all day. His hands squeeze your thighs gently, his gaze never leaving yours.

“For what?” you murmur, genuinely confused.

“For leaving marks,” he says, his fingers tracing lightly over the sensitive skin of your thighs. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You blink, still dazed. “I- I didn’t even know they were there.”

Matt exhales sharply, his jaw clenching.

“I don’t even really know what hickeys are,” you admit, your voice small, unsure.

His lips part slightly, his brows drawing together like your innocence physically pains him. Then, slowly, he drops his forehead onto your thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin.

“I’m still sorry,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your legs. “It’s my fault.”

Your stomach flutters, your fingers twitching at your sides. You should probably be upset. But all you can focus on is the weight of his head resting against your thighs, the way his hands grip you so gently, as if he’s afraid to hold you too tight.

“It… didn’t hurt or anything,” you murmur.

Matt huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot against your bare legs. “That’s not the point, angel.”

There’s a pause, heavy, thick with something you don’t understand.

“What did it feel like?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest against the sheets, your legs pressing together slightly on instinct. You weren’t expecting that question.

“I…. I don’t know,” you stammer, heat creeping up your neck.

Matt lifts his head slightly, his dark eyes flickering up to yours, waiting. “Yes, you do,” he murmurs.

You exhale shakily, your entire body buzzing. You hesitate, then admit, “It… felt like it did yesterday.”

Matt’s gaze sharpens. His fingers flex against your thighs, his grip tightening just slightly. “And what was that?”

Your lips part, but the words won’t come. You’re too flustered, too hot, your thighs squeezing together again as the memory of last night floods your mind.

Matt just watches you.

“Warm,” you whisper, barely audible. “And… and needy.”

His jaw clenches, his fingers sliding higher.

“Where?”

You suck in a breath, unable to say it, so instead, you let your gaze flicker downward. Down to where his hands are still crawling up your thighs, where the warmth is building again, pulsing, aching.

Matt follows your gaze, and when he looks back up at you, his expression changes.

He moves slowly and lowers his head, his breath warm as his lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your fingers dig into the sheets, your stomach flipping, your entire body locking up as he keeps going.

Lower.

Until his nose brushes the soft crevice between your thighs, his face pressing directly against the heat radiating from your core.

Your breath shatters.

Matt doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just stays there.

Breathing you in.

Letting you feel it.

Your entire body tenses, frozen in place, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

He does nothing. Just lets the weight of his presence sink into you. Like he’s claiming you. Without even touching you.

Matt stays still for a moment, just breathing against you, the warmth of his face pressing into the heat radiating from your core. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then slowly he nuzzles his head deeper, his nose pressing against the soft, sensitive space between your legs.

A soft, strained groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin.

Your entire body jolts, a sharp gasp ripping from your lips as your back arches involuntarily, your fingers gripping the sheets for something to ground you.

“Matt…” your voice comes out breathy, shaking. “Why are you… putting your head… there?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not at first.

He just stays there, pressed against you, breathing you in like he needs it, like the heat between your thighs is suffocating him but he still wants more.

Slowly, he lifts his head.

His pupils are blown, dark and hungry, his cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly as his gaze locks onto yours. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to control himself but he can’t.

His voice is thick, strained.

“Because it doesn’t just make me feel warm and needy.” His grip on you tightens, his jaw clenching. “No… it makes me feel even better than on fire.”

Your lips part, your stomach twisting. “Even better than on fire?”

Matt exhales sharply, his eyes flickering down, back to where his face had just been.

Then without hesitation he drops his head again, his nose pressing into you even firmer this time. His arms slide around you, wrapping around your lower back, his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you closer against his face like he needs to feel you.

You let out a small, shaky whimper as your body jerks forward, pressing even more against him.

Matt groans again, his fingers digging into your skin, his breath hot against you.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice muffled against your thighs. “Even better than on fire.”

Matt stays pressed against you, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive heat between your thighs. His grip tightens on your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he pulls you impossibly closer.

And then he pushes his nose deeper.

A sharp, unexpected shock runs through you as he nudges against something sensitive, something that makes your entire body jerk. A moan slips past your lips before you can stop it- a high, breathy, and completely foreign to your own ears. Just like the sound yesterday but even worse.

Your eyes widen immediately, a gasp catching in your throat as you slap a hand over your mouth. Your body tenses, heat flooding every inch of your skin.

“Matty-” your voice is shaky, breathless. “What was that?”

Matt stays still, his nose still buried between your thighs, his breath slow and deliberate as he exhales against the damp fabric of your underwear. When he finally pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression is unreadable.

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing.

Before you can respond, he does it again.

Another press of his nose, deliberate and slow, right against that same spot.

Your entire body twitches. Your back arches slightly, another sound escaping your throat, softer this time- more desperate.

“That,” you gasp, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you, your head tilting back slightly. “That feels really…”

You trail off, your face burning, your breathing uneven as you struggle to even form the words.

Matt watches you carefully, his lips parting slightly, his jaw tight as he exhales through his nose. Then, he leans in again, pressing another slow, intentional nudge against that same spot.

“That’s a spot on girls,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot through the fabric. “It helps you feel really, really good.” His thumbs rub soothing circles into your hips. “Do you feel good when I do that?”

You whimper, the sound soft and helpless as your hands instinctively fly to his hair, your fingers gripping the strands without thinking. Your thighs tremble slightly around his head as another rush of warmth pools deep in your stomach.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as you barely manage to whisper-

“…Yes.”

Matt watches you carefully, his breathing slow and controlled despite the tension crackling between you like fire. His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly slide up, slipping beneath the oversized t-shirt hanging loosely over your frame. His palms are warm against your bare skin, fingertips tracing soft, teasing patterns as he pushes the fabric up, exposing more of you to him.

“You want me to keep goin’, angel?” His voice is low, rough, thick with something dangerous.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod.

Without thinking you press your fingers deeper into his hair, giving the slightest push, an unconscious plea.

His pupils darken instantly, his lips parting as a low groan escapes him. But it’s not just that. It’s the way your thighs instinctively spread wider, granting him more access without even realizing it.

“Fuck,” Matt breathes, his grip tightening on your hips for a moment before he leans back in.

The first press of his nose is slow, testing, just like before.

And then- he flicks it.

A sharp, teasing nudge directly against that sensitive spot.

Your entire body jerks, a gasp breaking from your lips, your thighs twitching around his head. But Matt doesn’t stop. No, he keeps doing it. Slow at first as always, up and down, teasing motions that make your breath stutter and your grip in his hair tighten.

Then he groans. Low, deep, and vibrating against you.

The sensation sends another shockwave through your body, and a soft, helpless moan slips past your lips.

“Yeah?” Matt murmurs against you, his voice thick with need. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You can’t even respond properly. Just a breathless, desperate whimper as your hips shift slightly, pressing closer.

Matt smirks against you before dragging his nose up, then back down, rubbing slow, torturous circles against you before flicking against that sensitive spot again.

A choked moan rips from your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, your thighs trembling around him.

“Fuck, angel,” Matt groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

He presses harder, a slow, teasing drag, and your body shakes, another desperate whimper slipping free.

Your head tilts back, fingers gripping his hair tightly, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Matt lets out another ragged groan, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as he keeps going, his voice muffled but still deliberate-

“Let me hear you, sweetheart.”

And when he flicks his nose just right again, you do.

Matt groans against you, the vibrations sending another sharp wave of pleasure through your body. His hands grip your thighs tighter, his fingers flexing like he’s desperate to hold you in place.

You are a mess.

Your breath is ragged, your legs trembling as he keeps going, dragging his nose in slow, deliberate motions against that sensitive spot. Every flick, every press, every little nuzzle makes your thighs twitch, makes another helpless moan spill from your lips.

Matt loves it.

You can feel how much he loves it. The way his grip tightens, the way his breathing turns heavier, the way his groans slip out with every little movement.

“Fuck,” he mutters against you, voice wrecked. “You’re shaking.”

You are. Your thighs are trembling under his touch, your hands fisted tightly in his hair, your entire body burning.

“Feels so- mhphh- feel so good,” you gasp, barely able to speak through the overwhelming sensation.

Matt groans at that, his grip on you tightening.

“You like that, yeah?” he murmurs, flicking his nose against you again, making you arch. “Like me making you feel good?”

You can only nod, breathless, your fingers tugging at his hair as another moan slips from your lips.

Matt smirks against you before dragging his nose up again, then back down, teasing you, working you up so slowly you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

“Matty,” you whimper, voice shaking.

He hums in response, the deep sound sending another shudder through your body.

“You sound so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he groans. “So perfect.”

And then he does it again. A slow, firm press, his nose nudging against you just right, and your entire body jerks, another sharp, desperate moan breaking from your throat.

Matt can feel it- the way your body is trembling under his touch, the way your fingers are gripping his hair tightly, like you need something to anchor you through the overwhelming sensations rolling through you.

His lips part against your nearly soaked through panties, his breath hot and ragged as he presses in deeper, his nose dragging slow, deliberate movements that make you whimper, make your back arch off the bed.

“Oh my- Matt,” you gasp, voice breathless and shaking.

He groans, his grip on your thighs tightening. “That’s it, angel,” he mutters against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your core. “Let me hear you.”

You barely register what you’re doing. Your body acts before your brain can catch up. Your thighs spread more, giving him better access, and he takes full advantage.

His movements become more focused, more precise, flicking his nose against that exact spot over and over again, pressing firmer, dragging the tip up and down before pushing in harder.

Your breath shatters, a high-pitched whimper slipping from your lips.

“Oh-”

Matt groans deeply, his voice thick with need. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “You’re shaking so much.”

You really are, too. Your legs trembling around his head, your stomach clenching with each movement he makes.

“Feels…” You gasp sharply as another flick sends you spiraling, your hands tightening in his hair. “Feels so-”

Matt hums again, the deep vibration sparking another moan from you.

“I know, angel,” he breathes, dragging his nose in slow, torturous strokes against you. “I know. Just let go.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pooling low in your stomach, coiling tighter, tighter. The pressure is overwhelming, so much more than anything you’ve ever felt, building and building until-

A sharp flick. A firm press.

You break.

A soft, desperate cry escapes you as your entire body shatters, waves of pleasure crashing over you, your thighs clamping around his head as you tremble, gasping for air.

Matt groans as he feels you come undone beneath him, his grip firm, his voice wrecked as he murmurs, “That’s it, angel. Let me feel you.”

Your hands tighten in his hair, your body writhing beneath him as he keeps going, drawing it out, letting you ride the high until you’re left breathless, limp against the bed, completely spent.

He finally pulls back, his breath heavy, his lips parted as he looks up at you with pure hunger.

He watches you, his breath still ragged, his pupils dark and hungry as he takes in the sight of you. Of your body trembling, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your thighs still twitching from the overwhelming sensation coursing through you.

Without a word, he leans back in.

Your breath catches as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the soaking wet fabric of your underwear, the heat of his tongue pressing firmly against the sensitive spot he had just been teasing mercilessly with his nose.

Your whole body jolts, a small whimper slipping from your lips as he finally pulls away.

Matt exhales heavily, his breath warm against your skin as he lifts his head, resting his cheek against your thigh, his hands still gripping them firmly, keeping you open.

And then he looks up at you, his expression something almost possessive flickering behind his gaze.

“You know how you asked me what cumming was?” he murmurs, his voice low, deep, dangerous.

Your breath stutters, your stomach flipping violently as you suddenly feel it- the way your body is still pulsing, the wetness between your thighs making everything too real.

Your face burns.

You inhale sharply, trying to press your legs closed out of instinct, out of sheer embarrassment, but Matt’s hands immediately tighten around your thighs, keeping them spread.

You let out a small, flustered whimper, your body still oversensitive, still buzzing, and Matt’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk as he trails a single finger along the wet fabric, pressing just lightly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

His voice drops, his tone laced with something smug, something possessive.

“That was cumming.”

Your chest rises and falls as your body continues to hum with the aftershocks of what just happened.

You swallow hard, blinking down at Matt, who’s still resting his cheek against your thigh, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

You shift slightly, trying to process everything, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as your mind struggles to catch up. “Oh,” you whisper, your voice soft, dazed. “That was the… release you were talking about.”

Matt exhales sharply, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with desire. “That was the release.”

Your body shudders again as you feel it- another slow, warm trickle of something leaking through your already soaking underwear, your thighs twitching at the sensation. You shift slightly, uncomfortable, still feeling so sensitive.

Matt notices.

His eyes darken as he watches the way you move, his grip tightening on your thighs. He pulls them further apart, just slightly, just enough to get a better view of your cum leaking through your underwear.

Your breath catches, your face burning, and you stutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “W-was that what you meant when you said you were going to be inside me?”

The instant the words leave your lips, Matt’s entire body tenses.

His fingers dig into your thighs, his jaw clenching as his head drops for a moment, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

You blink down at him, confused by his reaction, watching as he visibly composes himself before finally lifting his head again.

His pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed, but when he meets your gaze, he manages a smirk, shaking his head slightly.

“No, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “Not quite.”

You pout, shifting slightly again, still feeling the lingering ache between your legs. “I haven’t earned it yet?”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, his smirk deepening as he tilts his head, dragging his thumbs slowly up your inner thighs, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with promise as he stands up and kisses your forehead. “Go to sleep.”

You simply nod, closing your eyes and flopping back on the bed, eyes already fluttering shut.

Matt watches you turn over and then walks toward your door.

The moment your door clicks shut, Matt exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against the wood and gripping the door handle hard. His knuckles turn white from the pressure, his breathing still ragged, still uneven. His entire body is tight- burning, aching, straining against the very last threads of his self-control.

Jesus Christ.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, but it’s fucking impossible. Not after what just happened. Not after you looked at him like that, asked him those questions with your wide, innocent eyes, spread your legs for him like it was natural, like you trusted him with your body in a way that made him feel both honored and fucking ruined.

And then your sweet oblivious little mouth just had to ask if that was what he meant when he said he’d be inside you.

Matt groans under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight it aches. He can still see you, still feel the heat of you against his face, the way you twitched, gasped, moaned for him. His name had slipped from your lips like a prayer, and fuck- he had almost lost himself right then and there.

He had barely. Barely. Held himself together.

But now?

Now, he’s alone.

Now, there’s nothing stopping him.

His hands shake as he shoves down the waistband of his sweatpants, the thick pressure of his arousal almost painful at this point. His cock is aching, flushed and leaking, proof of just how much you had affected him- proof of just how fucking desperate he is for you.

A harsh breath leaves his lips as he wraps a fist around himself, finally getting the friction he needs. His head tilts back slightly, his other hand pressed flat against the wooden door as he strokes himself, letting his mind wander exactly where it wants to go.

You.

Your flushed face, your swollen lips, the way your breath had stuttered every time he pressed against your clit, how you had gasped when you came, how your fingers had tangled in his hair, tugging, holding him there like you never wanted him to leave.

Fuck.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw tightening as he picks up the pace, his breath turning uneven, ragged. His hips jerk into his fist, and his mind spirals further- what if he hadn’t stopped? What if he had really shown you what it meant to have him inside you? What if he had been buried between your thighs, licking into you, tasting you properly, making you come again, and again, and again, until you were crying his name, begging for more-

His breath shudders, his stomach tightening, his grip firm as he chases it. He was so fucking close, so wound up, his body on fire, his thighs tensing as a low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest.

It crashes into him fast, hard- his release ripping through him in sharp, pulsing waves as he cups his tip with his other hand, catching the release in his palm so he doesn’t cum on the floor. His hand slows, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths, his entire body thrumming from the intensity of it.

For a moment, he just stands there, his palm still wrapped around himself, hand full of his cum, and his head tilted backward.

He quickly rushes himself to the bathroom, and clean up. it isn’t until he washes his hands in the sink that the thought briefly crosses his mind. He drags a hand down his face. What if your brother had walked out? Or worse, your father?

But Matt wasn’t truly thinking about that. Not at all.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his body still buzzing from the release and somehow still aching for more.

It should’ve been enough. Should’ve. But it wasn’t.

Not even close.

Because the second he dries his hands and leans against the counter, gripping the cool edge with both hands, his mind betrays him, replaying every single fucking second of what had just happened all over again.

The way you looked at him. The way you gasped when he touched you. The way your voice had trembled when you whispered his name, all breathless and needy, like you needed him, like you had never felt anything like that before.

His jaw clenches, his fingers flexing against the counter, his body already stirring back to life, heat curling low in his stomach again.

He groans under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair. His body is still so wired, still so fucking hard, and he knows there’s only one way to fix it.

He turns the faucet on, letting the water run as he braces himself over the sink, staring at his own reflection. His pupils are blown, his skin still flushed, his chest rising and falling too fast.

He can still smell you on his face.

His grip tightens on the edge of the sink, his breath coming out in a slow, shaky exhale.

Then, without hesitation, he shoves his sweatpants down again, his cock already achingly hard once more.

He barely has time to wrap a fist around himself before his hips jerk into his palm, the sensation making him groan low in his throat.

His hand moves so very slow. He was teasing, taunting, and dragging the pleasure out in long, torturous strokes, just like he had done to you.

Fuck, angel, his mind taunts, replaying his own words against his skull. You sound so fuckin’ sweet.

His breathing shudders, his grip tightening. A deep groan rips from his throat, his strokes faster now, his hips chasing the sensation.

But it’s not enough.

He needs more.

He needs to see you again.

His jaw clenches as he yanks his phone off the counter, flicking the camera on and angling it towards the mirror. His pupils are blown, his chest flushed, his cock thick and leaking, his hand wrapped tight around himself.

He groans again, dropping his own dick to grab his shirt, pulling it between his teeth before returning to the throbbing member, pumping it a few times before snapping a few pictures.

After talking that he tilts the phone downward, recording for a few seconds as he slowly strokes himself, watching the way his abs tense as he fucks into his own hand.

He imagines sending it to you as he puts the phone facedown back on the counter.

Imagines your innocent little gasp when you see it.

Imagines your wide, curious eyes as you whisper, Matty, why does it look like that?

Imagines himself teaching you.

A ragged moan tears from his throat, his body tensing, his stomach tightening as the heat coils in his spine, building- building- building-

Until he shatters again.

His breath stutters, his hand slowing, his body pulsing, his release spilling over his fingers in thick, hot waves.

His jaw drops, his head tilting back, his chest heaving as he rides it out, so fucking spent that his knees nearly buckle.

He stands there for a moment, panting, gripping the counter, waiting for his body to stop shaking.

He barely has time to catch his breath before the need creeps back in for the third time. He was so sensitive and so overstimulated that he didn’t think it was even possible to be still hard. But here he was. His muscles were still tense, his skin overheated, his body thrumming with the aftershocks of release.

His cock is still hard, twitching against his abdomen, a constant, aching reminder of what he just did- and what he still wants.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, his jaw clenching as his fingers flex against the counter. The mirror reflects the mess he’s become- flushed cheeks, sweat-slicked skin, pupils blown so wide that his irises are barely visible.

He knows what he’s about to do is reckless.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But that innocent little pout you gave him earlier? The way you whispered, I haven’t earned it yet? The way you looked at him with those wide eyes as if you had no clue what you were actually asking for?

Fuck.

His phone is still face down on the counter.

He grabs it.

His other hand is already sliding down, already pushing his waistband down. He tilts the phone in one hand, aiming it downward as he presses record.

His fingertips skim down his stomach, dragging over his tightened abs, the muscles twitching under his touch. He hisses softly, teasing himself, delaying the inevitable as he traces the sharp lines of his obliques, feeling the tension coil again, deeper, tighter.

His cock jumps, aching for attention, the head still slick and sensitive from his last orgasm. But he doesn’t grip himself yet- not yet.

Instead, he lets his fingers tease, barely brushing the flushed tip, smearing the remnants of his cum across his skin, feeling the hot, sticky slickness coat his fingertips.

A low groan vibrates from his chest as he swirls his thumb over the head, his body jerking at the overstimulation.

“Fuck-”

The sound echoes in the bathroom, rough and needy.

He sets the phone down on the counter, leaning against the wall so his face is now in frame too, his breath coming out uneven as his fingers finally wrap around himself again.

The first stroke is a torturous drag from base to tip. His grip was firm but not tight, just enough to make his hips stutter forward, chasing the friction.

His breath shudders, his stomach tightening as he squeezes just a little harder, dragging his fist back down.

He rolls his hips into his hand, setting a rhythm. Slow but deep, each stroke sending a sharp pulse of pleasure up his spine.

He starts to buck his hips up, his thumb circling the leaking tip before dragging back down along the vein running the underside of his shaft.

His pace picks up, his grip tighter now, his strokes longer, firmer, his abs flexing with every sharp movement.

A growl rumbles in his throat as he tilts his head back, his jaw going slack as his pleasure builds, stronger, heavier, deeper.

His thighs tense as he pumps his fist faster, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants, sweat beading at his temple as his body coils tight, tight, tight-

The tension is blistering, a sharp, almost painful heat curling at the base of his spine, twisting through his muscles, spreading everywhere.

His chest heaves, his entire body locking up as his strokes turn sloppy, desperate, chasing the sharp edge of release that’s so fucking close-

“Fuck, Y/N-”

The moment your name falls from his lips, his body shatters.

A deep moan tears from his throat as pleasure crashes through him hard, blinding and nearly unbearable.

Thick ropes of release spill over his fist again, streaking hot across his stomach, dripping onto his abs as his body shakes, his thighs genuinely trembling with the aftershocks.

His strokes slow, his breath stuttering, his muscles clenching and unclenching drastically as he rides it out, his head dropping forward, sweat dampening his hair.

For a few moments, the only sound in the bathroom is his ragged breathing, the soft hum of the ventilation fan, the faint creak of the counter as he braces against it.

His hand is still wrapped around himself, sticky and hot.

His phone screen flickers.

And that’s when he realizes-

The video was still recording.

The entire thing.

The sharp, filthy sounds of his pleasure, the way he groaned your name, the way his body unraveled for you.

And before he can think, before he can talk himself out of it, his finger hovers over send.

And then he presses it.

a/n: yall wanted a part 2 so bad so here you go🧡🧡 lmk if u want a part 3

PART THREE OUT NOW

MASTERLIST

for @mattsobvimyfav

tags: @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 (if u wanna be on the taglist, just comment)

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bleachification · 6 months ago

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⸻ THE PRINCE(SS) & THE PROTECTOR

pairing: zoro x reader

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: being in love with zoro is not for the weak, especially when such a love is unrequited. so it is all the more confusing when a certain pirate refuses to let you go when you decide to give your heart a break and leave the crew for good.

note: i really need to stop writing zoro fics with an arranged marriage and bodyguard/protector type premise. with that being said… enjoy xoxo

(also yes this is part ONE. here is the link to PART TWO)

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Thunderstorms are the perfect weather conditions for silent rumination. You isolate yourself in a corner of the ship, eyes closed as rainwater glides down your face in cool streams. With a smile, you breathe in the scent of salt and earth that mingles with the southern winds.

The crew is below deck, sheltered from the downpour and crackling lightning that splits the skies every so often. They’re all asleep and have been for a while now. You are the outlier. The strange one that decided to sit between a storm and the sea during the devil’s hours. Funnels of black clouds swirl angrily above you as it continues to pour. Your clothes, hair, everything is drenched. Soaked down to the very bones—some particularly weary ones.

You relish the feeling of the water against your skin for another moment, reviving yourself from the bleak reflections plaguing your mind. By the time you make it inside, a decision was made.

The next morning, faint sunlight filtered by sparse clouds light up the horizon in hues of soft orange and calm yellow. The water is still. Steady. Almost as if it had forgotten its role as a tempest’s plaything mere hours ago. It’s early. Much too early for most of the crew to be awake, but you can hear a faint tinkering from Usopp’s room and the steady footsteps of another member coming up the stairs to the upper deck.

A familiar silhouette appears in your vision.

“Morning, Robin,” you say.

The archaeologist comes to stand next to you and nods. “Good morning. You’re up early.”

“Had a lot on my mind. Doesn’t leave much room for sleep,” you point out.

“Did you get any?”

“Some.”

She raises a brow, unconvinced.

“About an hour's worth,” you shrug.

An arm sprouts up from the railing you’re leaning on. It holds out a mug of steaming coffee. You take the cup gratefully. The smooth liquid warms you up in the crisp autumn air. Robin takes a sip of her own drink before responding.

“What’s the verdict?” She asks.

“I’ve decided to go.”

She sighs. “That’s it then. I understand there’s no point in trying to change your mind?”

You shake your head sadly. The past few weeks of turmoil and trepidation cemented that certainty. You can’t stay. Not when the fate of a nation falls on your shoulders… and certainly not with feelings as forbidden as the ones you harbour.

“Is it because of him?”

“No. No,” you emphasize at Robin's doubtful expression.

“Don’t lie,” she chides.

You grimace. “Well, not entirely because of him.”

Robin scans the calm horizon with watchful eyes, a storm of thoughts whirling into action behind that piercing gaze of hers. The archaeologist has always been the most logical out of the crew, favouring rationality over emotion. It is the trait you admire most about Robin and the reason why you sought her counsel specifically, choosing to confide in her—and only her—about the decision you faced.

“He deserves to know,” she says softly.

You stiffen, the mere thought making your throat tighten up with anxiety. You shake your head, effectively ending the conversation. At the perfect time too, as one by one the rest of the crew pad up the stairs, ready to start the day.

Luffy first, bounding up the steps with a large grin. Nami follows, then everyone trickles through the doors. Zoro is last.

The swordsman yawns and stretches his arms behind his head, taut muscles glistening under the morning sun. He opens one eye, peeking at you from under sleepy lids. Your heart clenches at the lazy smile he greets you with.

This is going to be difficult.

“Mornin’,” Zoro mumbles, stifling another yawn behind his fist.

The rest of the crew bustles about, running around the deck in preparation for the day ahead. You hear Luffy’s excited laugh somewhere in the background followed by familiar shouts of concern and beratement from Nami, Sanji and Usopp, each taking turns to scold the captain’s latest—and no doubt foolish—idea. Whatever it may be.

The noise and chaos fades away the moment Zoro walks up to you, his warmth surrounding you despite the cold morning temperature. It makes it near impossible for you to focus on much else. Anything else.

“Hey,” you say.

He frowns, eyes scanning your face. You resist the urge to touch it, anxious. Was there something on your face? A pimple? An eyelash?

“What? What is it?” You ask, nerves alight.

“Did you stay up late?”

You blink, caught off guard. Did you really look that tired?

“Yes,” you answer plainly. There’s no point in trying to hide it from him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Zoro arches a brow. “Why not?” Concern laces the question. You almost crumble, seconds away from confessing the truth you’ve been hiding for weeks, when someone barrels into Zoro, knocking him over and effectively ending your conversation.

Luffy, unfazed, pops up onto his feet and dusts himself off, his signature toothy smile never having left his face. Despite his right-hand man groaning on the ground next to him, Luffy seems as chipper as ever.

“Sorry, Zoro!” He apologizes, not sounding very sorry at all.

“I… hate… you…” Zoro grunts, still recovering from having the wind knocked out of him.

Luffy only laughs it off and runs back to the rest of the crew, chattering about some new adventure that is bound to be more effort than it is worth.

“You okay?” You press your lips together in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

Zoro takes the hand you offer, warm palm wrapping around your own. You can feel rough calluses against your skin—a testament to his training. You pull him up and watch him steady himself. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Nervous, you break contact first.

He shoots you a puzzled look, but decides against commenting on it.

“I will be once I knock him upside the head.”

“Let’s not give the poor boy brain damage.”

Zoro snorts. “You mean more than he already has?”

You laugh, the sound almost entirely concealed by a burst of raucous shouts coming from the other side of the deck. Curious, you begin walking over to the crew. Zoro follows suit with his hands in his pockets. As the two of you make your way across the ship’s expanse, the sight of Nami and Luffy arguing comes into view. The others stand off to the side, exasperation and amusement colouring their expressions.

“It’s too risky!”

“It’ll be fine, why are you being so boring?”

“I am trying to keep us from getting killed,” Nami seethes. Her face is set in a tight scowl that twists her features into something alarmingly frightening. You haven’t seen her this angry in quite some time.

“Not if we’re careful,” Luffy defends. The captain looks bored and irritated at the same time.

Nami’s right eye twitches.

Oh dear.

“And since when are you careful?”

“I’m not. But [name] is.” Your captain jerks a thumb in your direction.

All heads swivel to look at you.

You raise your palms up, placating. “I… just got here.”

Nami runs up to you, eyes pleading. The ginger-haired woman grabs your shoulders and gently shakes you.

“Please knock some sense into him!”

You tilt your head and lean to the left in order to peek at Luffy from behind Nami’s frame. The boy scratches the back of his head with a toothy grin.

“Would you care to explain, Captain?” You ask bemusedly.

Luffy’s eyes dance with mischief. “We’ve got a mission!”

It’s Zoro that steps in this time. “Just the two of you?”

“Well, yeah,” Luffy answers plainly.

You gently pry Nami’s hands off. “Why?”

“You’re the only one who knows the layout of the place,” he explains.

You frown. “What place?”

“Aracorn Palace,” Robin interjects. There’s a small smile on her face as she watches the situation unfold. Always assessing. Always dissecting.

Aracorn… such a familiar name. It takes a second before a sliver of memory tickles the edges of your mind. An image forms; one of a mighty castle built from silver and stone erected in the heart of a powerful city.

You used to travel there for important delegations and social banquets. Luffy is right. You do know the area well.

“We’re going there? What for?”

“And why only the two of you?” Zoro questions.

“To be stealthy,” Luffy grins.

“Right. Stealthy. You.” Zoro stares, unconvinced.

Luffy ignores his second-in-command. “We’re going to go rescue someone. He’s being kept in the dungeons.”

So many questions.

“Who is it?”

Robin, again, speaks up. “His name is not important. He may not even own such a thing. His role as an ex-member of an underground information guild named Kleios is what makes him useful to us. An execution date has been set for tomorrow evening, so if we are to save the man, we must do it soon.”

“Well? What do you say?” Luffy's enthusiasm is palpable.

The rest of the crew watches you, assuming that you would wave it off. The danger is obvious, and you are—among most instances—level headed enough to pull the plug when needed.

One last adventure.

You surprise them.

“I’m in.”

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

You should have known it wouldn’t be easy. In fact, you should have known that the entire plan would fall apart because of course it did. Nothing ever seems to go right for the crew. Right now you curse such rotten luck. Although… it isn’t even luck, not really. It’s the captain… Zoro… Nami… Sanji… the whole lot of them! No matter how organized—how meticulous—a plan was, it never actually fucking went to plan. You suppose you’ll miss it. That unmanned chaos. You suppose you’ll miss all of it. As for who you’ll miss most…

“Zoro!” You stare up at the swordsman in both relief and horror. He dangles from a rope ladder, cascaded off the side of a strange looking vehicle—one with wings and whirring motors that suspend its large metal body in the open air. Usopp sits in the pilot seat manning the impressive contraption. Sweat beads on his forehead from concentration. The others are likely protecting the ship from the nation’s naval cavalry.

You increase your pace despite the burning sensation in your lungs. Hot on your heels is a stretch of armed guards mixed with strange looking creatures that look to be a gruesome mismatch of different animals—both natural and mythological.

Chimeras.

Luffy, for once, listened and fled alongside you when shit hit the fan—albeit with extreme reluctance. The captain was able to deal with the first rush of soldiers and their Chimera, but the monster was vicious and even Luffy struggled. That was a mere one. The royal guard owned five. And all of them, snapping their fanged teeth and snarling in hunger, are quickly closing the distance between themselves and you—their prey.

The prisoner was long dead. The whole thing was a trap designed to ensnare the Straw Hats, and Luffy and you had walked straight into it. By the time you both realized you had been played, the cavalry had already surrounded you. Thankfully, Luffy was the master of creative escapes. He was not, however, a master of subtle ones. What was originally one guard unit and its accompanying Chimera quickly turned into all of them chasing after you in a vicious frenzy.

“Don’t engage! We’ll come to you!” You shout towards Zoro, urging him to stay aboard. You can see a sort of panic in his eyes, mottled by excitement. He’s itching to fight. But doing so would be his biggest mistake yet and likely his last as well if he does not heed your words.

The murderous soldiers are practically breathing down your necks, and even with Luffy trying to fend off as many as possible, you will quickly be overwhelmed by the strength of the Chimeras. The monsters growl and roar as their heavy steps thunder behind you, bloodlust practically soaking them through. If Zoro abandoned the ladder and tried to fight them off… it would be sheer suicide. You won’t let that happen.

Luffy manages to stretch out and grab hold of Zoro in the near distance. With a yell, he swings himself up and grabs you along the way. You yelp, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You shut your eyes as the wind whips you in the face. With a soft thud you land against a warm mass.

Zoro catches you, arms encircling your waist.

“Are you okay?” He murmurs into your ear.

You sag into him from relief. “Yes. Is Luffy…?”

“He’s completely fine,” Zoro smirks.

Luffy, who is sprawled across the floor, gives you two thumbs up in reassurance. You can’t help but laugh.

“Usopp! Take us away.”

The pilot gives you a smile and a salute before he presses a button and pulls the wheel up. Slowly, you feel the contraption tilt upwards. Smooth and steady.

CRASH!

Out of nowhere, you and the rest of the crew are violently thrown to the left as something punctures the metal wall of the vehicle and jerks the entire thing back. Before you go slamming into the wall, Zoro twists himself around and cushions the blow.

“What the hell?” Zoro’s grip on you tightens protectively.

A strange red pincer curls into the crumpled sheet that—just a moment ago—was the side hull. It looks to be the same sort of armour that is found upon the back of a crab, except it bears a darker color. Not unlike a deep pool of blood. Its shape is almost identical to that of a scorpion's tail but riddled with sharp ridges that cover its surface. The thing is the size of your head—a grotesque limb extended from one of the Chimeras, no doubt.

Zoro and Luffy both immediately jump into action, the former slicing at the pincer while Luffy tries brute force. Neither works. Solid and unbending, the pincer trembles then stills. The next second you are staring into the howling winds and open space. The army roars beneath you, fifty feet below. The ugly beast with the scorpion tail isn’t finished. It narrows its beady eyes and with astonishing speed, it whips its tail upwards, spearing the floor.

Usopp does his best to recenter, managing to keep everyone upright and away from the gaping hole left by the ripped wall.

“Shit,” Zoro hisses. “The damn thing is too tough. I can’t cut through.”

“I can’t rip it out!” Luffy frowns, throwing punch after fruitless punch at the immovable pincer.

Panic threatens to overwhelm you.

Shit, shit, shit. Shit!

Something glints in the corner of your vision. A solution strikes you and you scramble towards a device on the floor.

“The laser cutter! I can–” but your voice is lost to the bellowing winds as the monster yanks its tail once more, causing the entire machine to shake. You fumble with the device and clumsily clasp it in your trembling hands. Vertigo strikes you as you look down for a split second.

The ground is nearing at an alarming rate.

It’s too close. Too—

Zoro jumps.

“NO!” You reach out in an attempt to pull him back but you're too late. The fabric of his shirt slips out of your grasp and Zoro goes tumbling down—straight into the unhinged maw of the monster below.

You aren’t sure if the screams piercing the air are your own or if they belong to the dying men below. With fluid ease, Zoro manages to sidestep the beast. He dives into the mass, slashing through their ranks. It is beyond impressive.

But it is not enough.

The Chimeras have zoned in, their attention drawn to Zoro. Snarling and snapping, they circle their prey.

Its suicide.

“No…”

Luffy steps forward, ready to leap into the chaos, when familiar shouts sound from below.

The rest of the crew are here.

You collapse in relief, adrenaline draining from your body.

He’s okay.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

“This is such a stupid fight,” you sigh.

“This isn’t a fight,” Zoro frowns, unnerved by the very idea of arguing with you.

Sanji pipes up. “It sounds like a fight.”

Nami pinches him by the ear and drags the chef out of the kitchen, scolding him as he protests and apologizes.

“But Nami! They’re in my workspace!”

You and Zoro both ignore him, too preoccupied with the argument at hand.

“I saved your life. His too. If anything, you should be thanking me.”

You scoff in disbelief. “I’m not going to thank you for your recklessness.”

“And I won’t apologize for it,” Zoro says firmly.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day! I refuse to stick around and watch it happen.”

He freezes as he catches onto the underlying meaning behind your words. “What do you mean by that?”

“I…” you hesitate, unprepared for this conversation. You didn’t mean to let news of your departure slip out. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re both too agitated. Too riled up.

“What do you mean by that?” He echoes. His voice is low and careful, tip toeing on the edge between urgency and trepidation.

You want to turn around. Walk away. Lie.

But this is Zoro. A man you entrust with your life and, occasionally, your heart as well. Secrets don’t belong in your relationship—as muddled as it is—and they will only consume what trust you have forged through the years.

It is time to bear the truth in front of the most terrifying witness.

With a rough swallow, you tell him everything. Your plan to leave the crew, to retain your birthright, and to finally settle your country’s score, once and for all, by bringing peace through union. A marriage between royal heirs. You and a foreign prince.

You can’t look at him as the secret you’ve been harbouring finally spills over your lips like oil. If you look at him, you’ll cry.

“…I leave in two weeks,” you finish. You’re still staring at the ground, heart racing a mile a minute.

There’s no answer. Silence stretches on for a while, so quiet a person’s breath could be mistaken for thunder. So cloying, it stains your lungs. Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You snap your head up, ready to demand a reply from the swordsman, but the look on Zoro’s face wipes anything you have to say from memory.

Shock, anger, disappointment, sadness. Those are all too shallow of description for the depth of what he is feeling. The best he settles on is desperation. An intensely unpleasant anxiety that borders on panic. That is what currently thrums in his veins.

You’re leaving…?

“You won’t change my mind Zoro.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Nothing will,” you add softly.

Especially not him.

This is your goal—your dream. He can’t take that away from you no matter how much he resents it. He simply can’t. But he can be angry, can’t he? He deserves that anger. Needs it to keep him sane. But before he can articulate it, you speak up again, turning the subject back to the argument before.

“The point is you’re too rash.”

He’s barely listening. “It’s my job.”

“No,” you reply firmly. “No it’s not. You put that title on yourself—placed that burden on your own shoulders, never asking for a hand. Not even when so many would offer.”

“I don’t need help. I protect my friends. That’s what I do,” he grits out.

“Even at your own expense?”

“Yes.”

You scoff in disbelief. “It's idiotic.”

“It’s my duty.”

“So you say!” You throw your hands up, exasperated and frustrated. “But that’s not all it is, is it? You fear losing that part of yourself—the protector, the bodyguard, the shield—because you would lose yourself in the process. Your entire life—your purpose—does not revolve around meaningless self-sacrifice and protecting us from a world we choose to exist in!”

He scoffs in sheer disbelief. “And you? What exactly is your role? Don’t you dare stand there and attempt to psychoanalyze me when you’re just a damn coward!”

You suck in a sharp breath, his words striking deep. “I am not a coward.”

“Then why the hell are you running away?!”

“Running? Running?!”

He nods, jaw clenched. He avoids looking straight at you—at the hurt in your eyes. “Yes. The only thing you know how to do.”

Anger replaces hurt. “You fucking hypocrite,” you spat out.

He shakes his head. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You are nothing without your so-called duty,” you hiss. “So you do not get to judge mine.”

“Is that why you abandoned it in the first place? I wonder where this valiant change of heart came from.”

“You could never understand.”

He drops his gaze to the floor and takes a heavy step back. Zoro can barely look at you. “You’re right. I could never understand turning my back on people who needed me.”

Those are the last words he says to you. The next morning, you are gone. All of your things and belongings cleared from your room—like you had never existed on the ship in the first place.

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squidpedia · 8 months ago

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can i offer an odd revive headcannon i have

i like to think revived humans sometimes just grow plants in their hair. And clover has to spend every morning plucking literal clovers out of their hair

started off cute, became a nuisance very fast

#for aimee its forget me nots #for jackie its poppies #skipping lilac because A. lilako situation B. i think you already know what they would hypothetically get #for devin its dandelions #for jade its mimosa leaves #yeah you know what chara would get #and if your name is soup or karma point and laugh i make all my oc’s faves tie back to plants somehow i know i know #clover #starlo #ceroba #clover uty #uty #pedias art #me screaming and cheering that i didnt have to draw the hat in any of these doodles #happily ever after and then some #fallen kids

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slightly-knot-insane · 3 months ago

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Under Your Cold Fingertips

[ m!monster x fem!reader ]

a/n: bodyguard x protégée, fluff and smut, forbidden romance content: nsfw, oral (male and female receiving), p in v, pulling out

"I must rest here a moment, mistress."

The hollow sound of his voice under the helmet is very quiet. He's been walking next to your horse for a while, limping, but insisting he is fine. The snow gathered on his armor and his gray horns were decorated with little crystals.

"Of course!" You hastily unmount, sensing he is unwell.

His armor loudly clanks as he almost falls on the steps beneath the abandoned gate. You hear him breathe heavily and hot. As you look back the way you came, you see droplets of blood branding his every footstep.

"You are badly hurt!" you shout. "You fool, why didn't you tell me?"

He remains silent, his hot breath creating a fog around his head. Maybe you're imagining, but he looks like he's... shaking? Gods...

"Quickly, let's undress you," you order him and kneel in front of him.

"M-mistress..." his metal gauntlets clink as he jerks his arms upwards in shock. "What are you doing? You'll get dirty."

"Shut up," you retort. "I can wash my clothes and shoes. But I can't revive my most loyal bodyguard, can I?"

He doesn't say anything and let's you untie his boots. Meanwhile, he carefully releases buckles below his chin. He removes his helmet slowly but the metal still scrapes against his horns. He is a bit pale and has dark rings surround his eyes. If his sclera wasn't black, you're sure you would see how very bloodshot they are.

You suck air between your teeth. "Your bandages are soaked!" Trying not to harm him further, you carefully start unwrapping the bloodied material.

"Mistress, please! This is highly inappropriate."

You just shoot him a furious glance to shut him up. You barely know anything about wounds or treating them, but the gash is long and bleeding heavily. "This looks bad...", you utter.

"It's fine, I heal fast—" Without waiting him to finish, you quickly get all the necessary things and with his help clean his wound. He hisses as the disinfectant slides down his skin.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper while dabbing around his wound. "You don't deserve this."

A large calloused palm covers your fingers. He is surprisingly gentle. He... never touched you like this before. "Mistress, your hands are cold." Wrapped by his clawed fingers, he brings your hands closer to his mouth and blows onto them. Warm air as white as fog twirls around your heads.

"I—" You wanted to say something, something funny or friendly probably, maybe even witty, but your mind went blank. Or rather, every sensible thought got pushed back by that one idea.

You push yourself between his legs and kiss him. Too shocked to react, he keeps his mouth open like a fish until he grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you. "What are you doing? You can't... We..." He trails off looking at your lips. "We can't..."

"You're bleeding for me and I can't even kiss you?", you ask in an almost growling tone.

Still slightly shocked, he opens his mouth to speak, reconsiders and kisses you instead, tightly embracing you against his chest. And his hard and cold armor but you don't care. All you want are his warm lips and his tongue to shove itself down your throat. But not only that...

You slide down between his legs again, happy that doesn't have heavy plates on his lower body (even though that proved a wrong choice this morning). You quickly loosen his pants and push your hand inside. "This is wrong," he mutters over and over but does nothing to stop you taking his heavy and strange cock into your hands. You always wondered how it looks like. And tastes like.

You take it into your mouth, followed by his low and breathy fuck, and you hum around it as you use your tongue to explore every part of it. Listening to your guardian's moans makes you wet and your cunt clenches around nothing every time he jerks his hips up and thrusts into your mouth. You lick his phallus all over, sucking his tip and tracing his veins until he grabs your wrists and pulls you on him.

You stand above him, many layers of your dress stopping you to make the next step. You lift your skirts and chemise around your waist. "Forgive me," he says before he rips your undergarments and reaches your pussy. He leans forward and slides his tongue along your folds, his nose digging into your bush and soft tissue. He is growling like a hungry animal, devouring your nectar and you tremble above him, panting and gasping as his tongue finds all your secrets.

He pulls you down, onto his lap and you drop all your skirts onto you two. They hide everything that happens between you two and keep you warm at the same time.

There is a strange expression on his face. "Mistress..."

You kiss him before he says something stupid, and guide his cock inside you. Slight pang of pain causes you discomfort, but you can't help but roll your hips looking for pleasure. His arms are under your chemise and his claws dig into your hips. You moan into each others mouths, your breaths and bodies pushing the cold away. You ride his cock and with his help you feel the pulses of your peak building up.

"I'm close", you sob into his neck and he grabs your ass so that he could lift you and fuck you from below. You breath hitches from the force of his dick digging into your cunt and you quickly come undone. He kisses you, savoring your delight, and slides into your pussy slowly but deliberately, prolonging your orgasm as much as he can. He then pulls you onto his chest and positions himself so that he can push his whole cock into you easily. In and out, in and out, faster and faster.

Some outsider wouldn't see a thing happening hidden under those long and dirty skirts. But you could feel the tension of his muscles and his cock swelling inside you. He suddenly pulls out by lifting you like a child's toy and, with a long groan, he cums all over your thighs.

"I wish I saw your cock twitching and spilling," you say while you lay against his breastplate.

Still breathless, he chuckles, but also groans in discomfort. You finally remember. "Your leg!" You jump off his lap and see his leg bleeding again. "You fool! Why did you put me on your lap."

Completely ignoring your scolding, he pulls you down again and you sit like before, your naked cunt against his groin. "Because I don't care about that pain. I dreamed about this for a long time."

"You dreamed about fucking me outside in the cold?", you jab.

He chuckles. "Not exactly in the cold." He kisses your neck and jaw. "But outside, and inside, and in your bed, and in my bed, and against a wall, and on the table, and on the floor, and against a tree..."

As he names all the places he imagined, your pussy throbs against his muscles. "All that sounds lovely. But let's get your leg fixed first before you bleed to death."

He places his forehead against yours. "At least I would bleed for the most amazing woman in the world."

You hit him in the chest, blush overtaking your cheeks. "Shut up, you... fool."

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gay-dorito-dust · 3 months ago

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Can I request headcanons for Zayne, and Sylus react gn s/o who always makes it a habit to tell him that they love him whenever they can like when they wake up, before going to sleep, before they leave, and when they return?

Hearing you say such sweet and simple words like I love you at any and every given moment will never not warm his heart, ever.

Sylus could hear you speak the words softly against his chest, right where his heart is when you wake up, almost as though you were whispering secrets to it in such a loving and caring way that it only made it race within his chest and swell with warm emotions within moments of you saying such tender and powerful words.

‘I love you Sylus, stay safe and don’t do anything stupid.’ You’d tell him as you kissed his forehead, pulling away only to rest your own head against his to stare into his crimson eyes, crimson eyes that stared back at you heavily with love and utter adoration as he chuckles. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it my love, for whom shall warm you in bed when I depart?’ He’d ask jokingly.

‘Mephisto.’ You’d reply jokingly as the crow could be heard squawking confusingly from his corner of the room, head tilted to one side.

You brought or perhaps revived a warmth Sylus thought was long buried within his chest.

You brought it forth so easily that he couldn’t help but find himself wanting nothing more then to rush his business meetings just so he could hear you run towards him, burry your head into his chest as you embraced him while telling him how much you loved and missed him; almost as though the confession weighed heavily upon your tongue like it was something you had to admit to before you couldn’t anymore.

He loved how much softer and sweeter the moments before you both drift off to sleep, the last thing he hears is you saying you love him in a sleepy mumble, face buried deep into his chest as sleep encased you both whole. It was a moment he repeats when you’re far away on a mission, knowing damn well he wouldn’t be able to sleep without hearing your voice, not after having gotten use to it after your short stay in his home.

Sylus has become accustomed to you being in his home, with him and blessing it with your warmth and personality. So to have to endure a week without you was enough for Sylus to reach for the phone and call you just to hear you tell him you love him, to know that even if there was distance between the two of you that the love between you was still as strong as it was when your both together. Sylus had grown accustomed to you sharing your thoughts and inner most emotions with him, with you always kissing him on the lips or wherever you could reach and whispering;

‘I love you’ afterwards before going about your day as though you didn’t leave him wanting to keep you locked in his arms in your shared bed, to drink you and your early morning look as you both partake in sharing your warmth, lost in one another as everything else fell away for it didn’t matter as all that truly mattered was love of your life that you held in your arms.

I love you was a strong word but your version of I love you was to say that you loved him after every moment, and in the end he found himself whispering ‘I love you’ against your forehead as he kissed it softly, holding you closer to his chest protectively before you fell into peaceful slumber together with a content smile upon his face.

Stylus was complete for his other half was welhere they belonged; in his arms.

Zayne would feel as though he was back to how he felt when you first admitted your feelings for him each time you reminded him of your love for him.

His smile upon his lips was soft and gentle, his eyes were equally so as he felt light on his feet and his heart sang your name so dreamily even long after you leave his sight.

They were words that one shouldn’t say lightly but when you say ‘I love you Zayne, I’ll see you when you get back from work to watch that new movie together.’ Zayne truly believed he could hear the angels sing as he finds himself walking into work with the goal of going back home to you.

Something of which he had once thought was never going to happen even in a million lifetimes, but he had found himself blessed to even be sharing a bed with you in this lifetime.

‘I love you Zayne.’ You’d whisper softly against his lips after pecking them multiple times, wanting nothing more than to wake your beautiful doctor with some much needed affection, all the while watching the fluttering of his eyelashes as he opens those gorgeous eyes of his to look at you sweetly.

‘I love you too my dearest.’ He relies in his morning voice, rubbing his hand softly up and down your back as he brought you into kiss your temple.

Those three words only made Zayne feel as though the progression of your relationship thus far was more than worth the longing and the pinning he has to endure in silence. Even though you did tell him there were moments where you knew he felt something towards you that went beyond platonic and into something far more romantic and genuine.

‘I love you Zayne’ were words that lived within his head constantly, even if he didn’t show it sometimes he couldn’t help but find himself wanting you to say it more and more.

Was it selfish? Yes but Zayne couldn’t help it, he wanted to hear you say it for as long as he possible could, for he knew he could never get bored of hearing you say it as it was something he had been waiting for all this time.

It was like two long lost souls finally finding each other again after so, so long. It brought a weight off of his shoulders and Zayne was more than anticipating where your future would lead you, especially if admiring to your love for one another was going to become easy as breathing.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace imagines #love and deepspace imagine #lads imagines #lads imagine #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x y/n #sylus imagine #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #zayne imagines #zayne imagine #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne x y/n

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shslbunnylover · 4 months ago

Note

Can I request a fic where Natasha romanoff and the reader are married for tax pourposes, and nat fogets she's married until someone starts talking about her wife that they met on a mission?

With mean nat, and some smut?

🥝

★ ★ ★ A much needed reminder ★ ★ ★

Character: Natasha Romanoff

Summary: After Natasha forgets about your marriage that was based on convenience, she realizes just how much she loves you.

Taglist: @inlovewithgreta @lilfartbox1

Trigger Warnings: NSFW, slight angst and mention of unrequited love, Daddy kink, choking kink, slight spanking, rough sex, mean(ish) Natasha, G!P Natasha (with condom), slight dacryphilia,

Genre: Smut

Author's Note: I've been revived!!

Word Count: 4.02k

Natasha Romanoff. Feared Avenger, skilled assassin, and your wife. Well...not so much the last part. Your relationship was mostly out of convenience, leaving you, who had fallen in love with Natasha a few months into your relationship, heartbroken and bitter against the world. You were literally married to this woman, yet she was nothing more than a stranger most nights.

The two of you had lived in the Avengers Tower for around a year when she brought the concept of a convenience-based marriage. She dragged you into a dark room, and you had honestly believed that you were about to meet death right then and there until she had dropped that bombshell.

"We need to get married," She had stated bluntly, looking down at you as you sat in the chair she had practically forced you into.

"Huh-? Natasha, what the hell??" You replied, looking up at the redhead as the slight slivers of light from the window illuminated her sharp green eyes as they stared down at you.

A few long moments pass, the only noise in the room being that of her and you breathing.

She sighed, just blinking for a minute before sitting down.

"Look, Y/N..." Natasha began, twirling a pen on her fingers, the ball point moving quickly as it spun around in her hand.

Your vision fell to the pen, then back up to the assassin.

"Out of every Avenger here, you're the one I'm most comfortable doing this with. This isn't anything romantic, but it's purely for our benefit," She explained, her hands placed on the table as she leaned in.

"Our benefit? How exactly?" You looked at her curiously, becoming intrigued by the offer against your better judgment.

"Tax benefits, credits to be specific. It would also be a way for you to ward off those annoying ass fans of yours," Natasha's head gestured to your left towards the only window (and light source) in the room that gave a view of the city below.

You sighed, you knew that last statement was true. As an Avenger, when you gained strength you would also have creepy and obsessed fans who would devote their life to you in some parasocial relationship. Being single didn't help that either, and with having The Black Widow holding your hand out in public acting as your wife, you knew the amount of obsessed fans (public ones at least) would decrease.

"You don't have to agree to this, but if you want it, meet me in my compound later," She'd said before leaving the room.

You sat in that room for a long while, debating your options.

But eventually you came to a conclusion.

"Natasha?" You knocked on the redhead's door, sighing as she opened the door. "We have a deal."

You barely managed to see the notoriously rude Avenger crack a small smile.

"Alright, we'll figure out the legal shit in the morning," Her smile dropped once again, before gently shutting the door.

The two of you were married in the courthouse after less than a week following the conversation in the room, leaving you married in the eyes of the general public and more importantly the government and tax office.

Nothing had really changed between you two in terms of your emotional connection. Sure the other Avengers would tease you about being married and would constantly compare the two of you to complete rocks when it came to the love in your marriage, but you didn't mind because you and her were only in this for convenience, it wasn't like you actually liked each other.

That last fact however, changed around a year into your "marriage".

You sat alone in the main lounge room in the tower, most of the others out on some minor missions, almost the entire crew excluding you and Natasha, who had been injured in a previous mission and was forced to stay at the compound. As her "spouse", the rest of the crew sacrificed you to stay with her under yet another one of their "funny" jokes against your arrangement. You didn't really mind being told to stay in the building though, it gave you a free day off.

Turned on in the background was some random reality TV show that consisted more of fake tears and drama then any actual real glimpse of human emotion, but it was still your vice nonetheless.

With your feet propped on the couch and a bowl of leftover Chinese food in your hands, you watched the show on the television with lazy eyes. You didn't have any real responsibilities at the moment, Natasha was way too stubborn to even think about letting you take care of her, no matter how "married" you may have been to the rest of the team.

About an hour passed when you heard the assassin's voice come out of the hallway in a groan.

"Ah shit-" She grimaced, walking down the hallway, her stubborn self still refusing any help, even in the form of leaning on the wall.

"Nat?" You paused the TV, placing your bowl of rice on the table before standing up to see what was going on behind you.

"What-?" She gritted her teeth, her bandaged leg faltering her steps and forcing the redhead to slow her pace.

"You know you were told to relax and call me if you needed anything," You sighed, looking your wife up and down in a disapproving manner.

"Y/N, I don't need your help," Natasha scoffed, ever the unwilling to receive assistance.

You let out yet another exhale, and you pulled her to the couch you were once sitting on.

"Yes you do, I'm taking care of this wound," You grabbed a first aid kit before kneeling in front of her to unwrap the old bandages.

You placed gauze on the wound, gentle against the assassin's skin so as to not aggravate the wound.

With gentle hands the assassin obviously wasn't used to, you finished cleaning up her leg, before gently placing Natasha's leg down.

You looked up when you heard her laugh.

"What?"

"You're just like a little housewife aren't you?" She smirked, looking down at you with a cocky expression.

Your eyes widened, and your heart felt as if it was both stopping and speeding up at the exact same time.

Your face broke out into a small blush, and you remained quiet, just darting your eyes away from the green eyes gleaming down at you with a mixture of mischief and teasing.

Fuck.

Later came one of Tony's infamous parties, you'd gotten all dressed up, wearing a small pink dress that highlighted your body, falling right above your knees.

Since the incident that revealed your feelings, you and Natasha didn't even talk, once again returning to strangers. You acted like the other didn't exist, despite feeling empty without the redhead around you. But you attempted to be away from Natasha as much as possible in an attempt to squish your feelings for the older woman.

You stood against the wall, chatting with an old friend who also happened to be a minor acquaintance of Tony's. Your eyes glanced over, and you found yourself staring at Natasha as she discussed...well...whatever she was discussing was some random thing you didn't seem to recall knowing. You assumed her to be another acquaintance of Tony's, most likely an employee or even a news reporter, though you decided on the former.

A small exhale escaped your lips before you turned back to your old friend.

"So, what's been up with you? It's been so long since I've seen you!" You smiled.

"Life's been so chaotic, Y/N, I tell you! But the chaos has honestly all been worth it. After all, I did gain a husband out of it!" They held up their hand, the medium sized diamond on their ring shining under the florescent light of the room.

You gasped.

"You got married??" You exclaimed excitedly.

They nodded.

"I tell you, I didn't see it coming, but married life has been amazing! The man I've loved for 7 years only seems that more special to me, and I didn't even know that was possible!"

In response, you took a sip of your drink, looking down at the hand that held the glass. You internally sighed at the lack of a ring on your finger, but you went back to a smile so as to not give away any sense of the heartbreak you were experiencing.

You were originally okay with the arrangement you shared with Natasha, because you never had feelings for the assassin and it wouldn't feel like you had everything you wanted but at the same time nothing you wanted.

But that changed.

You didn't understand where the feelings began, but now your life felt like an empty shell. On the outside, you were married to the one you loved. But on the inside, there was no love in your relationship.

It was all for convenience.

You two hadn't even come in the same car to this party, what made you think you were worthy of truly being married to the woman of your dreams.

Little did you know that Natasha had begun to match your feelings as well, but hid them as much as possible...

"So, Romanoff, what are you up to?" The man Natasha was talking to asked.

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked.

"Have you finally settled down and got yourself a partner?" He pushed her shoulder jokingly.

Natasha tilted her head, crossing her arms.

"No," She said genuinely, seemingly forgetting your entire existence.

"Really? Damn," He sighed with a laugh, adjusting his lean against the wall and smirking.

"What about you?" Natasha questioned out of obligation; she always hated these parties, especially when people she was barely acquainted with came up to her and asked about her personal life.

"I haven't gotten a partner yet...but, I met this cutie on a mission and I'm gonna ask them out," He replied, his smirk only increasing.

The redhead raised her eyebrows in curiosity.

"Really? Who?" She asked.

The man pointed his thumb to the side gesturing to you as you continued to talk with the old friend of yours.

"The one in the pink," He licked his lips.

The redhead looked around, before eventually finding who he was pointing at. When she saw it was you he was pointing at, a rush of anger coursed through every one of Natasha's veins, and she felt one of them sticking out of her forehead.

"They're married." Natasha spat, biting the inside of her cheek.

The man furrowed his eyebrows.

"Really? They don't have a wedding ring, and they never mentioned it," He looked over at you.

Natasha grit her teeth, clenching her fists.

"Yeah. They're married," She glared.

"Woah, okay!" The man laughed nervously. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

Natasha adjusted her lean, and she looked off to the side.

"I don't have anything in a twist, just giving you the truth," She tossed her braid over her shoulder.

The man gave her an awkward look, but eventually rolled his eyes.

"Alright Romanoff, whatever you say," He replied.

Hours passed and Natasha stood in the back silently, recollecting her feelings towards you and your marriage in general.

When that man mentioned you, she had felt guilt washing through her veins. She actually forgot about your marriage. Why did that make her upset though? She wasn't supposed to actually fall in love with you... She hadn't had a crush in years before she realized her feelings for you. She felt her heart beating faster than normal when she saw you, and she recently felt the need to actually be yours for the rest of your life.

Why did this have to be so confusing?

The end of the party finally came, and Natasha looked up to see you leaving.

It was now or never.

Natasha pushed herself off the wall, and she quickly followed you before grabbing your hand.

You snapped your head to find the redheaded assassin looking at you with an angry and jealous expression.

"Nat-?" You stuttered, feeling your legs go weak at your wife's dominant nature.

"Do you want to come home with me?" She practically growled. "Just answer yes or no."

You blushed, your eyes darting around the room and eventually locking with Natasha's green irises.

You didn't understand where any of this had come from, one moment you were walking home alone and now you were being held by the wrist by the woman of your dreams.

"Yes-" You blurted without thinking, your libido and heart acting before your brain could even process the situation.

Natasha gripped your hand, storming out towards her car faster than she thought her legs would carry her just to be with a person. She'd only moved this quickly to either carry out a mission or to train, never for a person she wanted to be with. No, the feared Black Widow never chased after anyone. But tonight that had changed.

She practically threw you into the passenger's seat of her car, buckling your seatbelt for you before making a beeline for her own spot in the car.

You sat there in shock as Natasha started the engine before pulling out of the parking lot.

"Natasha...what is this?" You asked, pressing your thighs together as a sense of arousal coursed through your body.

"Малышка...I'm in love with you. I can't stand this marriage not being anything more than tax benefits. I want you. I need you." Her hand found its way to your thigh, her palm and digits can eerily close to where you needed her most.

"Natasha..." You repeated her name like a prayer. "I need you too...I can't handle this. Since I took care of you that day, I needed you. Either to kiss my lips or fuck me senseless, I've needed you for too long,"

Natasha's grip on your thigh tightened, and a small moan escaped your lips as her digits snaked closer and closer to your achy and needy pussy.

"Keep talking like that, Ангел, and I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to utter anything but my name and your beautiful moans," The redhead kept one hand on the steering wheel, practically glaring at the road ahead.

"Maybe I want that..." Your hand overlaps the one on your thigh, and you move Natasha's hand to cup your heated sex, allowing a moan to escape both your lips and Natasha's.

"What are you comfortable with? I want you to enjoy this as much as I do," She said, her voice husky from her heightened libido.

"I want you to do whatever you want, I love anything minus ass stuff, choke me, spank me, do whatever, I just need you,"

The assassin rolled her head back.

"God damn it Ангел..." She groaned, and even in the darkness, you noticed a small bulge sticking out of her pants, *she was hard*.

You knew she had a cock, you'd heard her mention it during her discussion with you about her life in the red room. But God you didn't know it was that big.

"Nat...you're hard-" You blurted, as if you hadn't just said the most obvious thing in the world.

"I know, принцесса," Natasha maneuvered your hand to place it on her cock, her Russian accent bleeding through her words the more and more worked up she got. "Look what you do to me, моя маленькая шлюшка,"

Her husky and slightly strained voice only made your pussy all the more soaked, and you shuddered at the feeling of her rock hard cock under your palm and her clothes.

"I-I..." You faltered, unable to say anything at all as you kept your hand virtual glued to her cock.

"We're almost home, no one else will be there, so I wanna hear your moans get as loud as possible. I want to hear every noise your beautiful voice makes," Natasha groaned, rutting her hard cock against the palm of your hand.

"Yes Nat..." You whimpered, squirming in your seat while your achy pussy sat in its own arousal.

"Good girl," She breathed, finally pulling into the tower's parking lot before unbuckling you and scooping your body up into her arms as if you weighed no more than a feather to her.

She carried you to her room in the compound, throwing you onto her king sized bed that laid somewhat prominent in her bedroom.

"Natasha," You repeated her name for the umpteenth time that night, your brain seemingly already fried enough so that you couldn't say anything but her name despite her having barely even touched you. "Please...take me,"

The assassin unzipped her pants, allowing for her cock to finally be released from the constraints that left both of you frustrated.

You groaned at the sight of her dick as she pulled down her pants along with her underwear, leaving her with an obviously erect eight and a half inch cock in her hand.

She looked over at you, eventually leaning down and sliding off your dress with skilled fingers. The pink fabric was tossed on the floor alongside her bottom garments, leaving you in just your underwear.

"God you know...I've wanted this for so long, to feel like we were actually married. To feel like you're actually mine..." She smashed her lips into yours, her hand finding its way around your neck and squeezing just enough at the sides to make your pussy clench around nothing.

You moaned at the rough treatment your neck was enduring, and your legs remained shaky as Natasha positioned herself between them.

She left hickeys across the sensitive flesh on your neck, moans escaping you every time she released your skin from the grip of her lips.

"You know, I've had my hand stroking my cock for months, wondering how tight this little pussy would be just for me-" Natasha bit down on your neck, slapping your wet and achy pussy to emphasize your statement.

"Oh God-!" You cried out at the spanking on your sore cunt.

Natasha virtually ripped off your lacy white underwear, and followed along with your bra, releasing your tits from the cage that had been restricting her from the sight of your soft breasts for the whole night.

"Do you want this?" She asked, lifting her mouth up from your soft and supple skin that had been littered with blemishes to look straight in your eyes.

"Yes- I want this..." You shuddered under her touch, a small cry stuck in your throat that developed under the constant teasing.

"Y/N, are you sure?" The green-eyed woman looked at you, a sudden but very brief sense of kindness and care flooding over her otherwise angry and horny gaze.

"Yes- Please! Just don't tease any more-! Please Daddy!" You cried, the sinful noise finally escaping your throat as your head rolled back.

You paused right after the moan left your mouth, your eyes widening and your hand immediately slapping over your mouth.

"Oh God- Natasha I'm so-"

Natasha gripped at your throat.

"Don't. Apologize." She growled, pumping her cock with her hand to get it nice and ready for your little cunt. "But if you keep calling me that I will fuck that cunt until you're crying, or do you not want that?"

You looked up at her as she loomed over your body.

"No- I want that..." You panted, your chest slowly rising and falling as the air around you became hotter.

"Give me your safe word," Natasha demanded.

"Red," You replied, your arousal somehow increasing at the kindness your wife showed even in her most turned on state.

"Good girl," She purred, her lips pressing into yours once again, both literally and figuratively taking your breath away.

Natasha grabbed a condom off of her nightstand, ripping the foil and sliding the rubber around her thick and hardened cock.

"Daddy...God you're so big..." Your eyes fell to her cock.

"I know, принцecca," The assassin smirked, leaning down to blow softly on your pussy, the sudden cold chill sending shivers down your spine.

Your skin raised under the cold breath she let out between your thighs, and you gripped at her braid.

"Please- Daddy- Don't tease," You begged, your voice wavering under her denial.

She smirked, licking a single stripe up your wet slit. Natasha clicked her tongue a few times, and she cooed at you.

"Ohhh...I know Малышка, you just *need* Daddy's cock in you, don't you?" She smirked, looking up at you.

You nodded violently.

"Please Daddy! Please just fill me up! I'll be good, please just fill me up!" You cried, the feeling of her tongue on you making your body ache for more.

"Such a good girl, I love hearing you beg," Natasha kissed your lips softly before sliding her dick between your folds, rubbing your clit with her thumb.

You moaned at the feeling of her rubbing your clit, but your moan only became louder as she pushed herself inside of you, the tip of her dick rubbing right up against your G-spot.

"Fuck-! Daddy-!!" You moaned, gripping at the sheets below as her cock slipped in and out of your cunt.

You gripped at her hair, your fingers finding their way through her tightly braided locks.

Natasha grunted as she rutted in and out of your tight pussy.

“Damn it Малышка, I never thought you'd be this wet for me…you're beautiful…your hair spread out like this, your pretty pussy clenching around my cock…” She panted, slamming her hips into yours, the sounds of sex filling the environment around you.

Sweat drilled down your face, and your hands quickly made their way to the redhead’s shirt, unbuttoning it and pulling her bra off with the other fabric.

You leaned in, pulling her close as you kissed down her neck, the only thing interrupting your movements being the cries and moans that left your lips.

“Please, please. Oh God!” You groaned against her.

“I know slut, it feels good doesn't it? Doesn't it feel so good? Fucking christ-” Natasha moaned, her orgasm creeping up on her body as her movements got more and more erratic the closer she got to finishing.

“Daddy…I'm gonna come! Please! I'm gonna come! Please let me cum! I've been such a good girl for you! Please!!” You kissed her passionately, your fingers digging into her skin for any sense of support.

Natasha groaned.

“Me too, come with me принцecca,” Natasha gripped your throat, leaving somewhat visible handprints on your flesh. “Боже мой!! Черт возьми, принцесса! Ты мне нужен! Дерьмо! Ебать!!” She slammed her hips into you, her cum coating the inside of the condom as she finished.

“Fuck! Fuck! Daddy!!” You moaned simultaneously, your orgasm washing over you as you fell back into the bed.

Natasha groaned, barely holding herself up by her arms, just as exhausted as you.

The assassin slowly pulled out of you, kissing your forehead as you whimpered from the empty feeling in your pussy.

“C'mere beautiful,” She laid down next to you, sliding off her cum filled condom and throwing it in the trash before pulling you into her arms.

“…I love you, Natasha…” You muttered against her neck, burying yourself in her scent as your naked bodies intertwined.

Natasha smiled gently, running her hands through your messy hair, her fingers tangling in your locks.

“I love you too, Y/N,” She murmured into your hair, taking in the scent of your shampoo and using it as a lifeline and a reminder that this truly was real.

“Can we try this marriage for real this time?” You looked up at her, your hand falling to hers and tangling your fingers together.

“Of course we can…I've been waiting to ask you that for so long now…” She laughed softly, kissing you softly on the lips.

You kissed her back, sharing the first of many kisses of your marriage, but this time the marriage was finally real and not just for convenience.

If you enjoyed reading this, don't forget to like, reblog and comment! Thank you and you are loved <3

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #wlw #wlw ns/fw #nblw #nblw ns/fw #lesbian #bisexual #pansexual #smut #marvel smut #fanfic #marvel fanfiction #akira writes ❤️#trending

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reshinless · 4 months ago

Text

before he met you, kinich didn't care too much about his life. just living it to the fullest with almost zero expression on his face.

but after learning what it was to love someone—everything changed.

not just anyone, but you. he loved you so much.

prior to the usual pilgrimages, he wouldn't really mind if he got revived or not, he did as much as he could. that's all he cares about somewhat.

but after learning what it's like to have someone to come back home to, someone anticipating a picnic night out at midnight... he couldn't just die anymore.

he'd always come right back to you. in your arms every year, the warmth reminds him of that fuzzy feeling of being in a field of dandelions.

freedom wasn't something he as a child was too familiar with, at least in a sense that included safety. family wasn't a thing to him back then, he never thought of having one at least.

of course it changed once he found you—fuck. now he couldn't imagine a life without you.

nowadays when he fights, he feels a stronger desire to kill whatever he has to, all that he needs to slash and burn so he can come back to those cozy nights in your shared house cuddling.

or those afternoons you both take ajaw out on a walk. maybe even the mornings where you spend in each other's hold, no words shared—complete silence that would speak for the both of you.

even if many things in his life had changed for the worse, you taught him that there are changes for the better.

it brought him to where he was now. dreaming about the life you both could live in the future. man just imagine the kids.

sorry if u guys expected angst, its kind of in a way but turned fluffy :)

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katiascraft · 3 months ago

Note

hiii so i thought maybe like a tough argument with lando that leads into an argument and reader is his fiancee so she gives him the engagement ring back. Really dramatic and a lot of angst. Oh and the Franco fic was perfect thx💗

Hiii 💌 i'm so happy you liked the franco fic! Thank you for your request and appreciate my work 🥹 (get ready to cry - i sobbed). Hope you like it beautiful! -------------------------------------------------------------------

"You swore that you loved me, but where were the clues? I died on the altar waiting for the proof" | LN4

part 2 here

Pairings: Lando Norris x Fiancee!reader.

Summary: Lando doesn’t love you anymore.

Now playing: "So long, London" by Taylor Swift.

Word count: +2k.

Warnings: ANGST. This made my heart ache. Not a native enligh speaker so there could be errors (I do what I can). Not proofread.

Author's note: I highly recomend reading this one while listening to So long, London. This made me really sad :( thank you anon again for your requests you’re the best mwak 😙. Don’t forget to like or reblog! And follow me so we can be friends :3 (and drink mate together!)

MASTERLIST

The tension in that little bathroom you were in could be cut by a knife. The sunset could be seen through the window. Monaco´s view has always been your favorite since you moved here with Lando. But today…lately, everything has faded to gray. There was no even black and white just plain grays in the most colorful place in the world. You knew it was because of him. that sparkle you used to have was completely gone. And it's been gone for a few months.

The knot in your throat isn't letting you breathe properly. an evening that could be magical chatting by the pool, was again consumed by your hurting and mourning.

You thought Lando hated you.

Things got really bad.

You did not trust him anymore. You were always on high alert. You knew in some way he didn't love you anymore. That he was probably cheating on you behind your back with models. and you have convinced yourself of that. you barely could look at each other now. you stopped going to his races. He stopped kissing you goodbye or smiling when he looked at you. He didn't buy your favorite ice-cream anymore nor did he offer to go hiking knowing how much you loved nature. you stopped having sex. You didn't cuddle anymore nor kiss good morning.

You felt empty. Lost. You weren't you anymore. All of you who used to be so happy and bright and fun to be around - he took it away the minute he stopped loving you. And you had had enough of it. You didn't want to believe it. But it was true.

He didn't love you anymore.

All you had now were arguments for stupid things. Doubts he was cheating with every girl that followed him on instagram.

You looked at your engagement ring on your finger. You were in the bathroom freshly showered. all of the pain you always tried to hide came out like a storm on you. You started sobbing, holding yourself against the counter of the bathroom.

You loved him. and you were so scared that you would love him forever. you wanted to hate him. You really wanted to do so but you couldn't. And you were so mad because you loved this place. You used to love your life here with him. But there's no you and him anymore. And the promise of forever just didn't exist anymore.

The life you dreamt was gone.

You really thought this was it. Your happy ending. Your best life. Your own romantic comedy by the sea. The man you wanted to have a family with. He was the love of your life.

All of these months you tried so hard. Tried to revive the love you wanted to be there still. You cooked his favorite meals for him to just say thanks and not even look at you. You tried to support him at Singapore GP going by surprise - he wasn't so excited anymore to see you there. You cried in the bathroom that evening. When did love hurt so much? When love became such a nightmare you couldn't wake up from? How much tragedy did you have to suffer in order to make him love you again?

Did you even matter? Did he ever love you for real?

The pain you felt was one you haven't felt in your whole life. You didn't know how life was without him in it. Without his kisses and hugs. Without making him laugh and travel the world together. Without his family and their Christmas celebrations. Without his hand on your waist everywhere you went. Without his eyes admiring you. Without his advice. Without him with you. next to you. Together. Was forever even real?

You couldn't stop crying your eyes out. You had to sit on the floor. Your hair soaking wet staining your pajamas. You were shaking. You didn't know how to pretend anymore. How to keep going like this. Leaving terrified you. But how could you live like this? Did you even deserve it? Was it fair for you to be treated this way?

It seemed he didn't even care about you anymore. About you two.

Your heart was completely broken.

Were all of these girls better than you? Have you ever even been enough for him?

Every thought broke you down even more. You were gasping. You couldn't hide it anymore. You wanted to scream and run away. Hide yourself from the world. From him. You felt so humiliated. You believed he would love you forever. You felt like such a fool. How would your friends even look at you now? Would they like to be friends anyway? Or would they hate you just like he does?

A knock on the door took you out of your thoughts. That scared you. You didn't want to open the door. You knew it was him. You knew he would get mad.

“y/n open the door please. I wanna check on you. I could hear you sobbing from the living room” he said with a worried tone. You tried to wipe your face in vain. It wouldn't work.

You stood up and finally opened the door. You didn't look at him. If you did you didn't know what could happen. You really wanted to die right there. Showing him how down you were for him. How bad he could destroy you. “y/n… what's wrong?” he said softly trying to hold you close to him but you stopped him taking his hands off you and pushing him aside heading to the living room. He frowned looking at you from behind.

He followed you. “y/n” he insisted. You sighed heavily. You didnt turn to look at him, you just showed him your back. “y/n what the fuck is wrong with you? Look at me” he pronounced again now with anger in his tone. You started crying again because he raised his voice.

“You! You are the fucking problem lando! Don't act like you don't get it! You know damn well it's you!” you snapped at him done with all of this. You were done.

Your reaction took him by surprise. He knew. Of course he knew you two were miserable. He felt buried alive. Seeing you like that just took it all. He was already gone. He now realized where you both were. You were just dust. So old and abandoned. He looked at you not knowing what to say and that exasperated you.

“fucking say something please! I'm driving myself insane and you don't even care! Have I ever mattered to you?! Just say fucking something! I'm done lando. I'm done pretending we are happy. I'm miserable. You don't even look at me anymore we don even kiss! What has this ring even meant to you? You are a fucking liar! You don't love anymore, don't you? You haven't even loved me ever!” you pushed him a little. You were so frustrated. Hatred and pain controlled you. He broke you. He buried you alive. He left you down alone. He didn't come to rescue you. You didn't exist anymore.

He tried to take your hands to calm you down. “y/n please. Calm yourself down. Please” his breath was heavy and his voice shaky. His heart was shattering in a million pieces. He was a coward. He made you stay with him when he wanted to go away from here. He didn't even know what he was feeling or what he wanted. He felt like a monster. He was so confused. You looked him in the eyes. Begging him to tell you something. To say I love you. That he wanted to stay with you. “y/n im so sorry i made you feel like this” he said now his voice cracked and his eyes full of tears he was trying to hold so he could be the strong one in this situation.but he really wasn't. He was the weakest.

You couldn't believe he just said that. You went nuts. The pain drove you crazy. “sorry!? That's all you have to say lando!? You are not fucking sorry dont fucking lie to me to my fucking face! Am I a joke to you?!” you shouted getting away from him. You didn't want to be touched by him ever again.

“I'm not lying y/N!” he screamed at you bursting into tears without being able to hold his own hurt. “I don't love you anymore! There you go! I fucking said it, are you happy now? I dont fucking love you anymore!” he surprised himself for what he said and the way it got out of him.

You froze. You didn't want to listen anymore. You already knew he didn't. But hearing him saying it like that onto your face ended you right there. You couldn't move. You couldn't look at him. All the flashbacks of your happy moments were passing through your head at high speed. All that once was your life, it wasn't anymore. He was once yours, and now he doesn't anymore. Was this even real?

He was sobbing. He fell into the sofa crying and hiding his face between his hands. He was broken. “I'm really sorry I didn't have the balls to say it to you before. To put you into all of this pain. Mistreating you so much. I'm so sorry. I don't even know what i'm feeling i just think i don't love you anymore” he tried to explain himself as best he could through all of his crying and breathless exasperation.

“You're not sorry. You never loved me. You can't do this to me lando! We had a fucking wedding plan! I was already looking for dresses! Im so fucking stupid to have ever believed in you! Don't trust the player they said. How could I not believe it! Fuck you lando!” you were so hurt.so angry. You felt disgusted. Disgusted with his lips even touching you. His hands make you see stars. You wouldn't believe what you were living right now. You took off the engagement ring from your finger and threw it at him. It landed on the floor in front of him. “I really hope you stay miserable your whole life lando. And I hope you find someone who can make you happy and be enough for you and then destroy you. Break you in a million pieces. Did you find someone better? A model? A driver?” you looked at him with contempt. He was staring at the ring laying on the floor over the rug you bought in Mexico last year. When you were happy and were planning a future together. “Im heading the fuck out” you announced and run to your shared room. Got a bag and put some of your clothes in it. You couldn't stop crying. You were leaving. You were leaving your soul trapped in this house. You were leaving yourself behind. The one that would not exist ever again.

“y/n wait don't go please we can still try and figure this out together.please don't leave me. Im sorry baby please” he rushed into the bedroom trying to stop you from taking your things. You didn't let him and continued.

“No we can't lando. I'm done. You said it. You don't love me anymore then why would I stay in a place where I'm not welcome anymore? Would you stay? You don't even want to be here neither” you said frantically zipping up your bag and heading out the room. You took your keys from the kitchen table. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't stop you.

He was a monster.

“Don’t fucking ever look for me again. Hope you find someone who can make you not fall out of love before the wedding and that you actually have the family of your dreams” you said. Those words burnt your soul into ashes. Everything he wanted was without you in it.

You could have had it all.

You opened the door getting out of the house to your car. He followed you watching you getting in your car. He couldn't stop you. You didn't even say goodbye to him. He didn't say a word either.

He was holding the ring you threw in his hand. The little object burnt his skin. You were gone. The life you have built together is gone. And he was alone.

Shaking he got into his house again. He looked at the ring in his hand once more.

What has he done?

——————————————————————————————

What is it with men that they realized they love you when they already broke you? 🙃

Hope you liked it 💌 if you have any ideas my inbox is open so send your requests!

#lando x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #lando norris #lando norris x female reader #lando #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 #lando x y/n

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shurisneakers · 7 months ago

Text

saturn

summary: you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

warnings: angst. death. being revived from death and the processes that follow. sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan. The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower.

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life."

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again.

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds.

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of.

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no.

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating. Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?”

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious.

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning.

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door. The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound.

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice– staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation.

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep.

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even. But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones.

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now.

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be.

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor.

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red.

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots.

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon.

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones.

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan.

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup.

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips.

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time.

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two.

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him.

“I was dead.” But this was new.

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did.

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe.

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute.

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees.

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly.

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day. He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time.

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature.

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly.

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?"

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?"

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures.

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut."

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck.

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively.

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move.

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need.

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now.

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade.

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good.

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share.

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply.

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there.

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should.

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?"

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night.

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand.

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent.

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand.

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up.

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest.

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.”

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child.

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real.

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum.

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this.

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always."

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love.

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better.

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie.

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried.

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance.

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like.

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else.

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side.

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons.

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water.

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror.

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling.

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his.

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do.

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live.

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying.

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be.

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed.

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening.

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding.

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less.

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake.

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch.

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently.

You look up at him.

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak.

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him.

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask.

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line.

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him.

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free.

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers.

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile.

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself.

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either.

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you.

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about."

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask.

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters.

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink.

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen. When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins.

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door.

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find.

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you.

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae.

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his.

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him.

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave.

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything.

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving.

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead.

It feels all too familiar.

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time.

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed.

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin.

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him.

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying.

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance.

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry.

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together.

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

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