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screampied · 5 months ago

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JUNO, YOU KNOW! k. nanami

☆ sum. last thing nanami would expect was to get struck by a “fatal” love curse during the very end of no nut november. you tease him even more by saying one of you is cute….but two though?

wc. 8.1k

warnings. fem! reader, husband! nanami, unprotected, sēx pollen, mentions of pregnancy, fluffy smut <3, handcuffs, brēeding, cunnīlingus, him finishing too quick, cowgirl, praise, soft dom! nanami, cērvix mentions, size kink, he's soooo whipped n in love w youuu, (bless his dad's genetics), boob obsessed nanami, aftercare, petnames.

an. my entry for @luv-lies's yummy nnn collab! ❤︎

november 29th, 2024. 6:09 P.M.

december was right around the corner - but oh, was nanami kento fuckin’ screwed.

“nanamin!” satoru—his colleague hollered, speedily rushing over to him. they’d just defeated an unarmed A-cursed spirit unlike any they’d ever seen before. it was quite strong, but it was nothing the pair couldn’t handle. satoru glances down, extending out his hand. nanami grunts, swiping a hand over his sweat-glossed forehead before sighing. he’s a bit roughed up but takes satoru’s cold palm with an irked grumble. “you alright? that was quite the hard hit.”

“ ‘m fine, gojo,” he grouses, readjusting his glasses. with a swift hand, he fixes his crooked tie. “just hah- underestimated the opponent. don’t fret.”

he wasn’t ‘just fine’ though. nanami felt his entire body starting to arise with scorching temperature within a matter of seconds. he’s boiling hot- and it felt like his heart was pounding straight out of his chest. perplexed, satoru furrows a snowy brow at his comrade once he notices his awkward body language.

“what do you need? tell me- maybe we can-”

nanami was clenching his chest with one hand, panting heavily before letting off a raspy huff.

“i need . . my wife.”

the car ride home was silent.

satoru offered to take him home, wondering just what really happened. nanami was as stubborn as a mule though, so he didn’t question it further. he’d rather not get scolded. his head rests against the tented window as he stares outside.

driving through the rutted bumpy roads of tokyo, nanami’s droopy eyes occasionally drifted away from the bright street lights that merely blinded his naked eye from gazing a bit too long.

as usual, the city was packed, dozens of cars zooming by with the flashy beaming store signs. in the background, some random song was playing. it was pop—and of course, satoru was loudly humming along to the catchy poppy melody.

the lyrics were quite . . vulgar though, but nanami still remained quiet, focusing his eyes on the streets.

skrrrrrrrt!

satoru’s breaks eventually come to a stop. it was about maybe a good ten-minute drive and he arrived at you and nanami’s cozy minka. the light was on so he assumed you were probably still up. placing the rusty shift in the park, the white-haired sorcerer turns to nanami with a cheeky grin.

“take it easy, alright? ‘m sure the curse will wear off at some point,” and nanami scoffs once his palm pats his shoulder. reaching for his seatbelt, the blond click it off before unlocking the door. “oh! and tell your wifey i said hi!”

“sure thing, gojo.” nanami stops himself from rolling his eyes, reaching near the backseat to retrieve his dusty suitcase. with a loud vroooom, satoru’s aqua-blue convertible takes off and nanami starts to make his way toward the door.

glancing down, he fishes for his keys in his pocket, grumbling under his breath.

god- he feels so damn hot. even hotter than when the attack occurred..

was this supposed to be normal?

all he knew was that he wanted, no- he needed you.

something in his body . . whatever it was, was direly aching for you.

the entire car ride, nanami’s mind was entirely flooded with thoughts of you, you, and only you.

whenever he had missions, he’d always think about you, sure. but this time- this time was far, far different.

he felt like he was gonna melt right away if he didn’t touch you, if he didn’t smell you-

“ken…to?” you murmur with a quirked brow, standing behind the tall sliding door. nanami stiffly stood at the doorway, keys still idly in hand with the most dumbfounded look.

oh- he was so kept in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize you had already slid the door open.

you looked so pretty though. nanami could feel his face softening once his eyes locked onto you.

it was pretty dark at night but like always, he could make out your gorgeous physique as clear as day. you were actually wearing one of his business shirts with what he hoped were panties underneath once he took a glance between your bare thighs.

his fawn eyes continue to trace down every exposing inch of your skin, and he snaps back into reality once he feels your palm cup his cheek.

“hi, baby. how was the mission?” you hum.

“not hah- that good,” he pants, and you furrow your brows once he steps inside, sliding the door closed and tossing his suitcase to the floor. it lands with a banging thud, and nanami pulls you into a hug.

a coy smile goes against your lips, wondering why he’s being more clingy than usual, but nanami rests his face right on top of your chest. letting off a smoky sigh, he roughly grumbles, gently rubbing a thumb against your hips. “mmf- i missed you, sweetheart.”

with a soft expression, you comb a few tangled fingers through his blond tresses. “i missed you more.”

“no- i really missed you,” he protests, and you can see a bit of a pout forming against his lips. nanami’s drowsy eyes trail down at the bit of skin that shows through his shirt. it was a bit loosely oversized, and you smelled just like him. his cologne was good on you. so good.

uh oh- he was starting to feel even more hot.

just resting against your chest had him hearing the repetitively unsteady beats of his heart through each of his sensitive pointed ears. “at the mission today . . i got struck by a curse.”

with a worrying look, your face shifts into a look of concern. “a- are you okay? what happened?”

“ ‘m fine,” he lets out a muffled huff of reassurance. nanami breathes against your skin, sweetly planting kisses against the cotton fabric that shields the entirety of your chest. “i feel really hot though.. everywhere- not just my head,” he speaks once the back of your hand lands on his forehead, checking for a temperature.

indeed, he felt hot.

sepia-colored irises flicker up toward you before he shivers. “when you . . touch me, honey- it makes me feel weak. hah- like i feel-”

“aroused?” you finish his sentence, your concerned look slowly disappearing.

oh.

thankfully, it wasn’t anything serious . . or was it?

nanami stares at you with a cute head nod being his answer as you press a kiss on his warm forehead. “so was it some type of love curse?”

nanami’s breath becomes deeper as he takes a minute to formulate words in his overstimulated brain. “m- maybe. all i know is that i just- i want you…i need you,” and he sighs deeply, eyes lowering. “you look beautiful tonight by the way.”

“it’s still november, baby,” you tease, knowing exactly where he was going with his gruff words. nanami had a feral hungry look in his eyes, and it looked like no other expression of his you’ve seen before.

he lets off a frustrated groan at your words, remembering the little ‘challenge’ you both agreed on once halloween ended.

ah- ‘no nut november’.

where men have to apparently abstain from masturbation and cumming—according to you, specially for the entire month of november.

not that nanami necessarily minded, he had a pretty good tolerance, actually.

but today, of all days?

he felt like he was about to break. being so close to your proximity had nanami’s head spinning.

his face - it’s overly flushed. a pretty tint of pink starts to slowly paint his face as he pouts at you.

you don’t think you’ve ever seen your husband like this—let alone pout. “we made a deal, remember?” you continue, caressing a thumb across his cheek. his chin was still resting on your chest and you could see the frown marinating against his features. “december first.”

“but-” he grunts, watching the smug grin spread across your glossed lips. nanami gets sheepish, tilting his head down. “sweetheart- i know that, but you’re bein’ pretty cruel right now, no?” and you glance down, feeling his lips collide against the skin that briefly exposes your tummy. “do you always wear my work shirts when i’m not home?”

“yeaaah,” you admit, letting off a tiny snicker. nanami feels your shoulders slacken once you release a single breath, and you stare straight into his eyes.

his eyes however, never left yours, not for a millisecond. as the gaze continued, you could see the beads of sweat starting to race down each side of his forehead.

oh-

maybe the curse was serious. getting an idea you decide to amp up your teasing just a bit. “do you wanna know what i was doing earlier while wearing your dress shirt?”

nanami places chaste kisses between the valley of your breasts. “uh huh. tell me, wifey.”

“i . . might’ve been playin’ with myself,” you sweetly speak, and he could hear the tease lacing underneath your sentence.

the more you spoke about what you were doing, nanami was starting to feel even hotter-

and the pure image of you touching yourself with his button-front shirt on, engulfed in nothing but his musky cologne made him groan. it was clear you weren’t wearing panties. he couldn’t help but peek, and sure enough—you were going commando.

nanami keeps his lovingly longing gaze and slowly, he raises his head from between your chest, raising a brow as if silently saying, ‘continue.’

with a cheeky smile, you wrap your arms around his torso. “i couldn’t make myself finish though. my fingers aren’t as long as yours. so, i ended up falling asleep and i had a dream. about . . us.”

“i see,” nanami huskily utters, sinking his head into your left shoulder. you just smelled so so sweet — sweeter ever, and you could see nanami trying to restrain himself. clearing his throat, nanami invades an entire side of your neck with wet, loving kisses. “what was the dream, princess?”

now it was your turn for your heart to start racing.

it was quick, beating at such high beats per minute. with an impish expression, you cup his chin and make him face you.

tenderly rubbing a thumb over his lips, you finish what your cute, lewd admission. “i…uh- dreamt about you retiring as a sorcerer. or you have a safer job that makes you less stressed. we finally . . settled down, and we um . . ended up having kids.”

“kids, huh,” he whispers, dragging a hand through his blond strands. you could feel his feverish heat radiate against your skin and you were surrounded by his balmy warmth.

he wasn’t exaggerating—nanami was truly, truly burning up. the buds on his tongue sizzle each time he takes a fateful second to swallow, salivating the more his eyes focus on you. nanami ponders for a moment silently, and before you know it, he’s picking you up.

you let off a cute surprised gasp, hurling your arms around his neck before watching him sigh. “ah- don’t get shy, my sweet. keep going.”

nanami continues to walk with you in his arms, going up the creaking, wooden stairs and you run a few fingers down your exposed nape.

“we . . had about maybe two or three. you even started growing facial hair too,” and nanami’s grip on your hips softens. he raises a blond brow before trodding inside the quiet bedroom. “you’d make a good dad though, ken,” you purr, running a finger down his amber-dotted tie. “could you imagine though? one of me is cute, but two though?”

“honey-” he cuts off, lying you flat back against the mattress.

with a split-second glimpse underneath the oversized formal shirt you wore—indeed, you weren’t wearing any panties. he had to check just one more time.

nanami starts to pant heavily, watching as you playfully lift your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. “is that- is that what you want? to settle down?”

“only if . . you want to.” you murmur in a soft tone, deeply getting lost in his golden-hour gaze.

nanami’s eyes were bright, shining with nothing but love and adoration for you - always.

if you squinted just enough, you could see his pupils forming into cute-shaped hearts.

grabbing his hand, you place it on your tummy, sliding it underneath the buttoned shirt.

“i want… you,” he huffs, his voice turning from tender to raspy within seconds. nanami leans in and presses his lips against yours. his dimples happily curve forward once you immediately return the gesture, cupping his face with both hands.

right away, nanami moans against your lips as his hot tongue blissfully shoves itself inside your mouth. minty peppermint — it’s exactly what he tasted like, and his cool breath running against your tongue only made him taste sweeter.

nanami couldn’t help but roll his hips against you with his sweaty forehead softly pressed on top of yours.

each popping smack of hungry lips got louder, and he heard the faint clanks of his belt shuffling. you slid a hand down, reaching for the middle part of his pants. you’ve shared many kisses with nanami, but this one seemed different..

a current of chills ran down your spine as he deepened the passionate kiss as the callused tips of nanami’s fingers unbuttoned his shirt.

speaking of his shirt though—he just couldn’t get over how much his shirt was just prettily glued against your skin.

“god- this month’s been torture, sweetheart,” he’d breathe between nearly suffocating kisses.

nanami’s lungs were full, and he’d sometimes even forget to breathe. such full lungs of his were heaving in and out continuously, desperate for any sort of puffs.

they had to find air, they just had to..

but nanami didn’t care about breathing, not when he had his lips ardently locked against yours.

“couldn’t- stop- thinkin’- ‘bout- you-” he grunted in a hoarse tone, sweetly sucking against your lolled tongue. its mushy warmth invites him to continue, and you briefly open your lashes to stare straight into a very needy nanami’s eyes. “hah- you were all i thought about at work today.”

“mhm, breathe, kento,” you whisper, feeling your lips swell the minute he pulls away.

a web of gluey saliva leaves from both sets of puffed lips and he breathes like you said. with a looooong inhale, nanami then exhales before grunting. you simper, tugging on the hem of his beige boxers. “maybe i can . . help with that curse?”

and you did.

in more ways than one, really.

to be brief, nanami kento was a feral man-

he felt himself turning into a brand new man the second his tongue graciously rolls itself flat against the flatness of your pretty twitching clit.

a sharp gasp winds straight out of your lungs as you’re sat with your legs obtusely spread to a wide degree.

with your hands burying themselves underneath your plushy tits as he devoured you—you couldn’t help but toy with yourself for a bit. moaning, a thumb trails its way down against one of your puckered nipples that poke through the fleecy blue dress shirt.

“k- kentooo.” you’d hum out a whimper, a hand finding its way near the top of his head.

he’s slow… badly wanting to savor your sweet taste on his tongue while eating you out like the starved, starved man that he was.

wisping a bundle of fingers through his blond locks, you continue to cup one of your tits with one hand. long, thirsty sluuuurps exited from nanami’s lips as you watched his head frantically shake from side to side.

your tummy was already seizing, and the heel of your ankle started to guide its way down his back. wet, sloshing noises ricocheted against nanami’s lips as his eyes periodically averted back towards you.

he’s giving you the ‘i wanna marry you again’ stare, no doubt. even with his mouth stuffed, nanami kento’s never felt more in love—

maybe this love curse . . pollen, whatever it was was a secret blessing in disguise.

the panicky, racing beats of nanami’s heart never slowed, and a hand of his then grips your thigh. tenderly, you feel the tip of his tongue dipping its way in ‘n out — wetly lathering his pink twitching muscle with your sweet slickness.

your eyes remain on him the entire time, getting forevermore lost in his crave-like gaze. “shh- talk later, princess. promise.” he whispers against your cunt, delving his tongue in swerving, wide circles.

those wide circles eventually curve their way into hearts, though. a whine sobs its way from the back of your throat as the grip on his hair tightens.

you felt the scaly, hot of his tongue create the perfect heart . . even spelling out the simple eight letters of ‘i love you.’

your legs couldn’t hold still, they just couldn’t- and you could feel the skittish smile forming against his lips, tickling against your pussy.

you were drooling from your entrance, right from the puffy slavering slit down. you’re flooded, soddened with such amounts of dewy dewdrops that form into strings, and in a way though, it was pretty.

nanami was just struck in awe at how much you were just profusely leaking. like the gentleman nanami was though, he lapped it right up. his rose-swollen lips cupped everywhere, smothering the crevices of your sheeny thighs with his many, many kisses.

“r- riiiight there, ‘ken,” you’d mewl out a desperate plea, slowly dragging his head against your cunt. it’s moving around in a hypnotizing circle, but if it was anything that was leaving you in a mere trance of a state, it was his tongue.

nanami explores through every puffy wet corner, sloppily slotting his tongue in between your pudgy folds. he grunts against your throbbing heat, feeling the weight of his impatient boner prodding beneath his cotton-made boxers. “mngh- gonna cum. ‘m gonna cum, kento.”

“do it for me,” he soundlessly says, vertically smearing a fat thumb down your slimy pussy.

your entrance was soaked-

tearing away with drooling droplets of slick. every time. he was so enticed that he had to take a minute to just stare at your cunt—admiring how wet his pretty, perfect girl was - just for him.

nanami was entranced once he moved his face closer. the tip of his button nose then literally starts to drag itself down your sobbing slit and he moans, taking in your natural scent. “hah- c’mon, sweetheart. give it t’ me,” and he brings his ring finger right up against your core.

it’s a lanky finger that starts to bedaub against your cunt, feeling you writhe at the sensitive contact.

you whine, feeling his ring finger rub its way against your heat before poking your tongue against your cheek to silence yourself.

as you watch, his digit gets covered with your mess almost immediately, and you shudder at the cold band of his ring toying with your salivating folds. “pretty please-” and oh- he’s begging.

a blond brow of nanami’s quivers as his lips attach back to your cunt. sticky, glistening strings of arousal rills straight down his forward-pointed chin as he continues to rub the back of his wedding ring against your pulsating clit.

it’s icy cold.. you felt him keep up the pace as the material of the band smears itself around in circles before feeling a coil in your tummy tightening.

the pressure makes you see stars for a hot second—and you’re met with a bundle of nerves trying to introduce itself to the lower depths of your stomach. “ ‘m cumming!” you’d blurt in a staggering wail.

the crashing wave of endorphins made you exhale a cute sigh as your legs started to get more and more numb.

you felt like you were floating on every single cloud, including cloud nine - especially cloud nine.

nanami’s tongue still slid its way in between the slot your sappy folds, feeling the cute twitches of your throbbing clit against his bumpy tastebuds as you start to spasm. “fuh- fuck! ‘ken ‘m sensitive, baby.” and your words turn into a mere hush once your body started to limp its way onto the sheets.

your thighs locked around his neck, and you still had his hair in a firm grasp, digging your fingers deep into his roots and scalp.

with widened doe-eyes, you glance back down toward your husband who’s merrily licking you clean without a single care in the world.

if the beats of your heart was a car, you’d be speeding.

it’s beating so fast out of your chest that you can barely keep up. your legs felt like mush as your neck finally gave up, collapsing back against your pillow.

“mmh- should’ve just stayed . . hah- stayed home today,” he grumbles, giving every glossed part of your exposed cunt individual kisses. nanami starts at your pretty clitoral hood, sprightly nibbling at the tender fold of skin. you whine, yanking his head forward before nanami pats your pussy. “could’ve been playin’ with her a- all day.”

“you’re here now.” you speak out of breath, pulling his head back up. once you do so, nanami looks at you with the most pussy drunk expression.

his lips were all plump and red, lashes merely sticking together, and glossed sleek streams of slick racing down his chin. nanami leans into your touch, sitting up before leaning in to kiss you.

again- his tongue sloppily carved a wet trail through your mouth, and you moan once you feel the tint of his boner press up against your bare cunt.

he’s so hard, you wondered if it was painful. you swallowed each grunt of his in your mouth, feeling his body hungrily rock against yours.

a few ash tresses stick against his forehead as his lips violently crash onto yours—creating an impactful collision.

as dancing tongues swiftly twisted and spiraled around each other in sync, you hear a bit of shuffling again.

nanami's reaching into his boxers, grunting against your lips once he feels the anchoring weight of his heavy cock lie flat against his palm. “m- mhm, sweetheart.” he throatily groans, feeling your hand slip inside of his boxers too.

you feel a lightning-shaped vein shoot down his skin and he grunts. nanami was as sensitive as ever, and with your hands softly tracing circles over his bulky triceps, he knew he was in trouble.

deep, deep trouble..

“it’s okay, ‘ken,” you whisper, letting off a sharp inhale once his fiery hot tip smears its way on your cunt.

it’s almost flat out rude at first—with the way it smacks against your folds, creating a wet splash that lands right on his bulbous crown.

from the stout tip that’s round at all thick corners, nanami’s leaking.

milky, pearls of whiteness dribble from the fleshy sides of his fat cock and he grunts once he feels your shaky legs caging him in again.

god- you looked so pretty like this..

just laid back, wearing nothing but his business shirt. all the buttons were unbuttoned so now—it was just you, breasts cutely sprung out and all.

gently grabbing his face once more, you mumble against his flushed temple. “inside, it’s okay. go inside,” and your sweet words were like a chant.

he’s slow-

carefully aligning his maroon tip between your syrupy slit, feeling it clumsily slip out every few thrusts.

you even reached between your legs with a single hand, spreading your pussy open right before his eyes. “don’t be… shy, she doesn’t bite, kento.”

“hhh.. woman- you’re gonna be the death of me,” nanami gulps, openly staring at the slippery heat stick between your legs.

he didn’t know which action had him feeling hotter. your filthy words, you, or the way you spread yourself open for him with just two, cute fingers.

two twinned digits pried your lower lips apart, and he grunts once the swollen head of his cock snugly pops its way past your gummy barrier.

“hngh,” nanami sucks his teeth, pressing his forehead against yours. his palm rests on your tummy before he gives you a tender glance. “is this . . alright?”

chewing on your lip, you moan out a, “y- yeah.” before touching the back of his hand.

nanami’s face softens before he eases himself further inside, squeezing past that cute ring of your entrance that’s just always oh-so tight!

nanami was as round as a teddy bear. a few years into your loving marriage you noticed how he started growing a soft bear-type body, especially with the winter rolling around.

not that you minded, he was the perfect subject for cuddling. in this case, though, he was perfect for gradually placing his weight on you—to which you always ended up loved.

with his dress shirt all wrinkled and unkempt thanks to you, nanami sheathed his face inside of your neck. “g- goddd, ‘s like when i’m inside i feel even hotter.”

the love curse ran through all nanami’s veins, including invading near his bloodstream and every jabbing axon that continued to pulse through his achingly, hot skin.

eventually through . . after a very long three minutes, his gravelly pants started to turn more and more raspy.

browned eyes of nanami’s turn tender at your gaze once you grab both sides of his face, rubbing circles around his hollow cheeks with the soft tips of your thumbs. “don’t hide, look at me.”

“heh- yes ma’am.” he gruffly whispers, tilting his cheek, leaning into your touch.

nanami was on top of you, glued to you entirely as if both bodies were made of pasty adhesive. with your ankle running down his back, it took everything within him to not moan.

every part — every single part of his body felt insanely sensitive to your touch.

nanami would occasionally bite his lip, finding his eyes rolling upward or even letting off a ‘phewww’ just from being a few inches inside of your intoxicating cunt.

as his cock’s driving its way inside at a slow pace, you watch nanami’s blond brows twist into a furrowing curve.

he’s sucking in every breath that tries to escape from him, groaning at each inch that sloppily disappears between your puffed folds. without even taking a glance—nanami could feel how wet you were, and not only were you preparing to milk him dry, but you were also drowning every girthy inch of his cock with all slick amounts of your pretty mess.

he didn’t have to look down because he could just feel – feel your compellingly, vulgar squelches, feel each slosh that sobs between your cunt folds, feel each pulsating throb that would convulse against your clit.

you’re just so damn pretty though..

staring back at him as he’s trying to make his way inside, nanami ends up getting lost in your gummy orifice that’s desperately clinging onto him as if its life depended on it. it’s almost cute..

“f- fuuck.” you’d whine, tugging at his ruffed-up cerulean collar. peering your eyes a bit, you see a bit of faded lipstick marks that were from you earlier this morning.

you smile to yourself, knowing nanami would always proudly show off those marks to any woman who dared look in his direction.

within a few inches deep, nanami’s creating an unforgettable gap that stretches your cunt fully open. he keeps his hooded eyes on you, pressing a few encouraging pecks near your plump, kiss-bitten lips.

he’s never felt so hot..

nanami snaps his hips into you once- just once, and he lets off the prettiest moan.

it sounds more like a whine—it pitches a bit higher than usual and he falls face flat into your chest.

you get sheepish, wrapping your arms around him before feeling him grunting between your breasts. “honey, i think i just . . came.”

“oh,” you breathe, and sure enough, you felt a lukewarm batch of cum starting to pool its way inside of you. your legs remained snaked around his waist and you could feel nanami’s ashamed pout stretch against your chest. you pat his head, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “it’s . . okay, ‘ken.” and he’s kissing all between the slope that runs down your soft tits—his comfort place.

you hum, lifting his head and watching him grumpily pout with loose blond strands running down his eyes. “i can always take the lead if you’re too sensitive.”

“please..”

♡ ♡ ♡

nanami looks up at you with a timid expression, his hands restrained at each side of the bed. gulping deeply, he watches as your slick-glossed cunt just barely floats over his creamy white tip. from the coral-colored sides, it’s a blushing pink…itching for you to be inside again.

just a single inch or the mere feeling of you swiping your entrance back ‘n forth against the peeling hood of cock makes him groan. “handcuffs, honey? this is quite…eh- kinky, no?” nanami raises an ash brow with a weary smile, soft, dusky eyes never leaving yours.

in fact—each time you run your hands down the open slit of his shirt that exposes his blond growing chest hair, he shudders.

just a few fingertips of yours alluringly ghosting down his skin was enough to make him melt. through semi-blurred peripherals, he spots a bright color that sticks against his wrists. “they’re . . pink,” he chuckles, “and fuzzy.”

“it came in the mail yesterday,” you coo at his observation, inching your face closer and starting to kiss down his neck. nanami inhales before sighing in rapture, positioning his head to the side so you could have a better angle and it’s unintentionally sexy. “it’s not too tight…is it?”

“it’s fine,” nanami shakes his head, preparing to take another deep breath once the opening of your pussy starts to sloppily split its way ajar.

you’re sinking on his shaft and he lets out a husky grumble—bulky muscles flexing through his biceps as his arms stretched across both sides of the leather headboard. “mmgh- atta girl. like that- like . . that.” and his voice seductively lowers an octave at every inch.

it was almost hypnotic at how much you were soaking him. truly, you were already soaked but now that your cunt was accepting his vast tip that was descending its way further inside of you, nanami wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last.

profusely, your pretty pussy was drowning him. nanami’s muscles continued to bulge through his shirt as he slouched back against the mattress, watching your hips starting to moderately pick up.

“s- sooo big.” you moan, the stretch wholly expanding through your walls. sometimes—you don’t think you’d ever get used to nanami’s size, let alone his thick, parting stretch.

clicking his tongue, nanami takes every second he can just to stare and openly admire your body.

effortless, you were just effortless with every moment you did.

every twirl, every toss and dip of your hips had him hungry for only more – more of you.

as your pace maintained its rocky rhythm, his eyes found themselves trailing further down, pausing between the crack of your pried-open legs.

seconds pass and they’re now leisurely making their way up your chest, pausing right between your plush rounded mounds.

you still had his business shirts as you rode him, and your tits freely sprung as your hips started to grind quicker. as your hips pathetically stuttered, so did the wooden legs of the bed. “hng- puttin’ me in handcuffs just so i can’t touch my hah- pretty wife, hm?”

nanami tries to joke, but you could already see him breaking a sweat once his cock explores deeper inside of your cunt – zigzagging a bumpy pattern all through your inside.

it’s making sure every part of you from the inside memorizes his hits, sloppy thrusts and all, and fuck- were you about to collapse right then and there.

the sides of nanami’s forehead were already heavily covered in perspiring sweat. with lush tears dribbling down every crevice and corner, nanami starts to huff.

“but baby, you always touch me,” you lively tease, tossing both arms over his tense, pent-up shoulders.

the bed lowly creaks every second, constantly dipping from all the constant movements and pounds that jolt against the rickety aged boxspring.

its constant croaky groans sounded almost painful—and the quicker your hips swerved around and bounced, the louder it cried in the background from both jerking bodies.

nanami pouts, shaking his head and you make him nod by cupping his chin. “yeah, you do.” you then surprise a part of his neck with wet, balmy kisses.

nanami gruffly grunts, desperately wishing his hands were roaming down every part of your body. tending to every part, allowing his fingers to explore every part.

he’d caress circles around your ass—guiding his callused, rough fingers up up up before they eventually reach near your waistline.

with a clingy grip, he’d start to rock your hips faster into him, making sure he pumps all nth inches deep inside until you’re babbling out incoherent cacophonies of his name and how you’re just so full..

but you noticed—nanami’s eyes were only focused on only one thing. your soft, perked breasts that bounced at the exact second your body did.

at each powerful hop and slam of your hips, they playfully jiggled, flopping against your chest. they were nearly smushed right in his face, and oh- he could feel his mouth shamefully watering at just imagining them being in his mouth.

“closer, sweetheart,” he grunts, tilting his head down since he couldn’t exactly use his hands.

you were riding him at such godly speed, swerving your hips at such frantic intervals while wetly clamping down on his cock.

nanami always filled you to the brim with all of him, poking right through your slickly dripping orifices with every bouncy thrust.

once more, it makes his head spin, but all he’s focused on is your chest that was staring straight back at him. “f- fuuuck, ‘m still h.. hot. i think- i think suckin’ on them will help me cool off, sweetheart.”

saucily cooing, you lick a stripe down his neck as your hips accelerated. as you continued to speak, your voice started to get a bit bumpy from the unsteady movement of your jouncing ass.

“oh- is that what you wanted all this time, ‘ken? to suck on these?” and he watches as you lean back, cupping your tits with the smuggest smile plastered on your lips.

your hands sneak down between your unbuttoned shirt before you silently mewl, giving them a nice good squeeze. “imagine jus’ how plumper they’d be after i have your baby, kento.”

“h.. honey- you’re lucky ‘m handcuffed.” bronze eyes trace down your skin, stopping at your perked nipples.

they were oh-so-perfect.. and as you’re straddled over his lap, nanami couldn’t help but let his mind wander just a bit. he couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander near the very lewd lobe of his brain.

the mental image of you baring his child . .

his wife, you.

nanami grunts at the thought, wordlessly gasping in multiple honed breaths at the fierce clashes of sharp skin.

your hips were disgustingly brutal, and with the way your thighs clung onto him, you were nearly akin to a magnet – forevermore sticking against nanami, never wanting to let go.

“c’mooon,” the blond playfully whines in a gruff voice, his cock stiffening inside of you. “don’t hah- make me beg, sweet girl.”

“you make me beg,” you chaff, slowing your hips down just a bit. nanami grunts at your catty truth, feeling the weight of you gradually hover before you roughly buck right into him.

using all of your core, his leaking tip smears its way against your clit in an almost pretty heart shape and you stutter out a moan.

your syllables of each broken moan were a bit choppy as you were shooting blanks, arching your back against him. even as you’re still riding him, putting all pounds of movement from your body into your sprawled knees, you kept touching yourself.

seeing you guide your hands all over your body in such a sensual way, made nanami kiss his teeth.

in envy though - those should’ve been his hands..

“allll. the. time.” you finish your sentence in a spirited whisper, whispering against the twitching left side of his ear.

each thrust becomes increasingly sloppy with your grip getting more slick ‘n wet — glossed which such sticky amounts of your tangled juices.

each squashing slop! that squelches from between the arc your legs get louder, causing your thighs to nearly clamp together from the tender stimulation.

cupping your tits again, you bring them up to nanami’s face. “go ‘head.”

“woman.. you’re evil,” nanami muffles, getting a face full of your breasts. you hold onto them tight, watching as nanami brings his face closer until he’s shoved right between them. a sweet crooning groan slithers from his lips as his tongue fervently curls its way down toward your nipple.

sloppily, you feel him casually swirling greedy circles around your pulsating gland before switching to the other one.

nanami’s lashes close as you’re still rocking your hips forward, nearly riding him into utter ‘n erotic oblivion..

at this point—you thought the bed was about to break, devastatingly snapping into two due to how good you were putting your hips to use.

“mmpf- so pretty. all mine, m- mine,” he rasps between wet slurps, his wrists still trapped in pretty pink handcuffs. the woolly fur tickles against his skin as his tongue continues to rove shapes around your nipples. “need to get these girls plump… quickly.”

your tits remained grasped in your hands as you’re moaning from nanami’s tongue, and you now start to rut into him at a much more hurried pace.

nanami hungrily drives his cock all through your core, creating a near race-track path that smothers invisible kisses all against your g-spot.

every inch, he’s fat- and his even lengthier girth nearly makes your brain short-circuit for a minute. every wild jam of your hips feels like its last, and nanami’s already drooling.

treacly, sweet saliva pours from the corners of his lips as he’s sucking on each of your tits, muffled gargled moans and whines vibrating against your tepid flesh..

your body had adapted to a more steady rhythm, but you could feel his dick eagerly twitch inside of you every few rushed seconds.

a bit of drool ends up running down his mouth, landing on his polka-dotted tie, creating a gray dampening spot. it’s cute, and you rub a thumb over his thin lips, watching his tawny, soft eyes flutter back open.

it’s the look of love- and nanami could feel himself heating up more once your gaze meets his again.

for a moment, he had completely forgotten about the dumb curse because he was too busy lost in your gaze.

but his temperature started to increase. you let off a bundle of whiny mewls once you feel him nip the top row of his teeth against your nipple.

“s- so cute,” he purrs lowly, feeling your knobbly thighs get closer and closer to giving out. just a few more thrusts and you’d probably be done for.

“mmp-” he pops out your left nipple with his swollen wet lips, glancing at you. nanami looked like he’d just run a marathon with blond strands glossing strips across his forehead. grunting, he starts to pant like a greyhound, sliding a tongue over his lips. “you’re close, honey?”

“m- mhm!” you’d reply, your voice turning raw at each straining moan that leaves from your poor chords.

his cock was massaging everywhere, it didn’t miss a single spot. it’s tip was widely turgid, angrily crimson-red, and leaking from all veiny sides while narrowly delving into you raw.

nanami’s kneading through your guts, tending to each gummy part of your entrance to make you whimper out his name. from every deep, vigorous pump that profoundly batters inside of your pussy, your eyes cross.

you’re dumbfounded—dumb in general too from the way he facilely located every sensitive spot with just the stubby tip of his shaft.

including your pretty cervix - nanami made sure his cock smacked its way there a few times.

the deep pressure pounding inside of you, greeting every single spot inside of your pussy never failed to make your knees quickly buckle.

“f- fuck, fuck there ‘ken, theretherethereee,” you start to babble, the bumps of his tip making your jaw goofily hang. “ ‘m cum- ‘m gonna cummm.”

“haah- together, sweetheart. can you . . finish with me?” nanami murmurs in a throaty voice, kissing your neck.

he tried to lift his head but got slightly pulled back from the fuzzy handcuffs.

he’s molding your insides fully with his cock, squinting a bit at the crescent-shaped moon that hides behind the violent bed curtain.

that view was nice but the view currently in front of him, riding him.. ‘curing’ him from whatever curse this was was far a better sight.

you.

with a whine preparing to squeal from your throat, you give him a nod.

nanami tilts his head, tsking impishly with his smacking lips despite how he was just as sensitive as you. “ah- you know how i feel about head nods, princess. i wanna hear those pretty words.”

“y.. yes ken, ‘kentoooo,” you moan, gasping once you feel two things at once. your stomach tightly seizing and your sloppy cunt restricting around his meaty, stocky length.

it’s so good, soso good that you softly bite into nanami’s shoulder. he hums, groaning right with you before you continue. “ ‘m cummin. ‘m fuckin’ cumming, kento.”

“i know.. i know, c’mere, girl,” he whispers, his face softening once your eyes immediately lock with him. “my sweet… girl.” his pitch lowers, and you decrease the distance between the two of you.

once again, your lips meet nanami’s but this time, it’s far more aggressive and less passionate.

it’s only one word and it’s – sloppy.

your body’s weakly rolling against him, losing its rhythm as the two of you end up finishing together, competing with each other’s inevitable high.

it all felt like a slow … rush.

as you were both drinking each other’s never-ending moans and grunts, the puddled, gooey mess began.

at the same time though, your legs ended up finally collapsing as your swollen, plump lips attacked against his - harshly.

nanami’s lips were almost competing with yours, mashing against your lips with the occasional rows teeth of teeth clash clash clashing away.

it’s loud, sloppy, messy..

the peppermint taste that still lingers in his mouth travels against your buds and you moan. nanami groans, spraying a geyser of bittersweet strips of hot cum inside of you as both tongues continue to explore each other’s mouths.

it’s a straight shot—it travels deep, introducing your womb with a fresh amount of cum as you end up letting go at the same time.

both sets of hearts fluttered as you pressed against his chest, racing frantic beats per minute as you melted the dozenth kiss he presented to your lips.

it’s hot- nanami’s rawly plunging into you as you whine against his lips, barely feeling your hips rutting into him anymore.

you’re just straddling him now – yet he’s still plugging you full with such massive inches of cock, with the addition of his creamy, gloopy seed that drizzles a sloppy white ring around his base.

your fingers wisp down his undercut, as he continues to quietly ravage your walls. it was a slick, slimy knot that buries itself deep inside of your pussy.

you’re moaning, slowly breaking away from his mouth that had strings of saliva clinging near the bottom of his glossed lip. panting heavily, you crane your head, taking a quick peek down at your ass.

it’s a mess, and as his carmine-colored tip slips out of you, it lightly smacks against his tummy.

ribbons of cum paint near the very undersides of your thighs, pouring out between your syrupy slit in such a slow yet filthy manner. time nearly stood still, and nanami went silent, staring at the gooey wads ‘n wads buttery cum that oozes out of your pretty, fluttering cunt.

“are you okay?” nanami sighs, feeling you reach for the handcuff key that rests near the rosy nightstand. you remove them, and he twirls his wrists in a circle before looking at you with kind eyes.

“ ‘m okay.” you reassure him, cupping his face and kissing the right side of his cheek.

nanami’s exhausted—especially after how good you just rode him.

your dripping cunt hovers against his happy trail and sheeny clenched abs as he lazily lies back, finally grabbing your hips. “good . . good,” and with a huff, he sheepishly smiles. “i guess i . . hah- failed no nut november, huh.”

“eh- there’s always next year,” you bring a chaste, sweet kiss to his quivering, pouty lips.

♡ ♡ ♡

surrounded by nothing but bodies of water featuring sods of glittery clear bubbles, you now found yourself lying against nanami’s broad chest. burly, swole arms envelope around your body as the two of you were in the ivory, spacious bathtub. as the water ran against your skin, soothing your aching muscles—you let off a sigh once he finished washing you off.

“i think it wore off,” his warm voice tickles against your skin. nanami kisses down your nape, reaching near the side of the tub where a bowl of fresh muscat grapes lies. tearing a few off the vine, he brings them toward your lips. “the curse . . pollen, whatever it was.”

“mmpf- did it?” you eat from his hand, feeling his wet palm softly rub against your chin. the smell of rich jasmine hits your nostrils as you let off a satisfied hum at the sugary sweet flavor. nanami’s body held you close, feeling your damp body lightly plop against his chest. you feel a bit of his chest hair land against your skin before you swallow. “do you still feel hot?”

nanami pops another grape into your mouth, then into his. “no, sweetheart. i’m fine now, thanks to you,” and you feel his left arm hook around your waist. the blond reclines back against the tub’s icy marble-made wall before sighing. “how do you feel, though? any cramps or body aches i should be aware of?”

with a content suspire drifting away from your parted lips, you move a bit in the calm, lukewarm water — closer toward the back of his chest.

“i’m okay, kento. althooough,” and you give him a playful nudge. “my legs still feel sore.”

“forgive me, honey,” nanami rests his chin against your shoulder. there was a bit of jest in his tone, and you could hear him trying not to snicker.

again, always the gentleman though.

“i’ll give you a massage once we get out of the tub, my treat.” and you let off a sigh, feeling him creep a few fingers up your thigh.

“hmm, okay,” you comply with a sight sigh, sneaking a kiss near the edge of his lips. nanami blinks thrice, his face flushing a bit before you cup his face with wet hands.

“i was serious you know. about . . what i said earlier. us settling down and–,” and nanami deeply stares into your eyes as you speak.

you rub a wet thumb against his sharp cheekbone before continuing, abruptly cutting your cute rambling short, ending with a sincere, “i love you, kento.”

tilting his head against your palm, leaning into your embrace, nanami brings you toward him before kissing the crown of your head. “and i love you more,” and as you felt butterflies party in the lower pits of your stomach, nanami brings your hand up to his lips.

gently, he aligns his mouth perfectly near your fourth digit before giving you another kiss, this time—on your ring finger. “mrs. nanami.”

but oh- he wasn’t done..

as you’re feeling a wave of tenderness overwhelm your heart, nanami leans a bit down before kissing the center part of your tummy that drips with teary droplets.

his wetly compressed lips give it a quick peck and ‘mwah’ before keeping his head lowered. “i love her too.” you raise a brow, glancing as nanami’s chin hovers over the bubbles of water.

“her?” you lift a brow as he whispers multiple ‘i love you’s’ against your stomach as if he was already talking to something – or someone..

“yes, her,” nanami repeats, giving your tummy one more kiss before sitting back up, rubbing his palm over the center of your belly.

looking up at you, he notices your confused expression and smiles to himself. “oh, just a little hunch,” and you gasp once nanami picks you up softy, carrying you out the wet tub, the both of you soaking wet.

“now, how about that massage? i’m quite good with my hands, especially when it comes to my woman.”

#★vegasbaby.#nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #female reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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tramp963 · 10 months ago

Video

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Berlin - Take My Breath Away - Lyrics Video

#youtube #Berlin - Take My Breath Away - Lyrics Video

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

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

Word Count: 13.6k

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

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

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

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

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

Then comes the keys.

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

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

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

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

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

And then, his bedroom door.

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

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

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

But then comes the moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that finally makes the tears flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are alone in your grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what is the point?

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

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

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

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

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

And then, him standing there and watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are certain, he won’t.

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

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

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

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you keep walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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

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

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

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

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

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“To Nat’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

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

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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

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

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

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

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t move.

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

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

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

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

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

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

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

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

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

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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

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

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

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

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

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

“No, you-”

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

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

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

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

You could run.

You should.

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

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

“Okay,” you say weakly.

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

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

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

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

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

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

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

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

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

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

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

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

So you stay.

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

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

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

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

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

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

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

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

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

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

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

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

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

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

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-”

You try. You really try.

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

Because this time it’s her walking out.

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

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

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

But it’s not yours either.

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

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

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

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

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

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

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

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

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

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

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

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

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

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

And Bucky watches all of that.

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

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

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

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

“See, that’s bullshit.”

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

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

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

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

But he won’t.

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

And you break.

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

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

You feel so pathetic.

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

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

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

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

You let him.

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

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

Like your pain is his own.

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

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

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

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

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

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

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

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

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

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

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

It’s too hard. too cruel.

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

But it does.

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

So you cry harder.

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

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

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

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

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

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

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

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

You won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Because none of this makes it any easier.

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

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

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

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

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

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

He looks wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

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

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

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

But Bucky just shrugs.

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

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

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

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

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

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

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

There is something uncertain in there.

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

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

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

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

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

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

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

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

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

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

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

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

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

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

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

His eyes are pleading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your reaction must be answer enough.

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

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

The exact moment he realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky panics.

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

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

Not at you.

At himself.

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

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

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

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

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

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

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

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

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

“Like it’s over.”

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

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

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

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

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

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

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

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

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

This thing between you.

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

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

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

It consumes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is crying.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

But you don’t know how to.

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

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

You don’t and he steps closer again.

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

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

But what could you say?

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

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

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he still touched them.

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

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

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

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

He tried to fuck it away.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stalls.

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

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

Even if you know it might not be fair.

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

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no claim on him.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, body sways.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Beau Taplin

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rafesangelita · 5 months ago

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♡ “have you ever tried this one?” in which kook!sweetheart!reader convinces rafe to take her to go see one of her favorite artists, and as a ‘thank you’ she and rafe have to do whatever position sabrina demo’s for her song “juno”..

warnings: fluff, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise, breeding kink (?)

a/n: so sad because i didn’t get to see sabrina on tour, and she has had me in the meanest chokehold lately :( click this link to see what position i’m referring to <3

when the dates dropped for sabrina’s ‘short n’ sweet’ tour, rafe wasted no time in buying you two tickets. of course, you didn’t know this and begged him for weeks until he finally told you yes, your flight and hotel room already booked for a nice little weekend getaway. rafe helped you make your concert outfit, both of you spending hours on the whole ensemble. the end result was absolutely stunning and rafe couldn’t stop taking pictures of you.

he posted one on the night of the concert, captioning it ‘my little popstar princess <3’ and you two were off to the stadium. while you knew wearing sparkly white platform boots wouldn’t be the best choice to walk in, you stuck it through, and as soon as the lights dimmed and the music started, any kind of discomfort you felt had melted away as you were far too distracted singing along to every song that boomed through the venue.

babydoll lingerie top with pink fluffy trim, dedazzled stockings, glittery makeup, your hair freshly done, rafe swore you never looked prettier. even though he was against wearing anything that sparkled, he decided to wear a plain pink t-shirt to match with you in his own little way. he kept his arms wrapped around your waist as you two sung, having learned the lyrics to every song since you insisted on being in charge of the aux cord whenever you two were in his truck.

eventually, you two were swaying softly, rafe’s chin resting in the curve of your neck as you stroked the skin of his arm. “thank you for bringing me here.” you smiled up at him, connecting your lips as the intro to ‘juno’ started playing. rafe hummed, leaning down so you could hear him. “you know i had to bring you, baby.. what do you say you thank me another way when we get back to our room?” your cheeks heated as you laughed softly.

“yeah, i’d like that,” you pecked his cheek, “how about we do the position she does for the song?” rafe smiled, both of you fixing your attention on the stage. you waited with anticipation, your heart beating in your ears when she bent over and touched her toes. rafe cheered, making you laugh as he couldn’t wait to get you back to the hotel. luckily for him, there was only a few more songs left before the show ended and the two of you rushed out of there.

it wasn’t long after you two walked through the door that rafe had your boots thrown in a forgotten corner, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips as he took you roughly from behind. you struggled to keep your hands placed on your perfectly pedicured toes, your knees threatening to give out from under you while rafe thrusted into you at an unforgiving pace. “holy fuck, you’re taking it so fuckin’ good, gorgeous, ‘might just let you get off your tippy toes and put you on your back instead.”

you cried out, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as his pelvis smacked against the back of your ass. “can’t, rafe!” you shrieked, nearly doubling over before your boyfriend reached down and grabbed your arms, holding you by your wrists as you hung helplessly from his grip. he was fucking you stupid, and your lack of thoughts was proof of it. you couldn’t think, the feeling of rafe’s cock stroking that soft gummy spot inside of you made you whimper pathetically.

finally, you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, your knees meeting the carpeted floor. rafe picked you up, cursing under his breath as he encouraged you to get back in position. “promise i’ll have you in bed soon, pretty, you could hold out for me, yeah?” you shuddered, looking at him from behind your shoulder with that fucked-out gaze he loved so much. you had tears in your eyes, your body glitter still sparkling under the soft lighting.

giving him a little nod, you reached down once again, holding onto your ankles for dear life as rafe circled an arm under your hips, holding you up as his fingers started working on your clit. “oh!” you were in hysterics, your blood rushing to your head as he landed a harsh smack to your backside. “come on, baby, ‘wanna feel this pussy squeeze around me.” you moaned at his words, your orgasm just in arm’s reach as rafe’s thrusts grew uncalculated. “rafe?” you could barely speak, the band in your stomach threatening to snap at any moment.

“talk to me.” he groaned, teetering the edge of pure euphoria. “make me juno?” you giggled for a split second, the insinuation only turning rafe on even more. “fuck, yeah? ‘want me to fill you up, give you a baby?” you let out a distorted “mhmm!’, the two of you gasping when your highs took you both to cloud nine. rafe pulled you back up, your chest rising and falling while your legs shook with your orgasm. pressing wet kisses to your neck, rafe did exactly as he said, his hips stuttering as hot, thick ropes of cum painted your velvety walls.

you two stayed like this, pressed against one another until your breathing slowed, the aftershocks subsiding before rafe laid you both down in bed. “we should have a ‘short n’ sweet’ themed baby shower.. we could serve espressos.” rafe laughed, draping an arm over your tummy. “we’ll see.” he hummed. your eyes fluttered shut as you breathed him in, his cologne still heavy on his skin. “you know what we should try when we get back home?” rafe traced shapes into your side, mumbling a ‘what’s that?’

“pink fuzzy handcuffs.”

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khioneee · 6 months ago

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simon didn’t say ‘i love you’

not in the way most people did. but in his own quiet, raw way, he gave you pieces of his heart through the things he did say—words heavy with meaning, words that stuck with you long after they left his lips.

‘i really miss you. don’t know how much more i can take.’ his voice crackled through the comm line, strained and distant. he was halfway across the world, out on another mission, but in that moment, you could hear the weariness seeping into every word. he wasn’t just talking about the mission; he was talking about being without you—like the distance between you was slowly killing him. ‘don’t know how much more of this i’ve got in me.’

‘stay with me. i don’t want you to leave.’ the words came low and rough, slipping out as you tried to leave for work. after being gone for so long, simon wasn’t ready to let you go. not just yet. his hand wrapped around your wrist, gently pulling you back into bed. ‘just a little longer, yeah?’ he murmured, eyes heavy with unspoken need, as if saying goodbye now would tear him apart.

‘i think i like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.’ he muttered it under his breath after a night spent with soap and the lads. they’d stolen your attention all evening, and simon had stayed quiet, watching from the sidelines. but when he finally pulled you aside, his words came low and possessive. there was no jealousy, only the quiet truth that he preferred you like this—just the two of you, away from the rest of the world.

‘i would gladly break my heart for you.’ the fight still hung heavy in the air, your threat to leave cutting deeper than you realized. but simon didn’t raise his voice. his response was quiet, steady, and devastatingly sincere. ‘if it means you’ll be happier… i’d do it. i’d break my heart for you.’ in that moment, you knew his love wasn’t just in the easy moments—it was in the sacrifices he was willing to make, even if it destroyed him.

‘you’re the only good thing in my life,’ he said softly, almost like a confession, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. his voice carried a weariness that hinted at everything he’d been through, all the darkness that clung to him. but you—you were the one light that cut through it all. and in those words, he gave you the truth of his love—whether he could say the words or not.

and that’s how simon told you ‘i love you.’ not with grand declarations or flowery speeches, but with quiet, broken truths. each one more powerful than three simple words could ever be.

an. based on lyrics by cigarettes after sex haha.

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meowdei · 5 months ago

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content includes: female reader, drunk reader + mentions of alcohol, modern + non curse au sukuna, established relationship, unnamed friends, reader makes one (1) dick sucking joke, reader dips fries into shakes because she’s elite like that, he carries reader

It’s half past midnight when he comes to pick you up. Your face sours as soon as you see him, taking an instinctive step back.

“Nuh uh,” you say, wagging a finger back and forth in his face as he scowls. “It’s girl’s night. No men allowed—we’ve been over this!”

“As if I wanna join your stupid girl’s night,” he scoffs. Sukuna is tired. (Of you). It’s too late at night to be worrying about what ditch you’re going to end yourself up in after lord knows how many drinks, so regrettably, he takes matters into his own hands.

It’s a good thing he does, too, he thinks with a flare of his nostril as he eyes the drunk, mess of a woman that’s supposed to be your ride home. Designated driver my ass, he all but grumbles under his breath.

“Hey—” he looks over to the side with an irritated flick of his eyes as a hand smacks his shoulder. Your friend (in not better condition than you) levels him with a snarky look before she hisses, “You heard her! It’s girl’s night. Go away.”

Sukuna ignores her—because, well, that’s what he always does anyway. She talks far too much to be considered a normal amount, and he doesn’t like the shrill sound of her voice. Instead, he turns to you, gives you a firm, scolding look before he grunts, “We are going home. Now.”

You seem to catch onto the stern tone of his voice because within seconds, you’re slumping against him as you whine, “Fine,” with a pout. “Mean.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, “You know what’s meaner? Nasty men who find girls passed out in the middle of the streets. Now let’s go. We’re going home—all of you.”

A chorus of whines and petty insults makes him want to grab a drink himself—being inebriated seems like the only way your friends are tolerable, but as annoying as they are, he refuses to leave them here wasted.

So he does the noble thing, and sacrifices his ear drums as they play whatever stupid pop song is trending on the radio at full volume down the streets, heads sticking out of the windows and screaming the lyrics out to innocent passerby’s.

Sukuna is just a guy. Not the best, most chivalrous or charitable guy, maybe—but just a guy, all the same. He’s not done anything wrong to deserve this torture. He’s been nothing but a kind (usually) boyfriend that loves you unconditionally (most of the time), supports you wholeheartedly (when it suits him), listens to your problems (if he’s in the mood), and makes you feel special (as long as it doesn’t inconvenience him).

Still, he’s stuck basically being an uber driver—for free, no less—to your ungrateful, bratty, obnoxious friends that aren’t pretty enough to enjoy your company in the first place. They don’t even thank him when they get out as he drops them off one by one to their homes, opting to say goodbye to you as if you’re the one who pays for the gas in his car.

Finally, the last of your friends (who he likes to consider nuisances) leaves, freeing him of anymore radio pop songs and unnaturally loud giggles.

He grumbles as you ask, “Can we get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Please?” You whine, “I want strawberry.”

“That’s great,” he says sarcastically, “The answer’s still no.”

“Please, please, please, Kuna? I’ll suck your dick on the drive there—”

“Jesus, what’s the matter with you?” He hisses, fighting back flushed cheeks as he glares at you once the car rolls to a stop at a red light.

Usually, he’s the one making such lewd comments and getting under your skin—but lacking in sobriety is seriously forcing the two of you to switch roles. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he should be nicer to you—you deal with a lot. (Not that he’s mean. He considers himself a pretty generous boyfriend).

“I’ll even pay,” you offer.

“You didn’t bring a wallet, so it looks like I’ll have to pay,” he says blandly.

You grin, giving him an innocent smile as you excitedly ask, “So that’s a yes?”

“Are you going to be quiet if I say yes?” He clicks his teeth in thinly-veiled irritation.

You grin, nodding enthusiastically.

Well, he thinks bitterly, so much for no more pit stops.

It’s not long until he’s pulling into the drive-thru of the nearest fast food joint, rolling his window down to order your stupid, late night request.

“We’ll take one strawberry milkshake, please,” he says gruffly.

“Anything else?” Comes the tired reply of whoever is taking his order.

“No—”

“And large fries, please!” You lean over him to shout out the window and make sure the poor worker hears you. Sukuna glares, (gently) pushing you back into your seat as he hisses, “Put your seatbelt on! And you asked for a milkshake, not a damn meal.”

“Fries aren’t a meal,” you huff, “And they’re good dipped in the shake. You can’t have one without the other.”

“No—”

“I’ll scream that I’m being kidnapped,” you warn, “I want my fries.”

“Fucking fine,” he throws his hands up, exasperatedly caving to your request because, yeah, having some drunk, half-conscious woman in his front seat screaming bloody murder about being abducted at two a.m. is not a good look to a stranger that doesn’t know any better. “One strawberry milkshake and large fucking fries and that’s it,” he growls to the other person through the drive-thru speaker.

It’s not the poor employee’s fault, and he knows it, but he’s too tired and sleep-deprived to care about his snarky attitude.

“It’ll be ready at the window,” the man speaks tiredly, completely unphased.

“Yay!” You squeal.

It’s a pretty bothersome task to have to stop the car five minutes after receiving the food just to open the lid of your cup for you so that you can dip your fries into your milkshake easier, but he figures it’s better than a tiring drive home. Or worse, a spill all over his car seats at your own attempt.

He glances over at you wearily as he finally (hopefully) starts to drive home, watching as you dip your french fries into your frozen drink and happily eat away. He crinkles his eyes at the combination.

He’ll never understand people’s unnatural obsession with pairing anything remotely salty and sweet together.

“My friends think you’re weird,” you hum, taking a handful of fries to your mouth as you say between chewing, “They say you’re intense. Like, scary intense. But I told them, that’s just his face.”

Finally, a small smile cracks on his face, breaking through the grumpy, tired exterior. He snorts, shaking his head. “Drunk you has way too much to say.”

“Drunk me is honest,” you retort, clutching your fries to your chest as you huff, “Now I’m not sharing my fries anymore.”

“You weren’t going to anyway,” he rolls his eyes.

Finally, his car pulls into a familiar parking spot, just outside of your shared home as he parks and turns to you. You giggle at him before humming, “How’d you know?”

“Because you never do,” he rolls his eyes.

“That’s because this relationship is 50/50! You buy the food, and I eat it.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, shaking his head—still, there’s something endearing about the way you clutch your fries close to your chest, as if guarding them with your life. He leans over, snatching one easily anyway, smirking in amusement when you gasp and pout at the gesture.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunts, fighting back a fond grin before he asks, “Let’s go. We’re going in.”

With that, he comes around to your side of the car, pulling you out and hoisting you up to carry you bridal style as he marches over to the front door. Sighing happily, you admire his face as he walks.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He raises a brow, mildly shocked. “For?”

“For bringing me home. Same time next week?”

He chuckles, pressing a soft, affectionate kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely not. No more girl’s nights with those shit shows.”

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #euthymiya.writing

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fairyysoup · 9 months ago

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easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again.

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever.

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you.

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world.

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing.

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you.

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you.

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt.

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture.

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough.

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you.

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him.

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else.

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me.

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.”

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?”

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.”

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.”

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.”

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur.

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear.

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.”

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t.

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now.

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected.

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin.

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier.

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate.

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is?

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet.

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window.

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes.

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins.

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?”

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now.

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder.

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again.

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan.

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs.

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief.

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.”

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.”

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it.

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again.

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you.

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap.

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness.

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head.

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it.

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does.

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down.

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet.

To keep you quiet.

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.”

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table.

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other.

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss.

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear.

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

#eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #a quiet place day one #roses*#eric x reader #eric a quiet place day one x you #eric a quiet place x you #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric fan fiction #eric x you #joseph quinn

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reyalvr · 10 months ago

Text

SHE'S MINE | 01

I'M ALL IN, I CAN'T REVERSE IT-

synopsis ┊ thrust into the spotlight, ken sato had easily become the next big thing tokyo had seen in decades. alongside his fame came the inevitable string of rumors, of which sprung forth scandals and discrediting information against his image. of course the obvious and most rational solution would be to address them like every other celebrity, but this was ken sato; nothing would ever be rational with him, which is how you wound up with a ring on your finger and the sato name in your papers.

genre ┊ fake dating, fake marriage, idiots-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, slight angst, chaotic fluff, mild smut

pairing ┊ ken sato x fem-PA!reader, ken sato x fake-wife!reader

warnings ┊ mild cursing, eventual smut, mentions of alcohol, all events in ultraman: rising take place a year after kenji moves back to japan

word count ┊ 3.2k

author’s note ┊ WOOHOO part one finally out! thank you so much for all the love on the prologue, it made me so motivated to make this as good as possible hehe >.< each chapter title is based off of a lyric in my writing playlist for this series, lmk if you guys would like me to drop it ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶. happy reading!

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KEN KNEW HE WAS IN DEEP SHIT. Knee deep, even. If you asked him what was going through his head thirty seconds ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell you even if he wanted to. Everything that happened next was a blur- from shaking hands with the host to walking back to his dressing room, it felt like he was operating on autopilot. Who wouldn’t be, though? He had just announced to the world that he was officially taken; that he was off the market- hooked. Of course, it wouldn’t have been a problem if it were true…

But it wasn’t.

He had just lied to an audience of a hundred people- not to mention the millions throughout the various streaming platforms the show was being aired on. His nails dug into his palm as he neared his dressing room, the bold, black letters of his name growing larger and larger each step he took. His heart was pounding, and he swore he felt chill down his spine the moment he opened the door. No one could blame him though, not if they knew the inevitable wrath they were about to face.

You were stood there, eyes narrowed and resting all your weight on your hip. Your arms were crossed, your lips were pursed. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, staring at each other as you waited for the other to speak up. Ken swallowed nervously, tapping his foot as he tried formulating an explanation. He wasn’t entirely sure as to why he was so overstrung, it was just you. Why should he be terrified of your scolding on his recent screw up?

“Special someone, huh?” You said through your teeth, finally breaking the tense silence in the room. “So special that nobody on your team knew of her prior to your public love confession?”

Ah. That was why. The way you were able to see right through him scared him sometimes. He never outwardly showed his reactions, though- at least he tried not to. He cleared his throat before finally moving to plop down on the couch, doing his damndest not to show his jitters.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. I lied, so what?” He replied, his cocky tone masking the unsureness in his words. “It’s not the first time I’ve done it.”

Strike one. As if you couldn’t have been any more pissed off, that seemed to be the tipping point. You paused before letting out a deep breath, circling around him. He closed his eyes when he knew you were behind him, and he waited for you to berate him; to remind him of the consequences of his actions. He waited, but it never came. He opened one eye, and he relaxed when you moved to sit on the opposite couch. He was spared… for now.

“What, no scolding?” He decided to test, tilting his head to the side as he watched you.

You only let out a small laugh, and somehow that was worse than any scolding he’d ever received from you. You were oddly calm, like all your anger had just melted away. Leaning forward, you slid an enclosed piece of paper across the table towards him.

“Can you guess what this is, Ken?” You ask, your eyes finally looking back up to meet his.

Ken knew not to answer. He was ready to spit out some witty reply, but the look in your eyes told him that this was going to go down another route; one that he definitely didn’t want to aggravate.

“It’s my resignation letter.” You say nonchalantly, causing him to straighten up once more. “I keep it handy.”

Resignation letter? Was this real? Were you actually going to quit over this? He opened his mouth to speak up but quickly shut it when you maintained your soul-searching gaze. He tried to relax, yet the furrow in his eyebrows seemed to stay as you continued on.

“I’m going to be very clear on what’s going to happen next, Ken.” You say, resting your arms on your knees. “This will be the last time I help you clear up a mishap. After everything is settled, I’m gone.”

Gone. His eyes widened slightly, the palms of his hands starting to get clammy. He let out a light, nervous laugh, looking at you as if you had just said something absurd. Which, in his defense, you sort of did. Again, he had no idea why this news was so shocking to him, seeing as you’d only worked under him for a year and a half. Surely he couldn’t have been that terrible, right? He stared at the folded paper in front of him before speaking up.

“What, uh, what do you mean gone?” He asked through a breathy laugh. “Gone like a break or something? I’m happy to give you one-”

“Gone as in I quit.” You cut him off, standing up as you adjusted the sleeves of your shirt. “Like I said, this is the last time I clean up your mess, Ken Sato.”

You moved to walk away, but he quickly caught your arm. “Woah, hold on a sec,” He stood up, looking down at you with stunned eyes. “Quit? C’mon, [Y/N] I know I screwed up but you can’t just leave me hanging like this-”

You scoffed at him then, yanking your arm out of his grasp. “Oh I can’t leave you hanging, huh? Tell me, Ken, how many times have I saved your ass in the last eighteen months I’ve been working for you, hm?”

He swallowed dryly as he tried to recall. He was used to having his name on headlines, most especially after his move last year. He couldn’t go five seconds without seeing his ads pop up on his platforms, hell he couldn’t even go five blocks without seeing a billboard with his face on it. Which all brought him back to one thing: not one negative scandal under his name. With you, he was perfect; jack of all trades in the MLB and the internet’s favorite spokesperson.

Shit. Strike two.

You only hummed in response once you read over his expression. “Exactly. So the next time you even think about downplaying my job, remember how I was the reason for your recent success.”

Ken was at a loss for words. Rarely was he ever left speechless, he always seemed to have a response ready for anything. But now was definitely not one of those times. He watched as you bent down to retrieve that dreaded letter, and you shoved it into his chest before moving to finally walk past him.

“Our flight leaves tomorrow at five a.m, I'll see you in the lobby at three.” You say, not so much as sparing him a glance as you fixed your bag.

He managed to let out a quiet ‘okay’, gripping onto your letter tightly as he watched you pack up. Damn Ken, you really did it this time, didn’t you? He thought to himself, wondering how- or rather, if he would be able to make things right with you. For the first time in his career, he was thinking about someone else other than himself.

“Oh and Ken,” You say, breaking him out of his dazed stance.

“Hm?” He hummed out, averting his gaze to be level with yours.

“You had better pray that the next assistant you get is half as good as I am.” You said before closing the door, leaving him alone in his dressing room. All of a sudden it felt… quiet. Too quiet. He sighed, dropping down on the couch once more before closing his eyes and masking his face with his hands.

Strike three.

THE TENSION IN THE CAR WAS PAINSTAKINGLY PALPABLE. Ken’s leg bounced as the two of you were stuck in airport traffic, the car unmoving for nearly half an hour now. Your occasional sighs and the hum of the car’s engine were the only sounds filling the air. He felt like he was going crazy. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly the night before thanks to your bombshell of an announcement. In comparison, though, he probably shouldn’t be complaining about bombshells when he himself dropped one twice the size of yours.

Still, he was restless. You hadn’t uttered a single word to him since landing back in Tokyo, and the unwanted solitude was driving him nuts. He glanced over at you through his shades, noting the way you were impatiently tapping your fingers against the wheel. Obviously you were still pissed at his little stunt, and the articles following the incident didn’t aid in calming your anger.

He knew it wasn’t smart, but he needed to talk to you. The sea of red lights in front of him remained stagnant, and he didn’t want to spend another minute in this deafening quietude. He gnawed at his bottom lip before finally breaking the silence.

“Can we talk?” He said, looking over at you.

“No.” You replied bluntly.

“[Y/N]-” He started, but one glance from you was enough to shut him up.

“I am doing you a huge favor by helping you solve the mess you created.” You said as you looked back at the road ahead of you, lifting your fingers and circling your thumbs around the wheel. “I could’ve left right then and there, leaving you to deal with this on your own. But I didn’t, I don’t know why, but I didn’t.”

You looked back up at him, and only now did he notice the circles under your eyes and the paleness of your complexion. Something inside him twisted; he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or regret. Guilt, probably, for having to rely on you to correct his mistakes, and regret for even causing this whole debacle in the first place.

“The least I’m asking from you is your compliance.” You say tiredly, the glint in your eyes doing most of the talking.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” He managed to get out, leaning back into the passenger seat.

And just like that, the dreaded silence was back. By some miracle the traffic started to gain some speed, the taillights of the cars ahead of him dispersing onto the road. His head hit the back of the headrest, and he sat through the entire ride back to the Tokyo Dome contemplating his recent choices.

It was only when you knocked on the window of the passenger side when he realized he had finally reached his destination. He got out, stretching his limbs after being cramped inside the car for so long. He threw on his jacket lazily, not even bothering to zip it up. He went to put on his cap, but then he noticed something odd.

It was quiet outside the building, the bristle of the trees and the nearby roads the only sound filling his ears. There was something lacking; the neverending shuttering sounds of cameras and eager voices yelling at him to look or to say something. He realized then the lack of paparazzi and reporters outside to greet him, just like they usually did whenever he came back from a trip. His head turned, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked around. Not a single one in sight.

“‘Something wrong?” You asked as you walked past him to swipe your ID into the security system.

“It’s just,” He said, still looking around in confusion. He let out an airy laugh as he followed you inside, the expression on his face remaining the same. “There’s no paps or anything.”

At that you laugh, albeit sarcastically, waiting for him to get into the elevator. “You know that might be the first time I’ve ever heard a famous person complain about not being bombarded by ill-intent people.”

“I’m not complaining, trust me.” He says, putting his hands up halfway in defense. “It’s weird. That’s all.”

“Well that’s what happens when people think you’re spending time with your special someone after being away for so long.” You say, pulling up a press announcement on your phone.

For a split second, Kenji had completely forgotten that he had to keep up the fact that he supposedly had a significant other waiting for him at home. He let out an ‘ah’, sliding his hands into his pockets as the elevator went up. Again his heart panged, finally realizing why your eyebags were deeper than they usually were. While he may have had discomfort in his slumber, it didn’t compare to the hours you were up trying to get everything settled here.

You held the door open to your office, letting him in first. Once the lights were on, he was greeted with your infamous whiteboard, different scribbles of colorful ink filling up the space corner to corner. He cringed at the bolded date of the talk show he was on.

“Your bags will be sent here in the next hour, and valet has your bike ready.” You say, doing the usual routine you did whenever the both of you came back from work trips. He sat down on the sofa, nodding each time you reminded him of something.

“Now, about the issue,” You walk over to the whiteboard, erasing its contents. “We need to find you a fake girlfriend.”

He choked on nothing, not surprised by the news but surprised by the continued bluntness of your tone. “I beg your pardon?”

“We need to find you a fake girlfriend.” You repeated, emphasizing the words obnoxiously.

“Yeah I get that,” He finally replied, a look of uncertainty splashing his features. “But you’re making it sound like all we need to do is shop around.”

“Well unless you can give me a face, let alone a name to your special someone, this is the plan we have.” You retort, resting a hand at your hip as the other points at the board.

“Why can’t I just be one of those celebrities who keep their relationship private?” He questions genuinely.

“Oh I’m sorry, who was the one who announced that they were in love on live television?” You remind him, annoyance laced in your words.

He bites back any sort of sarcastic remark that conjures up in the back of his head. You were right, obviously you were right. But some part of him felt it was… unfair to not have a say in this. Stupid, yes, but it’s how he felt.

“Can I continue or is there anything else you want to unnecessarily add?” You ask, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

He only lifted a hand, signaling for you to carry on. You go on to explain that whoever ends up “dating” him will need to have to go through a contract signing, NDA included. You draw up charts on your board, showing him the possible stats of his ratings if he’ll be able to pull this off.

“Your next playoff season is about to start, I suggest we get all this settled by then.” You scroll on your smartwatch, looking at the calendar. “It gives me two weeks to plan everything out. I need you here tomorrow bright and early so that we can go through a list of potential candidates.”

“Candidates? What is this, speed-dating?” He says, making a face at all the analytical parts of your plan.

“No, it’s a game called ‘save-my-reputation.’” You answer snarkily, narrowing your eyes slightly at him.

He takes in a deep breath, starting to get annoyed with your remarks. He knew he had no right to, but to think that you were just dictating away at his choices made him feel like some sort of plaything.

“I just don’t understand why we even need to find a ‘girlfriend’ in the first place.” He massages the back of his head before crossing his arms. “I mean everyone thinks I’ve successfully hidden my love life up until now, what’s the point of going all out?”

He could see you clench your fingers around the marker, and he knew he was close to reaching your tipping once more. All in the span of twenty-four hours. You pinched the bridge of your nose before you spoke up.

“Ken. You told the world that you were in love.” You say in an eerily calm tone. “You got yourself into this mess, now you have to get yourself out of it. And unless you want to say goodbye to your stardom, this is what you need to do.”

He opened his mouth to speak up but was cut off by your phone’s ringing. You answered, spewing out a quick and formal ‘thank you’ to whoever was on the other line. You sighed, placing your marker back down on your desk before you walked past him towards the glass door.

“Your bags are here.” You say, opening the door. “Your bike’s parked outside and everything should be good to go.”

Your demeanor had changed in a split second, going from PR manager to assistant in the blink of an eye. At times Ken wondered how you were able to juggle everything. It wasn’t the main thing that was on his mind, he had… other, more serious things to worry about. Like the other secret he had kept from you all this time; Ultraman. He shook his head, trying not to focus on his double life on top of the situation he was in.

Ken knew that your words were a sign to get up and get out, and he did just that. You followed him all the way back down to the lobby of the stadium, handing him his duffel bag and walking him to his bike. Despite your earlier mood, you did your checks on his motorbike that he had grown accustomed to after a while.

“Tomorrow, bright and early.” You remind him, crossing your arms as he got on his bike. “Please.”

“Tomorrow, bright and early.” He repeats through a huff, slinging his bag into the compartment attached to the back of his motorbike. “Got it.”

You only hummed in response, turning away to walk back into the stadium. He didn’t know what it was that came over him, but before he knew it he was grabbing your arm softly once more. Your head spun around to look at him, more of your stray hairs spilling out of your updo. At this angle the sunset brought out the shininess of your eyes, the early evening shadows accentuating your features.

He swallowed before he continued. “You know for what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

Instead of another curt response, though, you sighed as you pressed your lips together. He lets go of your arm then, not wanting to invade anymore of your personal space than he already has. He can see you poke your tongue into your cheek, a habit you did when you were in contemplation.

“Well,” You finally breathe out, your expression relaxing. “If you’re actually as sorry as you say you are, you’ll do as I say.”

“‘Course.” He says before his face gets obscured by his helmet. He nods towards your direction once more before finally revving the engine.

Only time will tell what the outcome is, but whatever it is, he hopes he ends up in the one where you don’t loathe his very being.

tags┊@mochminnie, @rreasonablydumbb, @sincerest-one, @fruticake, @lunaryasha, @lovingyeet, @sugacor3, @arrozyfrijoles23, @fennecspage, @mmeerraa, @azryaa, @akiradailylifes, @montybooks, @mmv-ymvm, @hore4ken, @greeniegreengreen, @meikoo, @random-3455, @todaywasafairytale07, @mythicalmoa, @imafangirlofeverything, @astylos, @vynwan-cbq, @rosegiyanabing, @icedberrytea, @ken-zah, @letharue, @chi222, @flooftoof, @c4ttheart, @ymrai, @stxrrielle, @alpha-mommy69, @ewitscat, @lightsinmycity, @furblrwurblr, @ayamago, @sugururawr, @secretlyapartofthisfandom @shellspider, @oh-kurva, @noraimp

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