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marvelstoriesepic · 26 days ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

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ghostsgrl666 · 11 months ago

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roommate!ghost who's waiting for you when you get home in the middle of the night after going out with your friends. Sitting on the couch in those fucking grey sweatpants when you stumble through the door and drop your keys. Has to stare at the crack on the ceiling when you get down on your hands and knees to find them, pretend for his own sanity that he hasn't seen the tiny excuse for underwear you've got on under that little black dress.

Like clockwork, he's got you sitting on the icy bathroom counter as you giggle, telling him all about your night. He's got cotton pads and makeup remover in one hand and the other holding onto your thigh because you started unconsciously squeezing his broad frame when he stepped in between your open legs. He gently wipes away all the traces of the night, carefully mapping out the contours of your face like you're a masterpiece he's carved from some precious stone. Until he gets to your lips. The shiny, fucking sparkly gloss is all thats left on your skin but his hand freezes as he studies the crease in your bottom lip. You catch up two seconds later in your dreamy, relaxed haze, and without even thinking about it you close the gap, softly pressing your lips to the one's silently hovering over yours.

His breath catches and his grip on your thigh becomes molten hot as you just as quickly pull away. Innocently you smile at him, like you hadn't just killed him, like you hadn't just made him start planning your wedding down to the way your eyes would shine as you walked down the aisle, all for him.

Your laugh is the only thing that can pull him out of his stupor, "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that."

But he does, he really, really does.

#simon ghost riley #ghost headcanons #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #cod smut #cod x reader #roommate! ghost #roommate ghost #roommate au #first kiss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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littlewanibites · 1 year ago

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Don't use soap.

#one piece #supernova trio #roommate au #trafalgar law #eustass kid #monkey d. luffy

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tamaytsuki · 3 months ago

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I drew this some time ago and while looking through my drafts i thought: "hey, i should post this!". So here it is, Klance as Roommates (because this is a completely original idea that no one has ever done before).

Anyway, i could draw more of this AU, idk. I thought about turning this into a fic, but my writting is shit and my english is mediocre, so maybe not. *shrugs*

#and they were roommates #not me recitig a vine meme #roommate au #also college au #keith loves his coffee #voltron #klance #drawing #voltron fanart #lance mcclain #keith kogane #voltron legendary defender #Tamay Art

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steviewashere · 7 months ago

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Robin shaves her legs once and makes Steve feel them. This in turn convinces Steve to try shaving his legs (ignoring that he was swim captain or whatever—I don't care).

Eddie comes back to their apartment to see Steve bent over, ass naked in the bathroom shaving all of his everything—pubes, legs, chest. He literally falls to his knees and sobs so hard he almost throws up. Got snot coming out of his nose, spit down his chin, hands clutched to his chest. Almost screaming.

He fucking pets Steve's chest, digs his fingernails into the bare skin of Steve's legs, cradles Steve's naked balls and is like: "I'm sorry for what that monster did to you."

And Steve is all: "For the last time, babe, it'll grow back."

"Yeah, but I have to wait. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Wh—What hair am I supposed to twirl between my fingers when you're still asleep in the morning and I miss you?"

"I have hair on the top of my head, y'know."

"Next thing I know, you're gonna shave that, too." And then he just leans in and kisses Steve's balls and keeps murmuring apologies.

Robin can hear them through her bedroom wall. The next morning, she pulls Steve aside and begs him to never shave again. "If I have to hear your fucking boyfriend bemoan the loss of his 'baby's ball hair', I'm going to machine wash and dry every single one of your prized cashmere sweaters. And then crease every toe of your sneakers. And then replace your weird full fat cow's milk with skim. Swear to god, Steve. Never make me hear that shit again."

Safe to say, Steve listens and appeases both of his soulmates.

#stranger things #steddie #stobin #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #roommate shenanigans #roommate au

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yourstrulyrani · 9 days ago

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roommate!simon riley x reader

a/n: can i just say thank you so much for the love yall gave on my first post ever?! i woke up to like 160 notes which is crazy i was not expecting that. thank you for even taking the time to read it, i cannot wait to grow my account even more and get to know all of you lovely people 🥲🤍 (thank you to my potato too, i love u 3000 girl)

roommate!simon riley who gives you full decorative freedom of the place. whether you want to keep it simple or go all out and decorate based on the season or whatever, he doesn't care. he's usually on deployment anyway, so he doesn't see reason in having a say since you're the one who always comes home at the end of the day. however, he thought it was sweet when he saw a ghost plushy on the couch one night he came back from deployment.

roommate!simon riley who adores it when you make food from where you're from. he loves to hear you explain the history of the food as you're cooking. you cook so good that once, he purposely forgot his lunch just so you could make something and drop it off on base. however, he has done this too many times to the point that now on base you've gotten the nickname "roommate ramsay" (mainly by soap).

roommate!simon riley who always checks in on you when he's on deployment. he texts you, asking if you've ate, if you've came back from work, or just to banter with you. he calls you just to hear your voice. you may think he's a little distant and just sees you as a person he lives with, but to him, you have grown to be much more.

roommate!simon riley when off deployment, loves to do little domestic things with you. he goes grocery shopping with you, relishing in the feeling of you walking beside him as he pushes the cart so to others, you both look like a couple. he scoffs when you try to pay and instead pulls out his card. he loves to go on walks with you after you get off from work as it helps clear your mind. you both share the blanket as you watch tv, and he can't help but to wrap the tiny ghost plushy around his huge arms. he knows you're too busy staring at his arms instead of the tv, tattoo sleeve and scars and bulging biceps included, but he doesn't mind. because after all who wouldn't want their pretty roommate staring at their body like they can be licked all over?

(i think all i need in life is a 6'4 man with a tattoo sleeve who manhandles me and then i can die happy)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #roommate au #simon riley headcanons #simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #roommate simon riley #omg they were roommates #roommate x reader

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gvshing · 26 days ago

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Roommate Vi✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Masterlist C.W. mentions of being drunk

Roommate Vi loudly plays her games in the middle of the night. It’s 2 am and she’s screaming at 14 year olds for getting her killed in Fortnite. “Dude! What the fuck! You were supposed to cover my ass!” Is all you hear, all night long, through the paper thin walls. When she gets too loud you’re throwing pillows at the wall. Her big ass headphones planted atop her head, denting her hair into the shape of them, tuning out the sounds of quiet thumps against her wall. You eventually have to go knock on her door to tell her to keep it down around 3 am. She has work in the morning, you can’t quite wrap your head around how she plays all night and still makes it in on time. Vi will apologize, embarrassment etching her features. Though she would be lying if she said she didn’t like seeing your frazzled state standing at her bedroom door every night. Cozied into your pajamas and a blanket wrapped around you, sheltering you from the cold. She keeps it cold as hell in the apartment. She runs naturally hot so you never complain, enjoying wearing the hoodies around the apartment and the old stained sweats you’ve owned since you were a teenager. They were more comfortable than the shorts that rode up or the tank tops you were always worried would move and flash her. She loved seeing your sleepy eyes and frizzy hair from all the tossing and turning trying to tune her out. She stays quiet for as long as she can, but she has a hard time controlling her volume when she’s angry or heavily enthused. Usually, she’ll get loud about an hour after you’ve scolded her, but that works for you. By that time you’re sound asleep.

Room mate Vi comes home drunk on the weekends after nights of bar hopping with her friends you still have yet to meet. Except in passing when they’re helping her get into the apartment. You’ll do a silent exchange of taking the load of Vi’s weight into your arms, nodding and a quiet thank you slipping through your mouth before they’re gone again. You’ll pull her into the room, wrecked from her getting ready earlier. Clothes thrown all over her bed and hair products splayed across her dresser. Moving the clothes to the side, you carefully help her into bed, she throws herself the rest of the way down and cackles loudly. “Woah! Hi Y/N! When did you get here? Or me? I missed you~” In a sing-song tone she’ll realize she made it home safe once again. She cracks her eyes open into slits to glimpse you taking her shoes off. Sighing loudly as you place the shoes on the ground, she huffs in annoyance. “What could you possibly be annoyed about, Vi? I’m helping you.” You say, frustration lacing your voice. You’re not mad that she’s come home like this again, she’s still young, that’s what she’s supposed to do at this age. Still worry swirls around your chest at the thought of her friends not being there one day, but deep down you know she’ll always make it out safe. She’s strong, even shit faced drunk. And to be honest, you never mind helping her after a night of drunken adventures. It warms your heart to know you can be there for her in such an intimate way, even if her drunken self always finds something to groan and pout about. She’ll continue sighing loudly until you sit next to her lying body on the bed. Stroking her hair until she settles, “I’m going to grab you water and some medicine for when you wake up, okay?” She groans once more and throws her arms around your waist, rapidly shaking her head, holding onto you until sleep finds her. You sneak out of her room and return with the hangover remedies, softly setting them down on the nightstand and quietly exiting the room, fearful you’ll wake her up.

In the morning, she’ll wake up in a haze, quickly take the medication and gulp down the water you left for her. She’ll stumble out of her bedroom, finding you in the kitchen making breakfast. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get that drunk or make you take care of me.” She apologizes profusely, clambering over to the table to sit down, wincing at the way her head pounds harder when she sits down a bit too hard. “I never mind, Vi. You’ll feel better soon. Want breakfast?” You both sit in silence until after she finishes eating. Slowly she’ll feel better and then you’ll recount your night of babysitting her drunken persona. Secretly, she loves when you take care of her, drunken or not. And you love to be the one taking care of her. Love the feeling of being useful to her.

Room mate Vi has a bad day at work like 70% of the time. You’re not sure why she still works there if she hates it, but she needs the money and you can understand that. She slams the door open and closes it a bit loud and viscous. Stomping to her room to scream into a pillow and punch her mattress out of anger. You hesitantly walk up to her door and knock lightly. You hear a quiet ‘come in.’ through the door and you slowly open the door and stand in the threshold. “You- What’s wrong?” Anxiety spreading through you. You’re never mad at her for getting as rough as she does when she’s mad. But, it still makes you feel uneasy. She exhales a breath of irritation. “Just a bad day. Work fucking kills me. The customers have to be having meetings in the mornings about how they’re all going to come in and ruin my day. Like they have to be. It’s insane.” You give her a look of sympathy and walk over to her desk chair. “I’m sorry. Tell me about it?” She’ll rant for an hour about how every customer was rude, obnoxious or stupid. Ending it feeling better about her day having gotten it out of her system. You truly make her feel at ease.

Room mate Vi and you reserve Sunday nights to hang out together. Usually cozying up in the living room, a shared blanket and too many snacks for one night, a movie playing on the TV. Every Sunday you trade off who gets to pick the movie. Vi usually picks an action movie or a romcom that she makes you promise not to tell anyone she enjoys. You taunt her with the threat of telling whatever friend that brings her home that week and she’ll tickle you until you can’t breathe and you’re promising over and over you won’t actually tell anyone. She settles back into her spot and gleams with triumph. Throughout the night you guys always find yourself moving closer to the other until you’re practically cuddling. Snuggled into her side and her arm thrown around the back of the couch, that’ll eventually get tired of being up there and trail down to being wrapped around your shoulders instead. You fall asleep like that and she gently scoops you up and brings you to your room. Tucking you into bed, she’ll push your hair back behind your ear and lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. She tells herself it’s normal to feel the way she does with you. You’re friends after all. She walks out of your room and softly closes the door. She stands in front of your door for a minute and catches her breath, waiting for her heart to slow down back to its normal pace. She just likes being around you. Nothing more, you’re a good friend. She finds herself staring at you, often, yeah. Friends do that. Catching herself missing you when you walk away, and imagines kissing you, more than she probably should, it happens, it’s normal. Yeah, friends feel that way sometimes. Sure.

Room mate Vi who isn’t able to convince herself she doesn’t like you when you come home one day, giddy about a first date you have that night. She starts feeling a searing jealousy rising in her. She can’t push it away and she’s pouting all day long. Sending you off with just a “Yeah, have fun. Be safe.” when you’re leaving. It leaves you perplexed, her sudden coldness. She sits at home, brooding, the rest of the night until you’re home. When she sees the look of disappointment on your face, she feels her heart leap. She feels bad for finding joy in your disappointment, but she can’t help herself. “Are you okay? Date not go well?” She hears the eagerness in her voice and inwardly winces. You huff and trudge to the couch, throwing yourself on it. You lay across her lap and stare up the ceiling. She strokes your hair and raises her eyebrows. A soft ‘hm?’ sound leaves her throat. “It wasn’t bad, but there just wasn’t any chemistry. I feel bad. I was so excited but she was so bland. I almost feel like she did it on purpose to drive me away. Maybe she didn’t want to go out and was just being nice when she said yes… I don’t know.” you sigh in defeat and toss yourself around to shove your face into her lap, shading your face away from her. She exhales softly and clears her throat, unease setting in. “Maybe? I doubt it. I bet she was just boring. Who wouldn’t want to go on a date with you? You’re so pretty and funny.” You snort in amusement. Twisting around to face her again. “You’re just saying that because you have to. But, I appreciate it.” She stares at you in disbelief. “I’m not just saying that, babe. You are a catch, people should feel blessed to be in your company. Let alone in such an intimate way.” You stare at her, unable to convince yourself that she’s being real. “Thanks, Vi. I appreciate you. It was just disappointing, but my feelings aren’t hurt.” She nods in a solemn agreement. She swallows her anxiety and reaches over to grab your hand. You interlock fingers and smile down at your connected hands. “Go on a date with me. I’ll show you what a good time with someone who values you, should feel.” You choke on your spit when you hear her say that and sit up fast. “What? I-” you stare at her and she continues staring at you, confidence spilling out from her. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” She smiles mischievously. “Uh.. Okay. Fine. If you want to, you don’t have to do that just because you feel bad for me. That’ll make me feel worse.” You trail off and she shakes her head, chuckling lightly. “I mean it. I was going to ask you either way.” You laugh loudly and throw yourself back into her lap, covering your blushing face.

Room mate Vi plans the most thoughtful dates. A picnic with your favorite foods, stay at home movie night with a fort she made herself, though it looks janky and falls down a few times, surprise beach days. By the end of every date you share, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much, feeling like you did a thousand sit ups from the pain of laughing too much and butterflies making a home in your chest. She always makes you feel that deserving feeling she preached to you. With her it felt easy, it made sense. And you felt silly for not seeing it earlier. It felt obvious that you both would be a good match together, but yet it took you so long. And it took her asking you. What if she didn’t say anything? Would you be living your life going on mediocre dates until the end of time? Either way, you’re glad you don’t have to do that. Glad you have each other.

Girlfriend Vi adores you and never goes a day without telling you how pretty and smart you are. She loves to see you shy away from her, loves to see your coy smile. You continue your Sunday movie nights, but with more kisses and cuddling now. You go with her on the weekends to watch how she gets herself to that point of drunken-ness. But, you’re the one taking her home now, not just tucking her in. You’re cuddling into bed next to her now. Her warmth radiates off her, no need for blankets when you have her to warm up. You wake up to her head shoved into your chest, arms wrapped around you and legs locking you in place. She snores lightly, peacefully resting off her hangovers, hard work days or rough workouts. You kiss her on the top of her head and snuggle closer into her, closing your eyes to drift off into that same peaceful rest. Feeling thankful you’ll never have to live without her or her calming presence. Even when she’s mad.

#lesbian #ao3 #fanfic #x reader #vi #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x you #vi x y/n #arcane x reader #vi league of legends #arcane #roommate au #vi one shot #oneshots #x you #vi fluff #fluff

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starrforge · 3 months ago

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They are just roomates AU..... >q>

#roommate au #halsin #bg3 halsin #adhara #halsin x tav #my art #halsin bg3

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mothcrayon · 11 months ago

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what are we?

#my art #hxh #leopika #roommate au

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longing-for-the-past-times · 1 year ago

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Roommate!Simon who, one morning, wakes up to an empty house and a 1000-piece puzzle on the coffee table with a note on it.

"When I was younger, doing puzzles was a way of keeping me grounded. Perhaps it might help you as well."

Roommate!Simon who can't help but smile faintly at the handwritten words and focuses his attention on the puzzle box, his brow furrowing at the sight of the picture containing cats. A lot of cats.

Roommate!Simon who is definitely not a fan of cats, but carefully places his tea on a coaster on the coffee table, turns the TV on a random music channel and spreads the puzzle pieces on the table, eyes slightly widening at how many there are.

Roommate!Simon who realizes he has to come up with a strategy to organise the pieces and even if his military-trained mind is tired of planning and strategising for missions, he has no problems in coming up with a sorting scheme

Roommate!Simon who is still bent over the table when you come home that evening, several fragments of put-together pieces lying scattered among piles of other pieces. He is so caught up in studying the reference image for a weirdly-patterned piece, that he does not hear the sound of the door opening and closing and almost tackles you to the ground when you crouch on the other side of the table, an amused look on your face.

'If you need a hand-'

Before you can finish your sentence, he scoots over and pats the empty spot on the couch. Yet instead of looking at the pieces and assessing the progress, your eyes are locked on his face and the fact that he ditched the mask and the balaclava.

'I can see you staring.'

'I don't know what you're talking about!', you lie through your teeth, busying yourself over a pile of unsorted pieces. You do not miss the way his lips twitch a little and you certainly cannot stop the hot blush that spreads across your face

You spend the rest of the evening hunched over the table, trying to connect as many pieces as possible. Your hands accidentally come in contact a couple of times, whether it's you reaching for a faraway piece or Simon trying to have a better look at the image, and you eventually come to accept the butterflies that seemed to make a home in your stomach

Roommate!Simon who eventually notices you're dozing off over the puzzle and tries to carry you to your room. When you refuse, he just rolls his eyes in his own dramatic manner, brings a weighted blanket from his bedroom and drapes it over you

Roommate!Simon who finishes the puzzle at two in the morning and dares to take a look at your sleeping figure. His thigh is numb from the weight of your head resting on it, but he doesn't mind.

His mind hasn't been so quiet in a long time. And the cats he spent hours piecing together are rather cute.

The cat puzzle I was thinking of when writing this

part one part two part three masterlist

#cod ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #call of duty imagine #ghost fluff #roommate simon #roommate ghost #roommate au

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marvelstoriesepic · 8 days ago

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Home With You

Pairing: Rommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky and you visit the animal shelter to choose a kitten for adoption.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: lots of kittens; Bucky being a dork; pining

Author’s Note: Literally nobody asked for this but I needed it anyway. In my head this plays in the same universe as Soft spot, so we’ll get to find out what she feels for Bucky, but you can also read this as a stand alone. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @kodaswrld ♡

Masterlist

“Oh my god, Buck, look at this one,” you gush, for about the fifth time since stepping into the animal rescue shelter, voice pitched high with the delight you can’t contain.

Bucky, who’s been trailing beside you with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, watches with a smirk on his lips. “Y’know we’re only takin’ one, right?” His voice is that deep rumble, smooth but laced with enough teasing for you to shoot a look up at him over your shoulder from where you are crouched down to greet the next feline in the row.

The small tabby you’re pointing at lets out an exaggerated yawn before rolling onto its back, fluffy belly exposed like an invitation, making you forget all about Bucky’s remark by the cuteness of it all.

You press your fingers against the cage, wiggling them slightly, and the cat swipes playfully, its little paws batting at you.

“Don’t go gettin’ attached to every damn cat in here, doll. We ain’t got the space for a zoo,” Bucky speaks up again, an amused smirk still in his voice.

You huff, dramatically rolling your eyes as you reach into another cage, letting a fluffy gray cat sniff your fingers before it headbutts them affectionately. “I am not getting attached to all of them.”

Bucky snorts, but you ignore him, continuing to throw those sweet cats little heart eyes.

The shelter smells faintly of clean hay, warm fur, and just a hint of that industrial-strength cleaner they probably use to keep everything sanitized.

The air is filled with meows, distant yips, and you hear some dogs bark from the kennels further down.

But right now, all you care about is the row of metal enclosures filled with cats of every shape and size. Some are stretching their little paws through the bars, whiskers twitching as they observe you with differing levels of curiosity. Others lounge lazily on their beds, tails flicking idly.

Bucky steps closer, peering into a cage somewhere above you where a sleek black cat watches the two of you with eery intelligent green eyes. “This one’s got a whole attitude,” he mutters squinting as the cat swishes its tail, unimpressed.

You hum, looking up at it as well. “Seems to be a little broody. That means you’d definitely get along.”

Bucky throws you a look and you grin back at him before a tiny calico presses its body against the door of his cage, eager for attention.

You scratch behind the ears of the sweet fluffy baby who immediately starts purring like a motor. Bucky watches you for a moment, with something softened in his eyes as if he’s already resigned himself to the fact that whatever cat you fall in love with is the one you’re taking home.

And honestly, you think he’s just as excited as you are.

You have been living with him for nearly two years now and you talked about getting a cat for quite some time.

You work well together, found a great dynamic in sharing an apartment.

You go grocery shopping together a lot. You watch movies together, you cook together. It’s never a discussion, never an argument, except for when either of you is trying to get a rise out of the other.

It started as a practical decision. You were already friends before that and it was easier for you both to just go looking for an apartment to split rent, save money, without having someone who would leave passive-aggressive notes about unwashed dishes.

It was meant to be temporary, but things just clicked and worked out and you never talked about moving out. No awkward transition period, no frustrating quirks that made you want to strangle each other. It was easy. It still is.

You cook, he cleans. Or the other way around, depending on the day.

If you make a mess in the kitchen trying some new recipe, he’s there ten minutes later, exaggerating frustration by rolling his eyes but then gobbling down your food in a matter of minutes.

You do laundry together sometimes and you had to rescue a few of his shirts already since he doesn’t always bother with separating colors properly. Or perhaps that’s just his excuse to do it with you.

And when you catch him watching reruns of Friends - even though he swore he hated that show - you plop down next to him on the couch, steal a bite of whatever snack he’s got, and make fun of him.

Bucky used to be all grumbles in the morning before you moved in together, but now he grins at you with a sleepy smile when you come into the kitchen, two cups of coffee already done - one black for him, one with just a bit of cream for you. You even got him to start drinking tea.

So when you both decided to get a cat, it seemed to be another thing that just made sense. An agreement that you would take care of it together.

The apartment is already cat-proofed, the corner near the window cleared for a cat tree, food bowls sat up neatly in the kitchen. A small box of toys sits by the couch, next to a ridiculously soft bed that you both know the cat will ignore in favor of napping wherever it pleases.

You both know you should probably talk about the logistics. Who takes the cat if one of you moves out? But you don’t. Because neither of you plans to go anywhere.

When the cat starts to lose interest in you and moves further back into its cage, you turn back to Bucky.

He has his arms crossed, stance solid, with an expression of determination on his face. And directly in front of him is that black cat, staring back with an equal amount of intensity. Its emerald-green eyes are locked onto Bucky’s baby blues with an impressively unfaltering focus. A long tail flicks behind it as if it has all the time in the world to assert its dominance.

It takes you a second to process what exactly is happening here. But then Bucky is narrowing his eyes, leaning closer in.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amusement bubbling up so quickly it nearly makes you laugh outright. “Are you having a staring contest with a cat?”

Bucky doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink. His jaw tenses just slightly, but otherwise, he stays frozen in place, eyes locked onto his opponent.

“This little guy thinks he’s got the upper hand,” Bucky mutters, tone flat, but the muscles in his cheek and jawline tick.

You step closer, tilting your head, hands on your hips. “Are you serious?”

“I ain’t about to let a cat punk me, alright?”

The cat narrows its eyes as well. Just slightly. Like it understands exactly what Bucky is saying and is challenging him even harder.

You bite your lip, trying and failing to contain your laughter. “You do realize this is literally what they do, right?” You gesture at the cat, who remains unmoved, tail swishing from one side to the other. Even that looks dangerously deliberate. “This is, like, their thing. Hate to break it to you, Buck, but you don’t stand a chance here.”

Bucky huffs. “Watch me.”

A full, delighted laugh spills out of you as you lean against the enclosure, shaking your head at your best friend.

And the second your laughter bursts out, Bucky’s head snaps toward you. As though he couldn’t help himself. As though it is just pure instinct.

His stare-off with the cat, which has been going strong for nearly a minute, is instantly abandoned. And his eyes are softer again when they fall on you, something fond hidden beneath the humor.

“Well, now you lost, Buck,” you exclaim, still giggling.

Bucky’s brows immediately knit together, looking back over to the black cat, who looks thoroughly unbothered. It’s already stretching itself into a position of absolute superiority, head resting on its paws like it never once doubted its victory.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, only now realizing his mistake. Then, he straightens back, rolling his shoulders, as if shaking off the loss. He gestures vaguely at the enclosure and shakes his head almost petulantly. “Yeah, nah. We sure as hell are not gonna take this one. Too much attitude. He’s gonna hold this over me forever.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest, peering into the cage at the cat who just effortlessly bested your six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, best friend in a silent battle of wills. “Oh, now you don’t want him?”

Bucky huffs, jabbing a thumb at the feline. “Look at him! He’s judging me. I can feel it.”

The cat blinks at him slowly, almost intentionally, before closing his eyes entirely like it has officially decided Bucky’s not worth any more of its energy.

You laugh again and Bucky groans.

You’re having the time of your life.

“Aww, Buck, don’t be like that,” you coo, nudging him playfully as you both start to walk away from the cage. “You guys had a moment. I think deep down he liked you.”

Bucky scoffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah? That why he looked at me like he was calculating how long he’d need to take me out in my sleep?”

You grin smugly. “Or maybe he just saw himself in you.”

Bucky gives you the flattest look and stops in his tracks. “You serious?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying, two grumpy boys with trust issues? Sounds like fate to me.”

Sighing profoundly, Bucky runs a hand down his face, tilting it backward a little. But you catch the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. You know he is actually enjoying your little banter. He always does.

And just as you are about to push a little further, Bucky glances back at the enclosure and exhales a sharp breath, shaking his head with a kind of amused disbelief.

“Oh, well, would you look at that,” he drones out, walking back a few steps to tap a sign with two fingers. A sign that says this very cat is already been adopted and is to be picked up shortly. “Guess someone else already called dibs.”

You lean in to read it yourself, eyebrows raising slightly. “Huh. Guess so.” Then, with a slow and knowing grin, you turn back to him. “Aw, Buck. You disappointed?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? No. Not even a little.”

You purse your lips, nodding like you definitely believe him. “Mhm.”

“I’m not disappointed, doll,” he emphasizes, but despite his words, his gaze moves back to the black cat for a brief second. “Little guy was too full of himself, anyway.”

You don’t argue. Just bite back another laugh and link your arm through his as you keep walking.

The two of you move further into the shelter, eventually arriving at what might be the most magical place on earth.

A kitten playroom.

The volunteer leading you here smiles knowingly as she opens the door. “You guys are welcome to go in and sit with them,” she says. “See if any of them take a liking to you.”

Bucky leans in slightly toward you, murmuring in your ear, his breath on your skin. “See if they like us?”

“Shh,” you whisper, barely containing your excitement. “This is how it works.”

He huffs but doesn’t say more, only watches as the woman steps aside to gesture for you both to go in.

The second you do, it’s like stepping into another world - a tiny, chaotic world made up of soft meows, little squeaky chirps, and the soft thump-thump of tiny paws hitting the floor as kittens dart around like hyper little gremlins.

The space itself is cozy, set up like a playroom with various cat trees, beds, and soft blankets scattered across the floor. Toys are everywhere - feathery wands, crinkly balls, and those little springy things that cats lose under furniture within minutes. There’s even a small bridge leading to a cubby system mounted on the walls, where a few sleepy kittens are already curled up, watching the room like tiny overlords.

You are in heaven.

Practically squealing and bouncing on the balls of your feet you drop to your knees without hesitation as a little orange kitten stumbles toward you. “Look at them.”

Bucky lingers near the entrance, eying the herd of kittens with cautious skepticism. “Jesus. It’s like a damn army of ‘em.”

You reach out and gently scoop up the orange one, who immediately starts purring, so little paws kneading at your sweater. Your heart melts on the spot.

You don’t see the way Bucky is staring. Not at the kittens. Not at any of them. At you. At the way you light up, completely glowing, giggling softly as a brown-white little ball of fluff bats at your fingers. At the way you coo at them all, speaking in that soft voice people only use when they are utterly smitten.

He is in heaven too. Just for a slightly different reason.

“Oh, we are absolutely taking one home,” you declare, beaming as another one - a fluffy gray sweetheart - climbs onto your lap and starts attacking the drawstrings of your hoodie. “Maybe two.”

Bucky clears his throat, exhales, and steps closer, careful of the small balls hopping around between his feet. “We’re not gettin’ two,” he states, but then crouches down beside you, just as a small, round tabby kitten ambles over to investigate his boots.

You watch, biting back a grin as the little thing lifts one paw and bonks it against the toe of Bucky’s boot. Just a soft little tap, like it’s testing to see if he’ll react.

Bucky tilts his head. “What’s this guy doin’?”

You rest your chin lightly on top of the orange kitten’s head, amused. “I think he’s trying to fight you.”

Bucky continues watching the not-even-remotely intimidating little cat lift its paws and bonk him again.

“Yeah?” Bucky muses, raising a brow. “That so?”

Bonk.

Bucky shifts slightly, considering this challenge, then reaches down with his index finger extended. The small tabby immediately latches onto it with both paws, kicking at him with its little back feet.

You see the grin slowly forming on Bucky’s face.

The kitten lets out the tiniest, most ridiculous little mrrp, still clinging to Bucky’s finger like it’s the most important battle of his short life.

Bucky sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

You nudge him fondly. “Come on, you love him.”

Bucky chuckles softly and pries his finger gently from the round tabby’s grasp.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You makin’ any decisions here, or we just movin’ in?”

You beam up at him, cradling the sleepy grey kitten in your hands. “This isn’t just my decision, you know.”

“I know, doll,” Bucky replies easily. “But I’m sure whoever chooses you is the right one for us.”

Heat wanders up and down your back and you avert your attention back to the little fluff balls in your arms.

You are giggling at a white kitten pawing at your sleeves when you feel something tugging at your hair.

But before the sharp claws of the cat that ambushed you from behind can loosen any strands of your hair, Bucky’s hands are there to save them.

“Alright, alright, relax there, tough guy,” Bucky says, voice low and amused.

You go still when Bucky’s fingers brush the nape of your neck, untangling a mischievous ball of orange-white fluff from your hair. He makes quick work of it, grumbling under his breath as he carefully pries the kitten’s tiny claws from where they’ve latched on.

His touch is light, but enough to send a sharp little shiver down your spine.

You can smell the familiar scent of clean laundry and cedar and something that is just undeniably Bucky and you are not sure why your senses are so adamant about picking it up instead of the smell of the room and the little cats.

Your breath stays lingering in your throat a second too long before finally coming up. Long enough that when he finally leans back, you are suddenly well aware of just how intently you’d been focusing on the sensation of his fingers brushing through your hair, his voice close to your ear.

You swallow, blinking as he gently sets the kitten down in front of you, its tiny tail waggling like it’s still considering another attack.

Bucky just scoffs, shaking his head. “Gotta watch your back in here, doll. They got no mercy.”

You exhale a breathy little laugh, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding like you just ran a mile.

The feline blinks up at you and you narrow your eyes.

“You did that on purpose,” you chastise it lightly.

It chirps in response, tail flicking.

Bucky chuckles warmly and you fight the urge to look at him, to turn and watch him like you always do.

Until you acknowledge a tiny, fluffy white kitten with bright blue eyes hop down from a nearby cat tree, landing in a little pounce before trotting straight over to you.

Your eyes go wide at the confident stride of the little one, lips parting just slightly in surprise as the kitten reaches you, then immediately climbs you and settles right in your lap as if finding a new home.

Bright blue eyes stare up at you for a second, then she lets out a little meow, head tilting slightly.

You freeze, feeling Bucky’s eyes on you.

And then, without hesitation, the kitten curls itself into the perfect little ball right in the center of your lap.

Your breath catches.

Bucky watches the shift in your expression, the way your body goes soft, the way your hands hover, hesitant, before finally pressing gently into the little thing’s fur. The way your entire face seems to melt, something delicate and awed settling into your features.

“Well. Guess that’s that, huh?” Bucky says softly, a fond smile on his face.

The kitten lets out a tiny meow and rubs her cheek against your palm, then promptly starts purring loudly.

Your heart is a puddle.

Looking up at Bucky, your eyes are bright, but careful. “Like I said, Buck. This isn’t just my decision.”

You don’t want to rush this.

This moment, this decision - it matters.

Because despite all the playful teasing and the cooing over the tiny kittens crawling over your legs, this isn’t just some random choice. It’s not like picking out cereal at the grocery store or deciding which movie to watch on a Friday night.

Bucky looks at you, seeing the way you already seem to have made up your mind, but needing him to want it too.

This isn’t just your home. It’s his too. It’s both of yours.

This choice - this little life curled up in your lap, soft and warm and trusting - has to be made together.

Bucky exhales, long and slow, seeming even a little nervous, before reaching out.

It’s careful at first, cautious, like he doesn’t want to startle her. But as soon as his fingers brush over the soft fur at the top of her tiny head, she leans into him, unafraid.

His fingers graze yours as you continue to scratch her belly.

And you feel it everywhere.

It’s a sharp heat that sizzles up your arm, fizzles through your chest, and crackles along your spine.

You will yourself not to react.

But the warmth of his hand is right there, just the shiest touch against yours, and it takes everything in you to stay perfectly still, to pretend like you don’t feel your pulse quicken, and don’t suddenly forget how to breathe normally.

Bucky’s hand stays, fingers brushing yours in a way so soft, so casual, that it feels anything but.

You almost pull back, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t either.

You force yourself to focus on the kitten instead.

She tilts her little head, her hot, pink tongue darting out and then she licks at the tip of Bucky’s finger, the tiniest little sandpaper kiss.

You laugh softly, and Bucky does too. So low and bright and genuine. It shines in his eyes when he looks at you.

“She likes you.” You don’t know why you are whispering, but this feels almost intimate.

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head, but his mouth is pulling into a wide grin. The softness of his smile lingers in the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah, well, she likes you too. So she’s gotta have taste.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. And you are glad that his eyes are on the kitten in your lap because he surely would have seen what it did to you.

You two keep stroking her white fur while she relishes in the feeling, hands continuing to graze since her body is still so small. Something electric hovers in the air between you, something neither of you has ever really acknowledged but you - for your part - have always felt.

“Seems like we’ve been chosen,” Bucky states, voice quiet, thoughtful.

You giggle softly, feeling his eyes move up to your face, hand stilling momentarily against the fur. The purring continues and you feel the weight of the little baby press further into your lap, into your warmth as if she already feels at home.

You grin at him before moving your attention back to her. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Seems like we have.”

For a moment, there really seems to be nothing else. You don’t acknowledge another kitten bumping against your shoe or one attacking the sleeve at your elbow. It’s just you, and Bucky, and this little white sweetness cradled between you both.

“Well, isn’t that just the sweetest thing.”

The voice comes from the doorway, warm and delighted, and you glance up to see the same volunteer who led you in earlier - a woman seeming to be in her late forties, smiling so fondly you can feel it in your chest.

Bucky leans back slightly, shifting to rest his arms on his knees, but he doesn’t move his hand away from the kitten. He keeps his fingers right where they are, lightly against yours, grazing her fur, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

“She’s a lucky little thing,” the woman says, stepping further into the room. “She’s going to be so loved with you two.”

Something about the way she says it makes something pull at your gut - pleasant but dangerous.

And then she beams, hands coming together in a light clap.

“Oh, you make such a lovely couple.”

Your insides feel like they’ve flipped. It’s so sudden. A weightless drop that leaves you momentarily breathless. Your lashes flutter and your brain scrambles for literally anything.

But before you can get words out, Bucky lets out a short, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. You didn’t notice the way his hand froze between white fur. Because yours did, too.

“Nah, we’re not-” he starts, seeming a little awkward. A little nervous. He lifts his free hand, and gestures between you. “-Y’know. Together.”

The woman’s brows lift. “Oh?”

You clear your throat, shifting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of everything - the heat of Bucky beside you, the way his knee nearly brushes yours, the bashful way he looks down at the kitten.

“Yeah,” you manage, forcing a smile. “We’re just- We’re roommates.”

“Friends,” Bucky tacks on, nodding as if that settles it.

The woman hums, clearly amused. “Huh.”

She doesn’t say anything else for a second, just looks between the two of you, smiling like she knows something you don’t. Maybe you should try harder to suck in the rosy color on your cheeks.

Then she crouches down in front of you both and reaches out to run a gentle hand along the kitten’s tiny back.

“Well, couple of not, I can tell she is going to be really happy with you two,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere.

You smile at this small life in your lap who somehow fits perfectly into the world you and Bucky have built together. She definitely is going to be loved. She already is.

Bucky exhales and when you glance up at him he is wearing a fond smile as well.

He watches how the kitten seems completely at ease in your lap, her tiny body rising and falling with deep breaths.

“We’ll take good care of her,” he assures, voice quiet but certain. He swallows.

You lift your head and your eyes lock.

Something tender passes between you before you avert your eyes again and you nod at his words. They do something to you, you can’t even explain. Because there is no doubt, no hesitation. It’s not even a simple promise, it’s a commitment.

A vow that whatever happens, this little baby girl will never know loneliness, will never go without warmth, without love.

“We’ll try our best,” he adds, voice a little rougher now.

You know that as sure as you know the feeling of his presence in your life, the way he’s always there, something solid and good, something grounding and doting.

You find yourself smiling so wide, you have to bite your lip.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” the woman in front of you says, watching the two of you with sparkling eyes.

She seems so confident.

Bucky huffs out a laugh, and there is something sheepish in the sound.

You glance down at the kitten, who lets out a yawn, stretching her small claws before rolling herself further into you.

This is really happening.

And for some reason, it feels right in a way you weren’t fully prepared for.

“Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

- A.A. Milne

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ghostsgrl666 · 10 months ago

Text

Mild dub-con/non-con, somno, simon is larger than reader

roommate!ghost who tucks you into your bed and sits on the edge of it for what feels like forever debating whether he should stay. You came home pretty drunk and he knew if he went back to his own room he would not get a wink of sleep worrying about all the things that could happen if he wasn't right there to protect you. He ends up convincing himself that he needs to watch you, at least, but somehow he ends up right next to you. Under the covers with his head facing yours to hear the steady sound of your breath. It's not his fault when the next moment he wakes up with you in his arms, his wide palm on your lower back under your scruched up t-shirt. His other arm locked in place by both your hands gripping tight around his wrist, fingers not even touching. The sight of it does something to him, sparks a heat deep in his stomach that suddenly makes his hips feel far too close to yours. It gets even worse when a line appears between your brows, a bad dream playing across your face in a way that makes him want to lick the crease away.

Your breathing gets heavier and Simon starts to actually question whether he died last night and went to heaven because just as he tries to untangle his legs from yours he accidentally presses himself against you, making you let out the cutest fucking whimper. It's the best sound he's heard in his entire life, and he freezes as he realizes how fucked he is.

Against the bulk of his hips you tense your legs around him, memories of the night before turned to pure, molten want as you start to grind against him over the straining fabric of his boxers.

That's what finally wakes you, he thinks, the way his hand finds your waist and fucking squeezes as he tries not to lose all control.

#cod smut #cod x reader #ghost smut #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #roommate! ghost #roommate!simon #roommate au #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #cliffhanger sorry yall

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lnfours · 1 year ago

Text

sensual | l.n

summary: sharing a wall with your roommate has become.. intriguing, to say the least.

warnings: roommate!best friend!lando x fem!reader, smut (18+ pls), unprotected sex (pls wrap it before u tap it), this is basically just filth with fluff and a bit of angst if you squint.

masterlist | inbox | listen to the playlist

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

you were sitting up in bed, typing away at the research paper that was due over the weekend. an earbud in one ear as you tried to focus. tried to lock into this paper that had taken most of your brain power for the day.

you managed to tune just about everything out, humming softly to the song as you typed. but something pulled you from your trance as your fingers froze over the keys of your laptop. you had thought you were hearing things, tugging and earbud to make sure it was just your imagination before it happened again.

a soft moan coming from the other side of the wall. you were frozen in your spot, now hearing his heavy breathing as everything else fell silent. you felt your heart jump into your throat and a course of heat spread through your body. you should’ve just shoved your earbuds back in and pretended you never heard anything, went back on with your paper.

another moan, this time followed by a soft, “fuck,”

you were completely frozen now, cheeks heating at the fact that you were fully listening in on your best friend get off. you leaned your head back against your headboard, closing the lid of your laptop and the sound of his pants pulling you into the void.

but what really did it was the next, higher pitched moan that he was clearly trying to hold back, followed by a quick, “fuck, y/n, baby,”

that’s when you lost it. your eyes bugging out of your head as you listened. he had just said your name, thinking about you as he got himself off. your best friend, the person who knew you better than anyone else.

it made you wonder what he was picturing you doing to him, biting down on your lip as you finally caved. you tugged down the waistband of your pajama shorts, your hand finding the warm wetness of your pussy. you let out a silent moan, mouth agape as your fingers found your clit.

your back arched slightly when you heard him moan again, “shit, so close,”

you were quickly chasing your own release, cheeks still hot as you heard the wetness of yourself against your fingers. your mind raced, thinking about what he could be doing to you. thinking about how he’d have his way with you, your mouth full of him or his pretty face as you rode him. mind bouncing between different scenarios.

“y/n, fuck, i’m gonna cum, baby,”

you whispered a soft string of curses, your body shaking as you gave yourself an orgasm. his moan dragged out this time, letting you know he had finally reached his. you caught your breath, thinking about what you both had just done. what it could mean for your friendship.

a few weeks later…

lando was scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, laughing softly to the video that had come across his timeline. he heard your door close and a giggle come from you before your headboard softly banged against the wall. he furrowed his eyebrows, listening to you talk until he was caught off guard by the male voice coming from your room.

he tried not to listen, blocking it out until he heard your giggle that had turned into a soft moan. he licked his lips, turning his tv on. there was no way he was about to listen to his best friend get laid. even if she was the one he thought about when he touched himself, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

until you moaned a little louder, almost sounding like it was straight from a porno. that’s what made his sweatpants grow tighter, listening to the suppressed sound of skin slapping together. the way your moans had become slightly muffled, his mind thinking about your face in the pillows, ass up in the air.

he was done for now, hand palming at his painfully hard dick. until the next moan you let out sounded fake, followed by the guy’s soft grunt.

and that was that. there was no more noise other than the soft voices making some slight small talk. he furrowed his eyebrows, there was no way. it hadn’t even been five minutes.

he heard your bedroom door open and soft shuffling outside his door as you ushered the guy out of your apartment. he got up, opening his bedroom door and leaning against the door frame as he watched you close the apartment door, clad in your fluffy robe.

you turned around, jumping at the sight as you held the robe closer to you, “fucks sake!”

your whisper yelling made him chuckle softly, “sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

he looked good, the dim from his room lighting casting shadows all around him. the way his arms were crossed as he leaned against the wooden door frame, how his biceps looked in that stupid black tshirt. the grey sweatpants. all of it.

you shook your head, taking in a soft breath, “‘s alright, didn’t know you were awake.”

“yeah, can’t sleep,” he said, “who was the guy?”

you swallowed thickly, “it was jake, the guy i told you about the other day.”

you had met jake at the bar last weekend. you had agreed to go home with him, needing a distraction from the man you shared a wall with. it was a decent fuck, actually a less than decent fuck. he was bad in bed, multiple times leaving after he had finished just to leave you get yourself off with your hands once he was gone.

you brushed a piece of hair behind your hair as your best friend stared back at you, “the bloke can’t even last ten minutes?”

his boldness shocked you, pushing it aside as you licked your lips, staying silent. he leaned off the doorway, making a step closer to you, “did he at least… get you off?”

you looked down at the floor and he sighed softly. your silence was his answer. an answer he didn’t really want to hear, but he was expecting nonetheless.

“what a joke,” he scoffed, “seriously.”

you shrugged, “it’s alright-“

“no,” he said, “because if you were mine, i’d happily spend hours between your thighs or with my fingers inside you. the fact that he can’t even spend a second doing that is absolutely ridiculous.”

you met his eyes, realizing how close the two of you had gotten in the short amount of time as you craned your neck to meet his gaze, “‘if you were mine’?”

he looked back down at you, “yeah,” he breathed softly, minty breath fanning your face, “if you were mine.”

you swallowed thickly, “what does it take? to be yours?”

he reached out to you, grabbing your chin, “you always have been,” his eyes flickering between yours and your lips, the lips he’s been craving to kiss, “it’s always been you.”

a wave of silence rushed over the two of you before you softly spoke, “lan?”

he hummed back, “hmm?”

“kiss me,” you said, “please.”

he couldn’t say no, how could he when you’re looking at him like that? pupils dilated and eyes locked on his. so he did, cupping your face into his hand as his lips met yours. he didn’t waste any time, slipping his tongue past your lips as your arms wrapped around his neck. his pressed against your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

he backed up towards his room, bringing you with him. he pushed the door closed, your back up against the wooden door as he pinned you there, lips hot on your neck as he kissed at your pulse point, dragging his teeth over the skin of your collarbone.

“fuck,” you whimpered softly, all the pent up emotions spilling over as his curls tickled your face, “i guess i should tell you i heard you,”

you weren’t sure why you had chosen now of all times to come clean, but his head picked up, “heard me?”

you nodded, “a few weeks ago, i heard you getting off through the wall,” you watched as his face dared to turn red, “and i got off to it,”

he let out a soft moan, “you got off to me getting off?”

you nodded, “yeah,”

“fuck,” he mumbled against the skin of your exposed chest, “that’s so fucking hot.”

you let out a moan when his hand pushed the fabric of the robe aside, his hands finding your nipples and twisting them between the pads of his fingers. your back arched into his chest.

“lando,” you moaned and he let out a soft curse, “fuck, please,”

“don’t worry, ‘ve got you,” he said against your neck, reaching for the tie around your waist, “i got you, pretty girl.”

you let him slip the robe off you, his hands picking you up as the fell to your ass, holding you against his torso as he carried you to the bed. he plopped you against the pillows gently, climbing up between your legs as your hands moved to strip him of the black shirt. he happily let you tug it over his head, his head dipping back to your chest. his mouth took in one nipple as his hand tweaked the other, letting you moan like that before he switched it around.

your hands in his curls felt like a dream, nails softly scratching as his scalp, “fuck, been thinking about this for so long.”

you watched him hook your thighs over his shoulders, settling down at your dripping pussy. you let out a moan when he took a finger down your slit, groaning at how wet you were already for him. you found your hands in his hair again, his lips peppering kisses among the inside of your thighs.

“you’re so beautiful,” he mumbled, “it’s a wonder no one wants to see you squirm under them.”

you breathed heavily, “is that what you were thinking about? when you moaned my name the other day?”

he looked back up at you, “baby, i think about you and i doing all sorts of things.”

you licked your lips, “like?”

“like,” he said, pressing a kiss to your core. you let out a moan, covering your mouth as he spread your legs wider to give him total access to where you needed him most, “like how i’m gonna eat you out til you’re begging me to stop.”

you rolled your eyes back at his words, gasping as his tongue met your clit. you threw your head back in total bliss as he sucked and lapped at you, his hand moving up your body to play with your nipples. you were a withering mess before him, letting out another moan when he pushed a finger into you.

“yeah?” he asked, adding another in, “like that?”

you nodded, “mhm,”

“you tell me when it’s too much, okay?” he said, “wanna take care of you.”

you nodded, “okay,”

he brought his mouth back down to your pussy. he continued to eat you out as your thighs shook around his head, his fingers fucking up into you so good you were about to see stars. the feeling of your stomach tightening was the feeling you had been missing, your hands pulling on his soft strands.

“‘m close,” you moaned, “just like that - fuck,”

he smirked against you, but did as you asked. he brought you to your release, your whole body shaking under him. you moaned his name and it was like music to his ears as he sat up, pressing a kiss to your lips.

you reached for his waistband as he moaned against your neck, “need you,”

he kicked his sweatpants off, erection finally springing free and slapping his lower stomach. he moaned as your hand grabbed at him gently, taking him into your hand and giving him a few strokes.

you pushed him over, putting him on his back. he let you, watching you with blown pupils as you took him back into your hand and brought your face inches away from his dick.

“is this okay?”

“more than okay,” he breathed.

you didn’t waste anymore time after that, taking him into your mouth and pumping the part that didn’t fit with your hand. he moaned behind his hand, grabbing at your hair and turning it into a makeshift ponytail.

he watched you go down on him, mouth warm and wet and everything he imagined your pussy was going to feel like. he felt his tip hit the back of your throat and he threw his head back, your hands coming up to play with his balls. he was a goner, eyes rolled back and moans falling from his lips.

you had him right where you wanted him.

“fuck,” he panted, placing a hand on your cheek, “feels so good, but i wanna - shit - i wanna be inside you.”

you nodded, releasing him softly. he grabbed at your hips, pulling you back on top of him and you moaned as you grinded against him. his hands on your hips felt so good, softly lifting you and positioning his dick with your entrance.

“shit,” he mumbled, “did you want a condom?”

you shook your head, “i’m on the pill and i trust you.”

he nodded back at you before letting you sink onto him. you moaned together, his eyebrows furrowing and your head tilting back slightly as he stretched you out.

he gave you a second, leaning up to kiss you. you kissed him back, hands in the curls at the nape of his neck before you slowly rocked against his hips. he moaned into your mouth, hands on you again as you did it again.

you had found your pace, alternating between rocking against him and softly bouncing against him. he held you close, mouth on your tits as his hands squeezed and slapped at your ass gently.

you kissed his neck, leaving a small mark where it could be covered with a shirt. your teeth pulling at his earlobe as you moaned softly into his ear, “fuck, you’re so big,”

he moaned back at you, “and you feel fucking incredible,” his nose met yours, “don’t know if i can ever get enough now.”

you smiled softly, “i’m okay with that.”

“yeah?” he smiled, you leaning back, hands on his thighs as you rocked your hips. he snuck his hand between your bodies, rubbing at your clit, your gasp filling the air, “like my dick that much huh?”

you moaned, “not just your dick,”

he knew what you were getting at, his free hand cupping your cheek. he knew you had felt the same way as him, you didn’t have to say it out loud. it was obvious. it had been for years.

the room was quiet other than the sound of skin slapping together and your soft moans and pants. he broke the silence, “i’m so close,”

you nodded your head, “me too,”

“shit,” he grabbed at your hips and picked up the pace, fucking up into you, “come for me. come all over this dick, baby,”

you whined softly, your own fingers taking over where his had left, “lan,”

“yeah, honey,” he smiled proudly, “who’s making you feel this good?”

“you,” you whimpered, you were so so close, “only you.”

“that’s right, babygirl,” he felt you clenching around him, sending his head tilting back, “oh fuck,”

your body shook with your second orgasm, a moan leaving your lips when he pulled out of you, fisting his dick as he came onto his stomach. you laid down next to him, catching your breath as he tried to even his own breathing.

“i’ll be right back,” he softly pressed a kiss to your temple and you nodded, smiling at him sleepily as he ventured off into his connected bathroom. you closed your eyes, feeling content as you heard the water running at the sink. he came back into his bedroom, tugging on his sweatpants before kneeling back onto the bed and tapping at your thighs, “c’mere,”

you complied, smiling as he wiped the warm cloth against you, cleaning you up, “want a shirt?”

you nodded and he tossed the wash cloth and shirt he had on earlier into his dirty clothes hamper. he rummaged through his closet, finding your favorite shirt of his. he came back to the mattress, “your favorite.”

you smiled and hummed as he helped you into it, smiling when your head reappeared through the hole, “thanks,”

he nodded, this time getting comfortable next to you. he picked up the tv remote, wrapping an arm around you as he pulled you into his chest. your ear listening in on his heart and how fast it was still beating.

he scrolled through netflix, looking for something stupid to watch because he knew you would be asleep shortly. he could tell with the way your eyes were glossed over and the soft yawn you tried to hide into your arm. he turned on a show you both had seen a million times. your head tilted back to look back at him.

he met your eyes and smiled, brushing a piece of hair from your face, “breakfast in the morning?”

you nodded, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “only if i can get the blueberry waffles,”

he laughed, smiling against your lips, “you can get whatever you want, love.”

you smiled and kissed him again, drowning in everything lando. he held you close to him, pressing kisses to your cheek when the kiss got broken because of how big your smile was.

“whatever i want, hmm?”

he met your eyes, a knowing smile on his face as he tilted your chin to look at him, “say the word and it’s yours.”

you licked your lips, “i think you owe me a date first.”

“the go on a date with me,” he said, “tomorrow, that little Italian place you like.”

you hummed, smiling up at him again, “it’s a date.”

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