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yieldtotemptation · 9 months ago

Text

RITUAL ft. Yujin

yujin x male reader smut

7k words

Let’s be clear: you’re well aware of what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

For you, it’s just a job. You’ve been fired from plenty before, and there will be plenty more after.

But for her, for Yujin, it’s her career. Her life. Her everything.

And yet, here, in the cramped confines of a bathroom stall, your hand on her ass and hers diving down your jeans; you can’t let go of the nagging suspicion that maybe that’s the fucking point.

“How much time do we have?” Yujin’s lips are on your neck, tiny, hot breaths tickling your skin, nimble fingers at your waist, negotiating with your zipper.

“We had fifteen minutes, an hour ago,” you remind her. “We’re gonna miss soundcheck.”

“It’ll be fine.” Yujin’s unbothered, dismissive of anything that isn’t freeing your cock from its denim prison. “They’ll wait for me. They always do.”

There’s that hint of arrogance, that unshakeable confidence of youth, the invincibility that comes with being that absurdly hot. You can’t blame her at all for it.

What Yujin wants, she gets. You've seen it first hand.

It’s one of the many things you’ve learned about her over the past few weeks.

Well one of the few that don’t concern how good her cunt feels when she rides you, or how her eyes roll to the back of her head when you hit that spot just right, or the way her voice goes hoarse when she screams your name.

“Oh, it’s so perfect.” Yujin’s seen your cock before, tasted it, taken it, had it in every way possible (in every place available), yet that still doesn’t stop her eyes from lighting up the second she sees it springing out from the waistband of your briefs, standing tall and throbbing painfully. “I’d say this is worth being late for.”

You’ve got a groan for her when she takes you into her hand, her grip firm and familiar. A half-hearted protest, too: “Yeah, but if we’re late, Princess Yujin gets a slap on the wrist, whereas I get fired.”

Yujin scoffs at that. “Well, I am your boss, so I think I get the last say if it comes down to it.”

Part of you wants to correct her, wants to explain that technically you’re not her employee but an independent contractor hired by the touring company. However, that part of you needs to shut the hell up, because the intricacies of employment contracts for musicians-for-hire really don’t seem pertinent at this moment.

Regardless, it all becomes trivial in the face of Yujin. So annoyingly, unfairly pretty, not even the unflattering harshness of the bathroom lights are capable of marring her in the slightest.

You’d probably give her the world if she asked.

She’d happily settle for your dick.

Her hand’s moving now, her fingers dancing around your shaft, exploring the contours of your cock from base to tip, and she's forcing you to resign, “Your logic, as always, is flawless.”

“See?” Yujin smiles up at you, that wide, confident grin that’s graced a million posters, been on every magazine cover and TV channel, and is now laser focused on you. “I’m always right, aren’t I?”

Her point's made with a squeeze around your length, stroking you in earnest, building to a rhythm that’s become so familiar over the past week—quick and precise, dangerously efficient. Like she was made for this. Made to tease your cock. As natural for her as breathing, really.

Yujin’s had plenty of practice, after all—on the morning of every concert, in the evening back at her hotel, on tour buses and in dressing rooms. On a plane once, even. It's the same torrid routine that’s now become a required pre-show ritual. A quiet spot, a secluded room, and she steals you away, bringing you to the brink and back.

And to think it all started because she asked you to help her ‘calm her nerves’.

Or more correctly, fuck all the worries and concerns out of her pretty little head.

Still, she's never pushed it this far, never cut it this close.

You lean back against the stall door, your breath catching in your throat, the cheap plastic giving slightly under the pressure. Outside you can hear it, hear the bustling sounds of the venue coming to life—staff moving about, the distant roar of fans, the occasional clang of sound equipment. But in here, it’s overpowered by the noisiness of her palm sliding along your shaft, slick with her saliva, and it fills the small space, echoing across the cold tiles beneath your feet.

She’s undeniable—you know you’ve spoilt her. You’ve let her get her way with you far too many times, let her push this arrangement past any semblance of professionalism. Let her poison your mind with whispered sweet nothings that have you pounding her into the nearest available surface whenever she gets a twitch of stage fright.

But you’re also acutely aware of the fact that without these moments, without the promise of her tight, wet cunt wrapped around your cock, you’d be out there on that stage sleepwalking through just another concert with nothing but a drum kit and a bunch of songs you could play with your eyes closed.

“Fucking hell, Yujin, you look too good doing that,” you manage to get out, doing your best to endure her fingers gliding along your length, to last under the microscope of Yujin's dark, hungry eyes.

Another thing about Yujin: there's a special thrill she gets just from watching you, eyes glued to your face, taking in every single nuance of agony she’s wringing out.

“So fucking—” you settle on the most obvious word in your lexicon, “pretty.”

Yujin keens at the praise, her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, her teeth grazes the soft skin of her bottom lip. It's hardly new for her to hear this, to have people rave about how she's the hottest piece of ass this side of the equator. Yet there's something about hearing it from you that has her eating up your words every time. "Am I, now?"

You nod, voice momentarily failing you as she pumps your cock, her grip never wavering, never faltering, like she’s milking you, milking words of adulation from your lips.

You still haven't pinned down exactly what it is about you that unwinds Yujin, that makes her chase you so hard. Maybe it's because you're slightly older, a touch more mature than the usual plastic smiles that try to charm her out of her pants.

Or maybe it's because you said 'no' the first time she sniffed in your direction, and then made her scream 'yes' every time after.

Whatever it is, it has Yujin’s other hand reaching up to fiddle with the choker at her neck, flooding your mind with memories of your hand around her throat, her gagging on your length, her eyes watering while you fuck her face.

“And what about this outfit?” She asks, oh-so-innocently. “You think the fans will like it?”

“Yujin,” you say, like she doesn’t already know the very obvious answer. You’ve seen her in it all—tiny hot pants, tight little bralettes, that fucking leather catsuit. Yujin’s a fucking goddess in anything she wears, even a blind man would burn from the sheer heat radiating from her body. “You look fucking incredible, as always.”

“But?”

“No buts.”

“I heard a ‘but’,” Yujin ponders, her hand still working your cock like it’s her favourite toy. “Like: ‘but the shorts are too short, and everyone’s gonna see my cheeks when I bend over’.”

A blatant invitation to take a glance, to look down, down at those denim shorts so tight against her curves, the fabric stretched so taut that it might split open at any moment. Look down at her thick thighs, the way they flex and release as she jerks you off, every movement making the material cling tighter to her skin, moulding themselves around the outline of her perfect, round ass, those juicy cheeks that you’ve had the honour of spanking and biting and bruising.

“Or is it: ‘but your top is cut too low, your tits are gonna spill right out’?”

She’s drawing your gaze upwards, over that smooth, creamy expanse of skin, her stomach flat and toned, up the thin fabric of her flimsy excuse for a shirt, that dips just enough to tease the tops of her breasts, squeezed together and pushed up by her bra. It's so thin, wrapped so tight around her, highlighting the faint outline of her nipples poking through, already stiffened and calling for your tongue.

“Or maybe it’s: ‘the outfit looks good, looks nice and slutty, but you’d much rather rip it off me and just fucking ruin me like I deserve?'"

Yeah, that’s more like it.

You take that as permission, and reach for the hem of her top, eager to finally see those tits, to feel their warm weight in your palms, to have her stripped and laid bare like she knows you’d love to. But Yujin’s too quick, slapping your hand away with a laugh.

“But unfortunately, there’ll be none of that, drummer boy.” Yujin stops, her grip on your cock tightening for a brief, painful second. “Can’t have you ruining my outfit before I go on stage, can I?”

There’s a challenge there, a test to see if you’ll argue, maybe grab her, throw her against the wall and show her just how little of a fuck you give about anything that takes place outside of this toilet stall. But you know she’s right. You're the adult here, remember? Besides there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

You settle for her lips, leaning down, pressing the pad of your thumb against her chin. You tilt her head up towards yours, only for Yujin to pull back, leaving you kissing air. “Seriously?”

Yujin grins, clearly delighting in denying you again, in making your blood boil and cock throb. “Can’t ruin the make-up either,” she explains, making sure to bat her long, fake lashes for extra effect.

“So, I take it that means the pigtails are off limits too?” You ask, idly toying with the ludicrously slutty hairstyle that’s framing her face, bobbing slightly with every stroke she gives you.

“Now you’re learning.”

So, with a frustrated grunt, you keep your hands at your sides, resigning yourself to Yujin’s sweet torture. It’s maddening, just standing there, panting and so horny, at the mercy of Yujin’s slow strokes. “And no concern for my outfit, whatsoever.”

Yujin’s eyes wander over your choice of clothing, and laughs, rather insultingly, if you're honest. “I’m sure all the fans will be very focused on the drummer’s fashion choices,” she says, trusting you to pick up on the sarcasm.

You feign injury. “Ouch, I put a lot of thought into my clothing.”

“Sure you do. Thoughts like: how easy will it be for your little fuck buddy to tear them off?” Yujin’s thumb finds that sensitive spot just beneath the head of your cock, swiping over it with a smugness that’s both infuriating and incredibly hot.

“You’re going to get it later for that one,” you warn, your hand curling into a fist.

“Oh, I know.”

Yujin picks up the pace, her hand a blur, running up and down your shaft, fingers sliding across your slit, smearing the pre-cum that’s beaded there over your cockhead. And there’s a glint in her eye, that needy look that tells you she’s getting off on this, getting off on having you, having someone she shouldn’t be left alone with, squirm and beg and be so desperate for her.

“Look how big you are for me, daddy.”

There’s that word, that sweet, sweet ‘daddy’.

The first time she called you it was an accident, a slip of the tongue during a particularly intense moment when you had her against the window of her hotel, tits squashed against the glass, cunt dripping with your cum. But every time since, it’s been deliberate, calculated, a button she knows she can push to make you give it to her as rough as she wants; as rough as she craves.

“Look how big you are in my tiny hand.” She’s got you moaning now, melting between her fingers, bucking your hips for that extra bit of friction. “You love it when I jerk you like this, don’t you, daddy?”

‘Daddy’ again, rolling off her tongue like a fucking love letter, a song to send your head spinning and your cock pulsing in her hand.

There’s another challenge, can you last a little bit longer? Can you resist the urge to cum all over her fingers? Paint her pretty nails a fresh shade of white? Or would you rather wrap your hand around her lovely neck and force her to admit that she loves all this just as much as you do.

You swallow down the groan that’s building in your throat, your teeth grinding together to maintain some semblance of control. Yujin catches it, sees the effort it’s taking you, and she shakes her head, her lips pursed in a perfect little pout.

“Don’t hold back, daddy,” Yujin's chiding you, disappointed with your restraint. “I want to hear it. I need to hear how good it feels, how desperate you are. Need you to show me just how much you want to see me filled with your cum.”

She twists her hand down on your cock, squeezing when she reaches the base, her other hand coming down to cup your balls, tickling them with her fingers. That has a moan escaping your lips, a low, desperate sound that makes Yujin preen.

“That’s it,” she’s overjoyed, getting what she came for, basking in your pleasure, “tell me how much you want it, tell me how much you want to cum for me.”

And so you do. You tell her, your voice strained with the effort of keeping your orgasm at bay. Not yet, not until you’re deep inside her, not until you're sure that not a single drop will go wasted. “You're too fucking much, Yujin, too fucking hot,” you manage, the words a choked noise that you hope she can hear over the blood pounding in your ears. “You’re driving me fucking mad.”

Yujin’s strokes keep building, one on top of the other, and she’s pressing herself against you, the warmth of her, soft breasts pushing into your chest, her lips sucking at your neck, kissing into you hard. After all, who will notice? Who gives a fuck if the drummer shows up on stage with a few extra bruises on his skin?

You fall into the crook of her neck, your forehead on her shoulder, as her lips make their way up your throat, across your jaw, until she’s nipping at your lobe, whispering in your ear, “You’re desperate for my cunt, aren’t you, daddy? You want to fill me up right before I go on stage?”

“Yujin,” you grit out, and you’re holding her, hands on those perfectly round cheeks, holding on for dear life, pulling her close to you so that she can feel just how right she is. The words spill out of you like a confession, “I need to fuck you now, Yujin. I need to feel your cunt, make you cum so hard you won’t be able to fucking move, let alone dance.”

And Yujin leaves one last, lingering kiss on your pulse. “So do it, daddy.”

Her words are a fucking gunshot, and you’re off to the races.

You spin her around so fast she yelps, your chest to her back, your cock trapped between her ass cheeks. Her shorts are barely an inconvenience, yank them down, denim catching on her hips, sliding down to her ankles, leaving her in just her panties.

Yujin gasps, the cool air meeting her bare skin, and she braces herself against the wall of the stall, needing something to keep her on her feet. She’s all soft curves and sweet smells, so insanely proportioned, like she's built for this, curvy and thick in all the right places.

While she’s distracted you sneak a kiss onto the creamy-white skin of her shoulder, hard enough to give her a mark to match yours, a badge of honour that brands her in the same way she’s done to you.

Her panties never stood a chance, completely drenched to the point of ruin, sticky with anticipation, snug against her lips. You pull them aside, thumb brushing against her swollen clit, making her hips jerk forward. She’s on your time now, you’ve got the green light to turn the tables and drag her through the same torment she’s put you through.

“Look at this,” you’re in her ear now, taunting, “you’re already so fucking wet for me.”

Yujin’s cheeks burn red, and she’s pushing back against you, grinding her ass into your cock. “Of course I am. I can’t help it,” she’s a little breathless, a little shaky, “I need it.”

“You’re so beautiful,” your hands like magnets on her bare ass, squeezing, marking her in places only you'll ever know. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Please,” Yujin whimpers, as you slide your finger down, between her legs, tracing her wet slit, testing her tightness, feeling her warmth, feeling how ready she is. “Please, fuck me now.”

You can’t resist her, you never can, not with so little time left and so much of her to ruin. Your cock dips, lining up with her pussy, the tip nudging at her entrance, and all it takes is one strong thrust, and you’re pushing into her, burying yourself to the hilt in a swift, brutal motion.

There’s a scream from her, a grunt from you, blending and echoing through the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles and the stall walls. Someone’s going to hear it, someone’s going to come in and see you fucking the star of the show and that’ll be it for the both of you.

But really, fuck all of that.

Fuck the concert, the venue staff, the fans, the tour managers, the PR nightmare that will follow.

Fuck everything that isn’t inside this stall, that isn’t Yujin’s tight cunt squeezing around your cock, that isn’t the way she’s shuddering in your arms, gasping your name, needing her daddy to fuck her harder, faster.

There's no easing her into it, not like you know you should. You fuck her hard, just like she’s begged. Your hips snap against her ass, the sound of skin slapping skin drowning out the noise outside, again and again, in and out, over and over.

Yujin’s never needed much to get started, always so easily soaked, so easily ready. She'd told you as much one late night (or one early morning): "I can take it, take anything, as long as it's coming from you. "

Her walls clamp down around you, she’s already pulsing, her cunt desperate to wring you dry. You’re gliding in and out of her, using her, letting her mold herself so perfectly around you, her juices coating your cock, making it slicker with every thrust.

“Yes—that’s what I fucking need.” Yujin cries out, her voice high-pitched, her head thrown back, and the flimsy plastic isn’t enough anymore, she needs you to hold her steady, to dig your fingers into her hips and nail her into the wall.

Each stroke, each thrust into her cunt, each time you fill her, stretch her—each one could be the last one, the one that has you exploding inside her. Could be the one that overwhelms you, the one that makes you forget where you are, that there’s anything that exists besides fucking this needy, little brat.

It’s the way Yujin clenches around you, tight and perfect, like she’s made just for you, like she’s never been fucked this way before, will never be again.

(Even though you have. Even though you will.)

Each time is like the first, you’re discovering her all over again, peeling back layers of this beautiful, untouchable idol, and finding something new, something beneath the sheen of purity and perfection. Something that makes you want to ruin her, bring her down to your level, to roll around the filth with the rest of you mere mortals.

And Yujin knows it.

There’s a need to make her feel it, and there’s her fucking pigtails, dangling in front of you like a carrot, flicking up and down in front of your face with every thrust. You need to grab them, to yank her back onto your cock, to force her to take it as hard as you want to give it. It’s almost too much to resist.

But even in your haze you know better. Instead, you settle for that choker on her neck, your thumb sliding under the black leather band, feeling the pulse of her blood racing beneath her skin. You grip it, tight, but not too tight. Just enough to make her gasp, to make her cunt tighten, to make her cry out—

“Gah—God—fuck—”

Strangled cries have her screaming, have her needing you to go deeper.

“Fuh—fuck—yes—right there—right—fucking—there—”

She’s chanting, almost sobbing, doing her best to take everything you’re giving her, everything she’s needs, everything she deserves. You’re tapping into that deep, dark desire within her. The one that gets off on being treated rough, the one that loves having a daddy, the one that needs to be nailed to a wall and reduced to nothing but a shaking, mewling mess of climaxes.

You dare to snake a hand under her top, you’re not going to mess her outfit, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get a taste of what’s underneath. Your fingers stretch under her bra, testing the elasticity of the cotton, before finally finding the swell of her breasts, cupping it, filling your hand with it.

Yujin’s moan is all the encouragement you need, a wordless permit to squeeze, to pinch her nipple, roll it between your thumb and forefinger until it’s a hard little nub.

“Oh fuck yes—touch me. You love touching me, don’t you?” She's feeling it, really feeling you, the stimulation of your palm on her breast, the sting on her nipples. “You fucking love my body.”

It’s the damn truth—these past weeks have been a crash course in Yujin, and you haven’t found an inch you didn’t immediately fall in love with. Every curve and dip and line, every soft place and every sharp edge; the weight of her in your arms, the way she fits against you, how she responds to your touch like she’s been waiting for it, for you, for fucking ever.

“Fuck, yes, just like that, daddy, just like that.”

“You’re so fucking perfect, Yujin. So tight, so wet, so fucking mine.”

You slur words into her, words that make her shiver, make her tremble against you, make her so fucking happy to hear them. It’s the words that she loves, hearing you talk like that, like she’s the only one who can make you feel this way. And maybe she is.

So you keep talking, keep whispering those loving, filthy soliloquies into her ear, keep telling her how good her cunt is, how desperate you are for her body, how much cum you have to give her. And her body has an answer for you each time, each syllable a caress that sends shivers down her spine.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Yujin. So beautiful when you’re like this, when you’re all mine.” You can feel it boiling up inside you, that pressure building with every smack of your hips against her ass. “I’m going to cum so hard for you, princess.”

There’s the guitar, the bass, the keys, the band tuning up outside, noise filtering into the stall, faint but unmistakeable, the only thing missing is the beat of the drums, the only thing missing is you.

Yujin’s grinning, knowing she’s the one keeping you occupied, knowing it’s her cunt that you’re buried in, that’s not letting you go.

“If only they knew,” she’s giggling like a schoolgirl (she might as well be with those pigtails), “if only they know how good you’re fucking me right now. They won’t have a fucking clue, will they?”

“Such a fucking tease, Yujin.”

She looks over her shoulder at you, and sends a coy, “Who, me?”

“Yes, you, you little slut,” you answer, not bothering to mince your words. Your hand tightens around her choker, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to keep her right there, panting and needy and yours. “You know exactly what you’re doing out there. I see how you dance, how you move. Like you’re forcing them to picture you fucking, making them all want a taste of what they’ll never have.”

The truth makes her shiver against you. “They all wish they could do this to me, all wish they could fuck me and fill me like you are.”

There’s a tension building inside her too, the blend of your words and the reality of the performance she’s going to have to put on afterwards. It has her body tightening like a bow string, ready to snap at any moment.

And you’re going to be the one to release it.

You venture a hand downwards, gracing over her stomach, her belly button, until you reach the wetness of her pussy. There's her clit, ripe for teasing.

You fuck your cock in deeper still, matching the swirl of your finger with the pounding of her cunt, timing it just right to make her leak all over you.

“That feels so—fuck,” Yujin purrs, so, so blissful. “Only you—only you, daddy. No one else will get to have me—fuck—fuck me like this.”

“Whenever I want, any time I want,” you’re telling her, promising her, even though it’s more likely to be the opposite. That it’s Yujin that will seek you out on those lonely nights and those quiet mornings, or just whenever she’s bored and needs someone to fuck all the nerves and stress out of her system.

“They’d be so—gah—so jealous if they knew. I see it when they look at me—how much they want me,” she’s straining to say it, but needs you to hear it, needs you to know it. “I see it—read it in places they think I don’t look.”

She’s lost, lost in a sea of her own musings, thoughts of how everyone with a working pair of eyeballs wants to fuck her. Relishing in the knowledge that she's found the only person that can fuck her right, and that their cock is buried in her cunt, their fingers working her clit.

“They call me a slut, a whore, but that’s not true, is it, daddy? I only fuck you,” Yujin repeats, “I’m only a slut for you.”

There’s an edge to her voice, a raw, animalistic need that makes you want to prove her right. Want to erupt inside her so badly that she’s forced to carry a part of you inside her when she’s on stage.

“Yours to use,” Yujin taunts. “To fuck, to fill...”

Jesus.

“To break.”

Fucking.

“Maybe I should let you rip off my clothes, fuck up my hair—fuck—my makeup. Go out on stage with all the marks you’ve left on me, with all your cum—gah—all over me.”

Christ.

It hits you like a sledgehammer, adding another layer of taboo to this already fucked up situation. The thought of it is fucking wild, ridiculous to contemplate, you’re sure it’s all just part of the game, another button Yujin’s pressing for her own thrill… right?

“Then everyone would know—everyone would know that it’s you—that you’re the one that’s fucking my brains out when no one else is watching.”

You’re all over her and deep inside her, lips on her throat, her jaw, hands at her tits, her cunt. Devouring her, all of her, from those tightly binded pigtails all the way down to her carefully manicured toes.

And then she stops dancing around the subject and demands it.

“Ruin me. Fuck me, please, daddy. Just—kiss me, now.”

“You said—”

But Yujin’s already twisting around at her waist, angling her body so she can seize your lips, smear her lipstick across your teeth, flood your mouth with her tongue. She’s got fistfuls of your shirt, pulling you closer, as if she’s trying to claim you, claim every inch of you as property of An Yujin.

Now that you’ve got permission, you thread your fingers into her hair, gripping tight, pulling her by the pigtails like you’ve been dying to, kissing her like your life depends on it.

You’re getting rougher with her now, tugging her head back, peeling her lips away from yours, sliding your cock out of her. You ignore the whine, ignore the tears. It’s game over for her makeup, for her hair, her outfit. She’s a beautiful, chaotic mess—so shamelessly yours, so perfect in every way.

The separation barely lasts a second, you’re lifting her up, turning her and depositing her atop the toilet seat, spreading her legs wide, putting her on display.

This is the real show—Yujin looking up at you, eyes dark with need, tits out and heaving with every breath; thick, toned thighs glistening with her juices, your precum; and her pussy, all puffy and so ready to be filled again.

“Daddy—” Yujin starts, and ends, as you’re inside her again. Inside her tight, welcoming cunt, her back arching off the cold porcelain, her legs wrapping around you, ankles crossing and locking in place.

Just one hard thrust and you see it—it's in the watering of her eyes, the wobble of her lips.

She’s close, and you’re not far behind.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, nearly lost somewhere between your haggard breaths and the sloppy wet sounds of your bodies colliding.

But you hear it, and it’s all you need.

It’s her pigtails in your hands again, strands wrapped around your fist, and you’re taking a front row seat in the spectacle that is Yujin falling apart.

“Please, fuck me.” There it is again, louder now. “Fuck my tiny little pussy, daddy. Make me yours.”

It’s every single sound out of her mouth, every folding and crumpling of her perfect features, every single drop of sweat sliding down her neck, every time she says fuck me, or break me, or over and over again—make me yours.

You want to savour this, burn this image into your mind, live off the memory of Yujin’s cunt pulsing around you, but there’s no time, no time to do anything but kiss her again; clumsy, hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“Please,” she’s biting into your lip, licking into your mouth, clawing at your shoulders, “say my name.”

“Yujin,” you give it to her, offer her name like a sacrifice. “Yujin, I’m so fucking close.”

The porcelain is doing its best to bear your weight, to survive the punishment you’re hammering into Yujin’s tight, perfect body, to outlast your relentless fucking. “Cum for me daddy, cum for me.”

But it’s her, it’s Yujin that crosses that threshold first, coming apart until she’s nothing but a mess of whimpers, moans, and cries of your name. Of pleases and thank yous, until she’s just a hot, tight cunt getting used for your pleasure.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m cumming—daddy, I can’t—it’s so—”

It’s all there across her face, all in the way she’s shaking, the way her cunt is gripping you, her walls fluttering around your cock like a fucking heartbeat, tightening and releasing in endless waves that crash down on her.

“So good—you’re so good—you’re so—fuck—fuck—cum—cumming—"

Her entire body seizes, tenses all at once, and you’d be worried if you hadn’t seen it countless times before, if you didn’t know to expect her to lose all control of her limbs, to not be able to do anything but stare at you, all teary eyed and feeling so, so good.

But you keep going, hips pumping, cock driving into her, keeping her steady, helping her climb to her peak, filling her tender, creaming cunt over and over again. You want to make this last, want to keep her like this, unable to think about anything but you, unable to think about anything that isn’t your cock.

“So fucking good for me, Yujin, so good, princess.”

“God, fuck—daddy!”

It’s the praise that pushes her over, unravels her, has her mouth frozen in the shape of your name, like the idea of you is the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. That, and her nails digging into your skin, adding to the tapestry she’s already engraved on your back.

And then the silence comes, and that’s the real killer.

Yujin’s always loud when she gets fucked, always desperate to tell you how good it feels, needy for you to know how good you are to her. But when she cums—when she loses herself on your cock—it’s like she relinquishes all ability to articulate, to make any sound other than a whine or a gasp.

You know what she wants to say—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—know what she wants to tell you—thank you, daddy, thank you, thank you, thank you—and it’s your responsibility to see her through it, to plunge your cock deep into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt, to have her rocking and creaming all over you, again and again and again.

And then she falls apart.

So beautifully, so perfectly.

But you’re not done yet.

Your thrusts come in thick and fast, making the whole stall shudder, making your vision swim. Yujin’s still reeling, snapped back into the land of the living by the force of your fucking.

She’s leaning forward, pressing her forehead to yours, able to form whole words again, whispering something that you can’t quite catch, something sweet and needy and demanding.

“I’m all yours, daddy.”

It’s a trigger she’s been waiting to pull—the moment she says it, you let go.

There’s no holding back anymore, you’ve been fighting it for what feels like hours, trying to keep your shit together, but it’s no use. You’re going to cum, the only question is, where.

You can’t shake the image of her covered with you, painted all over her face, her chin, her neck, her chest, her perfect, perfect tits. You want it, want to see it realised, want to parade her out on that stage looking like a fuck doll—your fuck doll.

But not now, not today.

So instead, you bury yourself inside her, so, so deep. Yujin’s nodding, teasing “deeper, deeper, please,” begging you with her whole body, watching you with those eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, licking at her lips, bracing for you to fill her.

It’s your turn to shake, your turn to let go of that knot in your gut that’s been twisting ever since she dragged you into the bathroom, pushed you into the toilet stall and told you she needed this.

You throb, tighten, the base of your spine tingles, and that’s all the warning you get before you’re cumming, rushing Yujin’s greedy cunt with your hot, sticky load.

“Daddy, daddy—daddy—yes!”

It’s an addiction now, she needs your cum like she needs oxygen, and you need to fill her as if you’ll die if you go another day without pounding her cunt.

“So good, so fucking good inside me—all yours, all yours—"

It’s a thousand blissful little moments stacked on top of each other, her clenching, you throbbing, her grinning, you grimacing, but it all comes together in this heated space that leaves you both boneless, breathless catastrophes.

Yujin’s the first to come down, slumping against you, drooling down your chest, staining your shirt with a sheen of her saliva. Her legs go slack around you, finally letting go of your waist, still shaking in the aftershocks of her orgasm. You can feel your cum leaking from the corners of her cunt, oozing down the inside of her thighs, sliding past her knee, down to her ankles.

A finger under your chin to tilt your head to her, to kiss you. One of those quiet, intimate kisses that will have you spending the night trying to decode its meaning. But, for now, there’s just the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her lip gloss.

“Thank you, daddy,” Yujin says, so sweetly, so sincerely, and it’s like a knife twisting in your chest.

“Always.”

And slowly, carefully, you’re pulling out of her, even though she’s still clenching, still trying to keep you in. Your cock exits her with an audible slosh, and you need to brace yourself against the stall door, lean into it hard as you take in the sight of Yujin, sprawled on the toilet seat, well fucked and utterly ruined in all the best ways.

She reads your mind, “You really made a fucking mess of me.”

“I only claim fifty percent of that responsibility.”

Yujin pouts, makes sure you’re watching her, and dips her fingers into her defiled cunt. “This is all you, daddy.”

She drags out her digits, holding them up for you, your cum glistening on them like a prize. And then she’s slipping them between her lips, flicking out her tongue to catch a drop that dribbles down her wrist. She licks it all up, slow, savouring it, making sure you’re watching, making sure your eyes are glued to her as she devours the last traces of you from her hand.

That sound she makes, that little “Mmm” of satisfaction has you feeling heady, makes your cock twitch, eager to be back inside her, to fill her right back up so you can watch her do it all over again.

“Cumslut,” is the only word you have her for her, as she slides her fingers in deeper, tickling the back of her own throat like it's the most natural thing to do. Her cheeks hollow out, and after a long, dramatic suck, she pulls her fingers from her lips with a wet pop, all shiny and clean.

She corrects you. “Your cumslut.”

And then a switch is flipped, and she’s putting herself back together.

Yujin’s graceful, at odds with the confines of the cramped bathroom stall she’s just been fucked in. It amazes you every time, the way that she moves. All liquid and soft, as if she’s not really touching anything, as if she’s floating.

She licks droplets of cum off her lips, scoops the remainder up her legs, her thighs, and you’re just staring, gawking at her with something akin to awe, because she’s just so fucking beautiful, so utterly composed, so untouchable.

You help her, you try, help her tug down her shirt, pull up her panties, her shorts, help her slip back into the role of Yujin, the perfect idol, the star that can’t be tarnished by something as dirty as a quickie on top of a toilet seat.

She nods towards the stall door, and you let her past you, help hold her steady as you lead her to the bathroom mirror, give her a chance to assess the damage you've wrought on her. The smudged lipstick, the kiss bruises, the hair sticking to her neck—all evidence of you.

And yet, she smiles, looking back at you over her shoulder. Like she’s got it all under control, like you haven’t ruined her, not really. Not yet.

“Well, that’s something,” she says, her voice a little too breathless for the breeziness she’s aiming for.

But then she’s got her compact out, the tiny bag she's had hidden in her back pocket specifically for occasions like this. You stand back, giving her space to work her magic. Cheeks are patted for colour, lips glossed for plumpness, eyes relined with that dangerously smoky look that makes them pop.

“How do I look?” She turns, looking at you through the mirror, hand on her hip, posing.

“Like you’ve just been fucked in a toilet stall, honestly.”

That makes her laugh. “Good.”

She’s heading to the door, smoothing out her skirt, fixing her top, stopping along the way to give your forearm a quick squeeze.

There’s that look in her eyes again.

One you’ll be revisiting once the show’s over and the doors are closed.

“I’ll take off first,” she says, tying her pigtails back in place. “Wouldn’t want to make it too obvious.”

You catch her hand before she can get away, pulling her face close to you, wiping away a stray bit of cum still shining on her chin. “Good luck out there.”

And there’s that smile. That smile that’s going to make an audience of thousands fall in love with her. That’s going to make you fall in love with her, if you’re not careful. “Don’t need it,” she says, pressing her lips to yours, ruining her lip gloss all over again. “I got you, daddy.”

#kpop smut #yujin smut #ive smut #male reader

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camille-aurelie-deveraux · 7 days ago

Note

Hiii, beauty!

Could I please request some George content. His girlfriend is the secretary from Toto, so the two get to spend a lot of time together. Them being like Kimis parents and stuff.

Thank you so much and may God bless you!

Love is in the air

The hum of engines and the rhythmic chatter of paddock life was a comfort to Yn now. Years ago, when she’d first taken the job as Toto’s secretary, the sounds had been overwhelming—a tangle of chaos she hadn’t yet learned to decipher. Now, it was just background music to her world, the soundtrack to mornings spent typing schedules, coordinating interviews, and weaving through engineers with a clipboard in hand.

And then, of course, there was George.

She had been sixteen, a little more reserved, a little more unsure of herself when they met. He was seventeen, all bright smiles and boundless energy, already halfway in love with the world and very quickly, with her. Now, years later, as she passed through the garage clutching a coffee and a schedule, she felt the familiar tug on her waist.

"Gotcha," George whispered, his arm slipping around her and his hand shamelessly finding its way into her back pocket.

Yn didn’t stop walking. "George," she warned, though her voice betrayed her with the hint of a smile.

He matched her stride, completely unfazed. "What? Can’t I say hi to my girlfriend? In my defense, you walked right past me. That’s cruel, you know."

She raised a brow. "I have twenty minutes to organize Toto’s meeting with the FIA and get two media slots confirmed."

"Exactly twenty minutes to walk with me first." He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then finally landed one on her lips mid-step. It was a kiss that still made her heart skip despite knowing this boy—now man—for so many years.

"George," she warned again, although this time it was breathier. "I will spill this coffee."

"Risk I’m willing to take."

---

When Kimi joined Mercedes, it wasn’t a surprise. The whispers had been swirling for months—how the prodigious young talent would step up in 2025, the way he’d dominated F2, the way Toto’s eyes would light up every time someone brought up the name "Antonelli."

What was a surprise, though, was how quickly he became their kid.

"So...what do I even do at media day?" Kimi asked, nervously tugging at the collar of his team shirt. Yn was typing something out on her tablet while George leaned lazily against the garage wall, sipping his protein shake.

"You stand there, smile, say things like 'we’re looking forward to a good weekend,' and resist the urge to call the media stupid even when they ask stupid questions," Yn replied without missing a beat.

Kimi blinked. "What if they ask me about George’s skincare routine?"

George looked deeply offended. "That’s a very important question."

"Tell them," Yn added dryly, "that he uses my expensive serums without asking."

"They make me glow," George said, grinning.

Kimi looked between the two of them, exasperated. "You two are...weird."

"That’s code for adorable," George said smugly, bumping shoulders with Yn.

Yn gave Kimi a sympathetic pat on the back. "You’ll get used to us."

---

The dynamic settled fast. Kimi, just eighteen and still finding his voice, fell into the rhythm of the team under their watchful eyes. George, despite his teasing and golden retriever exuberance, took his role seriously. He shared tips, coached him through awkward media moments, and more than once lent him a pair of sunglasses and told him it was fine to cry after a bad race.

Yn, in her quieter way, always made sure Kimi had what he needed—snuck him snacks between briefings, reminded him to rest, and once, after a particularly rough qualifying, sat beside him in the hospitality unit and just...let him sit.

"It’s okay to not smile all the time," she said then, voice soft. "You don’t have to fake it."

Kimi hadn’t said anything, but later that night, he sent her a text: Thanks.

George saw the message flash on her phone. He didn't ask, just leaned over and kissed her shoulder. "You’re really good at that, you know."

"At what?"

"Loving people. Quietly."

She smiled, her black cat aura softening under his gaze. "One of us has to be subtle."

---

Their coupledom had become legend by now. Everyone on the grid knew about George and Yn—how she calmed his chaos, how he dragged her into it anyway, how they somehow balanced each other in a way that just made sense.

"Look at them," Pierre said one afternoon, nodding toward the pair walking through the paddock. George had his hand in her back pocket again, and Yn was reading something on her phone, completely used to his clinginess.

"One day she’s just gonna throw him over her shoulder and carry him out of here," Lando muttered.

"She could. She has that scary strength."

"And George would thank her."

Even Max, who rarely commented on anything remotely sentimental, had once said, "If they don’t get married, love is fake."

---

They didn’t talk about marriage much—not because it wasn’t on the table, but because it was just...a given.

"Do you ever think about the wedding?" George asked one night as they lay curled on the small sofa in their shared hotel room, post-race adrenaline finally wearing off.

"Sometimes," Yn admitted, her fingers combing through his hair. "Not in detail. Just...you. Me. Maybe Kimi giving a very awkward speech."

George chuckled. "He’d read it off his phone and accidentally open his Spotify."

"And then cry when he hears our first dance song."

"What is our first dance song?"

"I’m not telling you yet."

He pouted. "Tease."

"You’ll live."

He kissed her, gentle and slow. "Yeah. Especially with you."

🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦

Hello my lovely reader! I hope you had a lot of fun reading this little piece of art. I'm always so happy to receive some requests, so don't hesitate to send some!

Cami🥰👨‍👩‍👦

#f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #george russell x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x female reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #kimi antonelli x reader #ollie bearman x y/n #cami #cami: creating stories and crafting worlds

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uncuredturkeybacon · 11 days ago

Text

𝚛𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which the fire never burnt out

You remember the way the gravel cracked under your sneakers as you sprinted down the winding path to the treehouse, breathless from laughter, heart racing with something you didn’t have a name for back then. Paige was always faster, always waiting at the top of the ladder, legs swinging, grinning like she knew a secret you hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Come on, slowpoke!” she shouted down, sticking her head out of the hatch. “You’re gonna miss golden hour.”

You groaned theatrically, hands on your knees. “You and your weird obsession with lighting.”

“It’s not weird, it’s cinematic.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically. “We are the main characters.”

You climbed up, breath still uneven, and flopped beside her. The boards creaked a little—Mr. Bueckers had built the treehouse himself when you were both ten, and it had stood strong through five brutal Minnesota winters, a few lost squirrels, and that one summer a raccoon tried to move in.

You were thirteen now. And Paige had just made varsity. Seventh grade, and her name was already floating around town like a whisper carried by wind and basketballs.

But here, in this dusty little treehouse, she was just Paige. Just yours.

She looked at you with that mischievous glint in her eye—the one that always meant trouble, or a dare, or both.

“Wanna run away?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I dunno.” She leaned back, arms behind her head, eyes on the slant of light cutting through the planks. “Just you and me. Get in a car. Drive ‘til we run out of gas.”

You snorted. “You don’t even have a license.”

“Details,” she muttered. “You’d come with me though, right?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at her, really looked. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, cheeks flushed from the sprint, a tiny cut on her shin from climbing the ladder too fast. She smelled like sun and summer.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say always.

But instead, you said, “Only if I get to pick the music.”

“Deal,” she replied instantly.

You stayed like that for a while. Just breathing. The treehouse creaked occasionally, the breeze rustling the leaves above like a lullaby. The world below could’ve ended, and neither of you would’ve noticed.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?”

Your heart did something weird. It twisted. Dropped. Soared.

“…What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you. I just… Paige…”

She was still staring at the ceiling, like she hadn’t just lit a match and tossed it at your chest. “It’s not a big deal. I just thought, I dunno. You’d maybe want to.”

You sat up a little. “Have you… kissed anyone before?”

She scoffed. “You think I’d ask you if I had?”

Your heart beat faster.

You turned to face her. “Do you want to?”

She finally looked at you. Not the teasing kind of glance. Something softer. Vulnerable.

“Yeah,” she said. “With you.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. And then you leaned in.

It wasn’t perfect. Noses bumped. Teeth clicked. You were both awkward and giggling halfway through.

But it was real. Warm. Electric.

When you pulled back, Paige was biting her lip, eyes wide.

“Whoa,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” you said, feeling like your heart was about to burst out of your chest. “Whoa.”

She looked away for a second, then back at you. “Does this… change stuff?”

You thought about that.

And you smiled. “Only if we want it to.”

That night, back at your house, you couldn’t sleep. You kept replaying it in your head—Paige’s smile, the way she leaned in a little more after you pulled away, the quiet moment that followed like the universe holding its breath.

You picked up your phone and texted her.

Are you still up?

She replied instantly.

Always. Can’t sleep either.

You didn’t say anything more after that. You didn’t need to.

The summer that followed was magic.

You and Paige spent nearly every day together. The treehouse became your sacred place. A little world tucked into the leaves where time stood still.

“Are we dating?” you asked one day, half-laughing, half-serious, your feet hanging out of the hatch.

Paige was sprawled out across the floor, dribbling a basketball against the wood softly. She stopped. Looked at you.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you want to be?”

“I think I do.”

“Then we are.”

And just like that, you were hers. Quietly. Secretly. Sweetly.

Nobody else knew—not really. Maybe your moms suspected something when you started sleeping over more often. When you walked a little closer. When you blushed a little harder.

But it was yours. Untouched by the world.

One night, Paige brought a flashlight and a permanent marker to the treehouse.

“What are you doing?” you asked, sitting cross-legged beside her.

“Immortalizing us.”

She clicked on the flashlight and began writing on the far wall, under the low window where the breeze always came in strongest.

P + Y/N — Summer Forever

You watched her, smiling so wide it hurt.

She handed you the marker. “Your turn.”

You thought for a second. Then wrote just beneath hers…

You’ll always be my endgame

She read it. Looked at you.

And kissed you again.

You didn’t know that it was the last summer of everything.

Because after that, things began to change.

Eighth grade came. High school scouts started showing up at her games. Articles were written. Social media buzzed.

“Paige Bueckers is the future of women’s basketball,” they said.

And you were still just you.

You still met in the treehouse sometimes. But less often. Her schedule got packed. Travel teams. Tournaments.

Texts slowed. Sleepovers stopped.

You tried to be understanding. You tried not to let it hurt.

But it did.

“Are we still… us?” you asked her once, after she'd come back from a week-long tournament in California.

She sighed. Ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know how to do both.”

“Both?”

“This life,” she gestured vaguely, “and… you.”

You swallowed. “Then what are we?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she hugged you. So tight. So long.

But not forever.

The last time you saw her before everything changed, you were fifteen.

She came to the treehouse with a hoodie pulled up and eyes that didn’t meet yours as much as they used to.

She gave you a bracelet. Simple. Braided. Your favorite color.

“I leave for prep school in a week,” she said quietly.

You nodded. “I know.”

“I wish it was different.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you said, “I do too.”

She took a photo of you that day. Said she wanted to remember.

Later, she sent it to you with a message.

“Don’t forget the treehouse.”

You never replied.

And she never messaged again.

But you kept the bracelet.

You kept the memory of that kiss.

And the words scrawled on the wall of a weathered treehouse.

You’ll always be my endgame

It had been years.

Years since the last message.

Years since the treehouse.

Years since Paige Bueckers kissed you like she meant it and vanished like it hadn’t happened.

You weren’t angry anymore. At least, that’s what you told yourself when her name popped up on ESPN. Or when your coworkers talked about how she was "redefining the game." Or when a friend texted you a screenshot of her latest GQ spread with a casual, “Damn, you see this?”

You’d say, “Yeah, she’s doing great.”

And you meant it. Mostly.

Your life didn’t look like hers. It wasn’t front-page or floodlit. You worked at a small photography studio a few towns over—tucked behind a diner that still sold pancakes for five dollars and had a jukebox that worked half the time.

You had a good life. Quiet. Predictable. Clean.

And then one Wednesday night, long after the town had gone to sleep, your phone buzzed on your nightstand. You rolled over, half-asleep, expecting a reminder or some promo spam.

Instead, it was one name. One message.

Paige Bueckers: 1:42 a.m. Do you still remember the treehouse?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Sat up.

Your heart thudded once. Again. And again.

You whispered it aloud like it might wake you from a dream, “…The treehouse?”

The room was dark. You could hear the distant hum of an air conditioner outside your window. Everything else stilled.

It felt like a ghost had crawled into your ribs.

You hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a decade. Not after she left. Not when she got drafted. Not when she became Paige Bueckers.

But now, somehow, she had found her way back into your life with six words.

You didn’t reply.

Not that night.

You tried to shake it off the next morning. Poured yourself coffee you didn’t drink. Stared blankly at an empty Word document you were supposed to fill with edits.

Everywhere you went, it echoed.

Do you still remember the treehouse?

God, of course you did.

You’d remember it even when your bones forgot everything else.

Two days passed.

Then three.

You caved.

Your fingers hovered over your phone for five full minutes before you finally typed:

You: I never forgot.

She read it within seconds.

You watched the three dots flicker.

Then disappear.

Then flicker again.

Paige: I’m back in town. Just for a few days.

You: Why?

Paige: I don’t know. Everything’s loud. I needed quiet. And I thought of you.

You stared at that for longer than you should have.

Paige: Would you meet me there? Tomorrow. Sunset.

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t say no either.

You just stared at the message, then at the world outside your window—small, familiar, unchanged.

You went.

Of course you did.

You parked where you used to, your car tires crunching over the same gravel path, though it all looked smaller now. Maybe because you were grown. Or maybe because time had chipped away the wonder.

You walked the trail slowly.

Your shoes kicked a pinecone you were sure had been there since middle school.

Then, like it was waiting for you, the treehouse appeared.

The paint had peeled in places. One of the lower rungs looked like it might break if you stepped wrong.

But it was still there.

So was she.

Sitting at the top of the ladder, legs dangling like always, hoodie pulled tight around her, a snapback tucked low on her head. She looked like a mirage. Or a memory.

You stopped a few feet away. “I could’ve said no.”

She looked down.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”

“Why now?”

She exhaled slowly. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about this place. Or you.”

You crossed your arms, not stepping closer yet. “You ghosted me.”

“I know.”

“You disappeared. Left me with a bracelet and a text and nothing else.”

“I know,” she said again, voice breaking a little. “I was scared. Everything got so big so fast. And I didn’t know how to carry it all and carry you.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “You didn’t even try.”

Silence. Heavy. Honest.

“I regretted it,” she whispered.

You looked at her again. Her eyes looked tired. Older. But still… Paige.

“Why’d you text me?”

“Because I was in Dallas, in some penthouse I didn’t want to be in, surrounded by people I didn’t know. And all I could think about was this treehouse and how I ruined the one thing that ever felt real.”

You let that settle between you.

The breeze rustled the trees above. The sun was dipping lower now, painting gold across her face.

She smiled faintly. “You gonna come up? Or you just gonna keep interrogating me from the grass?”

You rolled your eyes.

But you climbed.

The boards creaked beneath you. The hatch opened. And there she was.

Older. Taller. Sharper.

Still… her.

You sat across from her. The space between you felt like it held years.

“Wow,” you muttered. “It’s still here.”

She nodded. “I came last night. It was weird being here alone.”

You looked at the far wall. The words were still faintly there.

P + Y/N — Summer Forever You’ll always be my endgame

She followed your gaze.

“I never erased it,” she said. “Even when I wanted to forget, I couldn’t.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I used to wonder,” you said slowly. “If I ever really mattered to you, or if I was just some small-town footnote in your rise.”

She leaned forward, eyes shining. “You were everything.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “So what now?”

She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I just… needed to see you. Needed to see if this—if we—was still real.”

“And is it?”

She looked at you, no walls left. “I don’t know yet. But I’m not walking away this time without finding out.”

The morning after the treehouse, you wake up with sunlight pouring in and a heart that feels like it’s been rattled loose in your chest.

You check your phone before your eyes even adjust.

Paige: Morning. Can I buy you coffee? Or bribe you with pancakes?

You stare at the screen and smile before you can stop yourself. Then you type back:

You: Depends. Do you still like blueberry syrup and hate whipped cream?

Her reply comes fast.

Paige: Some things never change. I’ll be outside in 15.

The diner’s still the same.

Red booths with worn vinyl, faded newspaper clippings pinned to the cork board wall near the register, and the smell of bacon that somehow always lingers in the air, even at 2 p.m.

You slide into a booth by the window. Paige follows, hoodie up, hat low—still trying to hide a little.

“Think anyone’ll recognize you?” you ask as she pulls the syrup closer.

She shrugs. “Maybe. But people here are chill. I think they’re more interested in gossiping about weather and deer crossings than some basketball player.”

You grin. “You say that like you weren’t the most talked-about name in this town for four straight years.”

She makes a face. “God. That was so weird.”

You raise a brow. “You were weird. Walking around school with three medals and a full college offer by freshman year.”

“I peaked early,” she jokes.

“You’re literally at your peak right now.”

She pauses mid-bite. “I don’t know if I am.”

You glance up.

She’s chewing slower. Looking out the window like it might answer something for her.

You wait.

Finally, she says, “I thought once I made it—once I got to college, once I went pro—that I’d feel like I had it all figured out. But I don’t.”

You sip your coffee. “Maybe nobody ever really does.”

She nods.

Then, changing the subject, “You still taking pictures?”

You smile. “Yeah. Studio work mostly. Family portraits. Graduation sessions. Sometimes weddings.”

She perks up. “That’s cool. You always had a good eye.”

You tilt your head. “You remembered that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I remembered. You used to carry that little Nikon everywhere. Took that blurry picture of me at your birthday party and said I looked like a ‘poetic blur.’”

You laugh. “It was poetic. Your face was half in motion and the lights hit just right—”

“You were so cheesy.”

“You liked it.”

She looks at you. “I did.”

A beat.

The waitress drops off more coffee. Paige thanks her quietly, then turns back to you with something softer in her expression.

“Why didn’t you ever reach out?” she asks.

You lean back a little. “You left.”

“I didn’t forget you.”

“You acted like you did.”

She winces. “Fair.”

You stir your coffee, watching the swirl. “I didn’t want to be another anchor. You were flying. I didn’t want to be the thing that held you back.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“I didn’t want to be untethered,” she says finally. “But I didn’t know how to ask you to hold on while I figured everything else out.”

That afternoon, you walk through town together like you used to.

Paige insists on stopping by the corner store for the sour watermelon candy she always loved.

You pass the basketball court behind the rec center where she used to run drills, where you sat on the sidelines pretending not to stare.

“I haven’t been here since high school,” she murmurs.

You nod. “Same.”

She climbs up on the old bleachers and sits. You follow.

“This place feels smaller,” she says.

“Or we got bigger.”

She glances at you. “You ever think about what it would’ve been like if I stayed?”

You pick at the edge of the bench, watching your fingers.

“All the time,” you admit.

She leans back, arms behind her. “We could’ve gone to prom together. Gone to the same college. Lived in some tiny off-campus apartment and argued over what to cook for dinner.”

“Probably ramen and frozen pizza.”

“Obviously.”

You both laugh.

Then fall silent again.

It’s comfortable this time.

Like breathing.

You spend the next few days in a rhythm you hadn’t realized your body still remembered.

She picks you up in her rental and drives aimlessly through town, windows down, music low. You talk about everything and nothing. Old teachers. Inside jokes. Dreams you never chased.

At night, she drops you off outside your place, lingering at the curb.

The first night, she waved and drove off without a word.

The second night, she leaned across the console and asked, “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

The third night, she walked you to the door. Stood there. Like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

You waited.

She shoved her hands in her pockets instead.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

You didn’t sleep that night.

On the fourth night, it rains.

Thunder rattles the windows of your apartment. You’re curled on your couch with a blanket and a book when your phone lights up.

Paige: This storm sucks. Can I come over?

You don’t even think.

You: Door’s open.

She shows up ten minutes later, soaked.

Her hoodie is plastered to her arms. Her sneakers squelch against your floor. You grab her a towel and a dry shirt from your laundry pile.

She changes in the bathroom and comes out wearing your oversized T-shirt and pajama pants.

You try not to stare. Fail completely.

She notices. Smirks.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

She joins you on the couch. Pulls the blanket over both of you. Her knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away.

You put on a movie you’ve both seen a dozen times. Something safe. Familiar.

Halfway through, she leans her head on your shoulder.

You freeze.

Then slowly, you rest your cheek on top of her hair.

“I missed this,” she murmurs.

You whisper back, “I missed you.”

Her fingers find yours under the blanket. Tentative. Testing.

You let her hold your hand.

And you don’t let go.

You never talk about what this is.

Not on the fifth day, when Paige shows up with two coffees and a blueberry muffin, saying, “Thought I’d fuel the local artist,” with a wink that makes your stomach flip.

Not on the sixth, when you take her to the edge of town where the lake still freezes solid and kids skate without helmets, daring each other to race across the cracking ice.

Not on the seventh, when you walk the trail to the treehouse again—this time together—and sit in silence as the sky folds into a soft pink.

She leans against you there. Your head on hers. Her hand wrapped around your thigh, thumb tracing small circles near your knee.

And still, neither of you say it.

Whatever it is.

“Stay tonight,” you say before you even realize it, standing at your front door, rain misting the air again.

Paige pauses.

Then nods. “Okay.”

You sleep with her.

Not like that.

You just sleep.

She borrows another one of your shirts. Brushes her teeth with an unopened travel brush you didn’t know you had. Climbs into your bed like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times.

She falls asleep with one arm slung over your waist and her breath soft against your collarbone.

You stay awake listening to her heartbeat.

The next morning, she makes eggs. Sort of.

You watch her burn the edges of the omelet, trying to pass it off with a straight face.

“This is gourmet,” she declares, sliding the plate toward you.

“This is charred rubber.”

“I call it ‘Paige’s Pan-Fried Masterpiece.’”

You take a bite. Grimace.

“Five out of ten,” you say.

“That’s generous.”

“I’m generous.”

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that slow smile.

“Are we… okay?” she asks after a beat.

You meet her gaze. “You tell me.”

She walks over, quiet steps. Stands in front of you.

“Some part of me always knew I’d end up here again,” she says.

You raise a brow. “Back in Minnesota?”

“No,” she says. “With you.”

But cracks start showing.

Small ones. At first.

You’re walking through town when a car slows down beside you and someone yells out:

“Yo! Is that Paige Bueckers?!”

She winces. Gives a polite wave.

Later, she apologizes. “I didn’t think people here still cared.”

“They care,” you say. “They always did.”

You don’t say what you’re really thinking, “they’ll care even more when they find out who she’s spending her nights with.”

She gets a call the next afternoon.

You hear her in your kitchen while you’re brushing your teeth.

Her voice is soft. Tired.

“Yeah, I know… I just needed a break… No, I’ll be back in Dallas on Thursday.”

Your chest tightens.

Thursday.

That’s two days from now.

When she comes into the room, she acts like nothing happened.

You don’t ask.

That night, you're at the treehouse again. She’s quiet.

You sit shoulder to shoulder, watching the fireflies bloom in the dusk.

“Why’d you stop writing me?” she asks suddenly.

You blink. “You stopped writing first.”

“I know. But I kept waiting. Thought maybe you were mad. Thought maybe you moved on.”

You chew your lip. “I think I was scared I’d still love you.”

She turns slowly toward you.

You feel her stare, heavy and searching.

“I was scared of that too,” she whispers.

You nod. “And now?”

Her voice cracks. “Now I know I never stopped.”

You kiss her that night.

Really kiss her.

There’s no awkwardness this time. No nervous giggles. Just years of silence melting into something molten between your mouths.

She kisses you like she’s memorizing you. Like she’s rewriting all the years she lost.

Your hands move up her back. Her fingers thread into your hair. She tastes like cinnamon gum and something sweeter underneath.

She pulls away first, breathing hard.

“I missed this,” she whispers.

You tuck your forehead to hers. “I missed you.”

But love doesn’t erase facts.

And the next morning, she packs.

You watch from your doorway as she zips up her duffel.

She glances over. “I’ll come back.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She steps closer. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

“Then don’t let it be.”

She kisses you one last time at the door.

And then she’s gone.

The silence after is brutal.

You go to work. Edit photos you can’t focus on. Try to answer emails, but your brain feels like static.

You go back to the treehouse. Alone. The boards creak like they miss her weight.

You find her hoodie in your laundry basket three days later and sit with it in your lap for an hour before folding it carefully and placing it on your pillow.

A week later, your phone dings.

Paige: Can I call you?

You answer on the first ring.

She sounds winded. Like she just finished practice.

“I miss you,” she says before you can even say hello.

You swallow. “You left.”

“I had to.”

“I know.”

“I want to come back.”

You close your eyes. “When?”

“Soon. I don’t know. But… I want this.”

You breathe out slowly.

“You sure?”

“So sure,” she says. “I don’t want a life that doesn’t include you.”

Your voice is small. “Come home.”

A beat.

Then she whispers, “You are home.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #paige buckets #paige x reader #wnba x reader #wuh luh wuh #dallas wings #paige bueckers fanfic

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moonlesslights · 2 years ago

Text

Two Idiots in Love

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Warnings: Sex, P in V, choking, breeding kink, innuendos, Miguel it's fucking hard to talk to.

A/N: Hope you enjoy this, I haven't sleep well for three days trying to get it done, but it's finally here. Love y'all xoxox

━━━━━━✧❂✧━━━━━━

Ok, but what about you becoming an Spider just about a year ago?

You are managing just fine.

Things got nasty for a while, that’s true. Your uncle died, your new responsibilities caught up on you, you almost die fighting some bad guys on your first months… And now you just try to eat three times a day (sometimes it doesn’t happen), pray to get more than six hours of sleep and do good in college.

But then, out of fucking nowhere, just when you were making peace with what your life was now and who you are, your identity, your place in this big ass world where you were completely alone to bear this double life… This giant prick with sullen face and cheeks the size of the moon comes into your life to tell you you’re not alone, everyone here has experienced the same or worse, stop being so dramatic.

So, in a second, your protagonist moment turns to you finding out there were thousands like you out there. And your whole life goes upside down.

Because now you don’t have to protect and look out only for your Earth, your city; but everyone else’s too. You have to travel to the most craziest worlds you could’ve ever imagine and fight horrible creatures you couldn’t even conceive its existence. And to make things even worst, Mr. Wide Hindquarters took an special hold of you to help him out with anything he would be ‘to busy’ to do. Like inform new recruits about their missions, filling out reports, doing research either respecting to what he occupied in the laboratory or to some universe yet to be explored… Whatever he needed, you would be called in to do it.

Some Spiders told you you were lucky, not many could work that close to Miguel, let alone being in charge of so many things without screwing something up and getting ‘their head ripped’. Even Lyla tells you that you’re something special, specially on the hard days, that’s why Miguel trusts you so much. After that you would just smile tiredly at her, whispering it was okay. Then Lyla would go face Miguel and demand him with a raised eyebrow to give you a break.

You manage for a few months, surrendering yourself to this strange routine. And your even more strange companion.

Every day you walk in to his space, every day he is already there. You turn a personal mission to arrive before he does. You never make it. The man apparently didn’t sleep and you aren’t waking the fuck up at 3:00am to prove a point or find out. So you let it be as another mystery to be solved.

“Good morning.” You wave your hand at him, making your presence known with that. Sometimes between a yawn, sometimes still cleaning the sleepiness off of your eyes.

“Good morning…” He always adds your last name to his greetings. It makes you feel like you are being scolded. Most of the time he is at the tables, working through the screens; if he’s not there, he’s at the lab, measuring substances with the help of crystal clear instruments.

Without looking at you, he points with his chin to the steaming coffee under the express machine. Through the weeks he has learned exactly how you like it. The first ones he made you were exactly like his: Awful. That couldn’t be drinkable. But you thought it was nice of him to always have hot coffee for you, so you didn’t say anything. But the faces you made at every sip were worth a thousand words.

Now, as you drink today’s, you cannot avoid thinking how cute that big stoic man must look every morning pouring the exact amount of sugar and cream you like into the cup. Moving the liquid with a tiny spoon until is all mixed.

He doesn’t talk much.

No more than orders and “Go home” followed by a “Good night”. You let him be for the first weeks. Not your business. But after the first month you knew you would go crazy if you continued this way of living.

You needed to talk to him. You needed to make things less awkward. He was your only human contact sometimes for entire days, and you cannot stand the fact of barely talking to him.

You don’t have idea how does the term “coworkers” serves on his Earth, but in yours, Human Relationships are encouraged to happen for the sake of teamwork.

With that very idea well tangled on your mind, one of those long days, you take a deep breath, imagine him naked (which isn’t difficult to be honest), stare deep into the space and say:

“Sohowhaveyoubeen?” Squeaking as fast as you can.

Miguel stops whatever the hell he is doing and turns his head to the right, side eyeing you with a raised eyebrow. You don’t even look at him, continuing to fill the document in front of you with the most unstable smile he could have seen in his entire life. Then, he turns around again, coming back to typing into one of the screens. You almost think he has completely ignored you until he answers in another fast and neutral line:

“I’m good.”

You give him an acknowledging nod, smiling softly and returning to your duties.

You had never wished so much to be victim of a lost bullet. Like right now. Like right fucking now. Please.

For one more week you took another personal mission: making a question a day.

“How was your day?”, “Did you have breakfast?”, “How was yesterday’s mission?”… It would be a good day if you got more than a monosyllable for answer. It was embarrassing, really. And Lyla looking at you with a grimace made it ten times worst.

After that, you just came in the eighth day and remained silent, focused in finishing all your work as soon as possible rather than trying to make your prick boss to talk to you. You felt bad, actually. Maybe he just doesn't like to talk, maybe you were making him uncomfortable, maybe... Maybe he's just an arse. Yeah, that is probably the right...

"Hm? Uh, what... What is this?" You look up from your tablet, facing the broad of his back walking to the desk at the other side of the room. You raise an eyebrow at the small cardboard box in front of you, the one that Miguel just left there.

"Food." He says as answering the very question to the origin of the universe.

"For me?" You tilt your head and he looks at you like you were stupid. You frown. How were you supposed to know that, when he barely even looks at you?!

"I did too much." He explains. "... So I brought you some. You can throw it away if you don't want it."

You look down at the box again, watching it as the weirdest of things, and cannot help the little smile that creeps up to your lips. You knew Miguel didn't eat at the HQ cafeteria, since he owns an apartment close from here, so this was completely homemade. Hm, you never thought he was into cooking.

"Why can't I give it to someone else if I don't like it?" You respond with an easy smile, almost teasing him.

"Throw it." He sentences without even looking back at you.

You side eye Lyla at your left, who winks at you. This is a whole ass victory. And you and the little hologram girl knew internally Miguel did not like the day you decided to stop trying to talk to him.

"Thank you." You finally murmur. "I really appreciate it."

"It's just leftovers..."

You nod, pursing your lips and… Still smiling. Fuck it. It was obvious he was going to dismiss it with something like that.

None of you says anything else for the rest of the day, but you make the choice to keep trying on the small talk every day and Miguel, apparently, started to mess up the amount of ingredients for his meals and brings leftovers almost daily.

You continue with this new routine for another couple of weeks.

With the time passing, you gain more and more confidence to talk to the big guy. Most of the times he doesn’t engage in the conversation, it is just you saying your thoughts out loud and telling him everything about your life at college, 'till the point he has a personal beef with some of your classmates. I mean, he doesn’t say it but he surely grunts under his breath every time you mention their name.

Gwen did asked you at some point if he really listened to you or if he just... Left you. You wondered the same for exactly... two hours.

"... And I handed him my essay, right? And he looks at me and says: 'So are you going to tell me who is helping you with these or am I going to find out myself?' So I obviously told him nobody was helping me, I just like doing them. And he freaking threatened me saying that if he founds out he's going to fail me. Like... He doesn't even listens. Agh, he hates me..."

"Is the same one who got angry because you were late to his lecture about himself and his recently published book?" That was a week ago. And he remembered.

You nod, sighing. Miguel clicks his tongue, shaking his head with disapproval.

He might not be talkative (at least for now) but he listens to you. You have no doubt left about that. He may not say a single word while you drop a hundred for minute, but he would come the next day asking "How was the test?" or would know you have classes with that professor and add to his daily good night a soft "Good luck tomorrow." You even start catching him lifting the left corner of his lips when you drop a bad joke about all the things you need to get done by the end of the day or about something you heard on your way there.

You noticed it when certain Spider came in to a meeting, a Spider two days ago you and Miguel had gossiped about because you were told something by your friends on Wednesday, Miguel heard some more on Thursday and with a final comment you put the pieces together on Friday, looking at him with a wide proud open mouth as he shook his head with a soft chuckle. Talking to the Spider in question Miguel would turn to you with the most neutral and blank expression and you would still fight to hide your smile at the memory of everything you found out during the week. No one ever noticed and you liked it. Miguel liked it. It was like a private joke only the two of you could share.

"But what would happen?" This was the part Miguel didn't like. "Like, how would you know I would fuck up something?"

"You cannot give Noir a kaleidoscope." He sentences, giving you another raised eyebrow.

You were in the middle of the daily session of Instructive and Informative questions, according to Lyla and you. Miguel prefers to call them Destructive and Irritating.

After today's mission you had taken a particular soft spot fo the black and white Spider, to the misfortune of your boss. So the whole session has been about the long shot of taking special gifts from your dimension to him.

"But why? Really, what's the worst that could happen if I just give him a tiny little kaleidoscope?"

"Ay, Dios, dame paciencia... You already gave him a rainbow slinky spring toy, why do you keep insisting on gifting him more stuff?"

He fix his gaze on you as you lower your eyes down to your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. "... He just looks happy when he sees color."

Miguel sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"I know, but every one of us needs to respect the natural order of our Earth. He shouldn't keep taking things with him that shouldn't be there, do you understand?"

"But..."

"No more 'but's'. I want those reports done by the end of the day." Miguel returns his eyes back to the screen in front of him, dismissing you just with that action. "Get to work instead of keep losing our time with this."

He hates the way you comply to his orders. Hates the way you leave the space beside him empty to go working at the other side of the room, where he can only see your back. He hates when you refuse him to see your face.

The human part in him hates the questioning sessions because they always end up with your heart too big for your own good, crushed a little bit more. The human part in him is what brings him closer to you after a few minutes, talking you through some trivial topics until he can convince you it is all not as bad a it seems, until you smile again when you insist it's okay, that you just needed a minute, that you understand. And he might o might not tell you can give Noir that fucking kaleidoscope if you want it so much.

But some deep and primal part in him whispers into his veins to walk up to you, take you by your jaw, forcing you to look up at him and order you you better not refuse your face to him one more single time again. That if he wishes to see your eyes, the curve of your nose or your lips, you better fucking show them to him... Every day. Every. Time. He. Wants. To.

He gets frustrated when he catches himself in the middle of those thoughts, of the drives. He has been able to control it magnificently 'till now. But he fears the day he won't.

For another while you enjoyed the 'leftovers' brought to you too. But it also came to happen the one day, they stopped being leftovers:

You yawn as you make your way to the exit of the lab, making sure your alarm for tomorrow is correctly scheduled, you can not afford another harsh look from your professors one more time. The building has fallen silent already; most of its ordinary inhabitants have already retired to their rooms or to their home worlds.

Miguel walks up to you from behind, watching you standing at the door. Neither of them managed to see even a ray of sun today. He didn't care, he had something much better to watch all day… But he can't help but sigh at the thought of taking it from you.

"Italian or Mexican?" You turn to look at him, barely catching what he said. Both of your brows furrow and he glares at you while adjusting the neck of his jacket on. "For tomorrow's lunch. You want me to bring Italian or Mexican?"

"Oh, uhm..." You widen your eyes, surprised by the consideration. Pursing your lips and squinting, you think about it for a second, but the only possible answer comes immediately after: "Mexican."

"Hm." He nods, fixing his eyes to the front again.

Both start walking now towards the exit of the building. You know you can open your portal to go back home now, but you refuse to do so. Miguel knows there's an exit on the other side of the lab that leads him to a closer path to his apartment, but he refuses to take it. Because you always take this one.

"It's getting chilly." You whisper, watching the first snowflakes of the season falling on the other side of the big windows in the lobby. Miguel hums in response. "I like it, though. The first month working with you I had to carry a fan with me everywhere. I am so sorry for the cost of the electricity bill back then."

Miguel tugs at one corner of his lips, but only that. You tilt your head, glaring at him for a second before you take two fast steps to put yourself in front of him. The poor man has to stick his feet to the floor to avoid knocking over you.

He frowns, confused, and you look up at him with those same eyes filled with determination you put on when you look at the cookies he always -purposely- leaves on top of the highest cupboard in his office. He could only describe it as the face of a master plan, because you would always come back with ideas to get them down without asking him for help. And he loved to play guess with what you would do this time.

"Smile for me." You ask as you were some kind of cameraman, and if he was confused before he's into a new level now.

"What?"

"Y'know..." You bring both of your index fingers to the opposite sides of your face and part your own lips into a simple smile, like showing him what he was supposed to do.

"I know what smiling is." He frowns. "Why do you want me to do it?"

You shrug. "I just... I would be really happy to see it."

Miguel's expression remains unfazed, but he prays to every God out there you can't listen how hard his heart jumped inside his chest when your words reached him.

He swallows. His eyes fix on you and he brings both of the corners of his mouth up, exposing bright teeth and two big fangs that brush on his lower lip in the most precious awkward smile you could have ever seen. His brows are drawn together and he looks like he's in pain, and you know that even if a fucking meteor crashed down in the city right now, you still wouldn't be able to look away.

You clear your throat and lament how his smile is gone as soon as it came. You brush your hand at the back at your neck, nervous, fucking ashamed of your imprudence. Miguel raises an eyebrow at your reaction.

"Thank you. That was nice of you." You smile, avoiding his eyes and solely focusing on the snow awaiting for you. "I'm sorry if it was unpleasant for you. I didn't mean..."

Your words get caught up in your throat when you suddenly feel the texture of fabric coming around your neck. You turn back to look at the front again only to find Miguel tugging his scarf on you, with his fingers making sure it hugged every part of your skin your sweater couldn't.

"Miguel, no. It's even colder here than on my Earth. You need this more than I do." You frown with a worried expression washing over your features.

"You'll come back tomorrow pretty early. And it's going to be cold." You could try and argue about you having your own scarfs to bring tomorrow with you, but his eyes tell you he is not asking.

"... Thank you."

Miguel laments the moment your turn around, laments the moment you don't look at him anymore. He is sure the smile from a minute ago hadn't been anywhere near one of his best, and yet your eyes shone with the light of all the moons he's seen in all of the Earths he has visited.

And as you do a little wave when you start walking away before entering your portal, Miguel waves back, slowly and with only two unsure swings of his wrist. It was enough to make you smile anyway. It was enough to keep him standing there even after you were long gone wondering what the hell he was doing.

When Miguel began to bring food made specially to share, you began to bring desserts from your Earth for him to try.

You both started having lunch together after you told him how tired you were of eating while standing. Don't get me wrong, when you first told him he 'offered' you to go eat at the cafeteria if you wanted it so much. But when he dismisses you for the second time the next day with a 15 minute break to go find somewhere to sit, you, instead, sit down reluctantly at the very center of his work space, just a few meters behind him.

Miguel has to do a fucking double take to make sure he is seeing right before turning around at you calmly crossing your legs on the floor and unboxing today's meal with abrupt and resigned movements.

"Could you be so kind as to explain to me what you are doing?" He tilts his head with amusement when you take the first bite of your food.

"Eating."

"Sitting on the floor?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Sitting on the floor." You nod.

"Care to explain why?" He crosses his arms, pursing his lips when you refuse to raise your eyes at him.

"... Because of you." You murmur, taking another unnecessarily aggressive bite.

"Elaborate, please."

You keep on looking down, chewing the morsel in your mouth. Miguel awaits for you with well known experienced patience. By now, he recognizes when you are mad at him or the world, he sees how you fight to keep calm inside of all of this mess, that's why he always tries to encourage you to talk out the things that bother you, because he's there, he can listen; because he likes the way you smile after you let it all out.

And maybe...

"I don't care about eat sitting comfortably at the cafeteria. I want to eat with you. So if you want to stay here be my fucking guest. I'm staying here too."

Because you were the only one who could throw a tantrum at Miguel O'Hara without flinching.

You have earned that right. You didn't know when, because you insist you don't throw tantrums at him; you're a college student, basically an adult, you don't do tantrums. And still...

"Fine, spoiled girl..." He sighs, walking to get his own little box from the table and then coming to close the space between the two with a few long steps. He sits down right beside you, imitating the way you're crossing your legs. "If you want to eat on the floor, we can eat on the floor."

"I'm not spoiled." You hiss, giving him a deadly side eye that puts on a soft, almost unnoticeable grin on his face. Lyla had made fun of him a few days ago about him spoiling you, but instead of getting on his nerves he took a liking for the nickname. And now you suffer the consequences of it all. "And we wouldn't be eating on the floor if you decided to go to the cafeteria for once."

"... I hate talking to people."

You sigh, nodding. That's exactly why you never push him to do anything of that sort.

"I know." You turn to look at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how he keeps his head low while eating. "Hey" You call for his attention, smiling. He blinks up to you, tilting his head. "It's okay." Your shoulder drops to his arm. "I like being here. I'm not stuck with you, you're stuck with me."

That makes his eyes catch a little bit more of light.

"Thank you." He whispers.

You stare at him for a second more and he fights to put all of the mess inside his head, his feelings, into his tongue... But he can't. You continue eating, and he knows you would never hold a grudge on him for it, and he's so thankful for that, for you being able to understand the way his actions speak when his words can't. But he still aches at the thought of never being able to tell you everything he wants.

The next morning you walk in to find out a new cleared space beside the screens with an elegant glass table and two chairs. It surely looked expensive, like everything he does and has, but for you, it's just the little corner where you can leave that particular cake from your Earth he seems to like so much, and then go to the laboratory to see the cake you seemed to like so much.

After two more weeks enjoying the day-to-day in the usual things in your life, you and Miguel got to a mission which revealed as the true calmness before the storm.

The anomaly you had fought was stronger than expected, more aggressive, more letal. Everyone had run lucky at least two times to escape from its claws, but you can still remember their closeness, the screams, the sirens at the distance. It all almost ends up with another canonic event altered.

"There's always a first time." Jessica had told you when you finally finished off the anomaly. She was worried about you, and you can't blame her. You haven't even registered how bad you were trembling until it was all over.

"Is there going to be a last time?" You replied, looking up at her with big eyes. And Miguel, only a few meters behind you, still trying to give some last orders to every Spider there, felt his heart breaking at the very sound of your words.

Nevertheless, thankfully, the universe remained perfectly fine and just a couple of hours later everyone was back home safely again. Most returned immediately to their Home Earths, but you, Miguel, Jessica, Lyla and a couple more had ten thousand things to do in the HQ before calling it a day.

"I thought I told you to go home an hour ago." Miguel points, coming from behind you.

You turn your head to look up at him and you can't not smile at the sight. The feeling of safeness that floods you when you see his huge figure entering any room hasn't wavered for a single second. He's still that solid ground you can always rest on when the world is to heavy to carry alone.

"I'm serious. What are you doing here?" He continues, grunting in pain when he drops his weight beside you. You turn to him, furrowing your brows in worry again. He had seen that expression in you so often today... And he hates it so much. "I'm okay. Just little scratches here and there."

You withdrawn your feet from the edge of the building where you had them hanging for an hour now and crawl your way to him, sitting down on your knees to try to be eye height with him.

Your right hand wanders to his bruised neck, there where the anomaly had left his horrible mark of the violence it brought within. You follow with your index the way the clotted blood draws on his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"Does it hurt?" You ask.

"No." He responds in between goosebumps.

He loves the effect your touch has on him. He loves your little hands looking for him, tugging at his clothes to call for his attention, brushing against his when you pass him the tablet, documents, anything. He loves the busy days where he doesn't have time to eat, where he wouldn't eat if it wasn't for you sitting beside him as he works on the screens, you scrolling through your cellphone, taking little pieces of food with a spoon or a fork to bring them closer to his mouth so he could eat without even taking his eyes off the screen.

Ridiculous? Yeah. But he loved the intimacy within. The many forms your soft hands could soothe him.

But his? He hated them. He was scared of them. Their only use was to destruct, to tear flesh apart, not to...

"Show me." He asks, pointing with his chin at your left hand placed softly above your thigh.

"It's nothing."

"Let me see it." He insist and you carefully bring your arm up, placing your fingers against his when he holds out his hand for you. Your whole palm is bandaged, the work the doctor did on you was amazing, but he can still see dried blood on it.

He doesn't say anything when he finds your eyes on him, conflicted, hesitant. There is so much between both of you, so much unsaid, so much still to do. But he sees your doubt, he hates to be the cause of it. He stays still, but he wants to scream at you, to make your little head understand: "How can't you see?! Can't you see how much you mean to me?! You're the only thing in my mind when I'm fighting, because I know I have to win, I have to get out alive to see you again. Eres lo único por lo que mi corazón llama!... Can't you not hear it?"

Instead, the tips of his fingers brush on your skin, his eyes reflecting every single light of the city below.

"Come." It's only a whisper that leaves his mouth, and you need nothing more to jump into his embrace with a desperate sigh, immediately cuddling yourself up on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, looking for his warm.

Hold.

He loves to hold you.

His hands serve to hold you.

To hold you against him, to protect you from anyone who wants to rip you away from his arms. To keep you warm, to keep you safe, to let you know you're home.

"Aquí estoy." He whispers.

"I know." You reply.

You breath into his scent for a couple of minutes more, until the screams and the sirens fell low to the sound of Miguel's chest going up and down in a soothing swing, his breathing, turning into the only thing you could listen to.

By the time you got your head out of his neck, he was already waiting for you with a soft smile, smile that puts your attention on the deep cut on his lower lip.

"What happened?" You ask, carefully pulling from his flesh to see the whole extension of the wound.

He sighs, closing his eyes with embarrassment. "I bit myself during the fight."

You smile, shaking your head. Your fingernail taps against the right fang in question, testing the edge by gently pressing the tip into your fingertip.

"I hate them." Miguel breaths out. His eyes are now so dim that you struggle to say where are they looking at in the middle of the night darkness.

"Why?" You whisper, taking your finger back at his lip.

"Because I fear of them. I fear they'll hurt you like they hurt me."

You purse your lips and then take his hand placed on your hip, looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

"Is the same with these?"

He nods.

"They are made to kill. I have done so many horrible things with, caused so much damage and pain, I..."

"Did you know I'm scared of heights?" His trail of words stop at your interruption. You smile, looking down from the edge, turning away form him just a little. "Ironic, for a Spider. But I still fight with it every single day. I always get so sticky when I'm on top of a building for too long it's embarrassing but..." You raise your hand in front of him, waving your fingers with a playful smile. "I'm not sticky now. And that it's because you're holding me." You cup his face. "Those things you're afraid of, are part of the person I love. And I wouldn't change a single thing."

"Mi cielo..."

"I knew what I was getting into when I decided to love you, Miguel, so don't get all soft now. I'm not going anywhere..." You whisper. "Make me bleed."

He would be lying if he said he haven't thought about it, that he haven't succumbed to his most animalistic urges when alone in the privacy of his room, pretending it was you around his cock and not his fist. He wanted to bite, he wanted to fill you. And he wanted to tear apart with his bare talons anyone and anything that got in his way.

A part of him might be scared to hurt you, yes.

But a bigger part of him was actually scared of what he would do to keep you safe. Of what he's capable of... to keep you his.

He feels sorry for you when you cuddle against his chest in your sleep as he stands up and starts walking back inside the building, covering you with his jacket to protect from the cold wind of the city for when he swings back to his apartment with you in his arms.

He feels sorry for the innocence in your love.

Like a beast, that's what he was. A beast who loved the softness in your touch, the kind in your words. But cannot return the same love. The beast is possessive, jealous of the very air that caresses your hair. And it may act vulnerable only to you, letting you get as close to slaughter him, but knowing you'll place a kiss instead. The beast would hold you as his own treasure, a creature that must not be hurt, not even for his own hands. He would cut them off before.

He would cut them off from anyone before they touch you. For no one should ever touch what he decided, that very morning you asked how he had been, would belong to him.

AND EVERYTHING WOULD HAVE CONTINUED ON GOING SO SMOOTHLY... BUT THE DAAAAAAAAMN FINALS, ah, made their entrance.

You barely have time to sleep, to eat, to fucking breathe. Your levels of anxiety are higher than the HQ damn building and your brain is so overworked you cannot do more than what you're asked to in autopilot. You know that you're only going to be like this for approximately another two weeks, but your poor lover has suffered the last four days thinking you're sick, or sad, or worse... Mad at him. No, not in that order.

"Arañita..." He calls for you. Your hand moving over your notebook at one hundred km per hour concerns him.

"The reports are done. Peter from -5266 and Hugh from -1993 are out right now. They should be getting back at any minute. Anomaly #125 was sent to its original universe this morning." You push the tablet to him with your free hand without even looking up or slowing down your writing.

"Thank you, but..." He tilts his head, furrowing his brows. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I just need to get this done before four. By the way, can I leave early today? I need to study for tomorrow's test."

"Again? Didn't you have one yesterday?"

"Yes. We're on finals, Miguel. We tend to have a lot of them these days. That's why I'm losing my mind over here."

"Just for some tests?" You have to stop yourself to remind you it's not his fault to be smart. It's not his fault being more intelligent than almost every person you knew. It's not his fault he doesn't know what is to struggle on school. It's not his fault, It's not his fault, It's not his fault... "You haven't even touched your food." He says, looking at the little box he got you with the meal now cold.

"I... I know. I'm sorry, Mig." You sigh, looking up at him for the first time in the day. "I'm just really stressed out right now. But I promise I'll take it back home later, okay?"

This was also the fourth day you didn't stay at his place. My man doesn't want to be a burden, but he has attachment issues, ok?, and after the week you spent sleeping in his arms, it may or may not be that Miguel has been having trouble falling asleep without the weight of your body on his chest.

After watching you leave that day, Miguel found himself staying till unreasonable hours of the early morning working in the lab. There was no point on going back to his cold apartment anyway... And he had a lot of things to get done. He didn't have time to...

"Oh, it's you." Miguel jumps in his place at the sudden voice calling from behind. "I thought that poor girl had stayed here, with all the things she seems to be doing these days."

The man shakes his head, ignoring Jessica closing the distance behind him, leaning against the door frame. Miguel can almost make out the little smile on her lips without turning around, and that only infuriates him even more.

"And why do you look like a caged lion?" She mocks. "Trouble in paradise?"

Miguel's first instinct is snap back at her and ask her to leave him alone. He knows she would comply, what he doesn't know is how benefic that would be for his current situation.

"I don't know what's going out with her." He admits, letting his head fall in irritation. "She says she's having some tests right now, but she's just to... Stressed? I don't know. She's so smart I cannot conceive how bad this is affecting her." The laugh that emanates from Jessica's throat makes his ears go red. "What?"

"Oh, babe, when was the last time you went to college?" Jessica puts both of her hands on her waist, pursing the lips to avoid smiling again.

"Why is that important?"

"When, Miguel?" She demands.

"Ugh... I don't know. Like four-five years ago."

"When was the last time you failed a class?"

"Never." He immediately responds.

"When was the last time grades were important on your Earth?"

Miguel frowns. "I don't remember. The path for learning had changed long before I was born. I don't even think I ever had something like a grade. We were judged individually for our skills and our intelligence type. Not memorization."

"Exactly." She claps, pointing at him with a all-knowing finger. "Thanks to that you got the chance to develop your true abilities as a student, but our girl from 2023 it is not beneficiary of this privilege. She doesn't get the chance to strengthen in what she is good, she must memorize and memorize and memorize over and over again. Because the tests on her Earth aren't done with the purpose of just checking how is her knowledge progressing, they are done to see if she's worthy of continuing forward in her very career."

Miguel remains silent for a minute, swallowing all the new information by pieces. For someone so smart, Jessica has never see him seem so lost. The nuts in his brain begin to turn and turn until his eyes seem to light up with the clarity of the light of the new world.

"Hm." He nods. "Thank you."

The woman knows he doesn't need anything more when he turns around, typing into one of the screens something that escapes from her eyes.

During the rest of the two weeks of finals, Miguel tried to do his best to support you.

He even read all of the information about your education system, striving to understand everything in just a couple of nights.

He's a man on a mission: letting you know he's there, that you're strong and smart, and you can do it.

While you study in the lab, he leaves you be. He gets you coffee, or tea, or anything you prefer. He might even hiss at people entering his space (your space) making too much noise, pointing at you with his chin and threatening eyes.

"Hey, girl..." Peter B. comes in one morning, moving nervously under the scrutinizing gaze of your lover. "Don't be so harsh on yourself..." He gives you some awkward pats on the back, smiling. "You're doing great."

That was all it took.

"No, I'm not!" You weep, letting your head fall on the desk, shaking between sobs.

"Great. Ya la hiciste llorar." Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Here, give it to her." He calls for Peter's attention, handing him an specific chocolate.

Peter takes it with confused eyes, offering it to you, reaching out his arm as if he were to touch you, you'll explode.

"Here." He says. "Look what I got."

You raise your eyes, meeting the little packing. Then, when you look at him, Peter almost thinks he just made all worst.

"Oh, Peter... Thank you!" You take the chocolate, pulling from him to a big hug. "I love these so much, thank you! You're so kind!"

Peter lets you be, looking back at Miguel who just nods at him to let him know this wasn't his first rodeo. He pats your back, soothing you with some more nervous words until you're ready to let him go.

If you're really struggling, Miguel won't think twice to help you. He's smart, it takes him nothing more than a look to his old notes or a quick search on the internet (specially if you're studying something science related or an engineering, if you're on law or arts, oh boy, you're gonna make this man suffer) to know exactly what you need and make sure you're taking that fucking project tomorrow.

Some other days, he just catches you sleeping with your hands crossed above the table and your saliva drooling out to your notes. His jacket would then come over you, after, he would take your pending stuff and start solving problems and making notes for you to have it easier at the memorizing part of the study.

You always wake up to see the edges of your paper full of arrows, little equations and encircled key words. And, sometimes, a tired Miguel sleeping uncomfortably by your side, just waiting for you to tell him it's time to go.

The day, a Friday, where you're finally done with college (at least for a couple of months) Miguel felt it like the day his soul came back to his body.

You are smiling all day again, calling his name, doing a mess all over the whole building. And he can not be more happy about it.

He might never tell you, me might even justify himself saying he had been staying up late working in the lab every time you ask for the bags under his eyes. Because he's definitely not telling you there were nights where he couldn't even close his eyes 'cause you weren't there with him.

"Time to go home." You hum behind him, getting all of your stuff inside your backpack.

"Thank God" He rubs his neck, walking closer to you to give you a soft kiss on the forehead. "I'm dying."

You yawn, nodding. "Me too. These weeks drained me."

"Me too." He repeats, and you don't know how much he means it. "Let's just go to sleep, yeah? Hopefully tomorrow there won't be so much to do."

You smile, leaning into his embrace as you walk out the door, hearing the lights turning off as both come closer and closer to the exit.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Okay."

Miguel steadies your body by pressing down on your hips, keeping your ass on the bed. You try to push his face out of between your thighs but he refuses to pull apart.

"Miguel!" You cry out, tears rolling down your cheeks cause of the overstimulation he was putting you in. "Too much, too much..."

His fingers curl inside you one more time, and your arch your back, almost rolling your eyes at the feeling. His tongue flicks over your sensitive bud again, dragging choked moans out of you. You try to squirm away but his hands pull you from your ass back at him as soon as you start moving.

"Easy there, Arañita. I'm almost done." He smiles up at you, letting you see the lower half of his face completely covered in your arousal.

"Mig... Mi amor..." You breath out, trying to push him out again when his chuckle crashes against your folds.

"One more, love, and you'll be ready for me." He sucks on your clit as he speaks, moving his fingers with an slower pace now. "Uno más, mamita, dame uno más."

He pushes his face down on you, working his tongue all around your most needy spot with his digits burying now deep inside you, hitting that soft place between your walls that makes you want to cry. You're a mess of moans and whimpers by now, but when his teeth slowly press on your clit, it's over for you. Your eyes roll back, your thighs tremble around him, encaging him in his favorite prison as he guides you through it, moaning into your skin when he feels your pleasure dripping on him, motivating his hips to hump against the mattress as a fucking teenager would do.

After you get down from your high, you look up at him to find him positioning himself between your legs, dragging the tip of his cock up and down on your folds.

"Miguel, wait, I'm..."

"You know your safe word, mamita, you can make me stop whenever you want." He places your legs on his shoulders and his hands on your hips, keeping you just as he wishes to. "I'm going in, and I want your eyes on me all the time I fuck you, ¿me entiendes, hermosa?"

You nod, watching the point where both of your bodies would join. He enters slowly, giving you time to adjust his size. But after the first hint of your hips trying to feel him even more, he pulls back and thrusts all the way in, making your head fall back as your back arches.

His right hand grabs you by the jaw, forcing you to open your eyes and observe how red his irises had turned.

"Eyes on me."

His pace speeds up, bottoming out with every thrust he makes. Your hands push at his lower abdomen, biting your lip to avoid crying out loud again.

"Too fast, Mig. Too much." You moan, your still overstimulated clit rips another whimper from you every time his happy trail and trimmed hair crashes against it. You were barely holding on, but your lover can't never get enough. His body reaches down, and as he places one hand around your neck, his other thumb toys at your clit in a excruciating pace. "Fuck! No, Miguel."

You tremble under him, wrapping your legs around his waist when you cannot think about anything more than cumming. Your nails bury on the skin of his back, dragging an out of breath grunt out of him.

"I'm, I'm cum-" You try to voice but nothing in your brain seems to work anymore.

"Do it, love. I got you." He keeps up his pace, almost kissing your cervix by now. "Cum for me, mi amor."

His hand squeezes a little bit harder on your neck and you need nothing else to see fucking white. Your mouth opens in a big O before your start trembling, shaking uncontrollably under his body, letting out the sweetest of sounds for him to hear.

He grunts, falling into the crock of your neck when you tighten your walls around him.

"I'm going to fucking fill you." He's out of breath and he curses something in Spanish you cannot make out. "I'm going to put a baby on your tummy, mamita..."

"Miguel..." You were on the verge of tears again, you cannot longer feel your legs but you surely can feel him deep inside you.

"Yes, love. Fuck... I'm cumming. I'm..." He bites down on your flesh, sinking his fangs into your skin when his hips stutter. His talons grow so big they dig into the headboard.

You moan at the feeling, hugging your body to his until he can breath normal again.

When he looks back at you his eyes have returned to that soft brown you're used too.

"Are you okay?" He asks, sending shivers down your spine when he caresses the sore skin.

"Yes." You smile and he traps your lips into a kiss. "And now I'm really fucking tired."

He chuckles, lifting his weight onto his forearms.

"Come here, amor. Let's take a shower so you can rest comfortably." He places another soft peck on your forehead. "I'll wash your hair."

You definitely know he will do more than that.

PD: Tbh with you guys, all I could think about while writing this was this tiktok:

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x y/n #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara fluff #miguel ohara smut #spiderman 2099 #across the spiderverse #atsv #peter b parker

9K notes · View notes

bettys-redwinesupernova · 4 months ago

Text

BIGGER THAN THE WHOLE SKY

drew starkey x fem!reader

SUMMARY: while filming an emotional scene, y/n receives devastating news about her mum, leading to a heartbreaking breakdown on set as her boyfriend drew and their co-stars comfort her.

based on this ask !! thank you @xoxosblogsblog for another amazing request, a very emotional one to write as i’ve lost a parent, but it was therapeutic to write <3

(check out my other drew starkey & rafe cameron works here !!)

WARNINGS: death of a parent, crying, panic attack, descriptions of dissociating, grief, the cast being adorable :’), very angsty but a comforting ending !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2k

THIRD PERSON +

Y/N sat in her trailer, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror.

The makeup artists had just left, the remnants of their work leaving her looking polished, camera-ready. Her character was meant to be grieving in today’s scene, but they had only given her a touch of concealer, a dusting of powder to dull the shine of the lights, and a hint of smudged mascara to make it look like she had been crying.

She was supposed to pretend to be devastated.

The irony was almost cruel.

Her phone vibrated against the counter. She glanced down at the screen, expecting to see a message from Drew, maybe a reminder from the assistant director to head to set soon. Instead, her father’s name flashed across the screen.

Her stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like him to call during the day. He knew she was working, knew she was filming one of the biggest scenes of the season. A sudden chill crept up her spine, a visceral knowing before she even answered.

With slightly trembling fingers, she swiped to accept the call.

“Dad?” she answered, her voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her.

There was silence for a beat too long.

Her father was a strong man, always composed, always measured in his words. But when he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of all its usual warmth.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, and in just that one word, she felt her world tilt on its axis.

She sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

Another pause. Then a sharp inhale, like he was bracing himself.

“It’s your mum,” he said, and the way his voice wavered sent ice coursing through her veins.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the phone. “What about her?”

His breath hitched, and then—

“She’s gone, love.”

The words didn’t compute. They didn’t make sense, didn’t fit into any conceivable reality she had prepared herself for.

“What?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“She passed away this morning.”

Her father’s voice was thick, like he was struggling to hold himself together. But she barely heard him now. The words looped in her mind, repeating over and over, yet still, she couldn’t understand them.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

That wasn’t possible. She had just spoken to her mum a few days ago. She had promised to visit after the season wrapped. She had plans with her, had texts left unanswered, had so many things left unsaid.

A strange ringing noise filled her ears, drowning out whatever else her father was saying. She felt the weight of her own body disappear, like she was floating outside of herself, detached and weightless.

Her vision blurred.

The room around her suddenly felt too small, too quiet. The air too thick.

“… I know you’re at work,” her father was saying, his voice distant, “and I don’t want to take you away from that. There’s nothing you can do right now, sweetheart. I’ll handle everything here. Just—just get through today, yeah? Then we’ll figure everything out.”

Get through today.

That was the only option, wasn’t it?

She would have to book flights, pack a bag, make arrangements—but none of that could happen now. If she left set immediately, what would she do? Sit in a hotel near the airport, trapped with nothing but her grief?

At least here, she had something to do.

At least here, she could pretend for a little longer.

She swallowed, her throat raw. “Okay.”

Her father hesitated. “Y/N—”

“I have to go,” she interrupted, her voice eerily calm.

“Sweetheart, wait—”

But she ended the call.

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing on the counter with a dull clack.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

She stared at the mirror, at the girl looking back at her—the girl who, ten minutes ago, had been fine. Normal. Whole.

Now, she felt like a cracked porcelain doll, barely held together, each fissure running deeper and deeper beneath the surface.

Her face remained passive, her lips slightly parted, her expression unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes gave her away.

She wasn’t there anymore.

She was somewhere else, floating through the spaces between reality and nothingness.

Her body felt heavy, yet she was untethered.

Her fingers curled against her lap, gripping onto the fabric of her costume as if that alone could keep her from slipping away entirely.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Because if it was—

A soft knock at the door made her flinch.

“Five minutes to set!” called a PA from outside.

She blinked.

Five minutes.

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

She forced herself to move, to pick up her phone, to smooth down her clothes. She had a job to do.

She pushed everything else aside, packed it into a box, sealed it tight.

She would grieve later.

For now, she would pretend.

She opened the door and stepped onto set, not realising that in just a few short minutes, the cracks in her facade would shatter completely.

—

The set of Outer Banks was alive with the usual buzz of controlled chaos—crew members adjusting lights, directors conferring in hushed tones, the distant hum of the ocean blending into the background. It was supposed to be just another day of filming, another scene to capture before moving on to the next.

It was a heavy one.

Her character had just lost her father. The Pogues were there, trying to comfort her, trying to remind her she wasn’t alone. Even Rafe—played by Drew—stood nearby, a complicated mix of emotions brewing in his expression. The cameras were rolling, capturing everything.

Y/N tried to focus, tried to remember her lines, but something inside her cracked wide open.

She felt the grief swell like a rising tide, swallowing her whole. It was too big, too raw, too real.

When she started crying, no one questioned it. She was an incredible actress—everyone knew that. The scene demanded tears, demanded heartbreak. But as her sobs grew heavier, more uncontrollable, the air on set shifted.

Rudy shot a glance towards Chase, brows furrowed. Madelyn, kneeling beside Y/N in the scene, squeezed her hand, her own eyes glassy with concern. Drew, standing just out of frame, felt his pulse quicken.

Something wasn’t right.

The way Y/N clutched at her chest, the way her breathing hitched, sharp and ragged—it wasn’t just acting anymore.

Still, the cameras kept rolling.

Adrenaline surged through Drew’s veins. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his instincts screaming at him to cut through the scene, to pull her out of whatever was happening. But he hesitated. Y/N was a professional. If this was her choice, if she was using real emotions to fuel the performance, he had to respect that.

Then she collapsed to her knees.

The sob that tore from her throat wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t crafted for the scene. It was pain—real, unfiltered pain.

That was when the director finally called, “Cut!”

But Y/N didn’t stop.

She was still sobbing, her body trembling, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. The cast and crew hesitated, frozen in the moment, unsure whether they should intervene.

Drew didn’t hesitate.

He was by her side in an instant, dropping to his knees, hands grasping her shoulders. “Hey, hey—Y/N, breathe. You’re okay.”

She wasn’t okay.

Her body was shaking so violently that she could barely hold herself upright. Tears streamed down her face, her expression twisted in anguish.

“Y/N,” Madelyn whispered, stroking her back. “What’s going on?”

“Someone get her water,” Chase called, already stepping forward.

Drew cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “Love, talk to me.”

But she couldn’t.

The world around her blurred at the edges, the voices of her friends distant, muffled. She felt like she was floating—adrift in a sea of grief, unable to grasp onto anything solid.

“Come on, baby,” Drew pleaded, his own voice shaking now. “You’re scaring me.”

Y/N gasped for air, her chest constricting so tightly it hurt. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.

Madelyn was rubbing soothing circles into her back, whispering soft reassurances, while Rudy and Jonathan exchanged worried glances. The crew had fallen into an uneasy silence, watching the scene unfold.

Finally, through the sobs, through the suffocating grief, Y/N forced out the words that shattered the air around them.

“My mum… she’s gone.”

Drew’s heart stopped.

The words didn’t register at first. He blinked at her, his grip tightening instinctively.

“What?” he breathed.

Y/N choked on another sob, pressing her hands to her face as if she could somehow block it all out.

“My dad called me before we filmed,” she whimpered. “She—she died. I—I didn’t know what to do—I thought I could just—” She gasped, shaking her head frantically. “I thought I could just get through the day, but—”

Drew didn’t let her finish.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse them together. She collapsed into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt with desperate hands.

The rest of the cast looked on, their own eyes brimming with emotion. Madelyn covered her mouth with her hands, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Jesus, Y/N…” Chase muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I—” Her voice broke again. “I couldn’t.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Drew murmured against her hair. His own eyes were wet now, his throat thick with emotion. “We’re here. I’m here.”

She let out a broken whimper, gripping him tighter.

Madelyn sat beside them, wrapping her arms around Y/N from behind. Rudy joined a moment later, then Jonathan, then Chase. A pile of bodies, all holding onto her, surrounding her with warmth, with love.

The weight of Y/N’s revelation hung heavy in the air, casting a sombre pall over the once-bustling set. The cast remained huddled around her, their collective warmth a fragile barrier against the encroaching chill of grief.

Drew held her as if anchoring her to the present, his fingers gently threading through her hair. “We’re here, love,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not alone.”

Madelyn, her own tears silently falling, whispered soothing words, her hand never leaving Y/N’s back. “It’s okay to let it out. We’re with you.”

Chase knelt beside them, his usual playful demeanour replaced with earnest concern. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We’re family.”

Rudy and Jonathan exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting a shared resolve. “We’ll get through this together,” Jonathan said softly, his voice steady.

As Y/N’s sobs gradually subsided into quiet tremors, the director approached, his expression a mix of compassion and uncertainty. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked gently.

Drew looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but determined. “I think she needs some time. We… we need to get her home.”

The director nodded, understanding the unspoken request. “Of course. We’ll arrange for flights immediately. The production will cover all expenses.”

Y/N lifted her head, her eyes swollen and glassy. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” Madelyn insisted, squeezing her hand. “You’re family.”

The crew moved with quiet efficiency, making the necessary arrangements. Within the hour, flights were booked for Y/N and Drew to return to her hometown. The cast remained by her side, offering silent support as she navigated the haze of shock and sorrow.

As they prepared to leave, Y/N turned to her friends, her voice trembling. “Thank you… all of you.”

Chase stepped forward, enveloping her in a gentle embrace. “We’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.”

Rudy nodded, his eyes earnest. “Take all the time you need.”

Jonathan offered a reassuring smile. “We’ll keep things running smoothly here.”

Madelyn hugged her tightly, her voice breaking. “We love you.”

Drew took Y/N’s hand, their fingers intertwining. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.

As they departed, the set remained in a hushed stillness, a testament to the profound impact of shared grief and the strength of chosen family.

The grief wouldn’t disappear. The pain wouldn’t lessen. But in that moment, she wasn’t alone.

And for now, that was enough.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was a every emotional one, but i hope you all enjoy it !! my requests are still open until i go away on wednesday so please send some in :)

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

#bettys asks !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#drew starkey #rafe cameron #bettys work !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#outer banks #drew starkey x reader #fluff #obx #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey obx #drew starkey outer banks #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey angst #drew starkey x fem!reader

672 notes · View notes

tsunaso · 4 months ago

Text

"I'D LET THE WORLD BURN"

pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader

synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.

The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.

One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.

It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.

The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.

M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?

No—not yet.

He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.

His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!

With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.

A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.

“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.

Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.

The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”

“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.

The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.

His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.

“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”

“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.

“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”

Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—

“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”

The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.

He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.

“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”

Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.

“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”

M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”

Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”

M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”

The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”

“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”

Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”

M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”

His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.

But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.

Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.

Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.

M/n was waiting for him.

“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”

“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.

M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.

But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.

It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.

The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.

“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”

M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.

“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”

Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”

“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”

“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”

“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”

“She didn’t want—”

“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”

The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.

“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”

Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

It started as training.

At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.

The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."

Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.

M/n saw it. He always saw it.

One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.

"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."

Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Not hard enough."

The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.

His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.

“Look at me,” M/n ordered.

Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.

The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.

M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"

Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

His breath hitched.

"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."

Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.

His Sharingan had fully matured.

The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.

M/n had pushed him to this moment.

Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.

M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"

Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.

"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."

And Obito did.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.

He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.

He had failed. Again.

M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.

Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.

"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.

Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.

Not enough.

He was never enough.

“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”

M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”

“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.

He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.

"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.

Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.

M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”

Obito's breath hitched.

Them.

Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.

“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”

Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.

Because M/n was right.

There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.

And M/n had no patience for hesitation.

A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.

M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.

“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.

Obito’s breath stuttered.

The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.

But M/n made it easy.

M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.

"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."

M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.

"Then prove it."

Obito blinked. "How?"

M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."

And he did.

Burn it all.

Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.

Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.

Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.

"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."

Something in him snapped.

Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.

M/n was the only one who had stayed.

He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.

"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.

M/n grinned. "Good boy."

Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.

M/n was taking him apart.

Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.

Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.

"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."

Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.

He shouldn’t love this.

He shouldn’t crave it.

But M/n had made him need it.

"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.

"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"

Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.

He needed it.

"Please—"

M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"Please, what?"

Obito’s pride had long since shattered.

He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.

He didn’t care if he had to beg.

"Please fuck me harder—"

M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.

"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.

M/n was ruining him.

Breaking him in every way possible.

Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.

"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.

Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.

"Then beg."

Obito didn’t hesitate.

"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"

M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"

Obito’s face flushed darker.

He was too far gone to fight back.

He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.

"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"

M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.

"Cum for me."

Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.

M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.

Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.

But M/n didn’t let him collapse.

Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.

"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.

Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.

M/n smirked.

"Good boy."

And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.

　　　　　　　　　══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.

The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.

"What would you do for me, Obito?"

Obito didn’t even pause.

"Anything."

M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.

"Then say it."

Obito closed his eyes and whispered:

"I’d let the world burn."

M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.

"Good boy."

767 notes · View notes

omgfangirlland · 3 months ago

Text

The Shadows That Nurture 14

ch 15 is done so y'all can have ch 14, these are getting longer and longer- If I somehow end up passing 4k words I'll have to break these into pt1 and pt2 🥲

Also- y'all can not rip Jason's finger tattoos saying "jailbird" from me, ever.

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 14 >>next

Your hands were shaking as Slade led you to one of the many bathrooms in the building, but despite everything, you were proud of yourself. You didn’t cry, that was good enough in your book. “You were fast with that throw. Not many get a hit on the man, as clumsy as he fakes being.” His voice only seemed to make you angrier.

You took a deep breath, exhaling softly. He hasn’t done anything to you, yet at least. You’re not angry at him- is what you had to repeat to yourself before answering. “I wish it was a knife.” Your face twitched at that. “That- was a very emotionally fueled answer- please don’t hold it against me.” Willson was more amused by the answer than scared or worried.

“You won’t be the first, and you won’t be the last.” The man took his handkerchief and dampened it, leaning against the marble sink as he handed it to you, and you thanked him while taking it. “I’ll hold you up to paying for the cleanup, by the way. I love this suit. Now- why did you really want to talk?”

“Straight to the point I see.” At his smile, you just shrug. “Never was one for pull and push games.” Perhaps it was your hormones, or just how much you’ve repressed your emotions for other human beings due to hurt, but his laugh made your cheeks flush. You were putting a pin on that feeling, for now just dismissing it as anger at the male species.

“I just want to talk, get to know you better.” He went to the modern toilet and took out its wall panel, pulling out a briefcase. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself. Among terrible people.” Slade opens the briefcase once it is on the marble top, revealing his gear and a clean pair of clothes. “So, you want to assassinate me?”

“Assassination is for world leaders, my dear.” The shit-eating grin definitely made you think whatever you were feeling was anger. “But you’re not far off. We have similar enemies.” You took the clean shirt he handed to you, took the wet wipes straight from the case, and went straight for the room divider, Slade turning his back to you. “So- what, you want me to help you and when push comes to shove, you’ll help me?” He could hear the doubt, the sarcasm, and the distrust. But he just smiled. “Yes.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Luthor just kept on looking at you for a few seconds as you lay face down on his emperor-sized bed. “Is that his shirt?” He got a muffled yes in response. “He hid a briefcase in your wall and gave me the spare, said he’ll come back with the clean suit… I so think he wanted to kill you or steal something you have here.” Lex just hummed at that, tapping his foot. “And?” You groaned. “Where do I even begin?”

“Well, you could start from the beginning?” Lex said while getting up and grabbing a set of pajamas and tossing them on your back. You sigh and place your head on your hand, turning your body sideways so you can look at him. “I have parental issues and a part of me finds his stupid eye-patch so hot.” You cackled maniacally as Luthor’s face soured. “Ok. How about we skip forward a bit?” He almost begged.

“Alright- wait-…” You take a closer look at the pajamas. “These are my size.” Your eyes meet his as he confirms with no shame on his mug. “Are you not going to ask why?” Sighing you just get up and move towards his bathroom. “You either want a kid or a wife and I’m not mentally sound enough right now for either one. And I’m sleeping with mom- I so do not believe you didn’t put cameras in my room, you weirdo.”

“I’m a paranoid billionaire genius. I have cameras in every room.” It was his turn to laugh like a maniac as he heard you call him a weirdo again.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

With everyone out of the manor, it was finally time for Alfred to clean the whole bloody place. These moments were rare, and while Master Bruce insisted on him taking a break, he wasn’t a man to stay in one place for long without work.

He began from the ground up, the cave, the yard. The ground floor and the first level came and went, on the second level he may have gotten distracted by the new books Bruce got for Jason, and by the time the man of the house got back, Alfred was halfway done with the third floor.

Opening yet another door, his eyes immediately critiqued the dust, barely processing the objects before beginning to clean, starting with a little framed photo and the nightstand. It took him two looks before he registered what the picture depicted- a little girl at her kindergarten graduation event. He doesn’t remember Miss Cassandra this young, Master Bruce must have-

No… Cassandra never went to kindergarten. Alfred drops the cloth he was wiping off the dust with, head snapping around the room- Paintings, so many paintings, drawing supplies. Medals, diplomas- the more of them he wiped with his gloved hand the more the man trembled, heart beating against his ribcage, the same way it did on the active battlefield- where were you?

A child- a whole child- no. He saw you- yes. In the garden, yelling at Bruce- that-… that was six years ago. Six years ago. Six bloody years ago. Somewhere in his panicked frenzy, a hopeful part of him just thought that maybe you changed rooms, yes, that’s why he began screaming your name like a madman, bursting through the rooms he hadn’t yet opened, screaming as he went down the staircase, rechecking rooms, scaring the kids that were in the manor.

Damian frowned at Cassandra and Tim. “Has Pennyworth lost it?” The girl didn’t even pay him any mind as she simply followed the elder. “No, he-… Where is she?” Tim tried to respond but the distraction got to him- he can’t remember the last time he saw you. Damian had no other choice but to follow as well.

Even though the old man used the stairs he was the first to enter the batcave, the kids following in the elevator. “-she’s missing-“ was what they caught, seeing the picture frame Alfred ran around with now clenched in Bruce’s hands.

“No.” Cassandra said softly, confusion clear on her face. “In London.” Alfred looked at the man as he tried to hide his fury. “You sent the young miss to London without even telling me?” Bruce immediately said a firm no, turning to Cassandra to ask how she even knew of that. “Is anyone going to inform me about who we are talking about?!”

Damian had enough, he didn’t like still being left in the dark about things that seemed this important. Tim repeated your name like it was obvious, but Alfred felt the world crash on his head. “Yes. So you all keep on saying, is that code for something?” The old man needed to sit down. They’ve never talked about her. They’ve never told him about her.

Tim was too tired to realize what Alfred did. He just called the boy rude, how could he not remember his other big sis. And it was the wrong thing to do. “I have another sister, and you didn’t tell me? Nobody did?!” The youngest boy snapped at his father before turning to look at everyone else.

Bruce- he was taking hit after hit tonight. He couldn’t come up with an argument to Slade, and he sure as hell couldn’t defend himself against Damian. The last time he remembered seeing you was when he ruined your garden. He slumped down in his chair, clutching the picture of your sad chubby face and the pitying look of the teacher, unable to take his eyes from it.

Where was he? He… He can’t defend himself. How could he? He didn’t even realize you were missing. How much has he missed? How many events and achievements has he ignored or brushed off? Did you leave that night, was that the last drop? He ignored his arguing kids, ignored how devastated Alfred looked… Jason said he was missing a bird. Bruce closes the open files on The Sorceress. “Tim, inform Dick and the others. Oracle. Call Red Hood. Now.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Lois sighed and turned to face her husband who was fully awake. “Ok, come on, confess.” Clark didn’t even flinch, not until she shook his shoulder. He side-eyed her before turning to also face her, sure that Jon was deeply asleep. “What I’m about to tell you should stay just between us.”

“The Sorceress is adopted, her dad is Bruce.” Lois raised a brow but before she could ask for more Clark continued. “I heard her brother and Lex inform the Immortal about it. The boy mentioned that, and I quote, the bastard didn’t pay attention to her for years and now has the gall to show up and act like he doesn’t know her. Lex was sure of the fact that Bruce didn’t even know that she had run away, to begin with, let alone how the kid he barely spent time with looked like anymore”

Lois took a while to soak in the information. “That’s…” She lies back on her back, staring at the ceiling like her husband once was. “If it’s true- it’s a new low for him. I'll look into it.” She looks at Clark. “Don’t let Jon hear that, he’ll-“

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“-and that’s what my dad said.” Jon, who was still in his pajamas, huffing from how fast he flew and talked, told Damian once they were in the security of the youngest Wayne’s room. The other boy just nodded. “Thank you for informing me, Jon. Make sure you do not repeat this to anyone else.”

“You should go back before your parents realize you’re missing.” Damian opened the window for the other teen. “Are you sure? Because if you’re not okay-“ Damian shook his head. “I’m perfectly fine, I’ll take care of this and give the information to someone who will be able to confirm what Superman heard."

The young super took a while before leaving, but the fear of his parents finding him gone was bigger. Damian on the other hand was already penning a letter. If the family kept such important information from him, he could too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Your day was- tiring. You may have overdone it a bit, studying for finals, the anxiety of giving your artwork in for the diploma, helping with clean up, training, helping Titan clean spaces for more housing- by the time you were done you were exhausted.

When the explosion went off, you didn’t even flinch, the text message from Mark saying “dnt wor abt it” was good enough for you. So, you just continued buying your little snacks and energy drinks for tomorrow and went on your way, floating as you simply couldn’t be bothered with walking.

If you were, perhaps, not as tired as you were, you would have been a little bit more concerned about the swarm of reporters or paparazzi, you couldn’t even try to figure it out. “Madame Sorceress! What is your relationship to Mr. Wayne?” and “Hey! Hey, over here! How do you know Bruce Wayne?!” and a lot of similar questions you couldn’t be bothered to answer. “Sorceress! Why do you have beef with Mr. Wayne?”

Now that stopped your movement. You slowly turned towards the person who asked, squinting at the redhead. “You want that in chronological or alphabetical order?” That seemed to trigger more questions and yelling, but your attention was on your ringing phone. “Sorry folk, I have to take this.” Sluggishly, you flew higher than they could be able to pick up with any listening device and answered. “Sup’ Red-“

Your brows furrowed. “Now they found out?... How much?” Jason just snorted. “B tried to interrogate me and when that didn’t work out, Alfred tried to tug at my emotions. Right under their nose and they’re still not seeing it.” You snort. “You’re creating yourself trouble. Just tell them, not like they can do anything now.” Jason knew, but this- the phone number, the texting, and silly pics, was something the other bats didn’t have access to. It was something only he had, that he didn't have to share with the others. He wants it to stay that way. “Nah, let them stew in it.” Jason snickered. “Whatever, Jailbird. Good night.” You roll your eyes, laughing when he yells that you weren’t supposed to know that.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou @asillysimp @aalunar @cxcilla @sirenetheblogger

A tiny little micro sneak peak of chapter 15 because I feel kind:

Jason was having a terrible week, starting with Ms. “I wouldn’t have been as forgiving if you didn’t die and came back kinder to me” Wayne- well- Grayson? He doesn’t know anymore- he’s close enough to just forging papers that say you’re his biological little sister just to fuck with Bruce.

#dc x invincible #dc crossover #invincible crossover #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x neglected reader #yandere invincible #neglected reader #yandere batfamily #fem!reader #female!reader

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wandering-gambler · 3 months ago

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I can see Wanderer and Reader being friends for multiple years, but everyone else just thought you were a couple, but you guys didn't see it

you walk close, you sit together everywhere. Wherever you see one, the other follows close behind

You’ve gone to a hot springs together and sat questionably close together that it would be basically considered his lap, yet claimed you were still friends

Hell, when Wanderer comes over to your place to study for his Akademiya classes (even though he probably doesn't need to research shit, but he helps you anyway), he’ll occasionally (most of the time) let you rest on his chest or lap as you read or write

Oh, it's raining? Well, we can't have you getting sick under his watch! Get under his hat quickly, and no, you cannot talk your way out. You must be covered (if you did ever get sick under his watch, he’d internally panic and take care of yourself the entire time but scold you for not being more careful)

Are your hands cold? Let him hold one, or hell, even both! Oh, they aren't cold? Well, they feel freezing to him, so of course they are…

Did You get him a gift? You’ll see it in his room weeks later, or if it's a wearable gift, then you’ll see it on his person somewhere, and anyone who asks about it gets the pleasure of seeing him tense up and glare at him while trying to explain its from the person he is 100% down bad for but is too scared to admit it his friend

Wanna spar? Well, he’s more than willing to fight with you, but he in no way, shape, or form will use anything close to his full strength, and if he did harm you? Well, then get ready for him acting like half the world exploded but scolding you and himself for what happened

Have a drink together while you Yap to him about random stuff? Sure! But keep in mind that he's listening to everything, so you won't want to slip up anywhere.

On the getting-a-drink note, if you bring him tea on the occasions you wanna meet with him, it’ll eventually become a habit… and he has some great memory, so if you're early or late or even worse if you don't show up, you will be questioned to no end

It's your birthday? You may not have told him at any point in your time together, but he knows for some reason (Nahida), and he’s already planned to take you somewhere!

(Now, this one is purely self-indulgent because it's my birthday today and the day before Valentine's Day.) If you have a birthday near any holiday, he might complain that it's a waste and a money grab for humans. Well, it's hard to take that seriously when he’s out actively shopping with you for both your birthday and the holiday and taking you on an outing in twenty minutes that he swears to anyone who asks that it is not a date…

Are you tired while you are watching the stars with him? Oh, no worries, rest on his chest, and he’ll ramble about the constellations until you sleep

On the very slim chance he opens up to you, which would likely be late at night, maybe even when you guys were watching the stars or done studying, he’ll, for once in his life, let you hold him. Still, you’d have to be highly close to that. I feel like he would start small at first, like with his past names, then maybe some places he's been, then more about who he was, and then eventually the betrayals now if you choose to listen to him opening up (please do it's a big step into a more significant relationship and makes him feel like he can trust you more) then when he gets more into the personal things like the betrayals or what dottore did to him he’ll more than likely just be held by you for the next few hours— you won't be able to see his face. Still, your shirt feels wet, and when it's finally time to leave, his eyes are pretty red…don’t question it, though, unless you wanna be avoided for the rest of the night until tomorrow at lunch

And yet, you’ll still be ‘friends’ after all that. Eventually, Nahida tries to nudge him in the right direction to set you both up. When do you both get together? Well, not much changes besides the fact you now have the privilege to smother him in affection and a few… other things

#please help i can't write for shit #genshin impact #wanderer x reader #wanderer

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mononijikayu · 1 month ago

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only fools fall for you (only fools) — fushiguro toji.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?" "I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did." "Bullshit." The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?” "You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, nsfw, r-18, explicit smut, sexual intercourse, making out, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, creampie, angst, romance, teasing, hurt/comfort, pet names (babe, etc....), age gap (reader is early 40s, toji mid 50s), marriage, long-term relationship, infidelity/cheating, toxic relationship, illness, drama, slice of life, married life, emotional repression, family life, children, distress, regret, longing, profanity, acting, actors, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of naked bodies, depiction of emotional repression, mention of sexual innuendo, depiction of illness, mention of sexual intercourse, mention of secrets, mention of toxic relationship, mention of illness, actor! toji, actor! nanami, actor! reader;

WORD COUNT: 16k words

NOTE: i realized that the more i expounded on this universe, the more there i had to alter things because if i dont they might become plot holes. i edited the ages here. toji's reader is much younger than he is. though its certain to say there was a power imbalance, even if they dated when she was like 19 to 20. all the more to say there's nothing to root for in this relationship.

they were together in the beginning of reader's career and now that she's much older too. she's maybe gojo's age. nanami's reader is in the same age ranger as toji and nanami. the kids though are around the same ages. though tsumiki is at least six years younger than keiko and kenshin is a year or two older than tsumiki. anyway, i love you all!!! enjoy the series~

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

TODAY WAS EIGHTEEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE FOR THE TWO OF YOU. If you were being honest, you never thought you both would ever get here. Not because you didn’t love him. If anything, loving Toji was the one thing that had always come easy. It was just as easy as breathing, just as grievous as your eyes starting into the light of the blistering sun.

There was a lot that came together with such a marriage between people like you. It was everything that you didn’t think was hard before all the deliverance of parenthood. Everything you weren’t used to. Everything that just made it a little harder to leave. Everything that made it a little harder to stare at your husband in the eye.

There was too much that could have gone on in those eighteen years. You could barely count it. You could barely recall it. It would not be enough to sit there and talk about it either. But that was just how it was. There will always be distance, sacrifices, and to make it even worse, that putrid stubborn pride that ran deep in both of you.

You were both actors, constantly chasing roles, dreams, and paychecks, all while being parents to your young children, Tsumiki and Megumi, who, more often than not, lived with nannies more than they lived with you or Toji, regrettably.

Yet you both tried to be there, as much as you could. There should, unfortunately, be great emphasis on trying, for you were only good at trying but not succeeding. There could only be so much you could do so well before you end up admitting defeat.

Everything was hectic. Chaotic. The kind of life people envied from the outside but had no idea was slowly eroding you from the inside. One year, it was you flying across the world for a project, kissing their sleepy faces goodbye while Toji stayed home.

The next, it was him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead as he whispered, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Except it was never before you knew it.

It was long nights filled with blurry video calls, your kids’ faces pixelated as they recounted their days with excitement you struggled to keep up with. It was birthdays missed, watching Tsumiki blow out candles through a screen, clapping and smiling as if you didn’t feel like the worst mother alive. It was Megumi getting hurt at school, calling Toji first—not you.

There was a bitter realization that, at some point, you had fallen from first place in your children’s list of people to run to. And each time there was an incident like that, there were whispered arguments over the phone when the time difference meant you were half-asleep, his voice tight with frustration. You couldn't help it. You were a mother, who couldn’t be there. You were a bad mother, that’s what you think. Because you didn’t know how to help them.

“You said you’d be back last week.”

"Yeah, well, the shoot got extended. What do you want me to do, walk out?"

Your voice came out sharper than you intended, frustration laced in every syllable. You were exhausted, standing in the dim glow of your hotel room, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders.

The clock on your phone read 2:37 AM at the time. Back home, it was the middle of the afternoon. You were sure that Megumi’s soccer practice was probably ending, and Tsumiki was likely doing her homework at the dining table.

And your husband Toji, well he was at home. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was at the gym, or out drinking, or somewhere else entirely. The fact that you didn’t know only made your irritation flare hotter than ever before.

"For once in your goddamn life, just—just be here."

There was a beat of silence. Static crackled softly between you. Then, your husband Toji exhaled, rather long and slow, the way he always did when he was trying not to lose his temper. The way he had always been told at therapy.

"And what, you think I don’t want to be?" His voice was quieter now, but sharp, a blade dulled only at the edges. "You think I don’t want to be with them? With you?"

You scoffed, rubbing your temple. "If you wanted to be here, you would be."

"That’s rich, coming from you."

Your breath caught. Because he was right. He was always right about this. You left just as much as he did. You buried yourself in work, in scripts, in characters that weren’t you because it was easier than admitting that being at home, being a wife, being a mother….it was sometimes harder than anything a director could throw your way.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?"

"I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did."

"Bullshit."

The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?”

"You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

And maybe that was the worst part of it all is that he knew you too well. That no matter how much you tried to justify it, no matter how many times you told yourself you were building a better future for your family, Toji saw right through it. He saw you. Just as much as you saw through him.

"You’re the one who told me we’d figure it out," he said after a long silence. "That we’d make it work. So tell me, sweetheart—when does that part start?"

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

Toji had always hated fighting over the phone, always saying it was pointless when you couldn’t look each other in the eye. But that didn’t stop you. Not when resentment had been festering for years, not when every conversation started feeling like a negotiation instead of a moment to miss each other.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

It was never just him. It was never just you. It was the both of you, forever chasing something outside of each other, stretching ourselves too thin and expecting love to hold it all together. And yet, even when the walls closed in, even when the bitterness threatened to tip the scale, you both stayed. Even if staying only meant trying over and over again. Even when it was already beyond repair.

You couldn’t help yourself. You just couldn’t.

Because how could you be, without him?

There were times when you wished one of you had been strong enough to walk away. It would have been easier, wouldn’t it? To throw in the towel, sign the papers, make a clean break instead of dragging each other through years of exhaustion and unspoken wounds. It would have been merciful.

But mercy had never been your strong suit. Neither had Fushiguro Toji’s. Instead, you stayed in this cycle of breaking and mending, pushing and pulling, making love and making war, until you couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore.

"Have you ever thought about leaving?"

You had asked him once, during one of those rare nights when you both found yourselves in the same bed, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. There were no cameras, no scripts, no rehearsed lines around you, nothing that could stop the truth from coming out of your lips.

It was just the two of you, tangled in silence, caught between the weight of everything you had built and everything you had broken. Toji didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled, long and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah." The honesty of it stung, but not as much as his next words. “Multiple times.”

“Well, that’s the most honest you’ve been with me.”

“At least not while I’m drunk.” He says almost too quickly after you. Silence dwells for a moment after his breath. "But then I remember I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you, babe. I really don’t."

You turned your head, searching for something in his profile. There was that familiar furrow in his strong brow, the line of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed a slow, absentminded rhythm against his well toned stomach.

"That’s not…….you know what I mean, Toji."

He snorted, dry and humorless. "Never said it was.”

“But…..do you love me?”

“What sort of question is that?” He snickers back at you. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Those three words have become a taboo between the two of you. Only fools said those sorts of things to each other. It was too sacred, too honest, too passionate, too loving, too good. These were things you and Toji have long stopped being.

A beat passed. A breath. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could think about the consequences of asking, the words slipped out. "Not even when Tsumiki isn’t yours?"

This time, Toji didn’t hesitate at all with his response. He let out a sharp, cynical laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. You could see the way his muscle tenses each time the talk is brought up between the two of you—even in childish fights. You wanted to see each other hurt. You wanted to see each other burn.

And yet, this moment was real. It was tender. You meant it this time, to ask him about this. Not out of malice, not to exploit him where it hurts. Instead, you meant it with all your heart. You were finally being genuine.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

No excuses, no justifications. The truth, laid out in the open between you. The one neither of you ever talked about, the one you had swallowed down for years, pretending it didn’t fester beneath the surface. He turned his head then, finally looking at you, dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of your bedroom.

"But that’s the past." His voice was quieter now, but firmer, like it was something he had told himself over and over again. Like it was something he needed to believe.

“Yes.” You whispered to him in reply, just as quietly. “It is.”

"She’s my daughter." His fingers clenched slightly against the sheets before he forced them to relax. "Not anyone else’s. Just mine.”

You swallowed. Because you knew Toji meant it. He had never treated Tsumiki any differently, never once let her believe she was anything other than his. He had tucked her into bed, taught her how to ride a bike, held her when she cried over scraped knees and schoolyard heartbreaks.

And yet, you had wondered—selfishly, cruelly—if he had ever resented her.

If he had ever looked at her and seen the biggest mistake of his life.

"Do you ever think about it?" you whispered, because you needed to know.

Toji exhaled sharply through his nose. "Every fucking day."

The admission settled between you like a bruise, dark and aching. “....I see.”

"But not the way you think." His hand found yours then, fingers slipping between yours, rough and warm, calloused from years of fights and work and holding on too tightly.

“What do you mean by that?”

"I don’t think about the way she got here." He squeezed your hand once. "I just think about what my life would look like if she wasn’t in it."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "And?"

Toji’s lips twitched, something softer flickering across his expression before it faded just as quickly. "And it’d be a hell of a lot worse."

You turned your head back to the ceiling, blinking against the tightness in your throat. "Yeah."

And just like that, the past. All the ugly, unspoken, unforgivable past seemed to settle back into silence. Where it always had been. Where it always would be. But he had reached for your hand, fingers tangling with yours, holding tight. And you had let him.

Maybe that was all you had left now. It was not truthful love, not at all. It was not as bright. It was not that burning thing it had once been, but something else. Yet maybe that was for the best. You would not have lasted this long without it.

You were content with this, your little something. Something quieter. Something heavier. Something built from shared history, shared destruction, and the fear of a world where the other no longer existed in it. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right. But it was yours. And for eighteen years, it had been enough.

You swirl the wine in your glass, watching how the deep red clings to the sides. It reminds you of the past, of nights spent drowning in resentment, of fights that left unseen wounds, of years where you weren’t sure whether you hated him or hated yourself more.

You glance at Toji. He looks the same as he always does. Still rough around the edges, too handsome for his own good, wearing that perpetual smirk like life has never been cruel to him. But you know better. You see the things no one else does. The guilt that still lingers on both your hearts, the weight of endless mistakes that can’t ever be undone.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result."

The words still echo in your head, not painful anymore. It was just a memory now, faded at the edges. Because you had made your mistakes, too. You had your own sins to answer for. But unlike him, you don’t feel guilty. At least, not anymore. Mrs. Kento freed you. As much as you had freed yourself.

Maybe you should. Maybe you would have some shame. Maybe, in another life, you would have. But in this one, in this marriage that has been more war than love, you learned long ago that guilt was a luxury. It was for people who wanted to atone, people who wished things had gone differently.

You have no regrets now.

But Toji did. He always would.

You had forgiven him, after all.

Yet he knows you’ll never forget.

You see it now, in the way he glances at you between sips of his drink, like he’s waiting for something. Punishment? Forgiveness? You’re not sure. Maybe he’s not, either. But it’s too late to give one on your part. You were too exhausted with that game. And you were a fool. The best thing a woman like you could be. Well, at least that’s what you think.

"What?" you ask, tilting your head.

He exhales through his nose, a soft huff of laughter. "Nothing."

But it’s not nothing. You know him too well for that. "You look like you got something to say."

"I don’t."

"Liar."

He smirks at that, shaking his head. For a moment, the weight between you lifts, the bitterness dulling into something more tolerable. "Eighteen years, huh?" he says, leaning back in his chair. "Didn’t think we’d make it this far."

"Neither did I." You take a sip of your wine, letting it settle on your tongue before swallowing. "Yet here we are."

"Here we are." He clinks his glass against yours. "Still standing."

You arch a brow. "Barely."

He grins. "Still counts."

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. Because maybe Toji was right. Maybe it did count.Maybe, despite all the years of hurt and betrayal and anger, despite everything you lost along the way, you both still tried. And maybe, just maybe — that was enough.

You kissed him, pouring all your pent-up emotions into it with that drunken spirit. Your lips moved against his with a desperate urgency, as if you were trying to make up for all the years you'd wasted apart. Toji’s hands were everywhere, roaming your body with a possessive hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss.

You gasped for breath, consumed by him, by the feel of his lips, his hands, his body pressed against yours. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The past, the future, the world outside — it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other's arms.

Toji's massive hands gripped your hips painfully, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you against him. His kiss was brutal, punishing, as if he were trying to devour you whole. They always were.

You gasped, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Toji's tongue invaded your mouth, dominating, claiming, leaving no room for protest. His hands roamed your body possessively, squeezing and groping as if he owned every inch of you.

"We belong to each other, don’t we?" He growled against your lips, his voice laced with a toxic mix of bitterness and affection and desire."You've always been mine, and I'm never letting you go again."

Toji ripped your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. He tore at your bra, freeing your breasts, and palmed them roughly. His touch was painful, bordering on cruel, but your body betrayed you, nipples hardening under his calloused hands.

Toji's mouth descended on your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he marked you. He sucked hard, intent on leaving a bruise, a visible claim of ownership. His hands slid down your body, popping the button on your skirt and yanking down the zipper.

Toji hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging both your skirt and underwear down in one brutal motion. He spun you around, bending you over the nearest surface, not caring what it was.

Toji kicked your legs apart, his hand coming down hard on your bare ass. The sharp sting made you cry out, but he ignored it, his fingers digging into your hips as he positioned himself behind you.

"Toji….please." you gasped, your voice a mix of pain and plea.

But your husband wasn't listening. He was lost in his own twisted desire, driven by all these years that had come about this marriage. He was always like this when it comes to that.

You don’t blame him. You both were the worst people you knew. And he was desperate most of the time to pretend that the innocence of your love before this was still there.

He drowned in you as he let his hips snapped forward, his cock plunging into you with a force that stole your breath. He set a punishing pace, each thrust designed to hurt, to claim, to dominate. Toji's hand came down on your ass again, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. Tears streamed down your face, a mix of pain and unwanted pleasure coursing through your veins.

"You're mine, babe." Toji growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it. Say you're mine." His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he continued his brutal assault.

"I'm yours, I’m yours….." you whispered, your voice breaking.

It was the only thing you could say, the only thing that would stop the pain. Toji's grip on your hair tightened, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigor. You mewled as he dug deeper with each and every move.

"Louder, babe." he demanded, his voice a snarl. "I want the whole fucking world to hear you."

You took a shuddering breath, forcing the words out. "I'm yours, Toji. I'm yours!"

The admission seemed to snap something inside him. Toji's movements became erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chased his release. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

But even as he emptied himself into you, Fushiguro Toji didn't stop. He continued to thrust, his movements slower now but no less intense, as if he were trying to brand you with his touch, to imprint himself onto your very soul.

"Never forget it." Toji groaned brutishly, his breath hot against your ear. "You belong to me. Only me….I belong to you the same way. You know that, don’t you? You always have. You always will. This was just a reminder."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something you refused to acknowledge. Toji's hand slid around your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck possessively.

"I'll never let you go." Toji whispered, his voice a sinister promise. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."

“Toji, fuck fuck…huh…ah—”

“You could fuck whoever you want, babe.” He says, choking in his pleasure. “But, fuck—only I have you. Only I do. You know that.”

“I….you’re—too good! Toji, deeper! Fuckkkkkk…….”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp for air. You could feel your husband's other hand snaked around your bruising hip, his long fingers finding your clit and rubbing in rough, demanding circles.

"Come for me." he commanded, his voice low and dangerous."Come on my cock like the good little slut you are." His words, his touch, the lack of oxygen. It all combined to push you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as pleasure mixed with pain. Fushiguro Toji's fingers dug into your throat, his touch bordering on violent as he rode out your climax. He thrust into you erratically, brutishly, barbarically, feeling his own release building again.

"Fuck, yes, yes…..fucking fuckkkkkkk….." he growled, his hips slamming into yours with a bruising force. "Take it all. Baby, fuck, you feel so good. Take it. Every last drop."

Toji's body tensed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came a second time. He collapsed on top of you, sweat blending as his weight crushed you into the surface beneath you. You gasped for air, your lungs burning horribly, your body aching. Toji's hand slid from your throat, his fingers trailing down your chest possessively.

"Mine, mine…." he murmured, his voice slurred with satisfaction. "You're all mine."

Toji stayed buried inside you, his softening cock a constant reminder of what had just happened. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so that you were spooned against his chest. His strong weary wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him.

You lay there, stunned and shaken, your mind reeling from the intensity of the encounter. Toji's breath was hot against your neck, his heartbeat steady and strong in your ear. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his lips surprisingly gentle.

Toji chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Happy anniversary, my dear wife.” he said, his fingers trailing down your arm in a parody of affection. "Another year of blissful married life."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "Blissful? Is that what you call it? Or what the trends call it?" you retorted, poking him in the chest. "I seem to remember spending half the year sleeping on the couch."

Toji caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. "Ah, but think of all the fun we had when I finally dragged you back to bed, babe." he smirked. "You know you can't resist me for long."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Arrogant bastard."

You mutter those words and yet there was no heat behind the words. This was a dance you both knew well, a twisted game of push and pull that defined your marriage. You had been through this too many times before.

Toji's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I'm not just a bastard, I'm your bastard, aren’t I?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you love me for it."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Or maybe you just love the way I fuck you when you're being a brat."

You gasped, your cheeks flushing at his crude words.But before you could retort, Fushiguro Toji's mouth was on yours, kissing you deeply, possessively. He bit your lip, hard enough to sting, before pulling back.

"Now, how about we celebrate our anniversary properly?" he suggested, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. "I'll even let you top this time, if you're feeling generous."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at your lips. "In your dreams, Fushiguro Toji." you said, pushing him away playfully. "I'm not that easy."

Toji laughed, the sound rich and warm. Your husband grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back against his chest. You started to laugh with him, shaking your head. You were sure that it was the mix of the wine, the pleasure and the ambiance that had put you into such a good mood.

"Oh, you're easy, babe." he teased, nipping at your neck. "You're just playing hard to get."

You giggled, squirming in his arms. "Prove it to me. Right now." you challenged, your eyes sparkling with mirth.

Toji groaned, his hands roaming your body. "Fine, I'll prove it. But first, I need more wine."

You slyly smiled. “That’s more like it. Go on and get it.”

He released you, heading towards the kitchen. "Red or white?" he called over his shoulder. "And don't you dare say 'surprise me', or I'll choose the cheapest bottle we have."

You laughed, settling back onto the couch. "Red." you shouted back. "And make it a good one, or I'll make you sleep on the couch tonight."

“So demanding you are.”

“Hm, that’s what you still need to learn after eighteen years.”

“We’ve been together longer than that.”

You laughed. “That’s why we’re fools, aren’t we?”

“Hm.” He mumbles as he leans in, kissing you as he holds the wine in his hands. “True enough.”

YOU AND TOJI TAKE LONGER BREAKS NOW. And that was perhaps for the best now that the kids are getting older. You’ve decided this a long time ago, but it was only now that it was a reality. With Toji and you being under your own management, there was more ability to say no to projects more often.

Now that you and Toji are finally able to be a little less busy, you find yourselves grasping at the time that once slipped so easily through your fingers. It’s a strange thing, this newfound stillness.

After years of living out of suitcases, jumping from set to set, and calling home through glitchy video calls, the quiet should be a relief. But in truth, it’s unsettling. Because now, without the distraction of work, you’re forced to face the spaces you left behind.

You try as much as you can. You really put everything in trying and succeeding to spend more time with your kids, to be present in ways you couldn’t be before. But parenting, when you’ve spent so long being absent, is a careful balance of patience and guilt.

You’re stepping into lives that have learned how to function without you, and no matter how much they love you, no matter how many dinners you cook or movie nights you organize, there’s no undoing the years of distance.

Seventeen year old Fushiguro Tsumiki is about to take her entrance exams for college, a milestone that you can hardly believe is already here. You remember the day she first came into your life, all wide eyes and soft smiles, and now she’s filling out applications, weighing her options, making plans for a future that doesn’t depend on you or Toji.

Tsumiki sat at the kitchen table, hunched over her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she typed out her application essay. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the furrow in her brow, the quiet determination in her eyes.

Toji leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. You could tell he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to say it without making it sound like an argument.

"Are you sure about this school?" he finally asked, his voice casual, though you knew better. "Could be a bit too far from us, don’t you think?"

Tsumiki barely spared him a glance, too focused on the words forming on her screen. "Yeah, I’m going to be fine at this school, dad."

There was a slight exasperation in her tone, but it wasn’t angry. Instead, it was that was her tender firmness, like she had already decided, like this was something she had put real thought into. At times, you like to think she got that from Toji.

"It’s got the best program for what I want to do."

Toji scratched his jaw, pretending like he didn’t already know the answer to the question he was about to ask. "And what’s that again?"

Tsumiki rolled her eyes, a soft huff escaping her lips as she finally looked up at him. "I’ve told you a hundred times, dad."

Toji shrugged, pushing off the counter. "Yeah, well, tell me again."

You expected her to be annoyed, to say something sharp about how he never listened, about how he always asked the same things but never really heard her. But instead, she sighed and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It’s got the best program for child psychology, Kyoto University." she said, her voice softer now. "It’s one of the top schools for it. The research they do there, the opportunities… it’s what I need if I want to do this seriously."

“Okay, I see.”

She paused, studying her father, then added. "And it’s not like I’m moving across the world. It’s a few hours away."

Fushiguro Toji took a moment and exhaled slowly, leaning against the chair across from her, running a hand down his face. He nodded, though he didn’t say anything right away. It wasn’t about the school. Not really.

It was about her—about how she was growing up, about how she wasn’t a little girl anymore. About how, one day soon, she would leave, and there wouldn’t be application essays sprawled across the kitchen table or late-night snacks stolen from the fridge when she thought no one was looking.

And maybe Fushiguro Tsumiki understood that.

Because instead of snapping at him for forgetting, for questioning her choices, she met him where he was, speaking to him with patience and grace. As if she could see past his words, straight into the unspoken fear buried beneath them. Because at the end of the day, her dad was just concerned for her and wanted her around.

As if she knew he wasn’t really asking about the school.

He was asking if she was really ready to go.

And she was, she was a grown young woman ready to go.

You just sat there, listening to them, watching the way Toji asked questions he already knew the answers to, the way Tsumiki answered with more patience than he probably deserved. It was such a small thing, a simple conversation between a father and his daughter, but it lodged itself deep in your chest, heavy with a kind of warmth you hadn’t felt in years.

For all your shortcomings, for all the missed birthdays, the forgotten recitals, the times you had been nothing more than voices through a speaker or fleeting figures in the doorway—Tsumiki still let you in.

She still sat at this table with you. She still spoke to you both with openness, as if she had never once resented the distance, as if she had never longed for different parents, ones who had always been there. She could have turned away. She could have built walls so high neither of you could have reached her.

But instead, she waited to open that letter in front of you. Instead, she still explained her dreams, still let you be part of them, even after all the years you had spent missing pieces of her life. And that was what broke you the most.

Not the guilt, not the regret—but the grace.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, gripping the edge of your seat as if grounding yourself would somehow make this moment last longer. It wasn’t often that the past allowed itself to be forgiven, and yet, here was Tsumiki, still offering it to you freely, without expectation, without resentment.

Toji exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of it all pressing down on him in real time. "Well, guess that means I better start looking at housing prices out there."

Tsumiki blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. "Dad—"

"What?" he shot back, crossing his arms. "You think I’m gonna let you live in some shitty dorm with mold in the walls? Not a chance."

"Dorms aren’t that bad—"

"Have you seen those places? I’d rather pay for you to live somewhere that won’t give you some disease." Toji says to her, shaking his head. “What daughter of mine will live in some shithole? Your mother and I make more than enough to get you some good apartment, you know that.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to hide the smile threatening to form. "Toji, let her breathe. She hasn’t even left yet, and you’re already planning to follow her."

He scoffed. "Damn right I am. What kind of dad would I be if I didn’t at least check out the area? Make sure she’s not living next to some creep?"

Tsumiki groaned, dropping her face into her hands, but you caught the small smile tugging at her lips before she did. "Oh my god, you two are impossible."

"You love us, admit it, sweetie." Toji said easily, smirking.

And she didn’t argue. She just shook her head, laughing softly, before turning her attention back to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard once more with the eager zealousness she had always had.

You sat back, watching them bicker, watching the way the warmth filled the space between you all, and something inside you settled. Because after everything, after the misgivings, the years spent apart, the quiet fractures that once seemed irreparable.

She was still here. She still let you be her parents And maybe you hadn’t always been good at it. Maybe you had spent too many years failing, too many years missing the moments that mattered. But somehow, she still lets you try.

Then there’s your son Megumi. Your youngest, but never really your baby. He has always been too sharp, too self-sufficient, always moving through life like he already knows how it ends. And you didn’t know how you could have been a better mother than he already was to himself.

Fushiguro Megumi never hated acting. That much you knew. If anything, he was good at it. He was just that talent that comes once in a lifetime. He was so good, in fact, that it was almost frustrating.

Some people spent their whole lives fighting for a place in the industry, scraping for every opportunity, but for Megumi, it came easy. Natural. Directors liked him, critics praised him, and his face had become familiar in the industry, even if he never really tried to be.

But you saw it. In the way his shoulders tensed at red carpet events, the way his polite smiles never quite reached his eyes. In the way he flipped through scripts like they were another chore on his to-do list rather than a dream waiting to be realized.

"There’s too much damn dialogue in this thing." he muttered one night, stretching across the couch, script in one hand, a book in the other. “I’m not like Yuuji who can do this all the time!”

You looked up from your own book, raising a brow. "Too much dialogue? That’s the whole point, Megumi. It’s called acting."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, flipping a page lazily before tossing the script onto the coffee table with a sigh. "It’s just… too much talking. Too much over-explaining. Sometimes a look is enough, you know? A pause. A beat. You don’t need a five-minute monologue about life and its fleeting purpose to get that across."

You smirked. "Try telling that to the writers."

"Believe me, I have." he deadpanned, tilting his head toward you. "They don’t listen."

You hummed, watching him. The way his fingers skimmed the worn spine of his book, the way he traced over the inked words as if they carried more weight than any script ever could.

"Why don’t you quit, then?" you asked after a beat, catching him off guard. “I’m sure whatever you do, me and your dad will support you.”

Megumi blinked at you, his lips parting slightly before pressing into something unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might actually consider it, might admit something he hadn’t before. But instead, his mouth curled into a small, knowing smirk.

"I don’t hate it," he said simply, shrugging as he leaned back against the couch.

"No?" you challenged, tilting your head.

"No." He looked down at his book, flipping a page with deliberate ease. "I just like something else more."

You nodded, letting his words settle between you. "Literature?" you guessed.

He exhaled, glancing at you briefly before returning to his book. "Stories."

Something about the way he said it, quiet but certain, stuck with you. You and Toji had spent your whole lives chasing the next big role, the next big paycheck, the next big thing. You had built your careers on the idea that passion and success were the same, that you could never have one without the other.

But Megumi, he just knew exactly where his love lay. And more importantly, he wasn’t afraid to say it. You watched him for a while, the way his gaze lingered on the words before him, how relaxed he looked in that moment, lost in a world of his own choosing.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Maybe he wouldn’t chase the same dreams you did. Maybe he wouldn’t take every job, every opportunity, every chance to stay relevant in an industry that never let anyone rest.

"We should have dinner together, shouldn’t we?" you said, glancing between Megumi and Toji, who were both still lounging in the living room. "It’s been a while since we actually sat down as a family, and I don’t mean takeout at the kitchen counter."

Toji stretched, cracking his neck as he glanced over at you. "Yeah, that’s a good idea. We can go somewhere nice. Anywhere you guys want."

Megumi just grunted in response, still nose-deep in his book, which you took as his usual version of agreement. “I guess.”

But then Tsumiki, who had been sitting at the dining table with her laptop open, perked up slightly. "Can Kenshin come?"

You paused, your brows furrowing. "Nanami Kenshin?"

She nodded, twirling her pen between her fingers. "Yeah. He’s been kind of… going through it."

You exchanged a glance with Toji before settling your gaze back on her. "What’s wrong?"

Tsumiki sighed, closing her laptop and leaning forward on her elbows. "You know about his dad, right? The cheating rumors?"

You exhaled sharply, feeling the air punctured from your lungs. "Yeah. It’s been everywhere."

Nanami Kento’s scandal had taken over the news cycle for weeks. The once-stoic, well-respected actor had been photographed leaving a hotel with someone who was not his wife, and from there, the speculation spiraled.

Every single day, there were headlines, opinion pieces, talk shows dissecting his every move, paparazzi following not just him, but his family. Kenshin, being his only son, was getting dragged into it whether he wanted to or not.

In some ways, you were lucky that you never got caught. But it was just that he was good at hiding his tracks more when you both worked together. And you worked together more than twice in two years.

Yet it had to end, once you gave birth to Tsumiki. And then when you were pregnant with Megumi. It wasn’t fair to your children. It never was and it never will. That’s why you broke it off.

"He’s not handling it well." Tsumiki admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. "You know how private he is. And now he can’t even go outside without a camera in his face. He barely eats, barely sleeps. He’s just… stressed, and I figured maybe having dinner with us would help."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. You’d known Kenshin since he was a kid—he and Tsumiki had been close for years, practically growing up together. He had always been serious, quiet like his father, preferring to stay out of the limelight even though his last name made that impossible.

"Of course he can come." you said finally, softening. "We’ll make sure he eats something."

Tsumiki smiled, relieved, as she reached for her phone.

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, finally huffed. "Tch. If that dumbass father of his had half a brain, he’d have kept his shit together."

You shot him a look. "Not the time, Toji."

He grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. You watched as Tsumiki typed out a message to Kenshin, and something in your chest ached. Because for all the ways you had failed as parents over the years, Tsumiki had grown into someone who noticed when others were hurting.

And that had to mean something.

As you looked at your husband, he knew.

This was a hurt your daughter should never know.

IT WAS EERIE THAT EVERYTHING WAS THIS PEACEFUL. After being in the limelight for so long, you were just used to being surrounded by many people. People who were watching you eat, have a glass of wine, and have a conversation. Tonight was a whole other thing.

The restaurant was quiet, a dimly lit private dining space meant to shield its patrons from the outside world. It was the kind of place you and Toji had grown accustomed to over the years, where deals were made, secrets were kept, and appearances were carefully crafted under the warm glow of candlelight.

But as you slid into your seat across from Nanami Kenshin, no amount of careful curation could settle the knot in your stomach. You had spent your whole life perfecting the art of deception. On screen, in interviews, even at home. You could lie with your face, with your voice, with the ease of someone who had done it for far too long.

But now, as you watched Kenshin unfold his napkin with quiet precision, his brows drawn together in that familiar, contemplative way, you felt something unravel inside you. Because he looked just like his father. Too much just like him.

It had been easier when they were children, when Kenshin and Tsumiki were nothing more than two kids bonding over burnt pastries and mismatched spices in their middle school culinary club. Back then, your fears had been different and rather miniscule, smaller than dust.

You had only worried about whether Tsumiki would get along with the other students, or whether she would find a friend in the reserved, sharp-eyed boy who always seemed to prefer the background. Back then, Tsumiki didn’t look like Kento.

But as the years passed, something shifted. It was in the little things at first. It was the way her patience stretched longer, the way her silences began carrying weight, the way she observed before speaking, before acting.

Then it was in the eyes. His caramel eyes. And now, sitting across from Kenshin, you felt it again. That gnawing weight in your chest. You couldn’t help but feel your lips dry up. You immediately lift your wine glass up to your lips and drank swiftly.

"You okay?" Toji’s voice was low, his hand settling against your thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze meant to keep you tethered.

You forced a nod, fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass, though the drink did nothing to soothe you. Because it wasn’t about regret. It had never been about regret. You had made your choices long ago, and you had lived with them.

But guilt? Well, the guilt here was different. And it was something you promised you would never feel again. But you couldn’t help it. Not in front of him. You owe it to him to feel a little bit guilty, even if it was all years ago. You were complicit. You were just as guilty.

You continued to let your eyes linger. You could see it. Your own guilt. Guilt was staring at the dark circles under Kenshin’s eyes, at the way he barely touched his menu, exhaustion weighing him down in ways that had nothing to do with the long day he must have had.

Guilt was watching him flinch slightly when Toji made an offhand remark about the press. Guilt was knowing that he didn’t deserve any of this. Guilt was making him stay here with the woman that his father slept with.

And yet, he bore the brunt of it all—the whispers, the cameras, the endless speculation. The price of being born into a home that no longer felt like one. The home you helped ruin. And he would never even know.

Tsumiki was the one to break the silence.

"You should eat, Kenshin." Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of tone she only ever used when she was worried.

Kenshin barely looked up from the menu, his fingers resting against the edges of the pages, but he hadn’t turned them once. "I’m not really that hungry."

You watched as Tsumiki frowned, her brows knitting together in quiet concern.

"You still need to eat, you idiot." she pressed, nudging his foot under the table. "I didn’t invite you just so you could sit here and mope, you know."

Kenshin exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face, but it was faint. He closed the menu and leaned back against his chair, tilting his head slightly in her direction. "You invited me?"

"Of course I did." she said easily, like it wasn’t even a question. “Didn’t you answer me on the phone earlier? At least act interested! My parents are paying!”

Kenshin didn’t respond right away. He stared at her for a long moment, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place—hesitation, gratitude, maybe even exhaustion. And then, slowly, he picked up the menu again, actually looking at it this time.

"Fine. But you’re ordering for me."

Tsumiki smiled, triumphant. "Obviously."

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, huffed a small chuckle before glancing at you. "They remind you of anyone?"

You knew what he was implying. You and him, all those years ago. It was before the fights, before the resentment, before the weight of your mistakes began pressing into every crack of your marriage. But you couldn’t even force a smile. Not with Kenshin sitting there, unknowingly reminding you of everything you had spent years trying to forget.

"So, Kenshin–senpai." Megumi spoke up, finally tearing himself away from his book. He turned to Kenshin, arching a brow. "How’s your mom doing?"

The question was casual enough, but you stiffened, your fingers tightening around your wine glass. Kenshin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "She’s… dealing with it. I don’t know. It’s been rough." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "She’s handling it better than I am, though."

You swallowed. Because how could he not be struggling? How could he not be going through it? His whole life had been dragged into the spotlight, his father’s name turned into nothing more than a headline, a scandal, a spectacle.

“Your sister must be just as distraught too.” Tsumiki murmured under her breath, looking with empathy at her best friend. “I hope she’s alright.”

“She’s in Kyoto right now, that’s where she’s prepping for her licensing exams.” Kenshin sighed. “Honestly, I know it’s best for her. But I worry about her. I know that she gets really bad when she’s upset.”

You forced yourself to speak, voice even. "If she ever needs anything, let her know she can call me. I’m sure we can do something for your sister too.”

Kenshin nodded, but his gaze remained unreadable. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Fushiguro. I appreciate it. Really.”

Toji watched you closely, his fingers tapping against his glass, but he said nothing. And as the conversation moved forward, shifting into lighter topics. Now onto university plans, upcoming projects, the best dish on the menu. In that time, you forced yourself to push the guilt down.

Because Kenshin still didn’t know.

And you told yourself that was all that mattered.

That was for his own good.

At least that's what you believed.

TOJI THINKS HE SHOULD WIN AN AWARD FOR HIS ACTING LATELY. Of course, he wasn’t talking about his jobs. He’s not filmed anything in the past year and a half. But there was something else that could give him some sort of award winning accolade. And it’s because Fushiguro Toji had been hiding something for a little while now.

Lymphoma.

It was strange, how the word hadn’t shaken him the way it probably should have. The doctor had said it gently, cautiously, like he was waiting for the weight of it to sink in. But Toji had simply sat there, one leg bouncing impatiently, as if he were waiting for something more pressing to be said.

"It’s treatable." the doctor had assured him, voice steady, professional. "But we need to start soon."

And maybe that was why it hadn’t rattled him. Maybe it was the way the doctor had framed it. It was like a problem with a solution, a challenge to be dealt with rather than a death sentence. Or maybe it was because Fushiguro Toji had lived his whole life expecting something to take him out eventually. But not today. Not yet.

"You have any questions?" the doctor had asked.

Toji had thought about it, had considered asking what the worst-case scenario looked like, and had considered asking how much time he had if treatment didn’t work. But in the end, all he had done was shake his head and stand up.

"Alright. I’ll be in touch."

And that was that.

So far, no one has noticed.

Which was a good thing.

He didn’t want anyone to be concerned.

Not his wife, who had enough to think about. It was a lot of balancing work, their marriage, their kids, all while carrying the kind of history that still bled into their present. If you knew, you would surely drop everything. You’d hover him like he was a pitiful creature. She’d watch him like he was a ticking bomb, and Toji didn’t have it in him to be the reason for that kind of worry.

Not Tsumiki, who had spent her whole damn life caring for people, who had already learned to read between the lines too well. If she knew, she’d put herself on hold. Toji had spent too many years trying to teach her not to do that, to live for herself, to stop putting the world on her shoulders.

And definitely not Megumi. Not his quiet, unreadable, sharp-eyed kid who already carried more weight than he should, who had learned too young what disappointment felt like, what distance felt like, what it meant to survive rather than simply live.

No. If Megumi knew, he’d take it on himself, the same way he always did. And Toji couldn’t let that happen, not when his kids are doing something for themselves for once. Not when they were at the prime of their lives.

So, he hid it.

Not when the fatigue settled in his bones, making every movement feel like dragging himself through sand.

Not when the weight slipped from him, slow but steady, his clothes fitting just a little looser, his rings spinning just a little too easily on his fingers.

Not even when the pain dug into his chest late at night, deep and relentless, the kind that kept him awake even on the nights when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open.

Because what good would telling them do?

What good would putting that burden on them accomplish?

So, he forced himself to keep up. Forced himself to eat, even when the nausea made it difficult. Forced himself to be present, even when his body begged him to rest. Forced himself to be himself at least until he couldn’t anymore. And for now, at least, he was doing a damn good job of it.

But the thing about hiding something this big was that Toji had to be careful. It wasn’t enough to just act normal. He had to be convincing. Like he usually was. He had to keep up routines, make sure there were no suspicious gaps in his behavior.

He couldn’t afford to look tired, couldn’t hesitate when lifting the groceries or shut his eyes too long when rubbing at the ache in his chest. So far, he’d managed. Tsumiki and Megumi hadn’t noticed a thing. And you—his wife—hadn’t either. Or at least, if you had, you hadn’t said anything.

But Toji knew it was only a matter of time. Because the thing about secrets was that they always crept up, slipping through the cracks when you least expected them to. And for all his effort, for all the control he tried to maintain over his body, his body had a way of betraying him.

The first real crack came on a random Tuesday.

He had just stepped out of the shower when you entered the bedroom, flipping through something on your phone, mumbling about dinner plans. His towel hung around his shoulders, water still dripping from his hair, steam clinging to his skin.

You hadn’t been paying much attention at first, distracted, focused on something else entirely. And then you froze. Your husband Toji didn’t understand why at first—then he followed your gaze.

To his ribs.To the way his skin clung too closely to his bones, to the ghastly and rather sharp hollows that hadn’t been there before, to the proof of what he had been keeping from you all this time.

He saw the way your lips parted, how something flickered in your eyes. It was that realization he knew he never wanted to see in your face in any life time. You purse your lips into a line and then a little later, let it slip open.

"Toji." You said his name like a question. Like you were trying to confirm something you already knew.

He exhaled, reaching for his shirt, acting like it was nothing. "Yeah?"

"Have you… been eating?"

A scoff. A forced chuckle. "What kind of question is that? I eat everything that you give me, babe. I’m fine."

"You’ve lost weight."

"I’m busy with the entertainment company. And I produce too, you know. Maybe it’s that. Don't worry too much." He pulled the shirt over his head, voice easy, practiced. "It’s not like I have a home-cooked meal waiting for me every day."

You didn’t respond right away. And that was worse. Because Fushiguro Toji knew you. Knew how your mind worked, how you saw through bullshit faster than anyone else. You did not believe him one second.

You stepped closer, fingertips ghosting over his ribs through the fabric, and he had to fight the urge to step back. Your eyes were sharp, scanning him, searching for something. "You’ve been tired too, aren’t you? That’s why we took a break, didn’t we?"

"I’m getting older, too. Don’t forget that side effect."

"And you’ve been—"

"Drop it." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Babe, seriously. I’m fine. Look…I’m sorry.”

Your lips pressed together, and for a split second, Toji thought he saw something flicker there. Hurt. He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging a hand down his face. He forced his voice softer.

"I’m serious about it. I’m fine. Just been working too much."

A long pause.

Then you nodded.

He saw your eyes.

But your eyes told him you weren’t convinced. And Toji didn’t like that look. Because it meant you were starting to notice. And if you noticed, it was only a matter of time before the kids did too.

So, he needed to do better. He needed to get it together. He needed to be more careful. Needed to keep it hidden just a little longer. This was his problem. He had to solve it his way. Because he wasn’t ready for you or the kids to know. Not yet.

A LOT HAS HAPPENED OVER THE PAST FEW MONTHS. It was a few months later when Fushiguro Tsumiki got accepted into Kyoto University. And everything about it has been a splendid triumph for the Fushiguro family for quite a while. Most especially from you and Toji.

The house had been buzzing with excitement, with you crying happy tears while Megumi offered his usual quiet but sincere congratulations. Even Toji, who had never been the most expressive, had pulled her into a side hug, murmuring a gruff “Knew you’d get in.”

And now, here you were—moving her into her dorm.

Toji had insisted on helping, despite you knowing that he got tired more easily these days. He played it off well, cracking jokes about how dorm mattresses were probably just wooden planks covered in fabric and how campus food was going to be the worst thing she’d ever eat.

But you saw it very clearly. You were watching your husband all through the steps with eyes like a hawk. You could see the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was working through some ache he wasn’t talking about.

But you said nothing. Not yet.

You didn’t want to push him.

You didn’t want to make him upset.

Not today of all days, when he’s happy.

The drive there had been mostly filled with Tsumiki’s excited chatter. She kept talking about how she had already connected with her dorm mate online, how she planned to join a few clubs, how she wanted to explore the city more now that she’d be living in it.

By the time you reached the dorm, the sun was high, and the campus buzzed with students moving in, parents saying tearful goodbyes. Toji carried most of her heavier boxes despite your protests, only shooting you a look when you tried to take one from him.

Inside her dorm, it felt real. She was really going to be here. She was really moving on to this next part of her life. She’s no longer a little girl. She’s a growing young woman and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

All the sudden you felt choked up. “I’m going to get us some beverages.”

Your husband nods at you, watching you leave the room with your forlorn look. He knew you were overwhelmed. He sighed. He moved towards the edge of the room. After setting down the last box, Toji stretched, exhaling deeply. Then he glanced around the small space, nodding as if approving it.

“Not bad. Still think you could’ve picked something closer, though.”

Tsumiki turned from where she was unpacking her books, rolling her eyes. “Dad, it’s not even that far. It’s just Kyoto. The Shinkansen can take me home in a couple of hours.”

"Far enough." He folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "Before, if you needed anything, we were just down the hall. Now, what? Gotta call ahead and book an appointment just to see you?"

Tsumiki sighed, but there was a fondness in her expression. “You know it’s not like that.”

Toji shrugged, looking around the room before settling his gaze back on her. "You're growing up too fast. Soon, you won’t need me or your mom anymore."

Tsumiki’s hands stilled as she placed a book on her desk. Then she turned fully, brows furrowing. “That’s not true.”

"Isn’t it?" Toji smirked, but there was something else underneath it. Something unreadable. "What do you need me for anymore, huh? I don’t gotta drive you anywhere, don’t gotta pick you up from school, don’t gotta make sure your dumbass classmates aren’t getting too close to you—"

“Dad—”

"What? You think I don’t know you’re too nice to tell some loser to back off? Don’t make me show up on campus, ‘miki."

Tsumiki groaned, shoving him lightly, and Toji let himself stumble back a little, laughing. “Dad, you’re being silly again.”

Then, after a moment, his expression softened, and his voice dropped just a bit. "You’ll still be my little girl, though?"

Tsumiki tilted her head, smiling. “Yes.”

Toji let out a breath, then grinned. "Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t gonna accept any other answer."

And for a moment, it was just the two of them. They were still father and daughter, standing in the middle of a dorm that felt too empty, too new. Tsumiki looked at him like she had always looked at him. There was warmth, with trust, with the kind of affection that Toji never thought he deserved.

And for just a second, he forgot about everything else. The fatigue. The pain. The weight of a secret that felt heavier than any of the boxes he had carried up those stairs. Because right now, his little girl was starting the next chapter of her life. And he would do whatever it took to be there for as long as he could.

As the afternoon light filtered through the dorm window, Fushiguro Toji sat on the edge of Tsumiki’s bed, watching her arrange the last of her things. For a moment, he just observed. He couldn’t help but take in how grown she looked, how far she had come.

It was strange how time worked. One day, she was just a kid clinging to his arm, asking him to carry her on his shoulders. Now, she was standing on her own, stepping into a new life, one he wouldn’t be a daily part of anymore. His chest ached, but he ignored it.

Instead, he leaned back on his hands, voice light when he spoke. “So. What do you think of your mom?”

Tsumiki blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

Toji shrugged. “Just wondering.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed, turning back to her desk, fidgeting with the edge of a notebook. “I love her.” she said, voice softer. “Of course, I do. She’s my mom.”

Toji hummed. “But?”

Tsumiki hesitated. Then, finally, she admitted. “I feel like there’s always been some kind of distance between us.”

Toji watched as she ran a hand over the cover of a textbook, not meeting his gaze. “I know she loves me a lot, I do. She’s taken care of me, she’s been there—but it’s just… it’s not the same as with you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Oh?”

Tsumiki turned to him, looking guilty, as if saying it out loud made her feel like a bad daughter. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just—” She sighed. “With you, it’s easy. It always has been. I don’t have to think about what to say, or wonder if I’m bothering you. I just… talk. And you listen. And you tease me.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s just different with Mom. It always has been. And I think she knows it too.”

Toji exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. “And Megumi?”

Tsumiki let out a small chuckle. “They have an easier relationship. They understand each other better.” She shrugged. “Maybe because he’s more like her. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually hers.”

Toji frowned at that. “You really don’t think that, do you?”

“Dad, it’s just….” She looked crestfallen, but she smiled. “It’s just complicated.”

"Tsumiki." His voice was firm, but not harsh. She looked at him, and he reached out, tapping her forehead lightly with his fingers. “You’re her daughter. That’s all that matters.”

She gave a small nod but didn’t say anything.

For a while, silence stretched between them.

Toji could remember how he was with his mother too.

Blood or not, Tsumiki was more like him than he could bear.

Then, Toji smirked, leaning back again. “So? What are you gonna do about it?”

Tsumiki frowned. “What do you mean?”

"You want things to be different with her? Then go to her. Talk to her. You’re a big girl now, right? Not scared of your own mom, are ya?"

Tsumiki huffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Toji chuckled, then shook his head, his voice turning a little more serious. “Look, your mom—she’s not always the best at showing things. But she does care. She’s still….dealing with a lot. But she cares. Probably more than she knows how to say. So, if you feel a distance, don’t just sit with it. Close it.”

Tsumiki bit her lip, thinking. Then, after a moment, she nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

Toji grinned. “Good. Now, are you gonna make me sit here all day, or are you gonna feed your old man before he drives back home?”

Tsumiki laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

"Damn right I am."

And as they headed out for a meal together, Fushiguro Toji hoped—really hoped—that she would take his advice. Because no matter how messy this family was, no matter how much distance had crept in over the years, he knew one thing for sure.

You loved Tsumiki.

And she deserved to know it.

And he doesn’t want you to be alone.

YOU DIDN’T REALIZE HOW MUCH YOUR DAUGHTER ACTUALLY OWNED UNTIL NOW. The afternoon sun painted the dorm room in soft gold, dust particles catching the light as they floated lazily through the air.

The room smelled faintly of cardboard and new beginnings, the scent of fresh linens and wood polish mixing with the comfortable warmth of Tsumiki’s presence.

You and your husband Toji had been helping her unpack for the past hour, moving in a steady rhythm. You watched him carrying the heavier boxes to a storage room while you focused on putting her things away neatly.

Tsumiki worked between the both of you, arranging her books, tucking away clothes, occasionally stopping to pull out something sentimental. It was her favorite childhood trinkets, an old photograph, a gift from Megumi she hadn’t had the heart to leave behind.

For the most part, the move-in had been filled with light chatter, your husband Toji’s occasional grumbling about “kids these days” and the ridiculous amount of stuff she had brought. You could only laugh and shake your heat at his little banters.

But then, as you folded the last of her sweaters, Tsumiki spoke. "Mom?"

You paused, fingers brushing over the soft fabric before looking at her. "Yeah?"

She hesitated, her hands fidgeting with the hem of a well-worn t-shirt. Something flickered across her face. It was something unsure, something fragile. “I….”

You smiled softly at her. “Darling, you can tell me anything. What’s on your mind?”

"I wanted to say something to you." She exhaled slowly. "And I don’t—I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, but I think I need to say it."

Beside you, Toji stilled, his gaze shifting from the shelf he was setting up to the both of you. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t intervene. Just let her speak. He turns his back, focusing deeply on the cleaning he was doing.

"I love you." Tsumiki’s voice was soft, but steady. "I love you so much. But I—sometimes, I feel like we don’t really know each other. Not in the way I know Dad. Or even in the way Megumi knows you."

Your chest tightened. “‘miki….”

"And I know you love me, too." She rushed to add. "I do. But there’s always been this… this distance. And I guess I just… I just wish I knew why."

The silence that followed was thick. Toji was watching you now, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his presence. He wasn’t going to step in. This was between you and Tsumiki. You exhaled, pressing your hands together before finally meeting her gaze.

"Tsumiki, none of that is your fault."

Her brows pulled together slightly, the smallest hint of hurt flashing in her eyes. "Then whose is it?"

You swallowed hard, feeling the words press against the back of your throat like something heavy, something unbearable. "Mine, darling." you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "All of it."

Tsumiki’s lips parted, but no words came out. You glanced at Toji, at the way he watched you—calm, waiting. He knew this conversation had been long overdue. You both talked about how it would work one day. But even now you felt unprepared and scared. Perhaps more than you thought you would ever be.

"I was scared." The confession fell from your lips before you could stop it. "From the very beginning, I was so scared of failing you. Of not being the mother you deserved. I thought that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, I would hurt you. So I tried to be everything all at once. A mother, an actress, a wife. But somewhere along the way, I started thinking that as long as I was there, as long as I provided for you, that was enough. And it wasn’t."

Tsumiki’s fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, gripping it tightly. “Mom….”

You reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “I was at fault. My suffering doesn’t mean I should have done wrong by you. I should have done better.”

“You did your best, mom.” Tsumiki softly shakes her head. “I love you. Thank you for letting me in, even if it’s just a little bit.”

"I love you more than anything in this world, Tsumiki." Your voice wavered, but you held her gaze. "More than I’ve ever been able to show you. And I am so, so sorry if I ever made you feel like that love was anything less than unconditional."

She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, mom. For everything.”

You shake your head. "You shouldn't be thanked for taking accountability. I need to do better by you. I never wanted you to feel like you had to reach for me, sweetheart. You’ve always had me from now on, okay?”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. And then, without hesitation, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around you, pressing her face into your shoulder. It was like when she was a kid again, when she was coming to your bed when she was afraid of thunderstorms. You let her warmth engulf you whole.

"I love you, mom." she whispered, voice muffled against your sweater.

Your arms tightened around her, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. "I love you too, baby."

Toji, still standing in the corner, let out a slow breath. You caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turned away, busying himself with something on her desk, as if to give you both the space you needed.

And as you held your daughter in that small dorm room, feeling her warmth, her presence, you realized something. It was something you had been too scared to admit before. You had spent years afraid of being a mother the wrong way. But Tsumiki had never once doubted that you were her mother. And for the first time, that fear finally loosened its grip.

Toji had been watching the moment unfold quietly, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. His usual smirk had softened into something more content, something more at peace.

"‘Bout time,” he murmured, shaking his head with a chuckle as he turned to grab one of the last unopened boxes. “Should’ve had this conversation years ago, huh?”

You shot him a look, wiping at the damp corner of your eye. “Shut up, Toji.”

Tsumiki giggled, the tension between you both easing into something warmer. She pulled away just enough to look at you, a lingering smile on her lips. “Thanks, mom.”

Toji scoffed but grinned as he ruffled Tsumiki’s hair. “Alright, enough sappy shit. Do you need us to put anything else together before we head out?”

Tsumiki rolled her eyes but smiled. “No, dad. Don’t worry about that. You did so much for me already. I think I got it from here.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms. “Good. I was starting to think I’d be here all damn day.”

But then, something shifted. Fushiguro Toji swayed slightly where he stood, a slow blink overtaking his features. His hand shot out to the desk all of the sudden, gripping it like he needed to ground himself.

"Toji?" You straightened immediately, the warmth from before evaporating into worry.

Tsumiki stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Dad?”

Toji tried to shake it off, forcing out a chuckle. “I—”

And then, before he could finish, his knees buckled. It happened too fast. Like a sudden blow of the wind, you watched as your husband went down, his large frame crumpling to the floor before you or Tsumiki could catch him. His head barely missed the corner of the desk as he slumped over, unconscious.

"Dad!" Tsumiki’s voice cracked, panic laced in her tone as she dropped down beside him.

Your own breath hitched, heart lurching to your throat as you knelt beside him, hands pressing against his face, his chest. "Toji—Toji, wake up!"

He didn’t. His breathing was shallow. Too shallow. The world felt like it had tilted, like the air in the room had been sucked out completely. Your hands shook as you patted his face, voice trembling. You could feel the tears pricking your eyes.

“Toji, open your eyes. Please.”

Tsumiki’s hands were gripping his arm, her eyes wide and glassy. “Mom, what—what’s happening? Is he okay?”

"C–call… call the ambulance now, ‘Miki! Go!”

Your frantic voice came out sharper than you intended, edged with panic you couldn’t suppress. Tsumiki jumped but nodded quickly, her fingers fumbling to unlock her phone. Her breath was shaky as she pressed the emergency number, bringing the phone to her ear with trembling hands.

You turned your attention back to your husband Toji, hands pressing against his face, his chest, anywhere you could reach. His skin was clammy, damp with sweat, but he was still warm. That was good, right? That had to be good. It can only be good. Warm flesh means there’s life.

"Toji, wake up! You gotta wake up." Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop, didn’t let yourself break.

His eyelids twitched, the barest movement, but he didn’t fully stir. His lips parted, a low, incoherent mumble slipping out. At first, you couldn’t make it out. It was just a string of fragmented words, barely above a whisper.

"Tsumiki?" Your stomach twisted. His voice was slurred, disoriented, almost childlike in the way it fumbled over the syllables. “....’miki….”

"I….I’m here, dad. Don’t worry." Tsumiki choked out, clutching his hand even as she kept the phone to her ear. "Just hang on, okay? The ambulance is coming."

But he didn’t respond. His strong brow furrowed, another murmured whisper tumbling from his lips. You leaned in closer, your pulse pounding so hard you thought your ribs might crack under the pressure of it all.

"—don’t...go yet— ‘m not—"

Your breath caught. His fingers twitched weakly against yours. "Toji?"

Still, he wouldn’t fully wake. His words became softer, less tangible, slipping through your grasp like sand. It wasn’t like him. Toji Fushiguro had always been loud, solid, and unwavering. Even in your worst fights, even in the coldest moments of your marriage, he had always been there.

But right now—right now, he was slipping.

"Mom—" Tsumiki’s voice broke, and you turned to see her eyes shining with tears, her grip on her phone tight.

"They’re on their way, mom." she said, her voice trembling. "But they—they said it could take a few minutes."

A few minutes.

That was too long.

"Come on, baby, stay with me, please." you whispered, brushing his damp hair back, your voice barely above a plea. “Stay awake.”

His lips parted again, another breathy mumble escaping. This time, it was almost too soft for you to hear. But you knew you heard it. And your heart clenched so hard it physically hurt about how it made you feel.

"‘M sorry…"

You swallowed thickly, fingers tightening against his. "You don’t—You don’t get to say that, Toji. Not now."

But he didn’t respond.

And for the first time in years, the weight of unspoken words that came and went. All the years of love, of resentment, of mistakes and trying and failing and trying again seemed to settle so heavily in your chest, you felt like you might break under it.

You just needed him to hold on.

Just for a few more minutes.

You just needed a few more minutes.

All the sudden, you found yourself praying.

That was all you could do now, truly.

YOU’VE ALWAYS HATED HOSPITALS. They were so devoid of everything that makes life what it is. And you hated it. It’s why you always bring the doctor to you rather than going yourself.

You were too afraid, so disgusted by it. Disturbed by the essence of it being so terribly empty. But right now, you really had no choice. This was the only place you could bring Toji to safety.

The hospital was cold. Too cold. Even though the air-conditioning wasn’t particularly strong, the sterile white walls and the harsh fluorescent lighting made everything feel distant. Clinical. Like this was happening to someone else, in some other reality, and not you.

"Fushiguro Toji?" a doctor finally approached, her face too neutral, too practiced. "Are you his family?"

"Yes, I’m his wife." you answered immediately, your voice coming out steadier than you felt. Tsumiki nodded beside you, her hand still gripping yours tightly. “This is our daughter.”

The doctor sighed, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. "We managed to stabilize him, but… there’s something we need to discuss."

You hated that pause. Hated the way doctors always did this. Even when you were doing things like this at work in all those massive sets and their dramatic music. Everything was about framing bad news like it needed cushioning, as if it would hurt less if they eased you into it. And to know that it's happening to you in real life, it made you feel so ill.

"What is it?" you asked, throat dry.

"Mr. Fushiguro’s condition is… progressing faster than we initially anticipated." she said carefully. "The lymphoma has advanced significantly, and—"

The rest of her words blurred as she continued to speak right in front of you. The state of shock perhaps will never go away. Everything felt like it was wrong, like it was eager to crash down on you a thousand times. Your breath caught in your throat. Tsumiki stiffened beside you, her fingers digging into your arm.

"What do you mean?" you finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed. "I mean that his body isn’t responding to treatment the way we had hoped. The disease is advancing aggressively, and at this stage…" She hesitated, choosing her words. "We need to have a serious discussion about long-term care options."

"Long-term care?" Tsumiki’s voice cracked. "You mean—like, hospice?"

The doctor didn’t answer right away, but her silence was an answer in itself. Tsumiki let out a shaky breath, her other hand covering her mouth as she turned away, shoulders trembling.

You felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. Like you were standing in the middle of a collapsing building, bricks of reality crumbling all around you. And you hated it. You hated it more than anything. You didn't want this. Never in a lifetime did you want this.

"No, no." you said, shaking your head, as if denial could make this go away. "No, that—there has to be something else. There has to be more treatment, right?"

The doctor gave you a look. It was not unkind, but firm. It had to be, when she has to tell you something as heavy as this. This was her job. Perhaps that's why you weren't screaming in her face. She didn't deserve it. She was just doing what she could. They all were.

"We will do everything we can to make him comfortable."

Comfortable.

The word felt like a death sentence.

You think you were feeling sick.

"How long?" you forced yourself to ask, because if you didn’t, the question would eat you alive.

Another hesitation. "If the progression continues at this rate… months. Maybe less."

A sharp, strangled sound escaped from your daughter Tsumiki. You turned just in time to see her back hitting the wall as she slid down, arms wrapping around herself. She looked miserable, near to tears as she tried to process it all.

You wanted to move, to hold her, to tell her something that would make this better but there was nothing. Because nothing was going to make this better. You were just as much as devastated as your own daughter.

"There has to be something else." The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, sharp and desperate.

The doctor hesitated, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “We understand this is difficult, but—”

"No." You shook your head, taking a step forward as if that would somehow make a difference. "You’re talking like this is already over, doctor. But you know it’s not. There has to be something—anything. More treatment, another hospital, a specialist. We are willing to do everything. My husband can’t….He can’t…."

"Mom….." Tsumiki’s voice was small, raw, but you couldn’t stop now.

"He’s strong. People know that." you insisted, clinging to that fact because Toji had survived everything. He was stubborn, unrelenting. He wasn’t the kind of man who just gave up. "There has to be more options."

The doctor let out a slow breath, her hands tightening around the clipboard. “Mr. Fushiguro has already undergone chemotherapy, months ago. But the cancer is aggressive. We can discuss alternative treatments, Mrs. Fushiguro. However, given the stage of progression, I want to be honest with you—none of them come without risks.”

"I don’t care about the risks. If there’s something, anything, we’ll do it."

Tsumiki reached for your arm, her grip shaky. "Mom… what if—what if dad doesn’t want more treatment?"

Your stomach twisted, the words hitting deeper than they should have. Because it was possible, wasn’t it? Fushiguro Toji had made his peace with this. That he had chosen not to fight this battle any longer. Not because he didn’t care, but because he had already been fighting it alone for longer than you even knew.

You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of losing him or the thought that he had been expecting to leave. “I’m not letting him die on me. On us. Not yet. This is not....We have to try.”

The doctor studied you carefully before speaking again. “We can explore clinical trials. There are experimental treatments available. There are ones that have worked for some patients with similar diagnoses. I can help you attain some access. But it’s important to understand that there are no guarantees.”

"I don't need a guarantee. I just need a chance." You whispered to her. "I just need some chances for my husband's life."

She gave a small nod. “Then we’ll go over the options with him. He should be the one to decide how he wants to proceed.”

You sniffed. “That would be fine. Please make the arrangements as soon as necessary. I want my husband to come home safe and sound.”

"Would you like to see him?" the doctor asked softly. “I think he’s conscious enough to receive visitors.”

Your throat tightened.

Yes.

Of course.

But at the same time… you weren’t ready. You weren’t ready for what came next. And for the first time in a long time, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do. How are you going to do all of this?

The walls felt like they were closing in. Even as the doctor stood there, waiting for your response, the air around you felt suffocating. Everything about it just felt thick with the weight of something irreversible. Something that was never going to change.

"Would you like to see him?"

The words barely registered.

How could they ever do so?

Toji was here. He was still breathing. Still alive. But now, you were being told that it wouldn’t be for much longer. Months. Maybe less. A life measured in maybes. Your body felt heavy, the kind of weight that came from grief that hadn't even settled in yet, but you knew it was there, waiting, coiling itself in your ribs like a sickness.

Tsumiki made a sound. It was a sharp, choked sob before she clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she could swallow it down. But she couldn't. You both couldn't. "Mom…" she whispered, her voice breaking apart.

And suddenly, you were moving towards your little girl, your hands reaching for her, pulling her into your arms before she crumbled completely. She didn't resist. She just collapsed against you, shaking so hard it hurt to feel.

"He can't….He can’t just go, mom." she gasped against your shoulder, her fingers digging into your back. "He can't just leave. Not yet."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I know, baby. I know."

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. You should have known something was wrong. You should have seen it, should have paid closer attention instead of getting caught up in the relief of finally having more time together.

You had spent so long chasing each other through the chaos of your lives, waiting for a moment to just be and now that moment had arrived, only for it to be stolen before it even truly began. After all you had been through, suffering through and this is the reward of that steadfast spirit?

"He knew."

The thought was sudden. Sharp. You pulled away just enough to look at Tsumiki’s face, her red-rimmed eyes full of the same realization. She looked ever so devastated as her eyes narrowed towards the room door.

"He knew about it and we didn’t, mom." she repeated, her voice steadier this time. "He’s known for a while, hasn’t he?"

And just like that, everything clicked into place. The fatigue that lingered in his eyes even on the good days. The way he had been more present, more patient, more aware of the moments he had with you and the kids. The way he had laughed a little softer, held on a little longer.

He had been preparing for this.

And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

He didn’t feel like doing that at all.

You felt a flash of something—anger, maybe. But it was weak, lost under the sheer force of heartbreak. "I need to see him." Your voice barely sounded like your own, but it was firm. "Now."

Tsumiki nodded, wiping at her face, trying to collect herself even as the tears kept coming. The doctor said something, something about leading the way, about making sure you had time with him but you barely heard it. You didn’t care.

Because all you could think about was how the man you had spent eighteen years fighting for, fighting with, had been fighting this alone. And you weren’t sure whether you could forgive him for that. But you knew, without a doubt, that you weren’t going to let him do it alone anymore.

The moment you stepped into the room, Fushiguro Toji looked up. His face was pale, his skin pulled taut with exhaustion, but his lips curled into something wry, something casual. It was like he wasn’t hooked up to an IV, like he wasn’t the one lying in a hospital bed with death looming over him.

"Well, shit. I must really look bad if you’re already crying."

That was it. That was all it took for something inside you to snap. "Don’t you dare." Your voice trembled, but it was loud, sharp. "Don’t you fucking dare sit there and joke about this!"

Toji blinked, taken aback for the first time. "Hey—"

"No! No ‘hey’!" The dam had broken, and you couldn’t stop it now. "You knew! You knew for how long, Toji? How long have you been keeping this from me? From us?"

His lips parted, but no excuse came. No reassurance.

"You—" you let out a shaky breath, your body trembling. "You let me believe everything was finally okay. As much as there's so much wrong we can't avoid, hat we were finally settled down. You let us believe that we had time…..that we finally had time to just be and now you're telling me you're dying? That we only have months?"

Tsumiki stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, lips pressed together like she was forcing herself to stay strong. "Mom, please…." she tried, but you were past the point of stopping.

"How could you do this to us? I haven’t even told Megumi and I just…." The words cracked as they left your mouth. "How could you do this to me? What do I do, Toji?"

Toji sighed, running a hand down his face. "I didn’t want this."

"You didn’t want this?" A bitter laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Like I did? Like Tsumiki did? Like Megumi did? Like we wouldn’t have wanted to be there for you?"

His fingers curled into the hospital blanket. “I’m sorry….”

"You should’ve told me, you idiot." you whispered, voice raw, broken. “You could have died for good. And I wouldn’t have known. And I just….”

"And then what?" His voice was quiet, careful.

"And then we would’ve fought for you."

Toji’s eyes flickered, something almost imperceptible passing through them before he looked away. That was when the tears truly came. You shook your head, wiping furiously at your face, but it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the way your whole body felt like it was collapsing under the weight of grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

"You were going to let me find out like this? How could you?”

Toji exhaled, a long, slow breath. "I just… I didn’t want this to be what our life became. I didn’t want to see you look at me like you’re looking at me now."

You let out a sharp breath, stepping forward, reaching for his hand despite everything. His fingers twitched under yours, hesitant, but he didn’t pull away. He didn't want to. Not when you were this upset.

"And what about me, Toji?" you whispered. "What about how I was supposed to look at you when you were gone?"

Silence.

For the first time in years, he had nothing to say.

And that was what scared you the most.

Your grip on his hand tightened, desperate and unrelenting.

"You're not leaving me." The words came out ragged, almost broken, but they were firm. A demand, not a plea. "You're not leaving us."

Toji said nothing.

His silence only made the panic rise in your chest, your breath hitching as fresh tears slipped down your face. "We'll find something else. Another way. There has to be something."

Still, he stayed quiet, his jaw clenched, his blue-green gaze flickering with something unreadable. "Toji." Your voice cracked. "Say something."

He exhaled, slow and measured, before giving a small nod. Not a word. Not a promise. Just a nod. It wasn't enough. But it was all you had. And that was when you finally broke ever so harshly, like a wave crashing against a cliff.

The sob tore through you as you collapsed into his arms, gripping onto him like you could hold him here, like if you just held tight enough, time would stop. His arms wrapped around you, slow at first, then firm. Strong. Steady.

He could see Tsumiki trying to hold it together just behind you from the peripheral of his eye, his heart breaking even more at the sight. He hated seeing her so upset. It was harder when it came to the kids. That's why knew he wasn't prepared to see his son's reaction.

"You're not leaving me, goddamn it." you whispered again, your voice muffled against his hospital gown. "I won't let you."

His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt it when he pressed his lips to the top of your head, warm and lingering. "I know."

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

But right now, you need to believe it.

epilogue

Fushiguro Tsumiki had never been one to hesitate when it came to family. So when her father Fushiguro Toji started looking smaller in his hospital bed, nothing like the strong, energetic man he used to be, when the weight he had always carried with ease now dragged his shoulders down, when the exhaustion in his face became permanent.

She knew she had to do something.

She had to save her dad.

She wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

She still needed him.

"I want to donate blood to my dad." The words were firm when she said them to the nurse, standing at the reception desk with unwavering resolve.

The nurse blinked at her, startled. "Oh—well, that’s very kind of you, but we’d have to check if you’re a match first."

"I am, I know I am." Tsumiki answered quickly. "I’m AB negative, just like my dad."

The nurse nodded but still reached for a form. "That’s good to hear, but we’ll need to confirm your blood type. It won’t take long, just a quick sample, okay?"

Tsumiki nodded, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation. “Alright. Go drain me.”

Fushiguro Tsumiki hated needles. She always had. She still remembered being a kid, clutching Toji’s hand as the doctor readied the syringe for her booster shots, his deep chuckle rumbling beside her.

“C’mon, ‘Miki, don’t tell me you’re scared of a tiny–ass needle.”

She had been. But she wasn’t scared now. She can't afford to be that right now. She had to be strong. She can't be weak. Not when Fushiguro Toji looked weaker every day, when his skin lost its color, when his voice, her father’s voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be.

And she hated it.

She needed his strength back.

She needed him back.

So she sat there in the hospital chair, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation, ignoring the way her pulse quickened as the nurse tied a band around her arm. "Just a little pinch, alright?" the nurse said with a small smile.

Tsumiki nodded and looked away. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She smiled at you. “Thank you for doing this for your dad. You’re such a sweet young lady.”

“I’ll do anything for my dad.” Tsumiki smiled at her.

The nurse smiles wider. “I know you would.”

The sting barely registered.

This was for Toji.

This was nothing.

She flexed her fingers as the vial filled with dark crimson, her lifeblood. His lifeblood. The moment it was over, she pressed a cotton swab against the small puncture, thanked the nurse, and stepped out into the hallway.

And then she waited. The minutes ticked by slowly, her knee bouncing with impatience. It would be fine. It had to be fine. She was AB negative, just like him. Just like her dad. The shuffle of footsteps pulled her out of her thoughts.

Tsumiki looked up just as the nurse approached, holding a clipboard to her chest, her expression unreadable. For some reason, the sight of it made something heavy settle in Tsumiki’s gut. And she didn’t like that feeling.

"Miss Fushiguro?"

"Yeah?"

The nurse hesitated for a beat before glancing at the file again. "I just wanted to clarify something—you said you had type AB negative blood, correct?"

"Yeah." Tsumiki frowned. "I mean, I always thought I did. My dad is AB negative, so I should be, too, right?"

The nurse pursed her lips. "Well… your results just came back, and you’re actually O positive."

Tsumiki blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

"That… that can’t be right."

O positive? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

"I’m sorry, dear, but the results are accurate." The nurse’s voice was gentle. "You’re an O positive blood. Which means you’re not a match for your father’s blood type."

The world tilted beneath her feet. "No, no." she said quietly to herself. "No, there’s….there’s been a mistake. My dad is AB negative. He has to be my dad."

The words died in her throat. Because suddenly, memories started surfacing. Her father’s teasing voice: "You’re still my little girl, yeah?"

The way her mother had hesitated that night when she poured her heart out. The way Nanami Kenshin had always looked at her with something unreadable in his bright eyes. The blood drained from her face.

"I… I need to go."

She turned on her heel before the nurse could say anything else.

Because suddenly, her father’s illness wasn’t the only thing breaking her heart.

And she hated how this was the beginning of the never ending break.

311 notes · View notes

the-winter-spider · 4 months ago

Text

I Love You, I'm Sorry

Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 25k+

Warnings: Angst, fluff, sweater, small bit if barley anything smut

A/N: LMAOOO this is so unnecessarily long, I hope you like it! I definitely started to edit this and then just half assed did it and let this edit thing i have take over so hopefully it turned out okay because i was going cross eyed lol

I Miss You, I'm Sorry

-----

It had been almost two years since you’d last seen Bucky.

Two summers of carefully constructed avoidance. Two years of dodging mutual gatherings, leaning on Natasha and Wanda to run interference, and filling your days with work, hobbies, and everything else you could think of to keep yourself from looking back.

For the most part, it worked.

You had finally started to feel… free. Or something close to it. Your friends told you how proud they were, how much you were thriving, and sometimes, you almost believed them. You’d moved forward. You’d learned how to smile and laugh without his shadow hanging over you.

But there were cracks in your façade, ones no one else could see.

At night, when the world was quiet and there was nothing to distract you, your mind always drifted back to him. To the way his voice sounded when he said your name, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his arms would feel around you, the way his lips would peck your skin and the way his words would soothe you. Till they didn’t but even then it was Bucky. He’d been your person—or at least, you thought he had been.

The right person, wrong time. You held onto that idea like a lifeline, the tiny hope that maybe someday, when you were both different, both ready, it could work. You hated yourself for holding onto the hope of it all, especially with how he treated you. But hope was a fickle bitch.

But that didn’t stop you from trying to move on. You tried, over and over again. New faces, new kisses, new hands brushing against yours. And yet every time, your mind would betray you, comparing each new guy to Bucky.

They didn’t laugh like he did.

They didn’t understand you like he did.

They didn’t know you like he did.

They didn’t make you feel like he did.

You hated yourself for it. For clinging to something that had already broken you one too many times. For hoping for something that wasn’t yours anymore, something that truly never even was.

But you always brushed it aside.

When Maria invited you to her engagement party, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. She was your friend, after all, and Natasha had promised she’d come too. It wasn’t until the day of the party, when Natasha called to say she couldn’t make it—“I’ve caught some kind of flu. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine, its not like Bucky will be there” That made your stomach churn, because of course Bucky wouldn't be there, why would he, he wasn't friends with Maria, but the fact Natasha even said his name in itself made your anxiety spike. And Steve knew Maria but he wouldn't bring him when he knew you were going.

You reminded yourself that Natasha wouldn’t steer you wrong. “He doesn’t even know these people,” “Steve wouldn’t do that to you” she had said, her voice reassuring. “You’ll be fine.”

So you put on a dress you hadn’t worn in ages, did your makeup, and told yourself you could handle this. It had been two years. You were fine. He won’t be there.

The party was already in full swing when you arrived. The apartment was beautiful, a spacious loft with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the New York City skyline. You mingled easily, sipping champagne and chatting with Maria and her fiancé, Chad, who were positively glowing with excitement.

An hour in, you’d almost forgotten your anxiety.

Almost.

“Wow, you look amazing,” a familiar voice said, and you turned to see Steve standing beside you, his kind smile softening the sharp cut of his suit.

“Hey, Steve,” you said, your voice steady as you returned his smile. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He chuckled, glancing around before leaning in slightly. “Listen,” he said, his tone dropping to something quieter. “I need to tell you something.”

Your stomach twisted at the seriousness in his voice. “What?”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to gauge how you’d react. “Bucky’s here.”

The world seemed to tilt for a second. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Your hand started to shake, making your champagne spill over.

Steve reached out wrapping his hand around yours, trying to ground you. “He works with Chad,” Steve explained, wincing slightly. “I guess Chad got hired at Bucky’s company, and Buck invited him out to show him around New York. ”

Your mind reeled, piecing it together like a puzzle you didn’t want to solve. Of course.

Steve touched your arm gently, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Are you going to be okay?”

“It’s been two years,” you said, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “I’ll be fine.”

Steve nodded, but the way his eyes lingered on you made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced. “I’m sorry, I know what he put you through.”

You grabbed his arm before he could walk away, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he, um here with anyone?”

Steve hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “He hasn’t really dated in the last couple of years.”

Your heart clenched, but you forced yourself to nod. “Okay.” It wasn’t a huge party by any means but there were enough people crowded in the small house that there was no way he’d be anywhere near you, right?

But then you heard it. It was like all your senses finally turned into your surroundings. The laugh, his laugh. And you started to spiral thinking of the smile and the head toss that went along with it.

You tried to focus on the party, but your nerves buzzed under your skin, your gaze flickering to every corner of the room, your eyes searching for him involentarly.

And then, finally, you saw him.

He was standing by the bar, laughing at something Chad said, a drink in his hand. He looked different—his hair shorter, his beard neatly trimmed—but he was still him. It was still Bucky. His nose still scrunched when he laughed.

And then his eyes locked with yours from across the room.

Everything stopped.

The noise of the party faded, just the thumping of your heart beat was heard, the world narrowing to just the two of you. It was like something out of a movie, and that terrified you because this wasn’t a movie. This was your life, and he’d already broken your heart one too many times.

You couldn’t do it again. You wouldn't.

You made up your mind quickly. You weren’t going to wait around for him to come over, to say something that would unravel everything you’d worked so hard to rebuild. You were panicking.

You found Maria, congratulating her again and leaving your engagement gift with a polite smile. “Natasha sends her congratulations,” you added. “She’ll be at the next party, I promise.”

You headed for the door, your chest tight, your mind racing.

The cool night air bites at your skin as you step out of the building, your heels clicking against the pavement. The distant hum of the city feels a world away from the chaos swirling inside you. You just need to get away—away from the noise, the memories, and him.

But then you hear it.

Footsteps behind you.

And then, his voice.

“Wait!”

Your body stiffens, your heart slamming against your ribs. You don’t turn around. You can’t. Not yet.

“Please,” Bucky says again, his voice closer now, raw and pleading. “Can we talk?”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, before finally turning to face him. He stops a few feet away, his chest rising and falling heavily like he ran to catch up with you.

“Bucky,” you say, your voice sharp as his name leaves your lips for the first time in years, cutting through the silence. “What is there to talk about? There’s nothing I want to hear from you, and there’s nothing I want to say to you.”

He flinches like your words are a physical blow, but he doesn’t back down. His blue eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his hands trembling at his sides. “Please,” he whispers, the word barely audible.

The weight of his gaze makes it impossible to move, to breathe. You hate how much power he still holds over you, how much his broken voice and watering eyes make your chest ache.

So you linger. You linger in the stillness, saying nothing.

And that’s when he begins to speak.

“I love you.” he says simply, his voice raw and unsteady.

“No.” The word slips from your lips, fast, sharp and broken. “You don’t know what love is.” Your chest heaves as the anger bubbles up, tears pricking at your eyes. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have been with all those other girls. You wouldn’t have let me think, so stupidly, that I was the only one who had that part of you.”

His face twists, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “You were,” he says, his voice cracking as he takes a step closer. “I wasn’t with any of them when I was with you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “That is such bullshit, Bucky! I saw you. Multiple times, I might add! I know damn well you saw me too, out with different girls every other week like it was nothing—like I was nothing.”

His jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he takes another step closer. “No. I wasn’t with them,” he says, his voice desperate now. “I wasn’t sleeping with anybody else when I was seeing you. And for the record, you were never nothing to me. You were—you are everything.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask, your voice sharp and trembling. You laugh again, a hollow, cutting sound. “Because ‘for the record,’ we were never seeing each other, Bucky. You made damn sure of that.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You know what I mean,” he says, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “And I truly wasn’t sleeping with anybody else but you. Because I couldn’t.”

The words hang between you, heavy and raw, and your chest tightens as your breath catches in your throat.

“You couldn’t?” you ask, your voice trembling with disbelief. “Why? Because you were saving me from something? Because you didn’t want to hurt me?”

“No,” he says quickly, stepping closer. His hands are trembling as he lifts them slightly, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “Because I didn’t want to. I didn’t want anyone else. I still don’t. Not like that. Not the way I want you.”

The admission feels like a knife twisting in your chest, and you take a shaky step back, shaking your head.

“And what? It took you completely ruining me to figure that out?” your voice cracks, your emotions spilling out like a flood. “Why couldn’t you have figured that out two years ago, Bucky? You hurt me so badly.” Your voice cracked.

His shoulders slump, and the defeat in his posture almost makes you falter. “I know,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. And I’ll hate myself for it for the rest of my life.”

Your throat tightens, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Then why? Why didn’t you just let me in? You made me feel like I was nothing, like I didn’t matter, when all I ever did was try to love you!”

His eyes snap to yours, the intensity in his gaze making your heart lurch. “Because I didn’t think I could love you back the way you deserved,” he says, his voice cracking. “I thought if I let you in, I’d ruin you. I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was make it worse. Because, God, do I love you more than anything.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of his words, and you wrap your arms around yourself as if it could stop the ache spreading through you. “You didn’t just make it worse, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You broke me.”

He steps closer, his hand reaching out like he wants to touch you but stops just short. “And I’m trying to fix it,” he says softly. “I know I can’t take it back, but I’ll spend the rest of my time trying to make it right if you let me.”

You shake your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “You think it’s that easy? That you can just say all the right things now and I’ll forget about the years I spent breaking myself over you?”

“No,” he says quickly, his voice firm. “I don’t think it’s easy. I don’t expect you to forget. I just… I want a chance. A real one. To show you that I can be better. That I am better. I'll do anything.”

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

“I’ll earn it,” he says softly. “Every single day, I’ll earn it. Please, I love you.”

Your heart aches as you stare at him, the war between your love for him and your fear of being hurt again raging inside you, “I'm sorry” you say softly with one last glance at him you turn around and leave.

---

The morning after the confrontation with Bucky, you find yourself sitting at a coffee shop with Wanda, Sam, and Natasha, it isn't unusual, the four of you have at least one day a week to catch up on life events, something that Natasha implemented years ago, nothing changed minus Steve wasn’t always here and Bucky no longer came for obvious reason. The usual lighthearted banter feels like it belongs to another world, one you’re struggling to reach. Your fingers wrap around the steaming cup in front of you, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill in your chest.

Two years. That’s how long you managed to avoid him and seeing him for two minutes was enough to break down all the walls you worked hard to build.

Two years of carefully declining invitations where you knew Bucky would be, of sharing group messages where his name lingered in the background like a ghost. Two years of never asking Natasha or Wanda about him and dodging Steve’s carefully neutral mentions of “Buck.”

And now, here you are, breaking the unspoken rule you set for yourself.

You sit at the café table with your untouched coffee cooling between your hands. The three of them are laughing about something—some story Sam’s telling about Steve being too stubborn to ask for directions—but the sound feels distant.

When the words finally tumble out of you, they cut through the conversation like a blade.

“I ran into Bucky last night.”

The laughter stops.

Natasha freezes, her coffee cup paused halfway to her lips, her sharp green eyes snapping to yours. Wanda’s brows knit together in quiet concern, her hand resting on her mug as if she’s bracing herself. Sam, seated across from you, leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. His expression hardens instantly, his jaw ticking.

You feel terrible the moment his name leaves your mouth. Horrible. Stupid. Guilty. It feels wrong bringing him up to them, like tearing open an old wound you’d all worked so hard to ignore. They knew everything—every tear you shed, every question you asked when you couldn’t figure out why things fell apart. They were there for every breakdown, every “why am i not enough?” They bore witness to the wreckage, the raw, ugly truth of what Bucky had done to you.

And now, here you were, dragging his name into the one space he hadn’t tainted.

You knew they still saw him. They had to. Bucky was part of the group, no matter how much you wished he wasn’t. But they did a damn good job keeping you out of it. For two years, they’d honored the unspoken rule: No Bucky around you. No you around Bucky. It was messy, but it worked. Sam even went nearly a year without seeing him, a Herculean effort considering how tight Bucky and Steve were, and how close Sam and Steve had gotten.

You’d never forget the night Sam nearly lost it—when he almost went after Bucky, fists clenched, ready to beat some sense into him or shit out of him. Sam had always been protective of you, but that night, his anger burned hotter than yours. It wasn’t until that moment—seeing Sam about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross—that you realized what you’d become, how much of your pain was spilling onto the people who loved you.

The group dynamic had never been the same after you and Bucky started… whatever that was.

It had been perfect before. Bucky and Steve had been inseparable since they were kids. You and Sam were childhood best friends until his family moved away, forcing you to find new ones. You met Wanda not long after, then Natasha a few years later, and things clicked. Natasha introduced you to Steve, who introduced you to Bucky. When Sam came back into your life during college, it felt like fate—like all the pieces of the puzzle had finally snapped into place.

But you and Bucky had thrown everything off balance.

When it was good, the group had learned to tiptoe around it, even accept it. But when it was bad—when it was tears and shouting and silence—they all felt the ripple effects. And sides were taken.m, drawing a jagged line between the group.

And now here you were, breaking the unspoken truce.

For a moment, no one says anything. The silence is thick and suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a hand. You can feel Natasha’s stare, sharp and assessing, and Wanda’s soft, silent empathy. But it’s Sam who breaks the tension, like always, his voice clipped and tight.

“What do you mean you ran into him?”

You glance down at your coffee, your fingers tightening around the mug to steady yourself. The words sit heavy on your tongue, reluctant to leave. “He was at Maria’s engagement party,” you say quietly, your voice barely cutting through the tense silence. “I didn’t know he’d be there, he wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Steve,” Natasha mutters under her breath, setting her cup down with a sharp clink that makes you flinch. Her green eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Of course he invited him.”

“No, he didn’t,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “Chad works with Bucky.”

“Who the hell is Chad?” Sam asks, his voice dripping with skepticism as he leans back in his chair.

“Maria’s fiancé,” Natasha replies, her tone clipped, like it’s obvious. She barely spares him a glance, her fingers drumming against the table.

“And who’s Maria?” Sam fires back, his brow furrowing as his annoyance builds.

“Oh my god, Sam, it doesn’t matter!” Natasha snaps, rolling her eyes with exasperation.

Wanda lets out a quiet sigh, leaning forward slightly, her gentle presence cutting through the rising tension. “Are you okay?” she asks softly, her voice calm but steady. Her dark eyes search yours, filled with concern. “What happened?”

You swallow hard, your throat dry as your gaze drops to the coffee again. “We… talked,” you admit, your voice tight, like it hurts to say the words out loud.

“Talked?” Sam repeats, his tone sharper now, disbelief flickering across his face. He leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. “What the hell could you possibly have to talk about after two years?”

“Sam,” Wanda says gently, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm. There’s a warning in her tone, but her touch is grounding, calming.

Sam exhales sharply, glancing at Wanda before turning back to you, his jaw clenching. “I just don’t get it,” he mutters.

You stay quiet, the knot in your stomach tightening. The weight of their stares feels unbearable, like you’re under a microscope. The silence stretches between you, and for a brief moment, you wish you’d never said anything.

But he doesn’t back down, his gaze locked on you. “No, seriously. After what he put you through, after how long it’s taken you to get to this point—what could he possibly say that’s worth hearing?”

You flinch, the words hitting harder than you expect. “He said none of them meant anything,” you say quietly, not looking up. “The other women. He said they didn’t mean anything to him, that he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else while we were…” You trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Natasha’s voice is like ice when she finally speaks. “While you were what?” she asks, her words razor-sharp. “While you were breaking yourself over him? While you were bending over backward to love someone who couldn’t love you back the way you deserved?”

You glance up at her, tears stinging your eyes. “He said he was scared. That he didn’t want to feel whole because then he’d have something to lose.”

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Sam let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Classic Barnes. Always finding a way to make his damage someone else’s problem.”

“Sam,” Wanda says again, but this time, her voice is quieter. She looks at you, her expression filled with the kind of sympathy that only makes the ache in your chest worse. “What did you say?”

“I told him he hurt me anyway,” you admit, your voice trembling. “That all his excuses didn’t matter because it doesn’t erase what he did.”

Natasha leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Good.”

“Then what?” Sam presses, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to catch you in a lie. “Please tell me you walked away and didn’t give him anything else.”

You hesitate, your silence stretching too long, betraying you.

Natasha’s sharp green eyes lock on yours, narrowing slightly. Wanda tilts her head, her lips parting like she’s about to ask something, but Sam beats her to it, his voice cutting through the quiet tension.

“Oh, come on,” Sam says, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t tell me you let him get to you again.”

Your head snaps toward him, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t let him get to me,” you snap, your tone sharper than you intended. “I didn’t say anything….”

The admission silences the table, but the tension only thickens. You can feel their stares boring into you, each one carrying a different weight—Sam’s frustration, Wanda’s concern, Natasha’s quiet scrutiny.

“But…” you start, your voice faltering.

“Always a but,” Sam groans, rubbing a hand down his face.

You look away, weary and defeated, the words catching in your throat before you finally manage to force them out. “He said he loves me.”

The words land like a grenade.

Sam’s jaw tightens, his eyes widening slightly before narrowing again in disbelief. Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her fingers drumming against the table. Wanda’s brows knit together, the soft concern on her face twisting into something closer to pity.

No one speaks. The weight of the admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Natasha breaks the silence, her voice low and measured. “And what did you say to that?”

You exhale sharply, your gaze fixed on the empty glass in front of you. “Nothing,” you say quietly. “I didn’t say anything. I just… left.”

“Good,” Natasha says firmly, though her tone is softer now, less cutting. “That’s what you should’ve done.”

Wanda leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours. “How do you feel about it, though?” she asks gently. “About him saying that?”

You shake your head, your hands clenching into fists in your lap. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I don’t know how I feel. Part of me wanted to believe him, but the other part…” You trail off, your throat tightening.

“The other part knows it’s bullshit,” Sam finishes for you, his voice hard. “He’s said crap like this before, hasn’t he? Made you feel like you’re the only person in the world, just to rip it all away the next second?”

“Sam,” Wanda says softly, placing a calming hand on his arm.

“No,” he says, shaking her off. “She needs to hear this. You can’t let him keep pulling you back in, Y/n. He’s only saying it because he knows you’re moving on, and he doesn’t want to lose that grip he has on you.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, your voice rising slightly as you turn to him. “You don’t know what he meant. You don’t know how he said it, he’s never said the word love to me before Sam…”

“Oh, I know exactly how he said it,” Sam fires back, his tone dripping with frustration. “Because it’s Bucky, and he’s been playing this game for years! Doesn’t matter, why the hell would he drop the L word after two years!”

“Enough,” Natasha cuts in, her tone icy and firm. Her eyes flick to Sam before landing on you, her gaze softening slightly. “What matters isn’t what he said. It’s how you feel about it. So stop deflecting and just be honest—what did it mean to you?”

You look down, your chest tightening as their words swirl around you. The truth is, you don’t know how to answer that question. Hearing him say those words—I love you—had shaken you to your core. It wasn’t what you expected, and it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, not like this. But that didn’t stop the part of you, buried deep down, that ached to believe him.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what it meant. All I know is… it hurt.”

Wanda leans back, exhaling softly as she folds her hands in her lap. “That’s valid,” she says gently. “It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to not have an answer right now.”

“But it’s not okay to let him back in just because he said the right thing,” Natasha adds, her voice firm but not unkind. “Words are easy, Y/n. Actions are what matter.”

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m coming off too harsh. I just… I don’t want to see you get hurt again. Not by him.”

You nod, your throat tightening as you look around the table. These were your people, the ones who’d seen you at your lowest and never walked away. They were only trying to protect you, but the weight of their concern felt suffocating.

“I get it,” you say quietly. “I do. And I’m not planning to just… run back to him. I’m not stupid.”

“No one’s saying you’re stupid,” Wanda says quickly, her voice soothing.

You glance at her, offering a small, tired smile. “It just… it threw me, okay? I wasn’t expecting him to say that, he wasn’t supposed to be there, that’s all.”

Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I swear, Steve and his damn loyalty to Bucky…”

“Don’t blame Steve,” Wanda says gently, glancing between you and Natasha. “This isn’t about him.” She turns to you, her voice soft. “This is about what you want. What you’re going to do next.”

You shake your head, your chest tightening. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sam exhales sharply, his frustration simmering just below the surface. “You want my advice?” he says, his tone blunt. “Do nothing. Block his number, delete his name, and move the hell on. Because if you don’t, he’s going to drag you right back into the same cycle.”

Wanda gives him a look but doesn’t contradict him. Natasha remains silent, her jaw tight as she studies you.

“Whatever you decide,” Natasha says finally, her voice steady but laced with warning, “just remember what it took to get to this point. Two years, no Bucky, and you’ve been good. Don’t throw it all away unless you’re damn sure he’s worth it.”

The words linger in the air long after they leave her mouth, sinking into your chest like stones.

You nod slowly, even though your thoughts are a chaotic mess. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’ll think about it.”

But as you leave the café later, the cool breeze brushing against your skin, you can’t help but feel like it’s not really a choice at all. Not when his words are still echoing in your mind.

“I’ll earn it. Every single day, I’ll earn it.”

It’s late when you get home, the city quiet outside your window. You drop your bag on the counter and collapse onto the couch, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a physical force.

Bucky’s words won’t leave your mind.

“None of them meant anything.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I love you.”

You lean back, closing your eyes, but the memories come flooding in: Bucky with his easy charm, the way he used to pull you in so effortlessly, the way he made you feel like the only person in the world—until he didn’t.

You grab your phone off the coffee table and open your messages. His name is still there, right at the top from the missed calls and texts you haven’t answered.

There’s another message waiting for you now.

“I meant what I said. Please just let me explain.”

Your finger hovers over the notification, your heart pounding. You could call him back right now. Hear his voice, let him pull you back in like he always does.

But then Sam’s voice cuts through the fog in your head. “Block his number, delete his name, and move the hell on.”

You toss the phone onto the couch beside you, burying your face in your hands. You hate how torn you feel, how deeply he’s gotten under your skin even after all this time.

Your thoughts race, bouncing between your friends’ words and the way Bucky looked at you last night—like he was sorry, like he was breaking apart in front of you.

He’s always sorry after the fact, you think bitterly. But what about before?

You stand abruptly, pacing the small space of your living room as if movement will make the war in your head easier to handle.

On one hand, you’ve spent two years rebuilding yourself, proving you can live without him, even if it hurt like hell. On the other hand, the love you had for him—the love you still feel, no matter how hard you try to bury it—won’t let you forget how much you wanted him to choose you.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s him.

You let it buzz this time, the sound grating against the quiet. You walk to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water, and try to focus on the simple task of breathing.

But the questions won’t stop coming.

What if he’s really changed?

What if he means it this time?

What if I say no, and this time, it really could’ve been different?

Your eyes fall to the notes app on your phone, and before you can stop yourself, you open it. The unsent letter you wrote months ago still stares back at you, every word a wound you thought had healed.

“I love you, I’m sorry.”

“I hate what loving you does to me.”

“I wish I could stop waiting for you.”

You stare at the words for what feels like forever, your chest tightening. This is the part of him you know, the part of you he’s left behind time and time again.

But then you hear his voice in your head again, softer this time. “I didn’t want anyone else. Not like that. Not the way I wanted you.”

You slam your phone down on the counter, frustration bubbling up in your chest. It feels impossible—choosing between the life you’ve built without him and the possibility of something better with him.

Finally, you grab your coat and head for the door. The walls of your apartment feel too small, and you need space to think.

As you step outside into the cool night air, you glance at the lit-up city skyline and whisper to yourself, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

---

The next day, you text Bucky. Just one line, short and to the point: “We need to talk. Can you meet me at the park in 20?”

Your phone buzzes almost immediately with his reply: “I’ll be there.”

You don’t let yourself think too hard about it—what you’ll say, how you’ll say it, or what it will mean. If you overthink, you know you’ll spiral. Instead, you grab your coat, slipping it on as you head out the door.

By the time you arrive at the park, the cold air has crept into your fingertips, and you shove your hands deep into your pockets. The bench you choose is damp from the morning dew, but you sit anyway, bracing yourself against the bite of the cool metal.

You focus on the world around you to keep your thoughts from drowning you. The faint rustling of leaves. The distant sound of children laughing. The hum of traffic just beyond the trees. It all blends into a calming rhythm, but your hands still won’t stop shaking.

When Bucky finally shows up, you feel him before you see him.

That familiar leather jacket, the way his hands are stuffed into his pockets as he walks toward you with hesitant steps. He stops a few feet away, lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something, to invite him closer.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice careful, measured.

You nod, gesturing for him to sit. He does, keeping a respectful distance between you, but it feels like miles.You hate that you have a need, a want to have him close.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet feels fragile, as if one wrong word could send the whole thing crumbling. Finally, you take a deep breath, the cool air stinging your lungs as you turn to face him.

“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you say, your voice calm despite the storm swirling inside you. “Whatever this is between us, it doesn’t work. It never did.”

He blinks, the words visibly hitting him, but he doesn’t react right away. His brows furrow, and he shifts to face you fully, his expression a mixture of confusion and frustration. “That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You can’t say it never worked. There were good moments—”

“There were,” you interrupt, your voice sharper now as you meet his gaze head-on. “But they weren’t enough. And you know it.”

He exhales sharply, leaning back on the bench. His hands rub over his thighs as if trying to ground himself. “So, what? That’s it? You’re done?”

You shake your head, the weight of it all pressing on your chest. “No, I’m not done,” you say softly. “But things need to change.”

He watches you, his expression guarded but waiting.

“I realized something last night,” you continue, your voice trembling but steady. “You and I? We were never really friends, Bucky. We jumped into… whatever that was—passion, chaos, love, I don’t even know. But we didn’t build a foundation. And I think that’s why it was so easy for you to hurt me. Because you didn’t really see me. Not like a friend does, not like a friend should.”

His jaw tightens, and his brows knit together as he looks at you, struggling to process your words. “What are you talking about?” he asks finally, his voice quiet but laced with disbelief. “We were always friends. You were always my friend.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, Bucky, we weren’t. Friends don’t treat each other the way you did. They don’t take without giving back. They don’t leave when things get hard. We skipped right past being friends and dove headfirst into something that was doomed from the start.”

He flinches slightly at your words, his jaw clenching as he looks down at the ground. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. “I never wanted to, please know that..”

“I believe you,” you say softly, your fingers tightening around the edge of your coat. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you did. And I let you, because I thought love was enough to fix everything. But it wasn’t.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before, filled with things neither of you knows how to say.

His hands grip the edge of the bench like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “So, what do you want from me now? What do I need to do? Because I can’t go any longer without you in my life.”

You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you respond. “I want to try being friends. Real friends. No more mixed signals, no more blurred lines. Just you and me, figuring out if we even know how to be in each other’s lives without falling apart.”

He turns to you, his blue eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance, maybe even forgiveness. “You really think we can do that?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, the honesty cutting through you like glass. “But I think it’s the only way we have a shot at something real. If we don’t start over, this will just keep happening.”

He nods slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he exhales, his breath visible in the cold air. “Okay,” he says finally, his voice steady. “Friends.”

You raise a brow, watching him carefully. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he says, more firmly this time. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If that’s what you need, I’ll do it. Friends.”

The corner of your mouth lifts into a small, hesitant smile. “Okay.”

----

The friendship started quietly, almost tentatively.

At first, you kept your distance, careful and wary. It was easier that way. Safer. You told yourself it wasn’t about punishing him, it was about self-preservation. You weren’t ready to let him back in not fully, not even halfway, not after the chaos he’d left behind.

So you kept things light, meeting only at group gatherings or for the occasional coffee when he reached out. You’d sit across from him, smiling politely while waiting for the cracks to show. You braced yourself for the moment he’d remind you why you were so afraid of letting him close again. You were skeptical to say the least.

You expected the old Bucky to resurface—the one who smiled too easily at strangers and let his charm mask the ways he didn’t show up when it mattered. But as the weeks turned into months, something unexpected happened:

Bucky kept showing up.

Every. Single. Time.

It started with the way he carried himself. Before, being with him felt like bracing for a storm, like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d been restless, distracted, always somewhere else in his mind. Now, though, he was steady. Grounded.

It was subtle—the way he lingered a little longer during conversations, the way his eyes didn’t dart around the room looking for an escape when things got serious. Instead of deflecting with a joke or brushing off questions about himself, he actually stayed. He listened.

You saw it in the small, quiet ways he started to show up for you.

“Your usual?” he asked one afternoon, sliding a coffee across the table toward you as you sat down.

You blinked, surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, his lips curving into a small smile. “You like the extra cinnamon, right?”

It wasn’t the coffee that caught you off guard—it was the way he said it, like it was something he’d filed away in his mind, something important to him.

“Thanks,” you said softly, wrapping your hands around the cup.

For a while, you just sat there, the silence stretching between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—not the way it used to be. He didn’t fidget or rush to fill the quiet. He just was.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you expected. “You’ve been… different lately.”

He tilted his head, studying you with those piercing blue eyes. “Different how?”

You hesitated, unsure how to say it without sounding accusatory. “I don’t know. Calmer. Present.”

His smile faded slightly, his gaze dropping to his coffee. “I’ve been working on that,” he admitted.

It wasn’t a dramatic declaration, but it stayed with you long after the conversation ended.

The little things, those were what really starting to get to you.

It was the way he remembered details you’d barely mentioned, like your favorite bagel order, the book you’d been meaning to read, the way you liked your eggs in the morning.

You had casually mentioned how the café’s muffins looked good but were overpriced. You didn’t think much of it until the next time you met him, and he slid a muffin across the table without a word.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Thought you deserved to try the overpriced muffin.”

You stared at him, unsure how to respond. Before, he’d been inattentive, distracted, always somewhere else in his mind. But now? Now he paid attention. To everything.

“Thank you Buck,” you said softly, the warmth in your chest catching you off guard.

His mouth slightly parted, his cheeks lightly blushed with hearing you call him Buck “It’s just a muffin,” he said lightly trying to act cool, taking a sip of his coffee. But the way he avoided your eyes told you it meant more than that.

Of course, you still waited for him to slip. It was hard not to. You’d been burned before, and trust wasn’t something you could rebuild overnight.

At group gatherings, you watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to flirt with someone new, to slip back into his old, careless charm.

But he never did. Not yet anyway.

At Wanda’s birthday party, you saw a woman lean in too close, her hand brushing his arm. The pang of jealousy hit you instantly, sharp and familiar. You tried not to look, but your eyes betrayed you, darting toward him as the moment unfolded.

And then you saw it.

Bucky gently stepped back, shaking his head with a polite smile before walking away.

When he sat down beside you later, balancing a beer on his knee, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, “You’re not interested?”

He raised a brow, his expression confused. “In what?”

“In her,” you said, nodding toward the woman. “She’s beautiful.”

He followed your gaze before turning back to you, his tone soft and matter-of-fact. “No.”

When you didn’t respond, he studied your face for a moment before adding, “That’s not what I’m here for. That’s not who I want.”

His words hung in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. You looked away, unsure how to respond, but the warmth spreading through you was undeniable.

It was in moments like these that you saw the difference in him, the way he wasn’t just trying to be better, he was. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was steady, patient, and consistent.

And slowly, so slowly you barely noticed it happening, he started to feel safe again. Like the way had once made you feel when you only had glimpses of him like this but now it was everywhere.

A few weeks later, you found yourself sitting on a park bench with Steve, waiting for Natasha to join the two of you. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the trees as you watched the shadows stretch across the grass.

“It’s nice to finally hang out with everyone again,” Steve said, his voice easy and warm. “To hang out with you again..”

You raised a brow, giving him a skeptical look. “You mean without the constant awkwardness of me avoiding Bucky?”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Something like that. But honestly, it’s been good. For all of us. Especially for him and I missed you, y’know?”

You hesitated, your chest tightening slightly. “What do you mean?”

Steve leaned back, resting his arms along the bench as he stared out at the park. “He’s more… himself. It’s like I’ve got my best friend back.”

His words caught you off guard. “Really?”

Steve nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah. He’s been putting in the work, you know? Seeing a therapist, digging through all the stuff he’s been carrying for years. I think he’s finally starting to let it go.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. “He’s seeing a therapist?”

“Has been for over a year,” Steve said with a small smile. “I think you’re part of the reason, honestly.”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “Why would I be the reason?”

“Because losing you made him realize he had to change, that the emotional and self destructive path he was going down wasn’t a good idea ” Steve said simply. “And he talked about how he didn’t feel right months before you decided to keep him out of your life but he never changed anything but after Sam almost beat the shit out of him, and he realized you were actually done with him…he didn’t just say it—he did it.”

You looked down at the ground, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your coat. Bucky going to therapy? The man who once couldn’t even admit when he was wrong? It didn’t feel real.

“He’s really putting in the work?” you asked softly, still not quite able to believe it.

Steve nodded again. “It’s been good for him. Really good. He’s more present now, more grounded. It’s nice to see.”

You fell silent, your thoughts swirling as Steve’s words sank in. “For what it's worth, I missed you to Steve.”

--------

The friendship was delicate, like glass balanced on the edge of a table. Every step you took felt measured, calculated, careful not to tip it too far. Bucky was trying—you could see that. He was showing up, being present, doing all the things you’d always wanted him to do.

But trust wasn’t something that came back just because someone tried. And that was the problem.

It had been months of careful rebuilding, of letting him inch closer without letting him in entirely. You told yourself you were protecting yourself, guarding the parts of you he’d once broken. But the truth was, no matter how much progress you made, the cracks were still there, and some days it felt like they were growing.

It started small, the fights.

You were at his apartment, your first time back there in years. He’d invited you over for dinner, just you it was nothing fancy, just pasta and wine, and you’d agreed because things had been good lately.

Easy.

But something about being back in that space, sitting on the same couch where so much had gone wrong, made you uneasy. The walls seemed to hum with the echoes of old arguments, of broken promises and words you wished you could take back.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Bucky said, breaking the silence as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. He was watching you carefully, his brows furrowed in that way he always did when he was trying to figure you out.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, too quickly, your fingers toying with the edge of your wine glass.

He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You always say that when you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, Bucky,” you snapped, sharper than you intended.

The tension in the room shifted immediately. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Okay,” he said slowly. “But if something’s bothering you, you can tell me. That’s what this is about, right? Our friendship?”

You hated the way his words made your chest tighten, hated how calm and reasonable he sounded. You felt the crack inside you widen, your unease bubbling to the surface in a way you couldn’t control.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked suddenly, your voice trembling as you looked at him.

His brows knitted together in confusion. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Cooking dinner, asking me how I feel, trying to—” You broke off, your throat tightening. “Why are you trying so hard?”

The frustration on his face was immediate, his calm demeanor finally breaking. “Because I want to, I told you I would..” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Because I’m trying to show you that I’m different, that I’m not going to screw this up again. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I don’t know!” The words came out louder than you intended, your hands trembling as you set the wine glass down. “I don’t know, Bucky. I don’t know what I want.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving as he tried to process your words. “I don’t understand,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I thought we were doing okay. I thought this was working.”

“It is!” you said, the words tumbling out of you too fast. “It is, but… I don’t know. There’s this feeling, this—this gut feeling that something’s going to go wrong, and I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend it’s not there.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration bleeding into every movement. “What am I doing wrong?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly. “Tell me, because I don’t know. I’m trying so damn hard, and I don’t know how to fix this if I don’t even know what’s broken.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

The room fell silent, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge and the pounding of your heart in your ears.

He looked at you, his expression somewhere between heartbroken and exhausted. “Then what is it?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your arms wrapping around yourself as if it could stop the ache spreading through your chest. “I don’t know what it is, Bucky. It’s just… there. This feeling that no matter how hard you try, I’m going to get hurt again, that you’re going to hurt me, that I'm going to see you with another girl…and I don’t think I could handle that again...”

His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, you thought he might give up entirely. But then he took a step closer, his voice trembling with frustration and something deeper, something raw.

“I don’t know what else I can do to prove to you that I’m not that guy anymore,” he said, his hands trembling at his sides. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out how to be better, how to be the kind of person who deserves to have you in my life. And now you’re here, and I’m trying—I’m trying so damn hard—but it feels like nothing I do is enough.”

You felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your heart breaking at the raw honesty in his voice.

“It’s not about you not being enough,” you said quietly, your voice shaking. “It’s about me not being ready to believe it.”

His face fell, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. “So, what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just wait? Keep showing up and hope one day you’ll believe me?”

You didn’t have an answer for him. You didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t his actions, but the scars he’d left behind that wouldn’t let you trust him completely.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, the words heavy with defeat.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face. Finally, he nodded, the movement slow and resigned.

“Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll wait. I’ll keep showing up. But you have to meet me halfway, okay? Because I can’t keep fighting for something if you’re not even sure you want it and if you don’t that's okay too but please tell me.”

------

The restaurant was bustling when you arrived, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. The table was already crowded with plates of appetizers and half-finished bottles of wine. Natasha spotted you first, waving you over with a bright smile.

“Finally,” she said as you slid into the chair beside Bucky. “We were starting to think you got lost.”

“Or bailed,” Sam added, smirking as he poured himself another glass of wine. “Not that I’d blame you, Steve’s been going on about his workout routine for the past ten minutes. We’re all suffering.”

Steve, seated across from Natasha, rolled his eyes. “I mentioned the gym once, Sam.”

Natasha smirked, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at Steve. “You do talk about it a lot, Rogers.”

“I don’t talk about it that much,” Steve said defensively, glancing around the table for support.

“You literally just told Chad last week that you PR’d on your deadlift,” Wanda chimed in, raising her glass of wine. “And then you made him guess how much it was.”

“That was relevant to the conversation!” Steve protested, his cheeks flushing.

“Oh my god,” Natasha groaned dramatically, leaning over to kiss Steve’s cheek. “It’s okay, I like your gym stories.”

“Gross,” Sam groaned loudly, tossing a piece of bread onto his plate. “Seriously, get a room.”

“Maybe we will,” Natasha shot back, smirking as she leaned closer to Steve.

“Guys, please,” Sam groaned again, turning to Wanda for backup. “Can’t you two keep your domestic bliss to yourselves for one dinner?”

“Oh, leave them alone,” Wanda said with a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re just mad because you can’t deadlift half as much as Steve.”

“Wow,” Sam said, feigning offense. “You know what, Wanda? You’ve officially lost your spot as my favorite.”

Wanda smirked. “I was never your favorite.”

“True,” Sam admitted. “But I was trying to be polite.”

“Who’s your favourite then?” Natasha asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Isn't it obvious?” Bucky’s voice cut through the conversation “It’s y/n, he almost beat the shit outta me for her.” He laughed

Sam raised his glass “And don’t you forget it!”

The group burst into laughter, and while you tried to join in, it felt hollow. The noise pressed in around you, too loud and overwhelming after the day you’d had.

Beside you, Bucky shifted slightly, leaning closer. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, not looking at him.

“Y/n…” he started, his voice gentle but concerned.

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. His jaw tightened, and though he didn’t push, you could feel his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he leaned back in his chair.

As the plates of food arrived, the jokes and banter only grew louder. Natasha and Wanda leaned over to share bites of each other’s pasta, while Sam and Steve got into a debate about which of them would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“It’s me, obviously,” Sam said, gesturing with his fork. “I’ve got street smarts. Steve’s out here still trying to give people the benefit of the doubt, like, ‘Maybe the zombie just needs a hug.’”

“First of all, that’s not true,” Steve shot back, laughing. “And second, I’m stronger than you. I’d take them down before they even got close.”

“The gym thing again! And strength isn’t gonna save you when they’re sneaking up on you,” Sam countered. “You’d be too busy lecturing them about morality or something.”

Natasha snorted, twirling her pasta onto her fork. “He’s not wrong.”

Steve looked to her, feigning betrayal. “You’re siding with him?”

“Of course I am,” Natasha said, smirking. “Sam’s got a point. You’d probably try to negotiate with the zombies.”

“I’m starting to feel attacked,” Steve muttered, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

“Oh, poor baby,” Natasha teased, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek again. “We still love you.”

“Seriously, get a room,” Sam said again, throwing a napkin at them.

“Could we use yours? ” Natasha asked innocently, stealing a bite of Steve’s food.

“God, I hate you both,” Sam grumbled, but the grin on his face said otherwise.

Through it all, Bucky stayed quiet, occasionally chiming in with a comment or a chuckle, but his attention kept drifting back to you. Every so often, he’d glance your way, his brow furrowing slightly when he noticed the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your napkin or how your smile never quite reached your eyes.

Midway through the meal, as the group debated whether to order dessert or move on to the bar, Bucky leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I know a bad day when I see one. If you need to get out of here, just let me know. I’ll go with you.”

His words caught you off guard, and when you turned to look at him, his blue eyes were steady and calm, filled with an understanding that made your chest tighten.

For a moment, you couldn’t find the words, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. Finally, you nodded, your voice barely audible. “Thank you… and I’m, uh, sorry for snapping earlier.”

His lips twitched into a small smile as he shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize to me,” he said softly.

Beneath the table, his hand brushed yours, and before you could pull away, he wrapped his fingers gently around yours, his thumb moving in slow, comforting circles. The gesture was so quiet, so him, that it almost brought tears to your eyes.

Before either of you could say anything, Sam’s loud laugh broke the moment.

“To the bar!” Sam declared, raising his glass triumphantly.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna be on your ass after two drinks.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Romanoff,” Sam shot back with a grin.

When the group moved to leave for the bar, you declined, mumbling something about being tired. Bucky didn’t hesitate, standing up beside you. “I’ll walk you home,” he said simply.

No one questioned it. Natasha raised a brow but didn’t comment, and Steve gave you a knowing look before following the others out the door.

The night air was cool, the breeze brushing against your skin as you walked side by side. Bucky didn’t try to fill the silence, and for that, you were grateful. His presence was steady, grounding, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe.

But as the quiet stretched on, the weight of the day caught up with you. Your breath hitched, your vision blurring as tears began to well in your eyes. You tried to blink them away, but the lump in your throat only grew.

The moment the first tear slipped down your cheek, you stopped abruptly, turning away from him as you furiously wiped at your face. “God, I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “I’m a mess.”

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, stepping closer. His voice was gentle but steady, the kind of tone that made it impossible not to feel like you could fall apart and still be safe.

You shook your head, your back still to him. “I hate this. I hate crying like this. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Not to me. Not for this.”

You felt the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, hesitant but grounding. That simple touch broke the last bit of resolve you had left. A shaky breath escaped you, and the tears came faster, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

You didn’t turn around, but your voice cracked as you tried to explain, to justify your unraveling. “Work was a nightmare. My boss—he kept piling things on me, and then there was this meeting where nothing I said was taken seriously. And then—” Your voice hitched as you gestured helplessly. “And then the subway was late, and I was late, and I just—”

Your words dissolved into a sob as you clenched your fists, hating how small and exposed you felt.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said again, stepping closer. “Come here.”

This time, he didn’t wait for permission. He gently turned you toward him, his hands settling on your arms. You resisted for a moment, your pride warring with the need to let someone see you like this. But the warmth of his touch, the steadiness in his eyes, broke through your defenses.

Before you knew it, you were in his arms.

Bucky pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you with a care that made your chest ache. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing in its consistency.

“You’re okay,” he murmured against your hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words hit something deep inside you, and the dam broke completely. You clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as sobs wracked your chest. It wasn’t just the stress of the day pouring out of you—it was everything. The years of pent-up frustration, the heartbreak, the lingering hurt that you’d buried so deep it had started to feel like a part of you.

“I’m so tired, Bucky,” you choked out, your voice muffled against his chest. “I feel like I’m failing at everything. I’m trying so hard, and it’s just—” Your words crumbled into another sob.

His arms tightened around you, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “You’re not failing,” he said softly, his voice steady and sure. “You’re doing more than anyone else sees, I know you are. You’re just carrying too much, and it’s okay to let some of it out.”

You pulled back slightly, wiping at your face, though the tears didn’t stop. “I hate crying,” you muttered, your voice thick with emotion. “It feels so stupid, like I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Stop that,” he said firmly, his hands moving to your shoulders. His thumbs brushed over the fabric of your coat, grounding you as he leaned down slightly to catch your eyes. “It’s not nothing, Y/n. You’ve been holding this in all day—hell, probably longer. You’re allowed to cry, and you’re allowed to feel like this. It doesn’t make you weak.”

The sincerity in his voice made you falter, your gaze dropping as your throat tightened all over again.

“I just… I don’t know how to make it stop,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “It feels like it never ends.”

Bucky’s hands shifted, one moving to brush a tear from your cheek while the other cupped your jaw, holding you steady. “It’s not always gonna feel like this,” he said quietly, his blue eyes searching yours. “I promise you. It won’t. Only up from here right?”

The softness in his voice, the quiet conviction, sent a shiver through you. The spark between you was undeniable, and for a moment, you felt the world slow. The sounds of the city faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in the quiet, intimate bubble of this moment.

It scared you.

You stepped back abruptly, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to create some distance. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bucky said firmly, shaking his head. He took a step back, giving you space but keeping his gaze steady on you. “You’re allowed to have bad days, Y/n. You’re allowed to fall apart and I’ll always be here to catch you.”

You nodded, wiping at your face again as you tried to steady your breathing. “Thank you,” you said softly.

By the time you reached your apartment, the tears had stopped, though your eyes were still puffy and your cheeks were flushed. Bucky walked beside you the entire way, his presence quiet but solid, like an anchor keeping you grounded.

When you reached your door, you hesitated, your hand resting on the handle as you glanced at him. “Do you… want to come in?”

His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he looked like he might say yes. But then he smiled softly, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

“I want to,” he admitted, his voice low. “Believe me, I do. But…”

You looked down, your chest tightening. “There’s always a ‘but,’” you muttered bitterly.

“Sweetheart, it’s not like that,” he said quickly, his voice gentle as he stepped closer. “It’s just… we’re not there yet. You’re not there yet. And this time, it has to be right. I can’t—I won’t risk screwing this up again.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you felt tears threaten to rise again. But you swallowed them back, nodding as you looked down. “I understand. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, cutting you off. His hands reached out, brushing gently against your arms before pulling you into a soft, lingering hug. “It’s okay.”

When he pulled back, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch.

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he said softly, stepping back toward the stairs.

---

It was slow—not like before, when everything between you and Bucky had burned too hot and too fast. This time, the way things started to shift felt more like the gentle pull of a tide, subtle but impossible to ignore.

You told yourself it was still just friendship. That’s all it could be, all it should be. But the lines had begun to blur in quiet, unspoken ways.

It was late afternoon, the city basking in the golden light of an early summer evening. The streets were alive with the hum of conversation and the occasional laughter spilling out of cafes. Walking together had become something you did more often, something easy that didn’t require a plan or an excuse.

Today, the two of you strolled aimlessly, weaving through the crowd with no real destination in mind. The heat of the day had given way to a softer warmth, and the light breeze carried the faint scent of street food and blooming flowers.

You were mid-story, animatedly recounting a tale from your childhood, your hands gesturing as you spoke. “So there I was, stuck on top of the fence, and of course, he’s at the bottom laughing at me, not helping—”

You didn’t see the biker coming.

Out of nowhere, the sharp whirr of tires on pavement cut through the air, and a cyclist sped past, too close, the corner of his handlebar brushing the edge of your sleeve.

Before you could fully register what had happened, Bucky stepped in front of you, his arm instinctively reaching out. His hand brushed lightly against your arm as he guided you closer to the safety of the sidewalk.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, steady, but protective in a way that made something tighten in your chest.

The world seemed to pause for a second. You stopped mid-sentence, the words caught in your throat as your eyes flicked up to meet his. He was close—closer than you’d realized—and the faint lines of worry etched on his face made your pulse stutter.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your voice quieter than you intended.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His hand still lingered near your arm, and his blue eyes searched yours, like he was trying to make sure you were really okay. The way he looked at you sent warmth flooding through your chest, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little rough as he cleared his throat and glanced away, dropping his hand. “No problem.”

The moment should have passed quickly, and in a way, it did. The two of you resumed walking, and you tried to pick up where you left off in your story, but the words didn’t flow as easily as before.

You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your arm, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air between you, warm and grounding. You sneaked a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His expression was neutral, maybe even a little guarded, but there was something in the way his shoulders stayed slightly tense, like he wasn’t as unaffected as he was trying to seem.

“Anyway,” you said finally, forcing a lighter tone than you felt, trying to shake off the moment. “I eventually got off the fence—no thanks to my brother—and my mom grounded him for laughing at me instead of helping.”

Bucky huffed out a small laugh, glancing at you with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sounds like he deserved it.”

“He did,” you replied, smiling back. But even as the words left your lips, your chest still felt too tight, the air between you charged with something unspoken.

For a moment, silence fell between you again, the sounds of the city around you filling the space. You thought about changing the subject, maybe shifting the focus to something safer, but then Bucky spoke again, his voice quieter this time, almost tentative.

“You never told me that stuff before,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours briefly before dropping to the sidewalk in front of him.

Your breath caught, the simple statement hitting harder than you expected. “You never asked,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He froze mid-step, his expression tightening as though your response had struck a nerve. Slowly, he turned to face you, his brows furrowing. “You’re right,” he murmured, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “I didn’t. I should have. I… God, I was such an ass.”

The rawness in his tone, the weight of his words, caught you off guard. You stopped walking, your arms crossing instinctively as you looked at him. “Bucky…” you started, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to handle the way his voice cracked slightly at the end.

“No, let me say this,” he interrupted gently, holding up a hand. His eyes were fixed on you now, their usual guardedness giving way to something more vulnerable, more open. “I didn’t ask because I didn’t take the time to. I didn’t take the time to know all the little things about you, to ask the questions I should’ve asked. And you deserved better than that.”

You stared at him, the lump in your throat making it hard to respond. Part of you wanted to brush it off, to lighten the moment with a joke or deflect the way you always did. But the sincerity in his voice, the regret etched into every word, made that impossible.

“It wasn’t just you,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady. “I didn’t exactly make it easy for you to ask. I didn’t want to… I don’t know, bother you with that kind of stuff.”

His expression twisted, a mixture of frustration and sadness flashing across his face. “You could never bother me,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I just… I didn’t know how to show you that. And I hate that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.”

The weight of his words settled heavily between you, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. You weren’t used to this version of Bucky—the one who didn’t deflect or shut down, who didn’t hide behind charm or easy jokes.

You looked away, your arms tightening around yourself as you tried to collect your thoughts. “You’re not that guy anymore,” you said quietly. “At least, not the way you were back then.”

When you glanced back at him, his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a sad smile. “I’m trying not to be,” he admitted. “But I’m still scared sometimes. Scared I’ll screw it all up again.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice, at the vulnerability he wasn’t even trying to hide. For so long, you’d wanted him to let you in, to let you see the parts of him he kept locked away. And now that he finally was, you didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not screwing it up,” you said softly, your voice trembling just enough for him to notice. “Not this time.”

His shoulders seemed to relax slightly, the tension in his posture easing as he nodded. “That means a lot, coming from you,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours again.

You smiled faintly, the warmth in your chest battling with the lingering unease that never quite left you when it came to him. “Well,” you said, trying to lighten the mood just enough to steady yourself, “don’t let it go to your head.”

A small laugh escaped him, and the sound was enough to ease some of the heaviness between you. “I’ll try not to,” he said, his voice lighter now, though the softness in his eyes remained.

As the two of you started walking again, the tension between you began to ease, replaced by a quiet understanding that felt… different.

“So, what happened after your brother got grounded?” Bucky asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

You glanced at him, surprised. “What?”

“With the fence story,” he clarified, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I feel like there’s more to it.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, unexpected but genuine. “There isn’t, really,” you said, shaking your head. “Unless you count me swearing off fences forever.”

“I don’t know,” he teased, his smile widening. “Sounds like a pretty big life lesson to me.”

The conversation felt easy again, the weight of the past moment lifting as you fell back into a rhythm. But even as you laughed and talked, a part of you held onto the warmth of his earlier words, the quiet vulnerability he’d let slip through.

As you walked, the city swirled around you, but the warmth in your chest lingered, stubborn and insistent. You told yourself it was nothing, just a moment of shared connection, the kind you could have with a friend.

But you couldn’t ignore the way your heart had raced when he’d stepped in front of you or the way his voice had dropped, low and protective, when he’d told you to be careful. And you couldn’t forget the way his eyes had lingered on yours.

---

The house was warm, filled with the smell of pizza and the faint tang of beer. Someone’s carefully curated playlist hummed softly in the background, though it was mostly drowned out by the laughter and loud debates that erupted from the living room.

The night had been a blur of board games, drinks, and playful arguments. Sam was his usual loud self, dramatically accusing everyone of cheating during Monopoly, even when he was. Wanda sat cross-legged on the floor, giggling at his antics while Natasha smugly stacked up her fake money, clearly winning. Steve, meanwhile, tried—and failed—to keep everyone in line, his voice cutting through the chaos.

“Sam, you can’t just take money from the bank whenever you feel like it!” Steve exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the board.

“It’s called resourcefulness, Rogers,” Sam shot back, grinning as he leaned back on his elbows.

“It’s called cheating,” Natasha said dryly, exchanging an amused glance with Wanda.

“Call it what you want,” Sam said, shrugging. “I call it strategic gameplay.”

“You’re impossible,” Steve muttered, rubbing his temples as Wanda giggled beside him.

You sat on the arm of the couch, sipping your drink and watching the scene unfold with a smile. Nights like this felt comfortable, even easy—though the comfort was always tinged with a quiet tension whenever Bucky was nearby.

From across the room, you caught sight of him leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as he watched Steve and Sam go at it. His hair was slightly mussed from earlier, when Natasha had flicked a piece of popcorn at him during a heated round of Codenames. He looked relaxed, but every so often, his gaze would flick to you, lingering just a little too long before shifting away.

As the night began to wind down, people started drifting off. Natasha leaned back against Steve’s chest on the couch, flipping through channels, while Sam loudly declared that he was “retiring undefeated” from board games. Wanda laughed softly, shaking her head as she began stacking up the pieces from Monopoly.

You slipped into the kitchen to rinse out your glass, grateful for a brief moment of quiet. The sink ran softly as you washed the remnants of red wine from the bottom of the cup.

A familiar presence entered the room a moment later, filling the small space without saying a word.

“Need help?” Bucky asked, his voice soft and low.

You glanced over your shoulder, finding him leaning casually against the counter. His sleeves were still rolled up, and his hair was falling into his eyes in a way that made your chest feel uncomfortably tight, your fingers twitching wanting to run your fingers through it.

“No, I’m good,” you said, turning back to the sink. But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped closer, grabbing a towel from the counter. His presence was steady, grounding, but it made the space between you feel smaller, more intimate.

“You sure?” he asked lightly, and you could hear the faint smile in his voice.

You nodded, drying the glass in your hands. “Yeah. It’s just a couple of glasses.”

He stayed anyway, leaning a little closer as you reached for the towel he was holding. Your fingers brushed against his, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt up your arm.

You froze, your breath catching as you quickly pulled your hand back.

“Sorry,” you muttered, your voice too quiet.

“Don’t be,” he said softly, his tone gentle but firm.

When you finally looked up, you found his eyes already on you. The softness there caught you off guard—blue and steady, full of something unspoken. It was the kind of look that made your heart race, your thoughts scrambling for something to say, anything to break the silence.

But you couldn’t. You were frozen in place, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

The air felt heavier, charged, like the world outside the kitchen had faded away. Your fingers gripped the counter behind you for balance as he leaned in slightly, his gaze flickering briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“Y/n…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, and it made your chest tighten painfully.

You could feel his breath, warm against your skin, and for a moment, you thought he might actually close the distance. You weren’t sure if you wanted him to, weren’t sure if you’d stop him if he did.

But before either of you could move, a booming voice broke through the moment like a crack of thunder.

“Steve, I swear to God, I didn’t cheat!”

“Sam, you literally took money out of the bank when you thought no one was looking!” Steve yelled back, his voice full of exasperation.

“It’s just a game!” Wanda called out, clearly trying—and failing—to mediate.

Bucky exhaled sharply, pulling back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “Monopoly isn’t just a game,” he murmured, his voice light but tinged with humor. “It’s a lifestyle.”

The comment was loud enough to carry into the living room, and Natasha’s sharp laugh cut through the noise. “He’s not wrong,” she called back.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, though your chest still felt tight. The moment was gone, but the tension lingered, humming faintly in the space between you.

As you moved to step past him, his hand brushed lightly against yours again, a touch so brief it might have been accidental. But when you looked up at him, his eyes were still locked on yours, steady and unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said softly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, his voice pulling your attention back to him.

But before he could say anything else, Natasha poked her head into the kitchen. “Hey, are you two gonna join us, or are you just gonna hide in here all night?”

The spell broke again, and you stepped back, putting more space between you and Bucky as you smiled faintly. “We’re coming,” you said quickly, brushing past him as you headed toward the door.

He lingered for a moment, watching you go, before following you back into the living room.

-----

The bar was packed, music pounding through the room as laughter and voices swirl together in a cacophony of chaos. You’re sitting at a table with Wanda and Natasha, nursing a drink and laughing at something Natasha said. Across the room, you catch a glimpse of Bucky leaning against the bar, his relaxed smile softening the hard lines of his face.

It’s one of those nights where everything feels easy. Because everything has been, you can't help but smile at the fact that letting Buck in your life was the right decision and you were grateful that you made it for once you felt that you were both close to crossing that line again but this time you were doing it right and your heart swelled up the thought of him being your right person at the right time finally after years of back-and-forth.

Until she shows up.The one from the farmers market, when you swore off Bucky for good.

You don’t notice her at first, too caught up in the conversation at your table. But when Natasha’s gaze flicks over your shoulder, her smile fading slightly, you follow her line of sight.

She’s tall, gorgeous, and entirely too familiar. And the feeling in your guy is dark, anxious and makes you feel sick.

Your stomach tightens as you watch her approach him, her confident smile and the way she places a hand on his arm. You don’t miss the way she leans in, her lips brushing his ear as she says something you can’t hear.

You force yourself to look away, trying to focus on the drink in your hand. But you can’t stop the wave of jealousy that crashes over you, your mind spinning with all the worst-case scenarios.

“Are you okay?” Wanda asks quietly, her voice barely audible over the music.

“I’m fine,” you lie, your throat tight.

You glance back toward the bar, and that’s when you see it.

She leans in, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

For a moment, you can’t move. Your brain struggles to catch up with what you’re seeing, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and devastation.

You look away immediately, not waiting to see him kiss her back. When you finally decide to look, one last time before you leave.

His eyes are scanning the room, panic taking over his face. And then they land on you.

The hurt in your expression must be clear, because his face falls when he realizes you saw. “Wait!” he yells, rushing toward you.

But you don’t wait. You grab your bag and slip through the crowd, ignoring Wanda and Natasha’s calls after you.

Sam watches as you storm past him, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on?” he asks, trying to reach out to you, when you ignore him he turns to Natasha.

“Trouble,” she says simply, her eyes following you before flicking back to Bucky, who’s shoving past the crowd and running after you.

Sam starts to follow, “That mother fucker…” but Natasha grabs his arm, stopping him.

“Leave it,” she says firmly.

Sam glares at her, his jaw tightening. “I don’t care if he was fooling all of us, she's my best friend.”

Natasha’s expression softens, but her grip on his arm doesn’t falter. “This time is different, Sam” she says quietly. “I can tell. He’s not going to let her walk away again.”

Sam exhales sharply, but he doesn’t argue. “For her sake, I hope you’re right.”

You’re halfway down the street when you hear him frantically calling after you.

“Wait! Please, just wait!”

You don’t stop, your chest tight with anger and betrayal. But his footsteps are faster than yours, and soon he’s in front of you, blocking your path.

“Move,” you say sharply, your voice trembling.

“No,” he says firmly, his hands up in surrender. “Please, just listen to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest, your whole body trembling with anger and something deeper—something you don’t want to name. Your eyes are burning as you glare at him, hot tears pooling at the edges of your vision. “I saw you, Bucky. I saw it! God, I’m so stupid!”

“I didn’t kiss her back,” he says quickly, his voice frantic, almost panicked. “I didn’t even know she was going to—she just showed up, and before I could stop her, she—”

You shake your head, cutting him off before he can finish. “I don’t care. I don’t care, Bucky. This—” You gesture wildly between the two of you, your voice cracking. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this with you. Why I didn’t want to trust you again!”

Your voice rises, each word sharper than the last, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill over. “You don’t understand what it’s like to feel this way, to love someone so much it hurts, and then watch them ruin you over and over again.”

His jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer, his hands raised slightly like he’s afraid to spook you. “I do understand,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. “I understand it because I feel that way about you. Every day.”

You laugh bitterly, a hollow, broken sound. “If you felt that way, you wouldn’t keep breaking my heart.”

He looks at you like the words physically hurt him, but you don’t stop. “Do you have any idea how hard this has been for me? How much it’s taken for me to even let you this close again? And now, after everything, I’m supposed to just stand here and believe you?” You poke him in the chest, your voice trembling as tears stream freely down your face. “Why should I?”

His lips part as though he’s going to respond, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just stares at you, his eyes wide, his expression wrecked. Finally, he whispers, “Because I love you.”

The words hang in the air between you like a live wire, crackling and sparking.

“You’re funny,” you snap, the anger masking the ache in your chest. “You love me? All you do is hurt me and make me cry, Bucky. I don’t even know why I’m still standing here!”

He flinches but doesn’t move, his blue eyes locked on yours. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, brushing away the tears trailing down your cheek. His touch is impossibly gentle, like he’s afraid you might shatter under his fingertips.

“I didn’t kiss her,” he says, his voice raw and quiet. “I don’t want to kiss her. I don’t want to kiss or feel or be with or love anyone but you.”

You close your eyes, his words hitting too close to the place inside you where the ache lives. “You can’t blame me for not trusting you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“I’m not blaming you,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I’m not. I know I’ve screwed up before, more times than I can count.I know I’ve hurt you, and I hate myself for it.” His voice breaks, trembling at the edges. “I know I ran out of chances years ago. But please, you’ve gotta give me the benefit of the doubt with this one. Just this one, please.”

His desperation makes your throat tighten. You look at him, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. He looks completely wrecked, his blue eyes wide and pleading, his entire body tense like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Yes, you can,” he says quickly, stepping closer, his voice soft but insistent. “I know you can. Please don’t walk away from me. Not again—I can’t do that again.”

You close your eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they don’t. They fall faster now, hot and unrelenting. “I’m so scared,” you admit, your voice breaking. “I don’t think I can survive this if you hurt me again.”

His expression crumbles, and for a moment, he looks like he might fall apart too. But then he takes another step closer, his hands trembling as he reaches for yours. “You won’t have to survive it again,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not going to hurt you. I swear to you, I’m not. I can’t lose you. Not again. You mean everything to me.”

The raw sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache so badly it’s hard to breathe. You don’t move, torn between the love you still feel for him and the fear of opening yourself up to more pain.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“That's okay, I’ll make you believe me,” he says, his voice steady despite the tears shining in his eyes. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t give up on us. Please.”

The world feels like it’s tilting beneath your feet, every emotion colliding at once. You look at him, your tears mingling with his as his hands tighten gently around yours.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper, the vulnerability in your voice making you flinch.

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he says softly. “I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll show you every day if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t walk away.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is heavy, but it’s not empty—it’s full of everything you’ve both left unsaid, full of hope and hurt and the possibility of something better.

Finally, you nod, just barely, the movement so small it’s almost imperceptible. But he sees it.

His shoulders sag with relief, and he steps closer, his forehead nearly touching yours as he exhales shakily. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You don’t say anything, your chest still tight, your emotions too raw. But when his hands brush against yours again, you don’t pull away.

----

The routine of meeting Bucky for coffee came to a halt after you saw the kiss. Or, more accurately, her kiss him. It didn’t matter that you knew what you saw wasn’t the full story; it didn’t matter that you knew in your gut that he wasn’t the one who leaned in first. The sight of it had cracked something in you, leaving all your old doubts and fears to spill through the cracks.

For a week, you ignored his texts, his calls, even the coffee shop where you’d fallen into the rhythm of meeting him. He hadn’t pushed—not at first. He gave you the space you needed, though you could feel his presence lingering like a shadow.

It was Wanda who called you out, her name lighting up your phone screen as you sat on your couch, staring at the untouched glass of wine on your coffee table.

You answered on the third ring, your voice tight. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, her tone light but laced with something careful. “How’s it going?”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “Fine.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not buying it. “So… are you just going to keep ignoring him forever?”

Your chest tightened, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of a blanket draped over the couch. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

Wanda didn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence made you squirm. “He keeps asking about you, you know,” she said finally. “Every time I see him, it’s the same question: ‘Is she okay?’”

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Wanda. I just… it’s hard. He keeps saying he’s different, and I do believe it, I do. But then I see something like that, and all I can think about is how it felt before—when he ignored me, when he brushed me off like I didn’t matter.”

She sighed softly. “I get that. I do. But you should know… he didn’t kiss her back. I was there. He didn’t even hesitate before pushing her away.”

“I know,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I know that. But it doesn’t make it easier. Because nobody gets to me the way he does, Wanda. Nobody ever has. He has this… hold on me, and it’s terrifying to feel that way about someone who’s hurt you before.”

Wanda’s voice softened, filled with sympathy. “I understand, Y/n. I do. It’s hard to let yourself be that vulnerable again when you’ve been burned. But I think… I think he’s trying, really trying. And maybe—”

There was a knock at your door.

You froze, your breath catching as you glanced toward the sound. “Hey, Wanda, I’ll call you back,” you said quickly.

“Bucky?” she asked knowingly.

“I’ll call you back,” you repeated before ending the call.

You hesitated for a long moment, your hand hovering over the doorknob. When you finally opened it, there he was.

Bucky stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, a book tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy, and his blue eyes, normally so guarded, were filled with something soft and unsure.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough.

You blinked, surprised. “Bucky.”

He held out the book, almost like a peace offering. It was the one you’d mentioned weeks ago during one of your coffee meetings, a passing comment you’d thought he wouldn’t remember.

“What’s this?” you asked, your voice tentative.

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but the faint flush creeping up his neck gave him away. “Saw it and thought of you.”

You stared at him, your fingers brushing against the cover as you took it. The gesture struck you harder than it should have, and you felt the familiar ache in your chest. “Bucky…”

“It’s just a book,” he said quickly, his voice faltering slightly. “Nothing big.”

But it felt big. It felt impossibly big.

“Thank you,” you said softly, running your fingers over the cover.

There was a pause, a heavy silence that seemed to stretch out between you. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“You gonna let me in, or should I go?” he asked lightly, a faint, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You stepped back, gesturing for him to come inside. “Um yeah. Sure.”

The air between you felt charged as he followed you into the kitchen. You set the book down on the counter, trying to focus on the mundane action as a way to steady yourself.

“Do you want some tea or something?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual.

“Sure,” he said, leaning against the counter. His eyes never left you, and you could feel his gaze like a physical weight.

As you filled the kettle, the silence grew heavier, the unspoken words between you pressing down like a storm cloud. Finally, Bucky broke it.

“Y/n,” he started, his voice soft but steady. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but I need to say something.”

You didn’t look at him, your fingers tightening on the kettle handle. “Bucky…”

“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “Just let me say this.”

You exhaled shakily, setting the kettle down and turning to face him. “Okay.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to struggle with the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw. “I messed up. Not just last week, not just with her, but before—all of it. I know I hurt you, I knew I was and I can’t take that back. But I swear to you, I’m not that guy anymore. I’m not.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, your heart pounding. “How am I supposed to believe that, Bucky? How am I supposed to trust that this time will be different?”

“Because it already is,” he said quickly, his voice rising slightly with urgency. “I’m trying, Y/n. I’m going to therapy. I’m showing up. I’m doing the work because I want to be better—for you.”

His words hit you like a wave, and your throat tightened as you blinked back tears. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to let someone back in after they’ve broken you?”

“I do,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Because I’m terrified every day that I’ve lost you for good. But I can’t let you go without trying—without proving to you that I can be the person you deserve.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, and you looked away, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m scared,” you whispered. “I’m scared that if I let you back in, you’ll hurt me all over again.”

“I won’t,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “I promise you, I won’t. Just… let me try. Please.”

You didn’t move, your heart warring with your head. The love you felt for him was still there, buried under the hurt and the fear, but it was there.

He reached out slowly, his hand brushing against yours. “I love you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you so damn much.”

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything, your mind racing. But as you looked up at him, his blue eyes filled with nothing but raw, aching honesty, you felt something inside you begin to crack open.

“I can’t promise you anything,” you said softly. “But… I’ll try.”

A flicker of hope lit in his eyes, and he nodded, his hand squeezing yours gently. “That’s all I need.”

---

The trip to the cabin was Steve’s idea, of course. “We all need a break,” he had insisted weeks ago, his voice full of conviction. “No distractions, no work, just friends, fresh air, and some well-earned relaxation and of course alcohol.”

It had taken very little convincing to get everyone out there. The cabin was nestled deep in the woods, surrounded by towering pine trees and the faint sound of a nearby creek. The air smelled fresh, crisp, and you almost forgot how much you’d hesitated about coming—about being this close to Bucky, about opening yourself up to feelings you weren’t sure you could handle.

The first night was loud and chaotic, in the best way possible. Everyone gathered in the living room after dinner, the fire crackling in the stone fireplace. Bottles of wine and beer were scattered across the coffee table, along with a half-empty bottle of whiskey Sam had brought along and a stack of mismatched board games Natasha had insisted on bringing.

Natasha was leaning against Steve on the couch, her legs draped over his lap as she sipped her drink. Sam had claimed one of the armchairs, gesturing wildly as he recounted some ridiculous story about his time in the military. Wanda was curled up on the floor next to him, her cheeks pink from laughing too hard.

“And I swear to God, the guy thought he could outrun the damn helicopter,” Sam was saying, his hands moving animatedly.

Wanda snorted, nearly spilling her wine. “Oh my God, did he?”

“Obviously not!” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. “But he gave it his best shot. Dumbest thing I’ve ever seen, but you’ve got to respect the effort.”

Steve shook his head, chuckling. “I feel like you’ve told this story at least three times now.”

“Yeah, and it gets better every time,” Sam shot back, grinning.

“Maybe for you,” Natasha quipped, smirking. “For the rest of us, it’s just confirmation that you’ve always been impossible.”

“I am a delight, Romanoff,” Sam said, mock-offended.

“You’re something,” she muttered under her breath, making Wanda laugh.

Across the room, you were perched on the edge of a chair, nursing your drink and watching the back-and-forth unfold. Bucky sat on the arm of your chair, close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed against yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced at him, startled by his closeness. “Just enjoying the show,” you replied, gesturing toward Sam, who was now debating something ridiculous with Steve.

Bucky smiled faintly, his eyes warm. “It’s good to see you like this,” he murmured. “Relaxed. Happy.”

The comment caught you off guard, and you felt a warmth rise in your chest that had nothing to do with the fire or the whiskey in your hand. “I guess I’m starting to figure things out,” you said quietly.

His gaze lingered on you, soft and unreadable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. But then Natasha made some sarcastic comment about Monopoly, and the group burst into laughter, shattering the moment.

As the night wore on, the group slowly began to drift off. Wanda yawned and declared she was calling it a night, and Natasha soon followed, dragging Steve along with her despite his protests that he wanted to stay up. Sam was the last to go, grumbling about how he wasn’t tired even as he stumbled toward the stairs.

Soon, it was just you and Bucky.

You stood in the kitchen, rinsing out your glass. The firelight flickered faintly from the living room, and the cabin had grown quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden beams.

Bucky walked in, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floor. He leaned against the counter, watching you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

You nodded, not looking at him. “Yeah. Just winding down.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the small space. “You sure? You seemed a little… distant earlier.”

You sighed, setting the glass down and finally turning to face him. “It’s just been a long day.”

His eyes searched yours, and you felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet intensity that always seemed to disarm you. “If there’s anything you want to talk about…” he started, but you shook your head.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said softly, offering a small, tired smile.

He nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful.

Later, you paced your room, your thoughts racing too much to settle. The cabin was quiet now, the kind of quiet that made everything feel sharper, more immediate. You couldn’t stop replaying the moments from earlier—the way Bucky had looked at you, the warmth in his voice when he said it was good to see you happy.

It was too much, and not enough all at once.

Finally, you decided to leave your room, the air feeling too stifling. But as you stepped into the hallway, you nearly collided with someone.

“Sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

“Y/n?”

It was Bucky.

You froze, your eyes locking with his. For a moment, neither of you moved, the tension between you palpable.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice low and steady.

The space between you felt impossibly small, and as his gaze held yours, you saw something there—something raw and unguarded. Slowly, he reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

His hand lingered, his thumb grazing your cheek. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your breath hitch as his thumb trailed down, brushing against your bottom lip.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He didn’t move, his blue eyes searching yours as if waiting for permission.

Your hands lifted, hesitating for just a moment before resting against his chest. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms, and the warmth of him made your chest ache.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant, but the second his lips moved against yours, the floodgates opened. His hands cupped your face, holding you like you were something precious, and the kiss deepened, heat and longing pouring into every movement.

You stumbled back slightly, your back hitting the wall as his body pressed against yours. The air was thick with the heat between you, and his lips left yours just long enough to murmur, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice shaking with certainty. “Yes, Bucky. Please.”

Bucky's lips found yours again, urgent but soft, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening. His hands were firm and steady as they cupped your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheeks as though trying to memorize every inch of your skin.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. The heat of him pressed against you, grounding and consuming all at once.

The tension that had built between you for so long— weeks, months, years-was finally unraveling, pouring out in every kiss, every touch.

"Bucky," you whispered against his lips, your voice trembling.

His forehead rested against yours for a brief moment, his breath warm and uneven. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his voice rough and filled with restraint.

You shook your head, your hands sliding up to rest on either side of his face. "I don't want you to stop," you said, your words firm despite the shakiness in your tone.

Something flickered in his eyes-relief, longing, something deeper. He kissed you again, his hands sliding down to your waist as he gently guided you backward, step by step, toward your room.

The door closed softly behind you, but neither of you noticed. All that mattered was the way his lips moved against yours, the way his hands settled on your hips before gliding up your sides. You gasped as his fingertips brushed the hem of your shirt, and he paused, his eyes searching yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

"Yes," you said, your voice firmer this time. "Yes, I'm sure."

He nodded, his hands steady but his touch reverent as he helped you pull your shirt over your head. His lips found your neck, leaving a trail of warmth that made you shiver. Your hands roamed his chest, slipping under the fabric of his shirt until he let out a low, shaky laugh and pulled it off in one motion.

Every moment felt unhurried yet desperate, like the two of you were trying to savor every second while making up for lost time. You didn't think about what came next, didn't think about the consequences. All you could focus on was the way Bucky whispered your name like it was sacred, the way his hands held you like you were something he never wanted to let go of again.

When the two of you finally came together, it felt like the world outside your room didn't exist anymore. He moved with care, his lips finding yours again and again, his voice rough as he murmured your name in between kisses. He asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, if you wanted him to stop.

And every time, your answer was the same.

"Yes, Bucky. I'm sure."

When you woke up the next morning, the sunlight streaming through the window felt harsh, almost intrusive. Your head was still heavy with sleep, but the events of the night before came rushing back in vivid detail.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your hands over your face as panic began to creep in. What had you done? You had told yourself you'd be careful with Bucky, that you'd protect yourself this time. But now? Now you'd opened yourself up completely, and the fear of what came next made your chest tighten.

Your heart sank as your gaze flickered to the empty side of the bed. He was gone.

You sat there for a moment, your hands gripping the edge of the blanket as the familiar ache of heartbreak began to settle in. "Of course," you whispered bitterly to yourself. "Of course, he left."

But just as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the door to the bathroom opened, and Bucky stepped out, a towel draped around his neck.

He froze when he saw you, his expression softening immediately. "Hey," he said, his voice still rough with sleep.

You blinked at him, relief washing over you so quickly it made you dizzy. "Hey," you said softly, your voice trembling.

His brows knit together as he crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you said quickly, but the way your voice cracked betrayed you.

"Don't lie to me," he said gently, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

"What's going on?"

You hesitated, your fingers twisting in the fabric of the blanket. "It's stupid," you muttered.

"It's not stupid if it's got you looking this upset," he said, his voice firm but kind. His thumb brushed lightly between your eyebrows, smoothing out the small crease there. "Put that worry wrinkle away, sweetheart."

You let out a shaky laugh, but your chest still felt tight. "Please don't get mad at me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Mad at you?" he said, his tone incredulous. "I could never get mad at you. Just talk to me."

You took a deep breath, your eyes dropping to your hands. "I thought you left," you admitted finally. "When I woke up and you weren't here, I just... I panicked."

For a moment, he didn't say anything, and you risked a glance up at him. His jaw had clenched, his expression flickering with something you couldn't quite place-guilt, maybe, or frustration. But whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by quiet understanding.

"I get it," he said softly, his voice steady. "And I'm sorry. I should've said something, told you i was just getting up for a minute. But I'm not going anywhere this time. I’m sorry I made you feel that way."

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten, and you nodded, swallowing hard.

"Okay," you said quietly.

He reached out, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "You believe me?"

"Yeah," you whispered. "I do."

He started to lean in but the moment was broken by a knock at the door.

"Y/n?" Steve's voice called out from the other side. "Have you seen Bucky?"

Before you could respond, Natasha's laugh rang out from the hallway. "Steve, give it a rest. He's probably hiding from Sam."

"Or in the bathroom," Sam's voice chimed in. "Probably pooping. Breakfast is ready, by the way!"

You and Bucky exchanged a look, both of you bursting into quiet laughter.

"I guess we should join them," you said, smiling softly.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. "We should. Are we okay?”

You nodded “Were okay.”

---

The cabin had been a turning point for both of you, though neither of you dared to say it aloud. That night, tangled in the sheets and each other’s arms, had felt like a step forward—and yet, when morning came, the step wasn’t as certain as you’d hoped.

You hadn’t told anyone about what happened that night. Not Wanda, not Natasha, not anyone. They hadn’t suspected a thing, and honestly, you preferred it that way. Keeping it to yourself made it feel less complicated, like something you could push to the back of your mind when you needed to.

And after the cabin? Everything had gone back to normal. Or at least, you pretended it had. Bucky didn’t push or pry; he didn’t mention the night, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he gave you space—space to think, space to process, space to figure out what you really wanted.

For two weeks, you existed in this limbo, circling back to the quiet, steady friendship you’d rebuilt before the cabin. It was easier that way. Comfortable. Safe.

And yet, you couldn’t ignore the tension lingering beneath the surface. Every look, every touch, every shared laugh felt weighted, charged with unspoken words. You were grateful for his patience, but it terrified you too. Because the truth was, you didn’t know how to take the next step—or if you even could.

The room was alive with energy. It was the kind of night where the drinks flowed freely, the music hummed in the background, and everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

You’d lost count of how many drinks Sam had handed you, but you weren’t complaining. The warmth of the alcohol helped take the edge off, loosening the knot that always seemed to form in your chest when Bucky was around.

Wanda was perched on the armrest of a chair, laughing at one of Steve’s terrible jokes, while Natasha sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking playing cards into a makeshift tower. Sam was dramatically recounting a story from his military days, gesturing so wildly that he knocked over one of Natasha’s stacks.

“Sam!” Natasha groaned, glaring at him.

“You can’t blame me for being animated!” Sam shot back, grinning.

“Nat, you should know by now that Sam’s hands talk more than his mouth does,” Steve teased, earning a laugh from Wanda.

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Wanda said, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just here for the show.”

You stood by the bar, sipping your drink and smiling faintly at their banter. The atmosphere was easy and familiar, but your gaze kept drifting across the room—to him.

Bucky.

He was leaning against the wall, laughing at something Steve said, but his eyes kept flicking to you, like he couldn’t help himself.

Wanda noticed, of course. She always did.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, nudging you with her elbow.

You startled, quickly looking away. “I’m not staring,” you muttered.

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re not.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Wanda. We’re fine. We’re friends.”

“Friends who spent the night together at the cabin and haven’t addressed it since?” she asked, her voice careful but pointed.

You froze, your grip tightening on your glass. “We’re fine,” you repeated, your tone sharper this time. “I’m okay with the way things are.”

“Are you?” she asked quietly, tilting her head. “Is he?”

You didn’t answer, and she sighed. “Look, I know why you’re scared. And I get it—you’ve been through a lot with him. But don’t you think it’s worth figuring out what you actually want? Instead of hiding behind what feels safe?”

Before you could respond, Sam called out from across the room.

“Y/n! We’re playing charades, and you’re on my team!”

You rolled your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Duty calls,” you said, ignoring Wanda’s knowing look as you moved to join the group.

After an intense game of charades that somehow devolved into everyone laughing more than guessing, Sam threw his hands in the air as you acted out his final clue—a ridiculous, flailing impression of a penguin that left the entire room in stitches.

“That’s it!” Sam shouted, pumping his fists in the air. “Team Sam for the win, baby!”

“Barely!” Natasha called from across the room, rolling her eyes as she leaned back against Steve’s chest. “You two cheated!”

“We didn’t cheat,” Sam argued, grabbing your hand and spinning you around dramatically. “We’re just that good.”

You laughed, breathless as Sam gave you an exaggerated hug, lifting you off the ground before setting you back down. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head as you tried to catch your breath.

“And you love it,” Sam said with a wink before grabbing a beer from the table.

The room was still buzzing with laughter and chatter as you headed toward the kitchen to grab another drink. The warmth of the alcohol and the easy, familiar energy of your friends made you feel lighter than you had in weeks.

But as you opened the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of water to offset the buzz in your head, you felt it—that familiar shift in the air.

When you turned, there he was.

Bucky stood a few feet away, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable as he watched you. There was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t quite place what it was.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer.

“Hey,” you replied, offering a faint smile as you twisted the cap off your bottle. “Having fun?”

“Not really,” he admitted, his voice low.

The response caught you off guard, and you raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Instead of answering, he looked away for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then, with a deep breath, he met your gaze again. “Can we talk?”

You hesitated, your grip tightening on the bottle in your hand. “Now?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Something in his voice made it impossible to say no, and you nodded, setting the bottle down on the counter. “Okay.”

He led you to a quieter corner of the room, away from the noise and laughter of your friends. The firelight from the living room flickered faintly against the walls, and the hum of conversation faded into the background as he turned to face you.

You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling exposed under the intensity of his gaze. “What’s going on, Bucky?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders stiff as if he was bracing himself for something. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said quietly.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your stomach dropped. “Do what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “Being your friend.”

You blinked, your heart pounding as your mind scrambled to catch up. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quickly, his voice low and insistent. “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t, I can’t just be your friend anymore.”

Your arms tightened around yourself as you stared at him, confusion and hurt swirling in your chest. “Bucky, what are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply, his hands flexing at his sides as he looked away. “I’ve been trying,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to keep it together, to respect what you want, to just be here for you. But every time I see you, every time I hear your laugh or watch you smile, it’s like—”

He cut himself off, shaking his head as if the words were too much.

“Like what?” you pressed, your voice trembling.

His eyes snapped to yours, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your breath hitch. “Like I’m falling all over again.”

The weight of his confession settled heavily between you, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he continued, his tone desperate now. “I can’t just stand on the sidelines and pretend I’m okay with being just your friend. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting to touch you, to hold you, to kiss you.”

Your chest tightened, your pulse thrumming in your ears as his words washed over you.

“What do you want from me?” you asked softly, your voice shaking.

“Everything,” he said without hesitation, his voice raw and steady.

The word lingered in the air, heavy and unshakable.

His hand lifted slowly, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch so gentle it made your knees weak. His thumb traced along your jaw, his touch reverent and careful, like he was afraid you might break.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Tears welled in your eyes, your breath hitching as you struggled to process his words.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he added quickly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “I just needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending anymore.”

The room felt too small, too quiet despite the distant hum of the party behind you. Your thoughts raced, a million emotions colliding all at once—fear, longing, hope.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, his forehead lowering to rest against yours. “I know, and I don’t blame you, I just wanna be with you already.”

Your hands lifted to rest against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you closed your eyes. The sound of his heartbeat beneath your palms was steady, grounding, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the smallest flicker of hope.

“Okay,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “But no more running.”

“No more running,” he promised.

This time he made the first move, he leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tentative and certain, like he was pouring every unspoken word into the moment.

Behind you, someone (definitely Sam) yelled, “About damn time!” followed by Natasha’s dry laugh.

But none of it mattered.

When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his hands steady as they cupped your face. “Let me show you,” he whispered. “Let me prove it to you, I’m gonna prove it to you…”

----

The difference this time was undeniable.

Before, being with Bucky had felt like reaching for something you couldn’t quite grasp—like he was always just out of reach, holding back pieces of himself he didn’t think you could handle. But now? Now, it felt like the walls had come down. He wasn’t hiding anymore. He wasn’t running. He was just… there, steady and present, and it made you feel like you could finally breathe.

The first time you really noticed it was about a week after Sam’s birthday party. The group had gone out for drinks at one of your usual spots, a cozy bar with low lighting and worn wooden tables. The air was filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, and you were in the middle of laughing at something Natasha had said when you felt it—Bucky’s hand resting on the back of your chair.

It wasn’t hesitant or uncertain like it used to be. No, this time, his touch was solid and deliberate, like he wanted everyone to know you were his.

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “You good, baby?”

The nickname sent a shiver down your spine, your heart stuttering in your chest. You looked up at him, and the soft smile on his face made you melt. “Yeah, I’m good,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He kissed your temple, quick and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world, before straightening. His hand slid down to rest on your shoulder, not in a possessive way but in a protective, grounding way that made your chest ache in the best way.

When you glanced around the table, you caught Wanda smirking at you, her brow raised knowingly. Steve, seated across from you, gave Bucky a small nod of approval, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes.

It felt good. It felt right.

Later that night, while Bucky was off getting another round of drinks with Steve, you found yourself alone at the table with Wanda. She was swirling the last of her wine in her glass, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her.

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Nothing. I’m just… happy for you.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” she said, leaning forward. “You deserve this. And honestly? It’s about damn time he got his act together.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Sometimes it still feels… fragile, you know?”

“Fragile?” she repeated, her brow furrowing.

“Like… I’m still waiting for something to happen, to go wrong,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I know he’s not the same as he was. I can see it. But it’s hard to forget how things were before.”

Wanda reached across the table, her hand covering yours. “Y/n, listen to me. I know what he put you through, and I know how scared you are. But he’s not the same guy he was two years ago. He’s different. You can see it in the way he looks at you.”

You hesitated, her words sinking in. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said firmly, squeezing your hand. “And I think you know it too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here with him right now.”

Before you could respond, Bucky returned to the table with a fresh drink in hand. He slid it in front of you with a soft smile before sitting back down, his knee brushing against yours under the table. Wanda shot you one last knowing look before turning the conversation to something else entirely.

A few nights later, you found yourself on the phone with Sam, who had called under the pretense of asking about a new restaurant but quickly steered the conversation elsewhere.

“So,” he said, his tone far too casual to be innocent. “You and Bucky, huh? Is it official?”

You groaned, flopping back onto your couch. “I knew this was coming.”

“What? I’m just checking in!” he said, feigning indignation. “As your best friend, it’s my job to make sure this guy isn’t screwing you over again.”

“Sam…” you warned, though there was no heat behind it.

He laughed, but his tone softened. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Honestly, I’m happy for you. I really am.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “You are?”

“Of course,” he said. “I mean, look, I was ready to kick his ass a few years ago, and I’m still on standby if you ever need me to.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh my God, Sam.”

“But,” he continued, his voice steady now, “I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about that. Not this time.”

The warmth in his words made your chest tighten, and you stayed silent, letting him continue.

“Bucky’s always looked at you like that, you know,” Sam said after a moment. “Like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He just… wasn’t ready before. And I didn’t want to tell you that back then because I knew it’d only hurt you more. But now? Now I think he’s finally figured his shit out.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Sam said firmly. “And no one deserves happiness more than you, Y/n. Not after everything.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt tears prick at your eyes. “Thanks, Sam,” you whispered.

“Don’t get all mushy on me now,” Sam teased, though his voice softened at the edges. “Seriously though, just know I’m here if you need me. But… honestly? I don’t think you will.”

You smiled faintly, your grip tightening on the phone. “I hope not,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the grin in his voice when he spoke again. “Anyway, I’m booking that reservation for the weekend. Make sure you fill your man in for me, will ya?”

“Sam!” you groaned, though you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Uh-uh,” Sam cut you off, his tone playful. “Don’t even start!”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed at his words. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll take that as a thank-you for always looking out for you.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice soft but sincere.

“Anytime,” he replied. “Just don’t forget to tell Bucky he owes me one for letting him off the hook.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

“You’d better,” Sam quipped. “Now go enjoy your night. And don’t worry so much, okay?”

“I’ll try,” you said, smiling as you hung up.

----

The next few weeks were a quiet kind of revelation. The Bucky you were getting to know now was someone entirely different from the man you’d fallen for before. Not because he’d changed into someone new, but because he’d finally let you see the parts of him he’d kept hidden for so long.

He started coming over more often, always bringing something with him. Flowers, your favorite coffee, a book he’d remembered you mentioning in passing weeks ago. He never showed up empty-handed, and every gesture felt thoughtful in a way that left your heart aching.

One Friday morning, you were rushing out the door for a long day at work when you nearly tripped over a small box sitting on your doorstep. Inside was a muffin from your favorite café and a note written in his messy scrawl: For the busiest girl I know—don’t forget to eat today. Love, B.

When you texted him a thank-you, he replied almost immediately:

You deserve it. Now go kill it today.

It was in the small things, the quiet moments, that you realized how much he’d changed.

The group met up for dinner at a lively restaurant. The table was loud, everyone shouting over one another as Natasha and Sam argued about who was better at pool. Wanda kept flicking her straw wrapper at Steve, who was trying—and failing—to mediate.

Bucky sat beside you, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the table. It made you feel like the room could fall apart around you, and you’d still be okay.

“Nat, just admit you’re terrible at pool,” Sam teased, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

“I’m not terrible. I’m calculated,” Natasha shot back, narrowing her eyes.

“Sure,” Sam said, drawing out the word. “You’re so calculated that Steve had to make half your shots last time.”

“Excuse me,” Steve interjected, looking mildly alarmed. “I thought we weren’t bringing that up again.”

The group dissolved into laughter, and as you leaned forward to take a sip of your drink, Bucky reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face.

When you glanced at him, surprised, he just smiled and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “What? You’re beautiful.”

The table fell quiet for half a beat. Natasha raised a brow in surprise, Wanda exchanged a look with Sam, and Sam grinned wide enough to split his face.

“Barnes,” Sam drawled, shaking his head. “Look at you, all smooth. Who are you, and what have you done with the grumpy man we knew?”

Bucky just shrugged, completely unbothered. “He’s retired.”

But as much as you were finding your rhythm with Bucky, there was one thing that hadn’t quite settled: being at his apartment.

Every time you were there, you felt… uneasy. Not in an obvious way, but Bucky noticed.

You sat on the edge of the couch instead of sinking into it. You fidgeted more, your eyes flicking around the room like you were looking for something—or avoiding something. And when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingered on the places that held the weight of old memories.

It was after one of these moments that Bucky found himself talking to Wanda. She’d stayed late after a group dinner, and the two of them were cleaning up the kitchen when Bucky finally asked, “Do you think she’s okay?”

Wanda paused, a glass in her hand. “Who?”

“Y/n,” he said, running a hand over the back of his neck. “She seems… I don’t know. Off. Especially when she’s here, am I doing something wrong? I thought everything was going perfect.”

Wanda’s eyes softened. “Bucky, it’s not you. It’s just… this place. There are memories here. Moments she can’t shake.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s like the air still held pieces of her sadness. And she’s trying, but being here? It’s hard for her.”

Bucky listened, his expression unreadable. But later that night, as he lay awake in bed, her words stayed with him. Because of course, why didn’t he think of that all the times he held you and told you, you were everything and then just to leave you high and dry the next day. All the times he called you over for his own selfishness just to wash you away less than 24 hours after.

It wasn’t long after that when you noticed something different. Bucky was quieter, distracted, like he was carrying something he hadn’t figured out how to share yet.

After dinner at your place, you finally asked.

“Okay, what’s going on?” you said, setting your glass down and turning to face him.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been weird all night,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about moving.”

Your brows furrowed in surprise. “Moving? Why?”

Bucky shrugged, leaning back in his chair as he tried to keep his tone casual. But you could see the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, something he wasn’t sure how to say out loud. “Out with the old, in with the new, right?” he said, forcing a small smile before letting it fade.

You tilted your head, studying him, waiting for the real reason to come out.

He hesitated, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table before continuing, “That place… it’s got too much history. And if we’re going to do this,” he gestured between the two of you, his voice softening, “I want to do it right. I don’t want you to feel like you’re walking into a past you didn’t ask for.”

The sincerity in his words hit you like a wave, making your throat tighten. You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers as you tried to steady yourself. The memories of his apartment, those nights you spent waiting, wondering, hurting, flashed through your mind, and you realized he wasn’t just talking about moving to a new place. He was trying to move on from everything that hurt you.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. His fingers were warm and steady, grounding you in a way that made the ache in your chest both better and worse. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

You nodded, your eyes stinging as you squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he said, his voice so full of quiet conviction that it made your chest ache.

He leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss against your forehead before leaning back to grab the remote, a small, easy smile playing at his lips. “Okay, enough heavy stuff. Let’s pick a movie before we end up debating for an hour.”

You laughed faintly, the warmth of his kiss still lingering. But as he started scrolling through Netflix, you couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The way his shoulders relaxed when he was with you, the soft hum he made under his breath when he was thinking—it was so different from the guarded, distant man you’d known before.

And that’s when the question slipped out, unbidden but insistent.

“Hey, Bucky?” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” he replied instantly, turning to look at you, his attention focused entirely on you.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But then you forced yourself to say it, your heart pounding. “What are we?”

The question hung in the air, the silence stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in. But then Bucky set the remote down, turning to face you fully. His expression wasn’t hesitant or uncertain like it used to be, it was serious, calm, and sure.

“You’re mine,” he said simply, the words soft but unwavering. “And I’m yours. That’s all I know, and it’s all I want to be.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening as the weight of his words settled over you. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Does that work for you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure if he’d said too much.

You nodded, swallowing hard as emotion bubbled up in your chest. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It works.”

His lips curved into a small, relieved smile, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Good,” he murmured, his thumbs still tracing soft patterns against your skin. “Because I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

You just sat there, breathing him in, letting the weight of his words wash over you. The space between you didn’t feel like it was filled with doubt or hesitation, it felt solid. Real.

“Now,” he said after a beat, pulling back just enough to kiss the tip of your nose before reaching for the remote again. “What cheesy rom-com are we watching tonight? Because I know you’ve got one in mind.”

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded, as you reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. “You say that like you’re not the one who secretly loves rom-coms.”

“Hey,” he said, feigning indignation. “I’ve got a reputation to protect, doll.”

“Yeah, sure,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

He smiled at you, and the look in his eyes, the quiet joy, the undeniable love, made your heart ache in the best way.

You felt like you weren’t just falling. You were landing somewhere safe.

The sun was warm against your skin, filtering through the leafy trees that lined the bustling farmer’s market. The scent of fresh flowers, ripe fruit, and baked bread swirled in the air, mingling with the chatter of vendors and the hum of conversations. People moved through the stands, their arms laden with produce and bouquets, but the only presence that mattered to you was Bucky’s.

He was beside you, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps, his hand gripping the bags of produce you’d insisted on buying. Every now and then, he glanced at you, flashing that crooked smile that still made your stomach flip.

“Do you really need more peaches?” he asked, his voice laced with mock exasperation as he eyed the basket you held.

“Yes,” you replied, feigning offense as you picked out two more and gently placed them into the bag. “You’ll thank me later when I make that peach cobbler you won’t stop talking about.”

He grinned, leaning down so his forehead lightly bumped yours. “Fine. Cobbler wins. But only if I get to eat it straight out of the dish.”

You laughed, nudging his arm with your elbow as you moved toward the next stall. “Only because its your housewarming gift..”

“You're the best” he murmured, his voice warm, before placing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

At the flower stand, the vibrant colors caught your eye. Bouquets of sunflowers, daisies, and tulips spilled across the table in a wild display of life. You reached out, letting your fingertips brush the soft petals of a sunflower as you admired its brightness.

You didn’t notice when Bucky stepped away, too absorbed in the moment. But when he returned, you turned to find him holding a small bundle of daisies, their white and yellow blooms bright against his dark shirt.

“For you,” he said softly, his voice low, almost shy.

The gesture made your heart ache, the simplicity of it filling you with warmth. You took the daisies, your fingers grazing his as you did. “You’re getting really good at this boyfriend thing,” you said, your smile teasing but sincere.

He smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Just trying to keep my girl happy.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, and you looked away, pretending to study the flowers so he wouldn’t see the way your cheeks burned. “You’re doing a pretty good job,” you admitted quietly, more to yourself than to him.

At the next stand, baskets of apples were piled high, their shiny red skins gleaming in the sunlight. You picked one up, turning it over in your hand. “What do you think?” you asked, holding it up for Bucky’s opinion.

He leaned closer, pretending to inspect it with exaggerated seriousness. “I think it’s an apple.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, grabbing an apple and tossing it into the bag. “Fine. You pick the apples, and I’ll carry them. That’s the deal.”

“Deal,” you said, sticking your hand out dramatically for a handshake.

Instead of shaking your hand, he pulled you closer by the wrist, his hand settling lightly on your waist. His thumb brushed against your side absentmindedly, the touch sending a spark through you. It was such a small thing, but it rooted you to the moment—a quiet reminder of how far you’d both come. You couldn't believe this was the same stand you stood at 3 and a half years ago watching Bucky breaknyour heart and yet here you were now.

By the time you’d finished making your rounds, your bags were full, and so was your heart. You both found a spot on a nearby bench, the wooden surface warmed by the sun. Bucky set the bags down at his feet and pulled out a basket of strawberries you’d picked up earlier.

“Fresh strawberries,” he said, plucking one from the pile. “Can’t beat this.”

You reached for one, but he held it just out of your reach, grinning mischievously.

“Bucky,” you laughed, leaning forward to grab it.

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, his voice playful.

You narrowed your eyes, your hand hovering. “Please.”

He finally let you take it, laughing as you popped the strawberry into your mouth. “Gotta keep you on your toes,” he said with a wink, leaning back against the bench.

The moment was so simple, so easy, and yet it felt monumental. His arm draped over the back of the bench, his fingers brushing your shoulder absentmindedly. His other hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours like it was second nature.

The world felt quiet. Peaceful.

“Are you happy?” Bucky’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as he broke the comfortable silence. His tone was so quiet that it almost got lost in the sounds of the world around you, the distant murmur of conversations, the occasional rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. But you heard it. You always heard him.

You turned to look at him, your chest tightening at the way he was watching you. His blue eyes, soft and searching, held a depth that made your heart ache in the best way. It wasn’t just a casual question. It was something deeper, something raw. Like he needed to hear it, needed to know that he was doing enough, that this, what you were building together was enough.

“Yeah,” you said honestly, your voice steady but tender. “I am.”

For a second, Bucky didn’t move. He just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize the way you looked at him, the way you said it. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a small, warm smile, the kind that reached his eyes and softened the sharp edges of his features.

His thumb brushed against the back of your hand in slow, deliberate circles, a quiet gesture that said everything he couldn’t put into words. “Good,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because I’ve never been happier.”

The sincerity in his words wrapped around you like a blanket, filling every crack you hadn’t even realized was still there. It wasn’t loud or grandiose. It was simple, honest, and real.

You leaned into his side, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His arm tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, it was all so familiar, yet so new. It felt like home, but a version of home you’d never known you needed until now.

This was different. This was real. This was everything you’d both fought for.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.

You felt him stiffen slightly, his breathing hitching as the weight of your words hung in the air. His arm around you loosened just enough for him to pull back and look at you fully, his expression a mix of disbelief and something else, something vulnerable and raw.

“You do?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly as if he didn’t dare believe it.

You met his gaze, your eyes soft but unwavering. “I always have,” you admitted, your voice trembling with emotion. “And I never stopped.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, but not in a bad way. It was full of everything unsaid, everything you’d both held back for so long. And then you saw it, the way his eyes watered, the way his lips parted like he was trying to find the words but couldn’t.

You reached up, your thumb gently brushing away the tear that slipped down his cheek. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and teasing despite the lump in your throat.

“I love you too,” he whispered, his voice so low it almost broke. His hand came up to cup your face, his touch gentle, reverent, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. “So much.”

You smiled through your own tears, your chest aching with a kind of joy you hadn’t thought you’d ever feel again. “Yeah, I know,” you said softly, your tone teasing but warm.

A shaky laugh escaped him, the sound raw and full of disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the moment. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and shaky. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just breathed each other in, the world around you fading into nothing.

“I never deserved you,” he said finally, his voice trembling with emotion. “Still don’t.”

His words hit you square in the chest, and you felt your throat tighten. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hand still resting on his cheek. His blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his vulnerability laid bare in a way that made your heart ache.

“Bucky,” you said softly, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he insisted, his voice breaking. “You gave me everything, and all I ever did was hurt you. And even now, after everything, you’re still here. I don’t know why, but…” His voice trailed off, and he let out a shaky breath. “I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you deserve.”

You felt your chest tighten even further, a lump rising in your throat as his words washed over you. You cupped his face in both hands now, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life proving anything to me,” you said firmly, your voice trembling. “You’re already enough, Bucky. You always have been, even before.”

His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he just stared at you, as if trying to memorize every detail of your face. His hands slid down to your waist, holding you gently, like you were something fragile and precious.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

You smiled, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. “Every word,” you whispered. “I don’t care about the past anymore. All that matters is this. Us. Right here, right now.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw the walls he’d spent so many years building start to crumble. He let out a shaky laugh, leaning into your touch. “God, I love you,” he murmured. “I don’t even know if I can say it enough to make up for all the times I didn’t.”

“You just did,” you said with a soft smile, leaning in until your lips brushed his.

The kiss was slow, tender, and filled with a quiet kind of intensity that made your heart feel like it might burst. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear the thought of any distance between you.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together again, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you.

It wasn’t about wrong timing or unfinished promises—it was just you and him, finally in step, finally ready. Right person, right time, and this time, you both got it right.

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