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quuma · 4 months ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

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

Word Count: 13.6k

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

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

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

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

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

Then comes the keys.

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

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

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

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

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

And then, his bedroom door.

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

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

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

But then comes the moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that finally makes the tears flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are alone in your grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what is the point?

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

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

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

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

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

And then, him standing there and watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are certain, he won’t.

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

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

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

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you keep walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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

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

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

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

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

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“To Nat’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

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

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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

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

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

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

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t move.

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

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

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

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

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

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

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

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

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

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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

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

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

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

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

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

“No, you-”

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

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

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

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

You could run.

You should.

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

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

“Okay,” you say weakly.

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

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

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

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

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

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

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

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

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

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

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

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

So you stay.

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

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

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

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

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

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

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

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

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

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

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

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

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

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

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-”

You try. You really try.

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

Because this time it’s her walking out.

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

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

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

But it’s not yours either.

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

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

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

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

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

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

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

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

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

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

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

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

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

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

And Bucky watches all of that.

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

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

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

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

“See, that’s bullshit.”

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

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

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

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

But he won’t.

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

And you break.

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

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

You feel so pathetic.

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

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

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

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

You let him.

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

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

Like your pain is his own.

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

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

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

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

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

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

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

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

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

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

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

It’s too hard. too cruel.

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

But it does.

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

So you cry harder.

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

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

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

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

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

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

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

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

You won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Because none of this makes it any easier.

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

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

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

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

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

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

He looks wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

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

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

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

But Bucky just shrugs.

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

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

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

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

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

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

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

There is something uncertain in there.

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

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

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

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

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

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

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

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

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

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

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

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

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

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

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

His eyes are pleading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your reaction must be answer enough.

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

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

The exact moment he realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky panics.

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

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

Not at you.

At himself.

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

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

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

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

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

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

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

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

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

“Like it’s over.”

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

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

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

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

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

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

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

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

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

This thing between you.

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

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

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

It consumes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is crying.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

But you don’t know how to.

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

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

You don’t and he steps closer again.

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

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

But what could you say?

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

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

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he still touched them.

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

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

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

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

He tried to fuck it away.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stalls.

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

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

Even if you know it might not be fair.

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

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no claim on him.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, body sways.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Beau Taplin

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quuma · 4 months ago

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Ifs, Buts, and Maybes | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky and his love think about the life they could have had if they’d met in 1945.

A/N: Not to toot my own horn but I almost made myself cry with this one (it’s very late here, but still) also, please someone tell me you get the joke with the title (@itsswritten don't leave me hanging)

Word count: 2.5 k

Warnings: all the fluff. all the feels. it’s so cheesy. a twinge of angst if you squint (also, not proofread)

Bucky was close to drifting off to sleep when he felt her stir against him. She turned in his arm, head leaning against his shoulder, and when he cracked open an eye, he found her peering up at him with her chin tilted up. At the sight, the corners of his lips twitched of their own accord.

His voice was thick with sleep when he asked, “What is it, darlin’?”

She stirred more, turning to her stomach until she lay half on top of him. She flattened a palm against his chest, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” Bucky hummed deep in his chest. Running cool metal fingers down the curve of her spine, he delighted in the slight shiver she gave. “Well, I can, so shush.”

He’d barely closed his eyes when a snort cut through the silence, and she poked the finger of her free hand into his side, drawing a grin to his face.

“Rude.”

A deep inhale rose his chest—and her with it. Bucky lifted his metal hand to his face to rub his eyes with his thumb and index finger. When he squinted at the alarm clock on his nightstand, he found the bright green numbers demoralizingly low.

Turning back, he found attentive eyes on him. The eery green light reflected in her irises. He could see her quite well despite the darkness.

Vibranium thumb brushing along her temple, he hummed again. “I love you.”

Her cheeks lifted, and when she nuzzled her head into his palm, Bucky felt his chest contract in an aching pull.

“I love you,” she echoed, skipping the ‘too’. She always skipped the ‘too’. She thought it made the phrase sound like less than it was. “What was it like in the 40s?”

Bucky’s brow quirked at the odd change of topic. “What?”

“Being in love,” she paused. “Dating. What would it have been like if we’d met back then?” Her voice was low as she spoke, breath fanning over Bucky’s chest. He could feel her words vibrate gently against him.

“It would have been… I don’t know, different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky’s lips curled at the corners. “You have the most interesting midnight thoughts, darlin’.”

She rose a shoulder as best as her position allowed. “I just realised that I have no idea what you were like back then. All I know are those old photographs. The cheeky ones,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes.

A quiet chuckle shook Bucky’s shoulders, hand once again beginning a slow tracing of her spine. Up, then down again, always halting just above the curve of her ass.

After a long moment, he said. “If we’d met in the 40s, I would have laid all my charm on ya.” Tilting his head deeper into his pillow, Bucky traced the lines of her lips with his eyes. “I would’ve spotted you from the other side of a dance hall, and after one or two shots of liquor I would have finally found the courage to talk to you.”

She giggled quietly. “Oh, please. Like you needed alcohol back then. Steve told me you were a smooth talker through and through, yapping your way into every girl’s heart.”

Bucky hummed, hiding a smirk. “Not with you. Woulda swallowed my tongue the minute you looked at me.”

“Sure you would have,” she smiled, eyes gleaming as she tilted her head to the side to place her cheek on the back of her hand, watching intently as Bucky continued talking.

“I would have asked you to dance. The jitterbug probably. I would have made an absolute fool of myself, but hearing you laugh would have made every embarrassment worth it.”

Her smile became soft now. “Don’t tell me James Buchanan Barnes can’t dance.”

“Have you seen a jitterbug before? It’s lucky we didn’t meet back then. I would’ve broken a hip trying to impress ya.”

Her laugh came through her nose this time—a gentle exhale to brush his skin once again. Bucky’s hand slowed now, coming to a rest in the crook of her neck, thumb running along the base of her hairline.

“I would have offered to buy you a drink after. Assuming you would have agreed to dance in the first place.”

“Of course I would have.” She sounded so sincere that Bucky did not dare question it. If anything, he was eager to believe her.

“We would’ve talked all night, and I would have offered to walk you home after, just to spend a little more time with you. Then I would’ve shown up at your doorstep the next morning with flowers I stole from my ma’s garden. Just to make sure you didn’t forget all about me already.”

“You wouldn’t have kissed me goodnight?”

“Oh, I would have been dying to kiss ya, darlin’,” Bucky mumbled deep in his chest. “But that wouldn’t have been very proper, now, would it?”

She giggled again. “Like you cared about what was proper and what wasn’t. I don’t believe you for one second.”

“Mind you, I was very proper.”

“You were a candyman.”

Bucky blinked. “A what now?”

“Like the song?” When Bucky’s expression remained blank, Y/N lifted her head from her hand, soft outrage on her face. “By Christina Aguilera? Sweet-talkin’, sugar-coated candyman. I can’t believe you don’t know that song!”

“Sounds like I really missed out,” Bucky deadpanned, to which she clicked her tongue and placed her head back on his chest.

“It’s a great song. And it’s exactly how I imagine you back then. Walking around, making all the panties drop.”

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t nearly as bad as you think I was. Being a candyman”—Bucky barley kept a straight face at the word—“back then is nothing like being one right now.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “So no goodnight kiss for little old me.”

Bucky smirked, curling his fingers into her hair on the back of her head, massaging gently. At once, her lids drooped a little heavier.

“I would have brought you flowers, and I would’ve asked you out properly. We would have gone to the pictures, or the fair; shared too much popcorn or cotton candy. You would have worn one’a those pretty dresses with the nice white collars and the petticoats, and I probably would’ve dragged Steve along to make a double date out of it with one of your girlfriends. If Steve and her hit it off, we would have snuck away at some point. We would’ve laughed a lot. I would’ve talked your ear off, telling you about ma and Becca, and then—behind a tent, or in an alley by the cinema—I would’ve kissed you a little.”

Her face pulled into a dreamy smile—like she was right there with him, in that alley in his mind, imagining another time, another universe where they shared an innocent kiss, high on sugar and infatuation.

“You would have held my neck the way you do when we kiss, and you would have tasted like cotton candy and watered-down lemonade,” Bucky continued quietly, almost wistfully. “And after, you would’ve wiped your lipstick off my face with your thumb. Steve probably would’ve taken one look at me and known I was done for.”

Her palm now found his face, and the soft pad of her thumb ran along his bottom lip as though she was reenacting the scene.

“You would’ve had me fully wrapped around your little finger by the second date,” Bucky muttered against her skin, eyes locked with hers. “I would’ve courted you properly. I would have introduced you to my family, and met yours, too. You would have gotten along phenomenally with Steve, and it would have been one of the reasons I would have known that you are the one.”

Silence settled like a blanket over them then, heartbeats blending into one, and slow hands tracing skin like the most precious of artworks.

Bucky had hoped that he was talking her to sleep, that a soothing tone would cure her momentary insomnia. But instead, he felt her heart pump hard against his chest, fluttering with the warmth that coated her cheeks at his story.

“I wouldn’t have tried anythin’ funny with you,” Bucky continued after a while, his voice suddenly gravelly and low. “We would’ve kissed a lot, maybe done some other things, too, but everything else… sex would have been totally up to you. It wasn’t as safe as it is now, and there was still a lot of judgement around it, especially for women.” Bucky paused, narrowing his eyes when he gently pressed his fingers against her scalp. “But if you’d decided that you wanted to, I would’ve gladly taken you back to my place. We would have had to be quiet so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and after, we would have smoked those nasty little cigarettes they used to hand out to soldiers. We would have sat at the window and talked. Just talked. For hours. Like we do now.”

Bucky could tell that she’d inched a bit closer now, a hazy look in her eyes as her gaze flickered between his eyes and his mouth. She craned her neck a little, and Bucky leaned forward to meet her in a slow kiss.

They took their time with it, and when they parted, he pressed another, quicker kiss to the corner of her lips. She smiled then.

“And after that?”

Bucky hummed, fingers brushing loosely through her hair in thought. He could taste her now. It distracted him.

“We wouldn’t have dated for too long,” he said quietly, smiling at the mild surprise that rose her brow just a breath higher. “My ma probably would’ve shoved my grandma’s ring in my hand the day you walked through the door. I would have held off on proposing for a few months, so as to not scare you off. But I would have known right away.”

“I would have said yes on that first date,” Y/N breathed with a soft smile to brighten her eyes.

Bucky leaned forward to kiss her again, deeper this time. His mind was swimming when he leaned back in his pillow.

Clearing his throat, he said. “Steve would’ve been my best man. We would have invited just a few people. Small. Intimate. And then… well then, I would have spent the rest of our lives wondering how I’d gotten so lucky.”

Bucky thought back to everything he had thought to one day have. “We would have moved in together right away, and we would have been able to be as loud as we wanted to be, because the neighbours wouldn’t matter anymore. We would’ve gotten some regular old jobs. You would have been a nurse, or a secretary, or a teacher, and I probably would have worked some construction, or maybe in a factory, or down at the docks. And who knows, after a while, maybe we would have had some kids.” Bucky paused for a moment, swallowing before he continued. “Steve would have visited regularly, probably married to Peggy at that point. We would have been… happy. At peace. And by now we would be well over 100, still happy. Still at peace. Still together. If not in this life, then in the next.”

It hung unspoken between them—the realities of what Bucky had lost through the war, through Hydra. The life he would have had, had things been just a little different back then.

She didn’t speak for a very long time, and Bucky thought he saw a shimmer in the green light of her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

When she smiled, she looked sad, a warm palm cupping his cheek for her thumb to run along his stubbled skin soothingly.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” she breathed near inaudible.

Bucky’s brows twitched together at her words. Lifting his hand, he cupped hers against his cheek, turning his face to press his lips to the centre of her palm.

“Don’t be.”

She shook her head softly. “You lost so much.”

“I didn’t lose anything.” This time, actual confusion washed over his face. “It’s nice to think about, but it would never have happened, darlin’. You were born some 80 years after me.”

“But you still lost that future. Everything you wanted back then. If not with me, then with some pretty dame who was born in your half of the century.” Bucky noted the half-hearted joke when she copied his vernacular, but it fell flat in the context of her words.

Bucky’s eyes softened, both palms now finding her cheeks. He looked at her for a long while, memorising every inch of her face as he’d done so many times before. When he spoke, his voice was calm, assured.

“If I had to choose between this life with you and that life with someone else, I would always, always choose this one.” He shook his head in amazement. “It’s not even a question.”

“But—”

“No but,” he interrupted gently, wiping beneath her eye. “I much prefer the dating customs of this century anyway.”

She laughed thickly, and Bucky leaned in to seal their lips in yet another kiss. It was a little more desperate now, a little heavier after this change in mood, and after a long moment, they parted for air, panting gently in unison.

“I love you,” Y/N breathed as she pressed her lips to his jaw. “And who knows, with all of this multiverse nonsense going on, maybe there really is a version of us out there that met in your time.” She offered a smile, the tip of her nose almost touching his.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her. “I hope I will find you in every version of the universe.”

Her head found the crook of his neck then, breath once again fanning gently against his skin. She smiled against him. He could feel it. “So that I can keep every version of you awake at night?”

Bucky laughed quietly, pressing his lips to her hair. “It’s the best feeling in the world to wake up to you. No matter the time.”

“Hey Buck,” she whispered, palm finding a smooth cheek in the dim lighting of the moon that shone through the window. They’d kept the blinds open tonight. They no longer needed to hide from nosey Mrs Gusterson who lived across the street—not with the silver wedding band that gleamed on her finger.

Bucky stirred, nose scrunching as he came to. “What is it, doll?”

She was still giddy from the last few days, still giddy to be a wife now. With a smile that was a little too awake, she leaned her head against Bucky’s shoulder to peer up at him. His arm tightened around her, eyes softening with love as they met her gaze.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

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quuma · 5 months ago

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good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

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quuma · 9 months ago

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Though I Know My Heart Would Break

Request: For the poll that Legolas won! You guys sent in a few prompts, I've incorporated: sick (injured, rather) fic, hurt/comfort, everyone lives, and reader confesses first! Hope you guys like it! (Title is from Hozier's Francesca that has me in a chokehold)

Legolas x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

Content warnings: Mild injury (no overly graphic descriptions)

3.7k words

---

You walked through the forest, ducking under the cedar branches, weaving between the cypresses. The air was rich with the scent of herbs — thyme and sage, marjoram and parsley. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the canopy, specking the forest floor with light. Legolas’ footsteps were silent on the soft ground, but the steady clopping of the horse he was leading reassured you of his presence.

With the coronation over, and Eowyn and Faramir wed, attention was turned to restoring Minas Tirith and setting up a settlement at Emyn Arnen. You and Legolas were tasked with surveying the land and forests around Emyn Arnen. Sam was curious about the plants, hearing how new and different they were to those back in The Shire, but Frodo’s reluctance to stray further than the Citadel kept him in Minas Tirith.

You paused by a cluster of pink rockfoils, thumbing the thin stems before plucking a few small flowers and tucking them into a waxed pouch.

“Mellon nin,” Legolas said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated, “Why do you pause and pluck? You have been doing so since we arrived. ”

“They’re for Sam. He might have agreed to stay in Minas Tirith, but I saw the shade of disappointment in his eyes. I thought perhaps I could bring the forest to him instead.”

His lips tugged up at the corners. “And what will you give the forest in return?”

“What do you mean?” You frowned and stood.

He smiled, soft and knowing, eyes wandering over the barks and branches. “These trees have been left at peace for many years, the bushes and shrubs untouched. They are not used to wandering fingers and restless feet.”

You glanced down at the patch of rockfoils, the decapitated stems looking more brutal in light of Legolas’ words. Your lips twisted and he chuckled, and your eyes drifted back to him.

He had always been so full of light and laughter, even during the endless days and dark nights, even after Gandalf fell, even after the hobbits were taken. Ethereal, that was what people said of the elves. Otherworldly.

But he looked so human, so normal, standing in a patch of sunlight, laughing at the concerned expression on your face. There were smudges of dirt on his boots, dew dotting the bottom hem of his cloak, and even a small leaf lodged in his hair.

Yes, Legolas has always just been Legolas to you.

Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to lose your heart to him. How could you not? While the others regarded him with a deference, or awe in the hobbits’ case, or even confusion at his elf customs, he had never truly seemed so different to you. His eyes, brown and alive in the light, still crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His voice, low and melodious, still cracked when he spoke of sorrows. And his hands, delicate and strong, still bore soft calluses from his bow.

The last couple of days had been so indulgently wonderful. Without the threat of war or the constant need for secrecy and vigilance, being out in the wilds once more was soothing. It was a great secret joy, of course, that you had Legolas’ undivided attention.

He had been more loose limbed and free with touches. Hands grazing yours as you walked, his knee against yours while you sat. His eyes too, seemed to melt into an amber by the fire, a tenderness in his gaze. It felt as though the seed of friendship had slowly, slowly, started to grow into something more.

“Shall we continue on?” He said, and inclined his head towards the distant sound of water. “We can set up camp and leave our things while we walk the forest.”

You nodded and smiled before looking away, eyes scanning the forest floor before they landed on a patch of flowers. They were strange looking, three pronged with large paper-like petals. You knelt by them, carefully cutting the blooms with your knife, and idly said, “It is beautiful here, is it not?”

He hummed in agreement. “I could envisage residing here for a time, should Faramir allow it.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder and chuckled. “You should speak to Sam. Aragorn has already consulted him on some of the gardens in the Citadel, it would not surprise me if Faramir would ask him to Emyn Arnen to design something.”

“Those flowers,” he began, stepping closer and inspecting them, “they are… strange. I do not know what they are, and perhaps it would be better to leave them be.”

“Are they poisonous?”

He leaned in and sniffed them. “No, but as I said before, this forest is unaccustomed to such things. Gifts must be freely given, and what is not must be a fair exchange.”

You dropped them into the pouch and laughed, continuing through the forest. There was a strange note in his voice, something older, wiser, than the Legolas you knew. But what harm could there be in a few cuttings? The forest was vast; a few flowers and leaves here and there would not be any loss at all. “Come now, Legolas, you speak as though —”

A stone caught your toe, your knee buckled, and you fell to the ground. Sharp pain jolted up your wrists and knees, then a hot stinging spread across your palms and shins. You blinked, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the rotting leaves in the dirt, before warm hands rested between your shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?” Legolas said, crouching and easing you back into a sitting position. You stared at him, eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips. Had he always had such beautiful lips? “Mellon nin, are you alright?”

“Yes… I —” The shock of tingling subsided from your hands and legs and only a dull throbbing remained. You looked down at your knee, the same knee that had been shot, and found your trousers ripped and the old wound reopened. It was not as bad as the initial wound, though still relatively deep, and was bleeding sluggishly through the matted dirt. “Oh, I’m… bleeding.”

His eyes darted from your knee to the divot in the ground where a leaf caught in your fall was stained with blood. His lips tightened before he let out a soft sigh. “It is as I said: a fair exchange.” An easy smile spread across his face, the hand on your shoulder loosened its grip, and his voice took on a merry lilt. “However, I do not believe we will have any more trouble on our little trip here.”

The shock of the fall had subsided and you looked at the pouch still clutched in your fist. “Well, I suppose I should make the most of it then, and collect what I can for Sam.”

He laughed, squeezing your shoulder affectionately. “Never one to pass up an opportunity. Come, let us set up camp by the river and have a look at your wound. I do not wish for the matrons at the Houses of Healing tomorrow to claim I have neglected you.”

He pulled you to your feet, and looped an arm around your waist to help you hobble along. His arm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. Pressed up against him you could smell his scent, something fresh like grass or water, unsullied even by a couple of days in the forest. The both of you found a suitable spot under shelter by the trees, and after tying the horse up, he led you to the banks.

His nimble fingers pried apart the shredded remains of the fabric by your knee and started to wash the wound. He dressed it with some honey from his pack and untouched moss from the forest floor and some spare wrappings you had in your supplies for such an eventuality.

While he worked, you watched his hands. Long and lithe, they were precise and delicate with their motions. If only you could reach out, and lay your hand on top of his, to sweep your thumb over the back of his knuckles. But your hands were still muddied, and the new closeness you shared with him was too new and too tenuous for something like that.

Legolas set up camp with a practiced efficiency, and soon the both of you were sitting beside each other by the fire, eating your supplies of bread and cheese. The fire crackled and popped, and around you the forest became alive at night. Owls hooted in the trees, and critters rustled in the bushes, and then, very softly, Legolas began to sing.

The words were lost on you, but the melody was enough. The notes drifted in the air, curling around you, seeping into your skin. It sounded slow and adoring, leisurely and lazy, and the sensation of lying on sun-warmed grass, your lover’s touch skirting up your arm, filled your body. You leaned back on your arms, sinking into his voice, letting it carry and caress you.

When the last few words rang in the air, you opened your eyes. Legolas was looking at you with a fond expression, eyes half-lidded and lips in a soft smile.

“That song,” you whispered, “what is it about?”

His smile widened and he said, “I’ll tell you another time perhaps.”

Legolas stood on one of the parapets that overlooked the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Your wound was not healing as well as it should, most likely because of how bad the initial arrow wound was, and you were getting it redressed by the matrons. He sighed and let his eyes wander from the stone flagstones, to the rooftops, to the plains. In truth, the sight of your flesh, angry and inflamed, shook something in him. Even something as minor as your wound, was enough of a risk for infection, for fever.

Humans were so fragile, so… final.

He blinked at the thought. Yes, of course, how could he forget? Humans were mortal. Boromir was, Aragorn was. Even the merry little hobbits and Gimli were. How strange to think that such a thing slipped his mind when it came to you, but it was far too easy really.

There was a vitality that seemed to pour from your being, an almost stubborn resilience, especially in the grim shadow of misfortune. It was the way you would play with the hobbits, even after a long day of walking, or grit your teeth and carry on, even harrowing experience after harrowing experience. When you smiled, the day was better, brighter, and he always found himself trying to get another laugh from you.

And yet… such a light could be so easily snuffed out.

He shifted on his feet and watched as you limped from the Houses of Healing. He had intended to go with you, but Sam had wanted to discuss garden plans, and Boromir had gone with you instead. He was about to raise his arm and call out to you, when a figure emerged from behind the line of trees. Boromir walked towards you with outstretched arms and pulled you into his side and helped you along, vanishing from his sight beyond the trees.

Ever since the end of the war, it had felt as though things were shifting between him and you. It was only small, nearly imperceptible changes — softer smiles, more frequent dinners alone, hands that reached and fingers that brushed. And yet… Why did it feel as though you were on the other side of something he could not cross?

He thought of the cry of the gulls, the perpetual tugging at his heart for the sea. Oh, how he wished he had never heard them. Was this how Arwen felt all the time? Longing, aching. She was happy with Aragron, he knew, but sometimes he would catch her gazing out of a window, eyes forlorn and smile sad. Aragorn knew, understood even, and in those moments he left her to her quiet longing, never hurt or bothered, and welcomed her into his arms when she went back to him.

But would you understand? Could you accept that there would always be one part of him that belonged to the sea, to the distant shore he would never reach? Or would it be a burden to ask such a thing of you? Maybe you would be better off with someone… mortal. He sighed and wandered back towards the Citadel proper.

“Boromir, this is unnecessary. Put me down!” Your laughter rang out and you and Boromir emerged onto the courtyard. You were in his arms, limbs flailing as he wrangled to keep you held properly. “Boromir, I — oh, Legolas.”

“Ah, Legolas,” Boromir said as he gently replaced you back on the ground. “I return them to your care.”

He forced a smile onto his face. “How is your leg?”

“Mild infection but nothing to worry about,” you said, hobbling over to him.

He instinctively reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist. You were warm underneath his hand, warmer than usual, and you smelled strongly of herbal poultice. He could detect traces of burdock and comfrey, and underneath it all, the smell of you. He took a greedy breath, filling his lungs with proof of your life. “You should be resting. Let us go back inside.”

“I’ve been inside the past week. I’m bored to death,” you grumbled. “Let’s sit outside for a while.”

He helped you to one of the stone benches and you collapsed onto it, hissing in pain. You gingerly stretched your leg out and sighed as you settled. He sat next to you, his eyes lingering on your knee.

“Oh, stop fussing. It’s quite minor, really.”

“I have seen men succumb to infection from unassuming cuts. I do not think I will rest easy until you are fully healed.”

He followed the line of your leg up to your waist, then shoulders, and along your jaw and lips, up to your nose and eyes. Such beauty, destined to fade, to vanish from the world forever. How could he bear it? How could anyone?

“What is on your mind, my friend?” You asked.

“I was just thinking about the fading nature of men. I do not know how your kind bear it.”

“Death?” You chuckled. “But elves can die too, can they not?”

“Yes, but… it is not in our nature. In peace times, it is very rare for our kind to die. For men… even now, where there is no suffering any longer, you still experience the sting of mortality.” His chest constricted. “How can one stand to behold love and light, knowing it will vanish?”

“It is because they do not last, that we relish in them.”

“Even if it will bring you pain later?”

You smiled, gentle and indulgent, and placed your hand on top of his. His shoulders relaxed at your touch, the tension seeping out of his muscles. He wanted to capture the moment, to bottle it somehow, keep the image of you with the sun on your eyelashes and the feeling of the softness of your skin forever preserved.

“Yes,” you whispered, “even then.”

Something shifted in his heart, just slightly, and a smile crept onto his face. Yes, he thought, especially then.

“Sam,” you said, surveying the small garden. He had done a good job with it — the shrubs were well trimmed and flowers burst in orange and yellow all around. “Are you certain it will look good?”

He nodded and grinned. “It’ll look real pretty with some candles about. I still remember what it looked like in Lothlorien. We don’t ‘ave the sort of fancy holders and the like, but I’ll do my best.”

You smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I would do it myself but my knee…”

“No thankin’ needed. If anything, I should be thanking you. You brinin’ me those plants and flowers, even when the forest didn’t like you doin’ so.” His eyes fell to your knee. “I’m real sorry it caused you such trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” You chuckled and patted him on the back. You looked around the garden again, trying to imagine the candles and cushions that Sam said he’d arrange for the night time picnic you had planned. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“I think he’ll love it. Mighty romantic, if I can say.”

You shifted on your feet, stomach suddenly lurching. “What if I’m mistaken, Sam? I’m not sure I could bear the embarrassment.”

The last week or so had been so lovely it had felt like a dream. Nearly every night, Legolas had invited you to sit with him at the top of some tower or parapet. He would point and tell you stories of the stars and of the elves that had come before. There were so many instances where he would lean in close, eyes half-lidded, and talk in a low, murmured tone. You would watch his lips, and watch as he watched yours. But then he would draw back and glance away.

“The elves are funny folk,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn’t tell you what might be goin’ on in Legolas’ mind, but I doubt he would be spendin’ so much time with you if he didn’t have some… reason to do so. If you catch my meaning.”

“I hope so, Sam. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go to the kitchens to see what cheese and fruit they might be able to spare me.”

He gave you an encouraging smile and with a little wave, you set off downstairs.

The sun was just setting when Sam called you back to the garden to assess what he had prepared. Candles were dotted all around the courtyard, separated on candelabras and clustered in small groups around the picnic blanket. Plush cushions were laid out and there were little white flowers scattered on the soft wool, perfuming the air with the faint smell of jasmine.

“Sam,” you gasped. “This is — I cannot —”

“I’ll be takin’ your speechlessness as a compliment?” He smiled shyly and ducked his head. He reached for the picnic basket in your hand and placed it on the blanket. “There, now it’s complete.”

“I’ll repay you for this Sam, I promise.”

He blushed. “Like I said before, there’s no need. Anyway, I best be hurryin’ along. Wouldn’t want Legolas to stumble upon me here and get any wrong ideas.”

You laughed and he vanished back inside. You limped over to the blanket, wincing a little as you lowered yourself, and tried to slow your breathing. Legolas would come, wouldn’t he? What if he took one look at the scene and fled? You shook your head. No, he wouldn’t do that. If you were truly mistaken about his feelings towards you, he would tell you gently and bear you no ill will.

“Mellon nin,” Legolas said from behind you and you turned, heart thumping in your chest. His eyes were wide and a slow smile was spreading across his face. “I received your message. Why have you asked me here?”

You swallowed. Did he not know? “Is it… is it not obvious?”

“I have an inkling, perhaps.” He wandered over, his steps lazy and relaxed, and sank onto the cushions. The tightness in your chest eased a fraction. “But I do not wish to presume what may or may not be in your heart. Will you not give me the truth?”

“Legolas, I…” You cleared your throat. By the Valar, why was it so difficult to speak? He arched an eyebrow at you and you glanced away, speaking more to the picnic basket than to him. “I… care for you. A great deal.”

He took your hand, and you dared to lift your gaze. He beamed at you, and then a flash of mischief entered his eyes. “As a friend?”

You scowled at him. “Do you often plan candlelit picnics for your friends, Legolas?”

He laughed and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. They were soft and warm, his breath hot on your skin. “I am teasing, meleth nin.”

Heat crept up your neck and you tried to withdraw your hand. He held fast and planted a line of kisses up, up, up, from your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder. His eyes were almost sparking in the dim, the dots of candlelight flickering in his dark irises. He kissed your jaw and your nose and your temple before dipping his head to capture your lips.

He kissed slow and languid, as though savouring the feeling of you against him. He tasted tart and sweet, no doubt from the berry and honey biscuits you knew he liked to snack on. The strange tension in your stomach snapped and vanished, and you melted under his touch. His growing smile made you giggle and your teeth knocked against his, making him laugh.

“I am curious about what you have in that picnic basket of yours,” he murmured. “There will be time for such enjoyment later.”

A flush coloured your cheeks. “I suppose it would be a waste if we simply ignored all the food I prepared.”

“Though, before we continue, I must ask you a question first,” he said, growing grave and serious. His eyes drifted down to your joined hands, and he brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Could you bear being with me, living with me, when part of my heart is forever owned by the sea?”

You reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “My love, could you bear to be with me? If you stay, you will fade.”

“It would be a worse fate to live eternity without you,” he whispered. “That I could not bear.”

“Legolas…” It seemed all the more tragic that he, of all people, should die. He was light and joy and the thought of him growing cold and dim wrenched at your heart. “You deserve to… I cannot…”

“I have made my choice, meleth nin. Let us be happy together.” He cupped your cheek, a smile spreading across his face. His eyes were soft, but certain, his touch gentle but sure. He kissed the tip of your nose, chuckling, before he slanted his lips against yours. The kiss was chaste and quick, and all the more sweeter for its casualness.

“For however long we have,” he murmured, “let us be happy.”

“Alright,” you said. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent, breathing his breath. Yours, for now, for ever. “For however long we have.”

---

ok but what is it about the immortality of elves that has me appreciating/relishing/romanticising our mortal lives. i swear this is the second time ive done this with legolas.

Taglist: @sotwk

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quuma · 10 months ago

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kissing them all on the cheek mwah mwah my fav girls

#q’s sketchbook #digital art #pokemon #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon sun and moon #nemona #penny #lillie #pokemon oc #pokemon fanart

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quuma · 11 months ago

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I love genshin family duos 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

#genshin fanart #genshin impact #digital art #wanderer #tighnari #nahida #collei #sigewinne #wriothesley #chibi art #q’s sketchbook #I LOVE FOUDN FAMILY #I LOVW IT SO MUCH I WANNA DIE #also this is a bookmark 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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quuma · 11 months ago

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BONE-CHILL

ghost!leon kennedy x gn!reader // 6.1k words

summary: Leon doesn't come back from his last mission, and you try to cope with the shadows that soon go bump in the night.

warnings: horror, brief description of gore, death, mentions of suicide, ambiguous ending

> read on ao3

The days drone long and monotonous after your recent shift to a home-work-home-work lifestyle, bland but necessary change given… recent events. The stagnation of limbo between reality and your own morality-fearing pessimism.

If only grief were tangible—a thing you could grasp between your fingers and rip apart. Something you could take your anger out on, sink your teeth into, hold when you cry. You think sometimes about chewing your own fingers off just for the stimulation of it. Maybe the bleeding wounds could finally bless your sadness with a chance at freedom.

After his last stint overseas, Leon failed to return. Three months gone by with no contact—a blaring red siren given his penchant for frequent calls or emails or anything to sate your worry. You kept your long-term relationship under lock and key, a decision ultimately hinging upon your safety in regards to the danger of his profession, a sacrifice greater than your need to hold his hand in public. But now the lights in your home tend to flicker, and the shadows in each room feel like the vacuum of a blackhole, and the buzzing silence might one day consume the grey matter of your brain.

What a stupid idea. A curse of hindsight.

There's been no knock at the door, no unknown number calling your phone. No government official announcing his passing, no news articles—you say this as if you would even know where to look. He kept his flights abroad tight to his chest, left details to the wolves. I work for the government was all he said, as if he owed you no explanation. As if you don’t chew your nails bloody to the thought of his corpse rotting in some far-off corner of the world with no way to bring him home.

Shit, you're unsure if he is dead, but you always preferred catastrophization. Better to accept inevitables than hold out dwindling hope. He talked in length about the danger of his job, emphasized importance that nobody ever knew you existed in his life. How lonely it was—for both of you. He loved his paranoia more than he loved you, but he also knew a lot of things you didn't.

Every homecoming brought him back to you a little less whole, a little less him. A little more angry, a little more tired.

In hindsight, you can't remember the last time you saw your Leon.

The winter wind bites at your cheeks when you step through the front doors of your office, building up to a jog on the way to your car, anticipation of full-blast heat pushing you farther. The weather spares none this year, blooms ice crystals between the layers of tissue and fat and muscle within your body. Snow still clings to rooftops, ice crystals stick to overhangs and metal and ledges. Everyone is miserable, but the weather suits your mood. Empty and dead. A shell of its summer counterpart.

The coworker you closed with calls you over to wish you well, reminds you of the upcoming pizza party that possesses all the appeal of ripping out your own teeth by brute force (something you choose to keep private). Heat pours from her window and you lean down to defrost your cheeks as she complains about her husband and her kids and the fast food she has to get on the way home.

The ring on your finger settles a heavy weight inside your chest, stalling the thump of your heart. But you smile and nod and laugh when she says something you perceive as a joke, grateful that she's perfectly content to talk at you and not with you. Exhaustion wrings you dry of energy these days.

After the five minute, one-sided conversation ends, she drives off with a wave, leaving you to glance around the parking lot: a concrete shell of ice sheets and empty spaces and shadows that defy the laws of light. You turn your head toward your car at the far end. The chill of each inhale burns your lungs, makes you expel a heaving cough, and the bright, full moon shines down on you. The maker of tides, of fate, bright enough to light the remaining hundred feet to your car. Mocking in its own right. If that's even possible. Anything seems possible these days.

Home is lonely. Quiet and dark and solemn when you step through the front door. The air stagnates, fills your inner ear with a dizzying static, a chill that bleeds through your coat. Frost smears across each window you pass to turn on lights and adjust the thermostat, and—

Wait. You shouldn’t be seeing the glass of the windows. You keep the curtains drawn to protect your privacy. Such an odd little detail that tightens your shoulders until you remember that, no, I opened the living room curtains this morning to look out at the snow. Just forgot to close them. Maybe that's what happened with the others.

And maybe it's the loneliness, or the darkness that permeates every corner of this place, but you stay on edge the rest of the night. A simple, odd detail, but you swear by routines, and leaving the curtains open is not one of them.

But you've been stressed lately, left on autopilot. You unlocked the front door to get inside and nothing else appeared tampered with.

Still. Your gut shifts and gnarls, alerting you to other, less realistic explanations.

Ultimately, you blame a bit of forgetfulness. Home is impossibly colder without Leon here. You miss him until you can't anymore and then you miss him again. It's natural to be a bit out of it.

At work, your coworkers sniff out a problem, express their concern, implore you to think about yourself before pulling another double shift, but home is not home anymore, and you prefer exhausting yourself so extensively that you barely make it to the couch every night. A better alternative to staring at the cold, empty side of your bed.

You hadn't seen Leon smile in ten years. Really, truly smile: all teeth and full cheeks and a scrunched nose. But you dream of it. A younger version of him you recall only through pictures at the bottom of a shoe box. But here, amidst the wispy fractals of sleep, he smiles. Says you worry too much, that he's fine, that he's here.

You wake the next morning with tears wetting the pillow. An emptiness claws, taints, scars the tissue of your lungs. Each breath feels like rotting.

After readying for work, you dig out the shoe box and look through each photo. Some of them are bent, torn at the edges, yellowed on the back. All of them marked with the year, most accompanied by a short sentence for commentary. At the bottom of the pile, you find the one that started the search. Taken two years after his military training, the first time you had seen him since he left for Raccoon City. He came back changed, a lot less himself, but still. He smiled for you.

You leave the box open and the pictures scattered all over the floor after rushing to leave for work, and when you arrive back home, the pictures are put away. The box tucked back into the closet. You dig through the contents, now a mess of scattered images, a haunting in and of itself. The smiling picture of Leon nowhere to be found.

It’s the first time dread overtakes you.

Your method of rationalization goes as follows: I've been stressed from work, had to rush, forgot I put the box back up. A justifiable, realistic explanation. No signs of break-in, no other tampering. Just the messy intestines of the box and the missing photo. Your coworkers were right. Gotta take it easy.

But the incidents continue.

A few days later, you startle awake to the pitch-black darkness of the living room, curled up on the couch. The television is off, everything lay quiet. A cold sweat sticks your shirt to your back, sharp spikes of fear lingering in the pit of your stomach. Your breathing stutters, leaves your mouth in loud huffs.

You can't move. You try to sit up, to curl in on yourself, to adjust the blanket, but your body refuses to comply. Can't even twitch a finger. You hold your breath, close your eyes—please snap out of it please help me please—and that's when you hear it.

Something hovers just over the back of the couch, a presence suffocating, almost tangible in the air, like sulfur in the back of your throat. The sound of its breathing strikes you as unmistakably human. Fear-filled, panic-induced huffs.

Your heart might actively give out, might break a rib with its hummingbird beat against your chest. But your eyes never open. This is a bad dream. Sleep paralysis. A fucking nightmare.

Something frigid—a finger, has to be, oh god—touches you at the elbow, trails a path up your arm, back and forth and back and forth. Your eyes clench tighter, breath mirroring the thing's: a sharp panic, acidic on your tongue, each muscle squirming against your brain's inaction.

After a moment, the longest moment of your life, either a half-second or three hours, the thing pulls away. The huffing stops. Your thumb twitches, then your wrist moves, then your head twists deeper into the pillow.

You never understood the phrase ‘frozen from fear’ until now, and although your body is your own again, you can't bring yourself to move off the couch. You want to run to the bathroom and switch on the light and lock the door and curl up inside the shower. But you can't. Can't settle the worry that the thing still watches you, remains at the back of the couch just waiting for overwhelming curiosity to turn your head.

You lay there for an unknown amount of time, until sunlight bleeds through the curtains and triumphs over darkness. You've always felt safer during the daytime.

Sleep paralysis used to feature prominently in your life a few years back. Always catalyzed by stress, worse when laying in bed. But it seems the past has followed you to this couch and brought some demons along with it. Nowhere is safe now.

Leon always knew what to do. Always shook you out of it, talked you through it, blotted out the visions with his voice and his face and his touch. And you wish—

(you call your friend in tears, inconsolable as you recount the events of the past few months)

—god, you wish he was here.

You pack a bag for the next few days after an internally waged war about rock bottom and how far you can reasonably cope like this. Your friend offers a way out, a vacation stay for however long you need.

You leave that night.

Truly, the hallucination didn't scare you. In the moment, yes, of course, but you knew the cause. Sitting with the aftermath alone, in the cold, dark, silence, unsure of the trust you place in yourself? Questioning your own brain? That broke something within you.

Maybe the events leading up to the incident didn't help, either. The curtains then the picture that you failed to find and all the grief and worry added to such an oppressive bout of fear that you had no choice but to flee.

You don't tell your friend that, though. Instead, you twist the truth to recount a more rational version of events: haven't been sleeping well, grieving, misplacing objects, memory loss, sleep paralysis. You can't tell them that a war wages on inside you between earthly realm and ether. That you might be going insane.

By Wednesday, you sit on the same couch that chased you away, bag dropped at your feet, holding the lost picture of Leon in your hands. Found on the coffee table upon your return. His smile taunts you in a way indescribable to your brain. He would know what do, make you feel better, but where is he now to banish the darkness from this house?

You shove the picture into one of your drawers beneath a wrinkled mess of clothing. That isn't how you remember him anyway.

The next morning, you shower with invisible eyes watching, a gaze that soaks you in hot oil, that no amount of scrubbing relieves. Five separate times you peek out from behind the shower curtain and prepare to meet the gaze of… something. The subject of your fear doesn’t matter. You still wish to crawl inside your skin and curl up at the bottom of the tub.

When you step out, the familiar smell of Leon's cologne freezes you in place. Your hand remains outstretched toward the towel folded up on the toilet. The bottle sits on the sink, untouched, but you smell it. You smell it. Hints of musk and sandalwood, and against your better judgement, you inhale deep and home feels like home again.

If only for a moment.

When you spray a spritz or two, it's a reclamation of your space. A decision made with intent. You spray another on your chest for good measure (not at all because you wish for his smell to follow you around the house).

The chill of the kitchen floor helps calm your heartbeat. You flipped every light in the house on, but the curtains refuse to stay closed. A direct portal to the outside world and the darkness that threatens to overtake your haven, but you’re too afraid to close them, to look at your own reflection (and what might stare back).

Things escalate shortly thereafter.

You arrive home a bit clumsy on your feet, fresh out of the bar after a drunken evening with your friends. Can't remember the last time you had so much fun, allowed yourself to forget about the shadows haunting your home.

Dread settles like a lead weight in your stomach, a common sensation nowadays made worse by the alcohol. Eyes always watching, a presence lingering just out of the sight. The whole house feels cursed.

But you shake it off. You've had your best day in months. Can't let the cage of the walls collapse in on you.

You remove your shoes, drop your belongings on the table beside the door. Start to sing the song that played in your friend's car before you pause, hair rising on the back of your neck.

Even through the darkness, the poor adjustment of your vision, you recognize the silhouette sitting on your couch. The strands of hair, dark blond offset against the color of blue-tinged shadows. You should run to him, ask where the fuck he's been, but something keeps you locked in place, swaying on drunken feet.

It's Leon but it isn't. You know it, your brain knows it, your gut knows it, your heart knows it. You accepted his death long before this moment. Knew down to your bone marrow that he was gone for good.

And now something wears his skin.

The figure doesn't move, and you glance back toward the light switch. Just a few feet away, close enough that if you really stretch, you could reach it. You look at the couch to find the silhouette still sitting there.

You take a step and the floorboard creaks just as a finger finds the protrusion of the switch. Behind you, the couch groans.

You shouldn't look back. You shouldn't look back. A bad fucking idea—one of your worst—but blood-curdling curiosity leaves you turning your head.

Staring at you over the cushion are two shadow-logged pits where his eyes should be, the suggestion of his hair blotted out and cloudy. Too dark to make anything else out, but that same feeling from the shower soaks you in a bucket of cold water.

You can't move. You need to, should grab your keys and bolt out the door, but the communication between your brain and feet misfires. You hold your breath.

“Please don't,” the thing says, so quiet and pitiful and hoarse that you almost listen. Still, you flinch at the sound, the familiar words. The whisper goes off like a gunshot.

Something eats at you, deep down inside your belly, that this thing doesn't wish to hurt you. Let it in. Let it stay here. Let it warm your bed.

The thing stole Leon's voice.

You flip on the light switch and the thing disappears.

Over the coming days, you consider the possibility of a psychotic break. What hallucinations entail. How deep the paranoia punctures. What is real and what is a byproduct of your degrading mind.

You shower with the curtain open. You safety pin the window curtains together. One day, you spend three hours deciding which lights are necessary to keep the darkness at bay, and you never turn them off. You stop drinking. You park closer to the front doors at work.

Sometimes you cry in the car on your way home.

And still yet, the thing reappears. Your safety pins sit in a neat little pile on the kitchen table. You find blown bulbs after spending too long away. A bottle of brandy and a glass wait for you beside the sink.

After spotting a splotch of blond hair in the fogged-up bathroom mirror, you cover it with a sheet only to find that same sheet folded neatly on the end of your bed the next morning.

After your late shift, you spot a figure occupying the passenger seat of your car. Pinpricks of ocean blue in the rear-view mirror. You drop your keys one morning underneath your car and they skid back across the pavement before you can crouch down to fish for them (you were fifteen minutes late for work that day).

You don't get it. Can't understand why you're haunted by the memory of your dead love, why the grief manifests only to terrify you.

The days are lonely and the nights are horrifying. Even if you could tell somebody, what would you say? ‘Listen, I know this sounds unbelievable, but something is wearing my dead husband's skin. I can't sleep or eat or think straight anymore. I need help.’ That is a one-way trip to a mental hospital—the last thing you need right now. Nobody would believe you, and you can't even blame them. Can't trust your own senses these days.

You use your lunch breaks at work to nap. At your most exhausted, you consider sleeping under the desk until your morning shift. You consider couch surfing for the unforeseeable future, or sleeping on a friend's porch in the middle of winter.

But you think in inevitables. Going home happens to be one of them.

Winter turns to spring, bringing longer days and balmy weather and the occasional thunderstorm. The incidents go on and on, but they don't escalate.

After a week-long stint with the same friend as before, you return home bright and early on Sunday. The curtains in the living room are drawn shut, but you never shut them. You know that for certain. Stopped fussing over it after the tenth time you walked into the room to find them open again.

On the kitchen table sits the photo of Leon. Smiling, arm curled around you, eyes crinkled at the corners. You pull out a chair and sit down, and you think you want to die.

A fleeting yet comforting proposal. An end to everything, a perpetual nothingness. Maybe your souls would find each other in the aftermath, between the empty space of atoms.

You miss him.

Whatever lurks beyond the realm of possibility that resides within your home views this picture as important. It wants you to look. To remember.

You grab a photo album from the side table in the living room and switch out the picture (already a shot of you two) with the Smiling Leon.

“Okay,” you say, setting the frame on the kitchen table. “I'm leaving the picture out, so just…” A gnawing part of you knows this crosses some sort of line. Never interact with the scary thing haunting you, “move it wherever you want, I guess.”

You haven't yet tried appeasing the thing, communicating with it. Maybe it's lonely, same as you. Maybe it needs a friend, stuck in your apartment twenty four hours a day. Maybe that's why it watches you, likens your presence to a hamster on a wheel, a bird in a tree, a zoo animal. Entertainment.

Maybe you do need to go to a fucking hospital.

The picture frame turns into a little game. You wake each morning and come home each evening to find it moved, and spend the next few minutes searching for it. You find it under your bed, beneath a pillow, on the sink in the bathroom, between the couch cushions, in one of the closets.

The more you think about it, the deeper unease roots into your stomach. A ghost with free reign of your house, tangible proof of its existence. It journeys around your bed when you sleep, at your most vulnerable—the most horrifying thought of all.

You could capture the activity, but your ghost seems too smart for that. It watches you sleep and shower and watch television. Surely it would watch you set video cameras up. As if you have the money for them anyway.

Unfortunately, your plan backfires. The ghost grows more active at night. Footsteps echo from the kitchen, you wake to find furniture moved, it hides your keys. One morning your front door sticks while you already run late for work, as if a body leans against the wood.

As if the ghost doesn't want you to leave.

You're forced to squeeze yourself through the living room window, a prickly bush breaking your fall. When you get to work, a coworker plucks a leaf from your hair, asks about what activities you got up to this morning with a jesting laugh.

Nothing much. Just that the ghost haunting my house tried to hold me hostage.

It's an isolated incident, and you scold the ghost after you get home with all the intensity of an owner housebreaking a puppy. Ridiculous, all things considered, and you take the rest of the evening to reflect on how the fuck things got to this point. If you're in denial about your own mental state and you truly do converse with thin air or move things around without remembering. Maybe this is all one big scheme conjured up by a fractured mind to cope with the loss of your husband.

You aren't sure when the footsteps in your kitchen went from horrifying to comforting.

But even that changes.

You fall asleep on the couch during a rerun of some eighties movie you've seen half a dozen times. The dreams are vivid, fleeting, fragmented in execution. A loud, ragged death rattle wakes you, the water-logged image of a man with an unhinged jaw and a concave skull imprinted on your retinas when you open your eyes.

An infomercial for a cookware product plays on the television, and the air stagnates thick and buzzing, as if the house itself holds its breath.

You sit up to leave for the bathroom but a sudden cold blankets you in hesitation, turns your muscles sluggish and weary. It's so late and you're so tired, and maybe you don't have to pee that bad.

But you get up and pass by the kitchen and turn the corner into the hallway.

You don't believe it at first. Blink your eyes, dig the heel of your palms into the sockets, and yet. A figure remains stood in the doorway of your bedroom at the far end of the hall. A shroud of darkness outlined by the pitiful bloom of light from your bedside lamp.

This is not a thing, but a man. Flesh and blood. As real as yourself. If you look close enough, his lungs expand with breath. Blond hair catches on the light.

Fear collapses your legs, and you land hard against the wall. The thing—a man, a man, a man—takes a step toward you, swallowed up by blackhole shadow, and you pitch backward, hands dragging you toward the kitchen. Toward the sight-breaking safety of the island and the corner you know well.

This isn't like the other times. You were fine, okay, content when your ghost appeared as nothing more than a figment, a blink-away darkness from the corner of your eye. Present only in the aftermath of its hijinks. This thing is real, tangible.

You curl into yourself on the floor, shrinking toward your knees as heavy, stilted footsteps grow closer. Thumpthump… thump, thump… thump…. thump….

From your spot in the kitchen, you look toward the front door. Both locks are turned. The man is not an intruder in the literal sense, but that makes your predicament worse somehow.

You can't fight a ghost.

The footsteps stop somewhere in the living room, and your body shakes so hard the cabinets at your back threaten to creak. You bite the hem of your shirt to quiet ragged breathing.

A bloated silence drags on, and on, and on. Like that night on the couch, you fear moving, making noise, breathing too hard. You're sure the beat of your heart is audible, trapped in your ears, lightheaded as it makes you.

But you have to move. Gotta get to your phone on the coffee table, run outside, call a friend to help you pack your shit tonight because you're done. Fuck this house.

You glance around your corner of the island to find the path clear. A relieved breath chokes from your lungs. You shuffle toward the other, peek your head around the edge, and—

“Please don't,” the thing croaks, crouched down on the other side of the island, blue eyes wide and piercing as its head tilts to stare at you.

A phrase said once before, the first time it revealed itself.

Those eyes bore a hole into your chest, through bone and muscle and flesh already swallowed up by the rot of grief. If you compared a picture of the eyes you remember and the eyes you witness now, they would undoubtedly shine the same shade.

A wailing sob rises up in your throat, chokes off wet and reedy at the base of your tongue. Your chest squeezes tight with each inhale, halting the relief of a full breath.

It—he—moves back behind the island, and after a long moment, heavy, arrhythmic footsteps fade into the hallway where you found him.

You hide the rest of the night in the bathroom, sobbing so hard you cough then gag then vomit into the toilet. You shake and shake and shake, teeth suffering such a fierce chatter they risk cracking and breaking off.

Throughout the night, something knocks on the door in slow, regular intervals. You wonder for a moment what might happen should you answer, what manner of horror you would face, but your hindbrain forbids you from finding out. The noise stretches on for hours, until you finally use his words against him—please don't!—and the house falls into a solemn silence.

Only when hunger claws at your stomach do you emerge from the sanctuary of porcelain and tile, your home swaddled in shadow and melancholy, though the morning sun attempts to shine through the curtains. The lamp from your bedroom reflects off the glossy sheen of scattered pictures on the floor before your nightstand.

You hesitate to cross the threshold into the hallway, unsure of what lurks behind each corner, as if the four walls of the bathroom ensure protection. But you spot the open door of the bedroom closet, and the tipped-over box of pictures now empty.

Against every working cell in your brain screaming for you to run, you creep down the hallway. A shiver racks your spine, gooseflesh rising on your arms as you near the open door. It's cold here, impossibly so. Like someone bottled up a snowstorm and shook it loose within this place.

You step into the room and turn on the ceiling light, the mess of pictures coming into clear view. No harm has come to them, but they look as if someone violently slung the box. A few scatter across the bed, a few landed inside the closet.

The picture frame sits on his pillow.

Your ghost's breaking point, it seems. No coincidence that the picture scattered around all feature him in some form or another. He’s telling you something.

He's—

You really, really, really didn't want to believe it. You didn't. Fought this conclusion since the activity started because acknowledging the possibility means confronting your worst fear.

But it's not—

It is a he.

He is not a mimic.

He is Leon.

Your ghost is Leon. Has been this whole time. Which means—

Fuck. Fuck. You knew. You knew this whole time that something was wrong, that he died when the calls stopped.

And he tried to tell you. He showed you the picture you loved so much. He kept the curtains open so you could look outside at the snow like you did every winter. You smelled him. He tried to comfort you on the couch (god, you felt him). He didn't want you to leave.

You blink, and the image of his eyes peering from behind the island sears into the darkness of your vision.

Please don't—

be scared.

You sink to the floor, thoughts a scrambled, incoherent mess, and busy yourself with putting the pictures back in the box. All your tears ran out last night. The numbness pulls you down, suffocates you, cloys and thickens in the space between your organs. It's better this way, you think. Easier to find an explanation without emotion clouding your judgement.

But you know better. You know better.

“I get it now. It's you, isn't it?” You take a seat on the edge of your bed and the bed dips on the opposite side, facing the window. Perhaps he doesn't wish to scare you again. “Leon, I—” your voice breaks, shatters like the glass inside your picture frame, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Saying his name carves resignation into your chest, right where all the love resides. That chamber of your heart is bloated, fit to bursting, stretching apart each woven sinew. It hurts. Everything does.

Maybe that's why, despite every atom in your being yelling for you to flee this place and never look back, you stay. Something broke inside you a long time ago, and you lost the energy to piece yourself back together. Leon's still here, still with you just as he promised in your dream. You'd be crazy to leave now.

As an effect of your loyalty, he appears to you more often. The first few times startle you: you wake one morning to find him stood just outside the doorway of your bedroom, where light fails to reach; he rides home with you in the backseat after a long shift at work, face turned to gaze out the window; he paces back and forth around the island as you lay on the couch watching a movie, footsteps ever off-rhythm.

But he never allows the light to touch him, finds safety in the brooding maw of darkness. And you leave the lights off to encourage his presence, to catch glimpses of his eyes peering from closets, around corners. A mess of pretty hair in the mirror.

You open the living room curtains for the first time in months and see him standing over your shoulder in the reflection. The thing that stares back at you.

You talk to him daily. Fill him in on work, share the latest gossip around the office. Warn him of long shifts or nights out with friends. Ask him about what movie to watch, or what you should cook for dinner (one knock for yes, two for no).

It's crazy. You're self-aware enough to recognize this. Keeping one-sided conversations with a dead man is no doubt categorized as a blaring-red-flag symptom in the DSM. You just don't care.

The first time you touch him is when real transitions from metaphorical to earthly.

You wake from a nap to find nighttime in its infancy, fresh after sunset. Your ears buzz, alerting you to a nearby presence, and you glance around to find him (a new game of his that you fail to see the humor in). He stands before the window, facing away from you, following each car that passes by.

You greet him with a quiet, “Hey,” and his head tilts toward the sound of your voice.

He rarely speaks, but you don't mind. The familiarity of his presence comforts you enough. You would prefer the alive Leon, always, but you cling to him any way you can. Can't let him go when you just got him back.

“Is this what you do when I'm gone all day?” you ask, sitting up with a slow creak of the couch. “Maybe I should leave the TV on, or buy a radio. That's gotta be boring.”

He knocks twice on the window (”no”) and a laugh bubbles up in your throat. When your lips spread into a smile, the muscles almost ache from disuse. Can't remember the last time you truly experienced happiness, but this is as close as you're going to get.

You approach him from behind, the need to feel him, skin-to-skin, so overwhelming you almost choke on it. Fingers brush against the back of his hand, relaxed at his side, and you swallow down a gasp at the chill that consumes each point of contact. Frostbite, gangrene, the preservation of a fresh corpse buried beneath snow. So cold your nerves ache, threaten permanent damage, but his skin remains soft as you remember. Callouses scar his palms (you remember the way they held you, caressed you, the thickness of his fingers). But you'll never experience those things again.

The realization ruins your sunny mood like a grounding thunderclap.

“What happened to you?”

Still, he doesn't respond, and you slot your fingers between his. It's easy to pretend like this. He's just come back from an overseas trip, extremities still thawing out after all the cold he suffered through.

Easier still to pretend when your eyes are closed.

Over the next few days, you weigh your… options. The price of mortality. What living truly means to you. If chasing his ghost around would be worth it in the end.

“Are you staying behind for me?” you ask one night to the shadow sitting at the end of the bed. His weight dips the mattress, wrinkles the bedding, reminds you that he's no longer a figment of your imagination or a result of grief-triggered psychosis.

He remains silent.

“I mean… say I died for whatever reason. Would you come with me?”

He remains silent. The outline of his figure curls in on itself.

“Is there even anything after this? Somewhere else to go?”

He remains silent. You grow restless, agitated. Shoot up in bed at the sound of his sigh.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence burrows holes into your skull, gaping and deep. He turns his head, a pretty, piercing eye staring over his shoulder.

“Don't.” He hisses out the word like it burns acidic on his tongue. As if he knows the goal behind your questions, the contemplations that keep you awake far outside your normal schedule.

“I—” you swallow thick, throat clicking as a warning buzz charges the air, “I wasn't.”

“Don't.”

Don't—

even think about it.

“I wasn't, Leon. I swear.”

As if he would let you go through with it anyway.

420 notes · View notes

quuma · 1 year ago

Text

Like a Train | Arven x GN!Reader

Rating: Teen+

Summary: You and Arven are best buds. After he makes a minor change in his appearance, you're left wondering why you suddenly want more than that.

Author’s Note: My headcanon age for Arven is that he’s a young adult, somewhere between 20-24 years old. If this proves to be wrong in the future, please consider him to be aged up to this range! Likewise, for the sake of the continuity (i.e. Little Buddy and whatnot), you have a similarly tiny stature to the main character in Pokémon SV. For the sake of all of us, your character here is not a teenager lol, but instead roughly the same age as Arven, give or take a few years. Finally, the academy takes students of all ages (as you see in the game), but I wrote it with more of a college setting in mind.

Thank you for understanding!! ^^ Please see the end for more notes x

Check it out on ao3!

“Aha. Perfect timing to make eye contact,” Raifort calls out, followed by my name. She then proceeds to ask a question about what she was just discussing, knowing that I wasn’t paying attention.

Instead, I was engaged in a quiet, heated discussion with my desk-mate, research partner, and one of my only friends in Paldea so far… about our teacher’s hair.

Why does that one piece of her fringe move so much? Is it sentient? Is it a glitch in the life-simulation? Would it bleed if she were to cut or shave it off? Does she know it does that? Does she do it on purpose somehow? This is important stuff!

“Get fucked,” my accomplice whispers as I stutter out gibberish. I try to gather my thoughts and come up with something to appease Raifort.

Once I realize it’s to no avail, I give up, lean back in my seat, and shoot my friend a squint. One that silently says, ‘I hate you, if she gets mad it is totally your fault, I will kill you if you make this any worse.’

Smirking, Arven’s leaning on our shared desk with both elbows, with his hands against his forehead. He’s using his right one to hold a pen, as well as keep his bangs out of the corresponding eye, and he’s slightly turned towards me. Making sure he can inconspicuously watch me suffer at his expense, with that pretty teal gaze of his. I am but a jester in his court. Luckily, Raifort catches on and calls the man out.

“Oh, perhaps you would like to answer the question instead, Master Arven?”

His head whips up, and he drops his bangs (and nearly his pen). “N-no thank you, ma’am.”

Raifort sighs, letting this exchange slide with a curt glare, and continues her lecture.

I snort back a laugh, covering it up by clearing my throat. Then, I softly parrot “Get fucked,” into Arven’s ear, nudging his elbow with mine. Just as we both break into a fit of giggles, we’re saved by the bell.

“You’re a prick,” I laugh as I shove my notes into my backpack.

“No you,” Arven quips. Very original. “What are you doing after this?” he asks, shifting the conversation.

“Well,” I ponder, “You wanted to scope out the area where our next titan allegedly lives this week, yeah?” He nods, walking in front of me as we exit the class. “Cool, then let’s go!”

“What? Now?!” I nod and hum enthusiastically as I wrap around to his left. He looks out the nearby window at the sunset, and his one visible eyebrow furrows as he turns to face me. “Don’t get me wrong little buddy, I love the enthusiasm, but it’s a bit late for that. It’ll be dark by the time we’re on site.”

I let my trusty Fuecoco out of its Pokéball. It looks up at us as we slow to a halt, and I present it to Arven, arms stretched out towards the Pokémon. “Our flashlight!”

Fuecoco, wanting to help, does its own little pose. Its arms promptly spread, and it balances on one stubby leg, shaking as it tries not to fall over.

Arven bites back a smile and rolls his eyes. “We went to a ton of classes today, I don’t want to do more work.”

I scoop up Fuecoco and scratch under its chin before we continue walking. “We can camp, too...”

Arven deadpans me, pursing his lips in frustration. He loves camping. There’s no way he’ll turn down a late-night adventure if it ends with a good ol’ camp!

“I’ll let you make the sandwiches,” I sing, trying to convince him further.

We reach the entrance hall and pull off to a nearby pillar to get out of other students’ ways. After placing his backpack on the ground next to his legs, Arven crosses his arms and leans against the pillar. I lean against the nearest wall, about 2 feet away. Fuecoco is having a blast inspecting all the passing students from my arms, occasionally waving to their accompanied Pokémons.

“You won’t just give them all to the lizardmobile?” he asks, staring down at me with contempt.

“Shouldn’t you be flattered that ‘Raidon loves your cooking?!” I whine. I shake my head, and knowing Arven’s retort already, I cut him off before he can even start. “Either way, no promises, but I swear to Arceus I won’t complain about being hungry.”

A heavy sigh leaves the ambiguously blond’s nostrils. “…Go on,” Arven prompts, wanting more bribes.

I squint at him. He gives me a smug grin. “Hmm,” I dramatically hum in thought. “I’ll pay for the ingredients.”

“And?”

“I’ll get stuff to make s’mores, too.”

“And?”

“What more do you want from me, dude?!”

His smile is now downright evil, and he stays silent. He untucks a hand to vaguely gesture at me, then crosses it back into his arms, waiting for me to continue.

“I can, uh.” I look around for ideas, but I’ve got nothing. “I dunno…” I wince, knowing that ‘I dunno’ is not a very convincing offer.

He chuckles.

Noticing how sleepy Fuecoco seems to be getting, I return it. Now, it’s time to use my last resort.

“Pleeease?” I pout. Fidgeting with Fuecoco’s ball. Tucking my arms behind my back and swiveling my upper body to feign innocence. Batting my eyelashes for added effect.

It looks like there’s a hint of rosiness to Arven’s cheeks as he gives in, clutching his fists. He turns his head in another direction, shutting his eyes. What a drama queen! I beam, though, knowing what this means.

“Fine.” I open my mouth to cheer, but he holds up a palm to stop me. “But we’re only investigating for an hour.”

I scowl. “2 hours.” I make my way to the nearest hallway and dig through my bag for my student ID.

“Hour and a half.”

“3 hours!”

“No?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!” He laughs, following me. “Go pack before I change my mind.”

“You don’t need to?” I question, swiping my card at the station closest to the elevators. Arven reaches behind himself and pats his obnoxiously large backpack. I roll my eyes in response. “Wait here, then. I’ll try to be quick.”

_______________

Arven was right. After a quick stop at Deli Cioso, we made our way on ‘Raidon to the steel titan’s location, where it was pitch black. Only had the moon, the stars, and Fuecoco as our guiding light.

We tried to work with it: Observing the various burrows in the cliffsides, the uniform cracks in the ground, the way the earth would occasionally rumble beneath us. But when Fuecoco was startled by a cheeky Misdreavous, it accidentally lit the corner of my notebook on fire. We took that as a sign to call it a night.

Arven and I found a nice spot to make camp, high up and overlooking a distant Levincia. I can’t wait to go there for the gym challenge. Maybe I’ll try to spend a few nights there with my prize money.

I take a break from my daydreaming and turn back to see Arven setting up a foldable table to make food on. Or, at least he’s trying to. Both of our teams are very eager to get in his way. My Tinkatuff keeps whacking its hammer at the table legs, shaking it up, while Arven’s Toedscruel pokes at his back, wanting attention.

“Need any help?”

“No,” he stubbornly mumbles.

I roll my eyes and find a spot to sit by the campfire. My back is up against a tree, and I’m on a spare blanket that I brought specifically for this purpose. Figured it’s better than letting our pants get all dirty on the ground.

Just as I’m getting cozy, I hear a frustrated “Oh, you little shits!” I peer up, and my friend is looking at me from his workstation, his features riddled with defeat.

The table is covered in sandwich-picks, salt, pepper, and lettuce, which Arven’s Greedent is eagerly munching away at. Poor guy can’t do anything about it because my Eevee is parkouring between his arms and shoulders, slipping right out from his grasp every time he thinks he can grab it.

I can’t help but laugh at the mess unraveling before me, but get up to help anyway. After returning each of my Pokémon to their balls, Arven is able to do the same.

“Not having a chance to battle all day must’ve really amped them up,” he grumbles, cleaning the spilled food and condiments.

I lean over the table, opposite from him. “Excuse me for wanting to take a day off from the treasure hunt to make sure neither of us will flunk out.”

“I didn’t even need most of the classes we went to today.”

“Technically, you do,” I point out. “You’re, like, way behind on credits, no?” He scoffs, and incoherently grumbles under his breath. Trying to think on the bright side, I add on, “Cheer up, bud. Being able to pick when we go to which classes and who we go with is cool, at least. My last college would never.”

“True,” he grunts, lugging out a portable generator to plug his panini press into. “Still doesn’t make me enjoy any of it.”

After rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Arven dips his head down, pulling a hair tie out from one of his pockets. I’m about to nag him, like, ‘The better you do, the sooner you’ll be done, and I can help you study,’ and all that. But instead, he stands up straight again, and my brain short-circuits.

Forearms. Broad shoulders. Both eyes. Ponytail. Baby hairs— oh, he’s pinning them back. Those eyes. Both eyes! Eyebrows. Neck… thick. Hair… up… Oh Arceus the puffy vest is coming off too.

Hrng. Shit.

Arven says something but I don’t hear him. Have his lips always looked so nice? Since when is he this attractive? How do I look? Do I look okay? Does he think I look okay?

A large hand snaps in front of my face, and I hear my name being sternly spoken by the man in front of me. I blink a few times, coming to. How long was I staring for?

“W-wha—?”

“Everything okay, amiguito?”

Both of Arven’s bushy eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks concerned for me, albeit amused. My cheeks feel warm with blush, and I can only hope that he doesn’t notice it.

“Y-yeah, uh,” I struggle to form words. “Tired, I guess.”

His eyes zigzag around my face… and he looks… so... Oh no, oh no oh no oh no he is so hot. And he totally can see how red my face is with how bright the nearby fire is. He’s about to pry — I can tell by his arms folding across his chest — but I make a swift escape.

“Oops! Leftsomethinginthetent!”

I can comfortably stand up straight in our tent, but opt to fall to my knees, curling into a ball while I try to get my act together.

I’ve thought Arven was cute ever since I met him a few months ago. But I’ve never felt, like… like this. It doesn’t make any sense! I’ve never looked into his eyes and felt Butterfrees in my stomach. I’ve never looked at his mouth and wanted to kiss it. I’ve never looked at his neck and wondered what it would look like covered in love bites. My love bites.

Or… I don’t think I have…?

I spend a few heartbeats wracking my brain for clues. Seeing if this is as sudden as it feels like it is. But like a train, I’m hit with thoughts of all the stolen glimpses I’ve taken in passing. Of my stomach doing flips when Arven murmurs my name a certain way. His smile sometimes being all it takes to brighten my worst days. The way I’ve memorized the feeling of his hand wrapped with mine, pulling me off the ground or ripping me away from danger…

Oh god.

It makes complete sense, actually.

How in the world am I supposed to go back out there and focus on anything other than him, now that it’s all clicked?

Phew. I gotta breathe. I can do this! I’ll just act how I usually do. That shouldn’t be too hard, right? Right!

I check my appearance with my phone’s camera, take another deep breath, and emerge back outdoors. Rather than meeting Arven at the table, I sit by the fire again. I feel eyes on me, and feeling hopeful that it’s a wild Pokémon, I look up at Arven… who’s looking at me.

“What?”

“¿Qué pasa?” he asks. “You seem weird.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about, I’m fine. Peachy as a pecha berry.”

“Sure...”

“I am!”

He sighs, and continues assembling our sandwiches. “Did… did I do something wrong?” Arven asks.

“What?”

“I-I do really appreciate that you want me to do well in classes, if that’s what this is about. It’s amazing that you help me out as much as you do, and I’m sorry if it didn’t seem like—”

My brows furrow as I cut him off, “What?! Arven, i-it’s fine, I get you. This has nothing to do with that.”

“Aha!” He whips around to face me after putting one of the sandwiches into the heated press. “Something is up.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find words. Then, I frown. Then, I look at the fire. If I ignore him, he’ll surely drop it, right?

Wrong.

I hear footsteps, but don’t look up. I see something crouching near me, but I shift my eyes the other way. Then, I hear a thump in each ear and see a shadow in my peripherals. I finally look up, and Arven’s arms are outstretched to either side of me. When I meet his eyes, I realize that his face is closer than I could’ve ever expected it to be. Oh Arceus above.

“A-Arven?!”

“Please let me help you, bud. All I want is to be able to help you the way you’ve been helping Mabosstiff and I.”

I’ve only ever known Arven to be persistent, and a little clingy, and self-conscious enough to max out both of those traits at certain times. Realistically, I should’ve seen something like this coming. But even if I did, nothing could have prepared me for him to cage me against a tree. Face inches from mine. Both eyes boring into mine with concern.

What am I supposed to say?! ‘Sorry, but you’re ridiculously attractive, and apparently I have feelings for you, and I only realized that because you pUT YOUR HAIR IN A STUPID FUCKING PONYTAIL—‘

He addresses me again, softer this time. My eyes are trained on his smooth lips, drinking in the way they ebb as he speaks my name. I snap out of my trance, and when I look into his eyes, there’s a certain vulnerability I’ve only seen come out when it comes to his partner Pokémon.

Oh god damnit.

There’s no getting out of this.

I let out a shaky breath, and all I can manage to squeak out, is “Y-you… you’re really handsome, is all. Caught me off guard.” I mean, it’s half-true.

I look down, worried about what expression I’ll see in Arven’s eyes. I mean to look ‘through’ him, but instead I’m focused on his lips again. I gnaw at my own bottom one to stop myself from leaning in towards my friend’s.

When I notice how silent he’s been, I bravely peek up, and his cheeks are a deep, tamato berry red. His eyebrows twitch, unsure of where to settle. It’s adorable. And his mouth is open ever so slightly, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what or how.

As if the universe is trying to save me, Arven and I smell something burning, and lock widened eyes. I peek past him at the fire, while he removes his palms from the tree and twists his upper body towards the table.

“Shit!” Arven exclaims, scrambling to his feet.

_______________

“I can’t believe you’re eating that.”

I look up from my plate and shrug. “The fillings even out the taste of char.”

Arven laughs. “You’re nasty. Even your dumb lizard didn’t want it.”

“Duh, it has a refined palette.” Through another half-mouthful of burnt bread, melted cheese, and various proteins and veggies, I continue, “It’sh been shpoiled by your herba myshtica concoctionsh.”

Swiping the crumbs of his finished sandwich off his pants and onto his empty plate, Arven responds, “Fair. But still, I could’ve just made you a new one.” He nods over to Levincia, and adds, “‘Raidon could have brought you down there for more bread and back in only a few minutes, no?”

“Well, probably, but I didn’t wanna wait.”

He puts the plate down beside him and puts his hands behind his head, leaning back onto the same tree he had me pinned against no more than 20 minutes ago. His eyes are closed. He looks so peaceful. So pretty…

Nope. Gotta stop. I can’t gawk at him again. I’ve done more than enough of that.

“Plus,” I add to my previous statement, “I don’t like to be wasteful.”

“You're like a Garbodor.”

I gasp, feigning offense. Even though Arven can’t see my expression, the corners of his lips are upturned.

“If I were a pokémon I’d be something way cuter, thank you very much.”

Wanting to get it out of the way, I hork down the last bite of my sandwich. The warmed fillings truly are delicious, but we have no utensils, and I didn’t wanna get my hands even dirtier, so I had to settle for using the burnt bread as a vessel. It’s not exactly an easy eat.

“Sí… Mas pequeño, también,” Arven clarifies.

After chasing my food with a bunch of water, I respond, “Exaaactly.”

“Like… a Wooper.” I open my mouth to agree, and knowing me too well, he holds up a finger to stop me. His lids open slightly as he side-eyes me. “A Paldean Wooper. Not the blue ones you had back in wherever-the-hell.”

I tuck my legs to my chest and snort back a laugh. “Are you telling me I look like a Wooper covered in shit?”

“Are you insulting the fauna of my country?” I deadpan him, and his smile grows. “Also, yes, I am calling you a Wooper covered in shit.” I roll my eyes at his confirmation.

“I tell you that you look good, and this is the thanks I get…” I mumble into my knees.

As if he’d forgotten, Arven’s eyes widen. A thick blush coats his nose and cheeks, and my own face copies. Fuck. Why did I say that? Everything was going so well.

“Y-you… hah,” he lets out a breathy laugh and continues, “You did say that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” I mutter under my breath, “Arceus, why did I bring that up again?”

Arven leans off of the tree and swivels his body to face mine. “I do.” I wanna punch that cocky smirk off his face sooo badly. Restraining myself, I look down. “I thought I said something to upset you,” he laments, prompting me to look back up. “But instead, you were just in awe of my dashing good looks.” He punctuates his sentence with a flick at his ponytail.

I feel myself getting flustered again, so I can’t think of a witty response. I just laugh into my knees, and hug them closer. The laugh trails into a frustrated growl. Then, I grumble something that I barely even understand, followed by a surprised squeak when I feel a large palm ruffling my hair.

“Seriously, though, what else is wrong?”

“Nothing?” I mutter out while smoothing Arven’s mess.

“What do you mean? It can’t be just that.”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell ya, big guy. The ponytail is a good look for you.”

“...You’re messing with me, ¿sí?”

“Just take the compliment!” I snap. “You’re hot, Arven. I don’t typically function as intended when I’m around people I like.”

Wide, turquoise eyes pierce into mine. “‘Like,’ eh?”

In disbelief that I’m spewing all this right now, I bury my face into my hands. Trying to maneuver around the situation, I ramble, “I mean, you’ve seen me with Saguaro. My ability to form coherent words eludes me when I’m around that hunk.”

“You think I’m hot?”

“Arven.”

“And you like m—“

“Bud.”

“Amiguito—“

“Please stop,” I whine, trying not to actually cry or throw a tantrum.

The crackling of the campfire fills empty space, assisted by the occasional lokix chirp. Waves crash in the distance, but any bustle coming from Levincia is silent to us. A few moments go by, and still feeling Arven’s eyes on me, I sigh.

“It’s just… weird for me,” I quietly explain. “You’re my best friend. I never expected to suddenly be hit with feelings any greater than that.”

“Just to clarify,” he teases, “this happened because I put my hair up?”

“I mean,” I trail off to find my wording. Looking everywhere except his face. “I-I’m sure it was brewing longer than that and I just didn’t realize. It’s dumb, I know, but—”

Arven shuffles over to make more space in front of the tree. Shifting his position from cross-legged to sitting on his knees, he then pulls me closer to him, by the waist, all while his eyes never stray from mine. Then, just like earlier, he traps me against the tree. Last time he did this, his eyes were filled with worry. This time, they’re dark with want. Oh good god.

Dumbfounded by the intimate touch, and how he’s looking at me, and how close we are, and the way he’s now cupping my face with one of his hands and moving his face closer to my face oh my god, I stutter, “W-what are you—?!”

“Cállate, pendejo,” he whispers, just before his lips meet mine.

______________________________________________________________

Author’s Note 2.0, I guess: *I’m not a native Spanish speaker, so please correct me if I’m wrong!! But I went with “male” endings to words because like, iirc, addressing something with a male pronoun is the closest there is to gender-neutrality in a case like this? I think? And I wanted this to be as ungendered as I could make it so anyone can feel welcome :’)

Also! The Raifort hair thing refers to a glitch in my game LOL Idk if it's a universal experience but I thought it would be fun to add in

I hope you enjoyed! Take care x

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