sweetascherry1
sweetascherry1
64 posts
“Cause nothing last forever, not even cold November rain.”
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
sweetascherry1 · 22 days ago
Text
Little updates for you guys! I should be posting
A) the villa pt. 2
B) unsteady me
Sometime next week or maybe a day or two after. I’m finally clearing through the activity’s and plan everyone made with me for my birthday. So I’m hoping to get back on it sometime then!
1 note · View note
sweetascherry1 · 26 days ago
Text
Lost my power… cute
5 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 27 days ago
Note
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!🥳🥳
THANK YOUUUUUUU 💕
0 notes
sweetascherry1 · 27 days ago
Text
It’s my birthday today!
3 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 27 days ago
Text
I just baby sat for my cousin and oh my god… NEVER will I have kids 😭. They are angels don’t get me wrong (when they want to be) and I love them to death. However I have had to clean up more poop that is more than enough for the next lifetime. The middle child (3yrs) is wearing pull ups — is potty training — and as I was changing his pull up. Somehow, SOMEHOW, he managed to get poop all over him.
Should also mention by this time my sister came over to check on me because she won’t be able to see me tomorrow for my birthday. This woman is wanting/trying for kids, and so I say “here some hands on training, you can change him” she told me “no you go ahead.” So I was the one changing him.
Anyways back to the story, my sister is dying of laughter, the middle child id laughing as well, mean while i run out of wipes….
Oh my lord.
So the middle child is doing a hip thrust stance, like a professional gymnast. Honestly I’m impressed he kept it up long. Because he cannot get his booty on the floor. Anyways me and my sister are running around like headless chickens, trying to find a new pack of wipes. Only for a whole pack to be on a chair next to me the whole time.
I have never had stronger birth control in my life.
He must of had stomach problems because I changed his poopy diaper 4 times twice as much as the youngest (1yrs). Thankfully the oldest (4yrs) is fully potty trained.
But oh my lord that doesn’t begin to explain the stories of today.
Tumblr media
0 notes
sweetascherry1 · 29 days ago
Text
Miss ma’am popped off with this one
The staff - part 1
Tumblr media
pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader
summary: You're just his assistant - until longing, heartbreak, and slow-burning trust turn your careful distance into something undeniable behind closed political doors.
warnings for the whole story: 18 + content, SMUT, MDNI, unprotected sex, piv, creampie, angst, a lot of angst, feelings, swearing, emotions, politics, Bucky being an idiot, idiots in love
wc: 12,5k (needed to divide the story into two, because tumblr doesn't accept a story with 26,4K words - not fun)
author’s note: in honor of Congressman Bucky and Thunderbolts. I have been writing this for a long while, so I hope you'll enjoy it.
I'm not American so my knowledge of American politics isn't too good, so forgive me. Also English isn't my first language so apologies for any errors.
Part 2
If anyone told you years ago that James Buchanan Barnes - ex-assassin, ex-fugitive, current brooding war hero - would end up in the United States Congress, you would have laughed in their face. Possibly handed them a coffee and told them to get more sleep. And yet here you are, every morning, walking past the Capitol dome with a leather folder tucked under your arm and a laminated badge clipped to your coat: Executive Assistant to Congressman James B. Barnes, New York 14th District.
Your name isn’t the one they whisper in corridors, but people know you. You're the invisible machine that keeps his office from crumbling under the weight of policy drafts, public appearances, and an inbox that fills itself like it’s been possessed by a demon. You’ve been with him since the day he was appointed, back when the country wasn't sure what to make of a former Winter Soldier turned statesman.
You know what brand of coffee keeps him from homicide before 9 a.m. (black, one sugar, dark roast only). You know the exact pitch his voice takes when he’s lying to avoid attending a fundraiser. You know his schedule better than your own, including the unlisted part that reads: “Stare into space for ten minutes while regretting all life choices post-1945.”
What he doesn’t know is that you're completely and irrevocably in love with him.
“Morning,” comes his voice now, deep and casual, like he isn’t thirty seconds from being late to the Veterans Affairs Committee briefing. You glance up from your desk, where your fingers are flying across the keyboard to send a politely scathing email to a reporter who called him “Captain America's shadow with a tie.”
“Sir,” you say, because calling him ‘Bucky’ is reserved for people who don’t get heart palpitations when he smiles. “You’re late.”
“Am I?” he asks, and there's that grin. It's not the full-on, teeth-showing kind that makes cameras flash at public events. This one’s just for you, crooked and lopsided, like he’s in on a joke and you might be the punchline.
You don’t let it throw you.
You push his schedule toward him, already annotated with color-coded sticky notes. “Room 128B. Ten minutes ago. You’ve got notes in your folder. Senator Navarro will try to corner you about the health care amendment - don’t let him. Oh, and you’ve got a press request from the Times, but I flagged it. They want a ‘day in the life of the new Bucky Barnes.’ Unless you want your afternoon nap to be public knowledge, I suggest we ignore it.”
He takes the folder, skims the notes like he might read them later (he won’t), and gives a soft laugh. ��That’s why I keep you around.”
“Because I’m excellent at saving you from your own press disasters?”
“Because you know where the bodies are buried.”
“I organized them alphabetically.”
That gets a real laugh out of him - quiet, throaty, and far too attractive for 8:53 a.m.
He starts walking and you follow, like you always do, falling into step beside a man who walks like he’s still ready to fight his way through a battlefield. His stride is smooth, but there’s tension in the left shoulder. You don’t mention it. Never do.
“So what’s the verdict on the amendment?” he asks, eyes forward, voice low.
“Navarro wants it gutted. Reid is going to back you, but he wants a photo op. McKenna is pretending to be undecided, but she’s in your corner. Wear the navy suit. It makes you look less like someone who could kill with a spoon.”
He glances at you, amused. “You think I’m intimidating?”
You shrug, nonchalant. “You carry yourself like a man who’s ended lives and alphabetizes his trauma. That’s...a lot for C-SPAN.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression, unreadable. Then he grins again, softer this time. Again, only for you. “Guess I’m lucky I’ve got you to humanize me.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it. You’re still going to that ribbon-cutting in Brooklyn next week, and no amount of tragic backstory is going to make you look interested in baked goods for veterans.”
He opens the door to the committee chamber with a wink. “You wound me.”
You don’t reply until the door swings closed behind him, leaving you in the hallway with nothing but your clipboard and the echo of a voice that could ruin you if you let it.
*
The rest of your day unfolds in a blur of phone calls, briefings, and crisis management. You cancel a meeting with a tech lobbyist who got caught texting during a press conference. You draft a response to a constituent who believes Bucky is a lizard man in disguise (“Thank you for your feedback. Congressman Barnes appreciates your passion.”). You reheat your coffee twice and drink it anyway.
By the time he returns to the office, the sun is setting and you’re halfway through organizing talking points for a veterans’ benefits rally.
He drops into the chair across from your desk with a sigh and unbuttons the collar of his shirt. The tie is loosened, the sleeves rolled up. The metal arm glints under the fluorescent light, and for a second, your brain stops functioning.
He tips his head at you. “You’re staring.”
You blink. “I’m strategizing.”
“Strategizing about my...neckline?”
You look up sharply, only to find him grinning again, infuriatingly smug.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say coolly. “I’m considering whether we can survive the week if I throw this stapler at you.”
“Tempting,” he says. “But you’d miss me if I were concussed.”
God help you, he’s right.
You shut your laptop with a snap. “We need to prep for the town hall on Friday. I’ve drafted bullet points.”
He leans forward, all wry amusement and quiet attention. “What would I do without you?”
Fall apart. Burn out. Get eaten alive by political wolves.
You smile like it doesn’t hurt to think about. “Probably give a scandalous interview to the Times.”
He laughs again, and for a moment the weight of his past seems a little lighter.
This is how it goes: tension wrapped in sarcasm, affection folded into sarcasm, everything too close and yet miles away. You’ll keep it professional. You have to.
Even if his voice is starting to sound like home.
***
There’s a particular kind of chaos that only Washington can breed - polished, tightly wound, and dressed in three-piece suits. You’re used to it by now, but today it feels more like a contact sport than public service.
It begins with a misquote in The Hill.
Someone - bless their soul - decides to paraphrase Bucky’s latest speech on veteran reintegration with all the nuance of a sledgehammer, publishing a line that makes it sound like he wants to privatize benefits.
By the time the article lands on your desk, you’ve already gotten five emails, three texts, and one call from a furious staffer in Senator Layton’s office asking if Bucky has lost his damn mind.
He hasn’t.
But if this day keeps going like this, you might.
You’re halfway through damage control, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, when he strolls in - coffee in hand, hair slightly windswept from the morning’s walk.
“Did I cause a national incident again?” he asks, with the tone of someone who very much already knows the answer.
You give him a look. “Only a small one. Catastrophe-lite.”
“I like it when you talk crisis to me.”
You cover the receiver. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”
He lifts his free hand in surrender and takes the seat across from your desk like this is just another Tuesday - which it is, technically, except that your heart is pounding and you haven’t even had breakfast.
You end the call with a quick promise to issue a clarifying statement within the hour, then turn to him.
“They misquoted you. Badly. We're getting out a correction and a video clip of the full speech. In the meantime, I suggest you avoid microphones and unvetted journalists.”
He leans back in his chair and sighs, the weariness starting to show in the lines of his face. “I should’ve stayed retired.”
You study him for a moment. He rarely lets himself say things like that aloud. It’s almost too easy to forget that this gig, for all its importance, still feels like a second life he didn’t ask for.
“You wouldn’t have lasted a week,” you say, gently. “You hate beaches, you’d get bored, and no one else would let you monologue about dignity and structural reform at 9 a.m.”
He chuckles, but it’s softer than usual.
Then something shifts.
His eyes settle on yours, and the humor fades, just a little. “You always know exactly what to say.”
It hits you in the gut - how quiet that line is, how sincere.
You look away quickly, focus on your screen. “It’s in the job description.”
You don’t say, I know what you don’t say aloud. You don’t say, I watch you closely enough to read between the silences.
He doesn’t push it. He rarely does. But when he stands, the air between you carries a different weight.
“I’ve got that sit-down with McKenna in twenty. Walk me through the notes?”
You rise, grabbing the briefing folder from the edge of your desk, and fall in step beside him.
*
The meeting is brief but productive. McKenna is sharp, pragmatic, and clearly more inclined to support Bucky’s amendment than her team lets on. You watch the way he works - reserved, calm, with just enough intensity to be persuasive. He lets you take the lead when necessary, doesn’t interrupt, backs your points with quiet nods and the occasional clarifying question.
When it ends, you both step into the marble hallway, your heels echoing softly on the polished floor.
“Nice job in there,” he says. “She likes you.”
“She likes that I don’t bullshit her.”
He grins sideways. “It’s your most charming quality.”
You roll your eyes, but something about the moment lingers - an easiness that didn’t exist when you first started working for him. Back then, he barely spoke unless necessary. You practically had to drag words from him with a winch and a crowbar.
Now, he seeks you out. Asks what you think. Makes you coffee when you're too buried in policy to move.
You're still strictly professional. But sometimes professionalism feels like a paper-thin veil over something warmer.
You’re halfway back to the office when he slows down.
“Dinner?”
You blink. “Now?”
“Tonight.”
You hesitate. A heartbeat too long.
He notices. His gaze flicks toward you, careful. “I mean - work dinner. With the committee reps. Thompson’s organizing it. I need someone to run interference if they try to get me drunk and ask about the arm.”
You exhale - relieved? Disappointed? You’re not sure.
“Of course. I’ll coordinate the car.”
But later, when you’re walking to that dinner together, side by side in the fading light of a Washington summer, he glances at you and says.
“You’d tell me if I was losing my mind doing this job, right?”
You meet his eyes, serious now.
“Every day, if necessary.”
He laughs. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But you think I’m doing okay?”
You nod. “I think you’re doing more than okay.”
There’s silence after that, but not the awkward kind. The kind that hums with things unsaid.
***
The town hall is held in a community center that smells faintly of floor wax and coffee that's been burning on a hot plate since the Reagan administration.
You’ve been here since 7 a.m., clipboard in hand, headset on, corralling volunteers, smoothing egos, and setting up security with a finesse that makes even the Secret Service nod respectfully.
The crowd outside is already gathering - constituents, press, a couple of hecklers you’ve flagged in advance. Bucky's due to speak in twenty minutes, and if all goes well, this will be a net-positive PR win for the Congressman Formerly Known as a National Security Threat.
He arrives exactly on time, as always, dressed in his sleeves-rolled-up, man-of-the-people uniform - dark blue shirt, no tie, jacket slung over one arm. His metal hand is gloved, as it always is in crowds. His expression is calm, which is to say: mildly broody, barely caffeinated, and aware of at least three possible exits.
“Full house,” he murmurs as he steps up beside you.
You hand him a packet of talking points, pre-highlighted.
“Packed and ready. Veterans’ affairs up front, followed by infrastructure, then the housing proposal. Avoid eye contact with the guy in the camo hat - he’s a flat-tax zealot and once bit someone at a debate.”
Bucky flips through the notes and then glances at you with a grin. “I don't know what I’d do without you.”
“Panic. Bleed out. Pick a fight with the microphone stand.”
He gives you that crooked little smile - the one that makes your stomach dip like it’s going over a speed bump at 60 miles an hour. “Probably.”
The thing is, you two work like gears in a clock; quiet, efficient, practiced. You've been in dozens of these rooms, faced down angry constituents, hostile reporters, malfunctioning AV systems. Each time, you’ve fallen into the same rhythm: you handle logistics and landmines, he handles the crowd and occasionally, if necessary, the truth.
Ten minutes before the event, you do your standard pre-check. You test the mic, brief the team, double-check the seating layout.
That’s when the mayor’s aide rushes over, panicked.
“Congressman Barnes? We have a problem. The keynote speaker from the Veterans’ Alliance can’t make it. Their director’s stuck on the 495. We need someone to fill that time slot or we’ll lose a third of the programming window.”
You glance at Bucky. His jaw tenses. Not because he's afraid, he's fine on his feet, but he hates unscheduled speeches. Despises speaking from the heart unless he has a day to rewrite it three times and vet it for emotional landmines.
“I’ll handle it,” you say, before he can.
His brow furrows. “You?”
“I’ll introduce the housing section myself. It buys us time to shift your address forward and still leave room for Q&A. I’ve got the figures. It’ll be tight, but we can thread it.”
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he nods. “Let me know if you need backup.”
The words aren’t throwaway. They never are with him. There’s always weight behind them, always the same, unsaid sentiment: I’ve got your six.
You nod, once. “Go be charming. I’ll catch up.”
*
You take the stage ten minutes later, voice even, posture steady despite the sudden spotlight. You walk them through the housing stats - percentages, funding sources, timelines - punctuated with the kind of genuine urgency that gets people listening. You even manage a joke that gets a laugh. Not a nervous, polite chuckle, but an actual ripple of amusement.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bucky watching from the wings, arms crossed, one brow slightly raised. There’s pride there, clear and undisguised.
He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you when you’re in the zone. It’s not adoration. It’s not awe. It’s something quieter, steadier - respect wrapped in something softer, something that makes your breath catch if you look too long.
You wrap your segment, introduce Bucky, and exit the stage to muted applause. He passes you on the way up, touching your elbow briefly in a way that no one else would notice.
You feel it for the next ten minutes like a brand.
*
Bucky handles the rest with his usual understated command. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t grandstand. He speaks plainly, emotionally, like someone who’s lived every policy he’s fighting for. And when the Q&A hits a snag - an aggressive question about his past - he deflects it with calm grace and a quiet, steely edge.
It’s only once everything’s over and the crowd is thinning that you find yourself standing outside the venue beside him, both of you wrapped in the late dusk.
“You did good,” he says quietly.
“You did better.”
He glances at you. “You always say that.”
You shrug. “It’s always true.”
There’s a long pause.
Then: “You didn’t have to jump in like that earlier. You could’ve handed it off to one of the staffers.”
“I didn’t want to risk it,” you say simply. “I trust me.”
“I trust you too,” he says. His voice is lower now, the humor stripped from it. “More than anyone in that building.”
You should say something. Thank you. I know. That’s what I’m here for.
Instead, what comes out is: “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in government.”
Bucky chuckles. “We should both be worried about that.”
Another silence.
But this one doesn’t stretch awkwardly. It settles; comfortable, familiar. And somewhere beneath it, something warmer. He’s standing close, too close, and you swear he leans in a fraction, just for a second, but then your phone buzzes.
The moment’s gone. Back to business. Back to pretending.
***
The office is unusually quiet.
It’s after hours, long past the time when staffers scatter to bars or home or wherever it is people with boundaries go - people who know what work-life balance is. The floor is nearly empty, bathed in the amber glow of emergency lighting. Bucky sits at his desk, sleeves pushed up, tie discarded somewhere on the floor. You’re across from him, curled up in one of the guest chairs, nursing a cup of cold tea you stopped noticing half an hour ago.
Neither of you has spoken in ten minutes.
But it’s not uncomfortable. It rarely is anymore.
“You remember that first week?” he says suddenly, like the thought had been echoing for hours.
You glance up, surprised. “Of course I do.”
You were wearing heels too high for Capitol Hill and trying to figure out why a man with a metal arm and a war journal was suddenly being considered for a congressional seat.
*
18 Months Ago – Pre-Election
You remember walking into the temporary office they’d set up for him like it was burned into your memory. Because it is. Not just the setting - the folding tables, the stacked files, the smell of takeout and a history no one knew how to reference without stammering - but him.
He stood when you entered. His hair was longer then, pulled back, and his eyes were sharper, untrusting. You’d been told, quietly, not to expect much in the way of social graces. “He’s still learning how to exist,” someone whispered. “But he’s got a head for policy, surprisingly.”
You introduced yourself. Offered your hand.
He didn’t take it.
He looked at you like he was waiting for you to flinch, or look through him, or smile that condescending way people do when they’re near someone who’s seen too many things.
Instead, you said, “You’ve got fourteen policy drafts, no press strategy, and a stack of donor interest letters no one’s answered. We’ve got about six months to make you electable.”
And he said, “You’re hired.”
That was it. No interview. No HR vetting. Just a long, assessing stare and the tiniest lift of his eyebrow like he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t running for the door.
He didn’t know how to smile back then, not really. You didn’t know how to trust someone who looked like every story you'd ever studied in poli-sci and none of the ones that ended well.
But it worked.
You stayed late. Showed up early. Dragged him into media training and debate prep. Sat beside him when he had a flashback in the middle of a strategy meeting and made sure no one turned it into a headline.
He started calling you by name. Started checking in. Started...laughing.
The night he won the seat, he hugged you. Just once. Quick, tight, like he didn’t mean to.
You still feel it sometimes. Like a phantom.
*
Present Day
“I thought you’d quit,” he says, voice quiet.
You look at him across the half-lit office. “Why?”
“You were overqualified. Too smart to waste your time babysitting an ex-hitman with a PR problem.”
You study him. His hair is shorter now. His shoulders carry more confidence. But the self-doubt still lives in the corners of his mouth when he frowns like that.
“I stayed,” you say, “because you weren’t full of shit. That’s rare around here.”
He snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.”
You lean back, arms crossed. “Also because I figured if I stuck around long enough, I’d get to see you do something impossible. And I was right.”
He looks at you then; really looks at you. And for a second, everything feels suspended.
“Do you regret it?” he asks. “Working with me.”
You shake your head. “Not even a little.”
Another beat. Another moment that feels like it might tip into something else. But this time, it doesn’t.This time, he just stands and stretches, back cracking softly in the stillness. “You hungry?”
You arch a brow. “Are you suggesting dinner?”
“I’m suggesting we order in and keep working on that veteran housing grant proposal before Congress goes into recess and forgets we exist.”
You smirk. “Romantic.”
He grins over his shoulder. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Chinese food over a redlined federal document.”
So you order lo mein. You go back to work. You pretend not to feel the weight of his gaze linger too long when you tuck your hair behind your ear.
Because that’s how it’s always been: almost something.
And just barely not.
***
The conference is a political minefield dressed up as a nonprofit gala.
Veterans’ outreach, defense contractors, political donors - you know the crowd. Expensive suits. Faux sincerity. People who shake hands with one another while calculating value down to the vote.
You’d flagged this event weeks ago as “moderate risk, high optics reward.” Bucky needed to be seen. Needed to be visible beyond committee rooms and press quotes. A speech here, a few handshakes there; minimal exposure. You’d planned it down to the minute.
And it was going well. Until it wasn’t.
“Congressman Barnes,” says a man with a donor tag and a wine glass he doesn’t deserve, “I just have to ask - how exactly does someone with your background get clearance for classified briefings?”
You see the way Bucky’s spine stiffens. Subtle. Small. Barely there, but you know the signs. That question isn’t innocent. It's calculated, dressed in polite curiosity but laced with venom.
The man continues, clearly emboldened by his own smugness. “No offense, of course. I just imagine there are still...let’s say, lingering questions. About where your loyalties lay. Or used to.”
You’re standing half a step behind Bucky, holding his speech notes. But when he turns his head slightly - as if about to speak - you step forward instead.
Smile on. Voice calm.
“Congressman Barnes’s clearance level is approved by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the Department of Defense, and three agencies whose acronyms I can’t legally say out loud,” you say, tone even and glacial. “If there were any questions about his loyalties, I imagine the thousands of classified documents he's reviewed without incident would have raised them.”
The man blinks. “Well, yes, but - ”
You don’t let him finish.
“And if you're wondering how someone with his background got elected, I’d suggest asking all the thousands of people who voted for him. Or perhaps we can schedule a follow-up for a civics refresher. I have slides.”
The man’s mouth opens, then closes. Bucky says nothing. But his posture shifts again - relaxes. You can feel the moment pass like a pressure drop.
Someone nearby chuckles under their breath. The donor turns away with a murmured excuse and disappears into the crowd like spilled perfume.
You hand Bucky his notes without looking at him. “Speech in five.”
He takes them from you with a slow blink. Then: “Thanks.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” you say, keeping it light. “I did it for national security.”
He gives you a look. You roll your eyes. “And maybe a little for you.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, like he wants to smile but knows it’ll make you more dangerous.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he murmurs.
“Please. You’d last maybe ten minutes.”
*
After the speech - well-delivered, warmly received - you find yourselves in a quiet corner behind the stage, half-hidden by velvet drapes and quiet applause.
He leans against the wall, gaze lowered. “You didn’t have to step in like that.”
You adjust your blazer. “Actually, I did. That guy was trying to provoke a reaction.”
“And you gave him one.”
“I gave him an education. There’s a difference.”
He laughs softly. “You’re dangerous.”
You glance at him sideways. “Only to people who come for you sideways.”
There's silence then. Not the awkward kind. The kind where something almost wants to be said. But isn’t.
You turn your head, and find him already looking at you. And you can feel it. That tug. That dangerous, fragile pull toward something that you both can’t afford to define.
“I owe you,” he says.
“You don’t,” you reply, and you mean it. “But if you insist, I accept payment in rare whisky and sleep.”
He smirks, then reaches out without thinking, and gently adjusts a stray thread on your sleeve. It's nothing. It's everything. It's the kind of gesture that wouldn't even be noticed if it weren’t for how still the room suddenly feels around it.
You step back before you let yourself lean forward.
“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you out of here before someone asks you how many people you’ve killed and what wine pairs best.”
He follows you. Because he always does.
***
The reception is low-key by Capitol standards. Just a quiet fundraiser at a private gallery downtown, with delicate hors d'oeuvres and jazz that floats like perfume through the air. You’ve already done your sweep: handshakes, small talk, mental notes on potential allies and walking liabilities.
Bucky’s in his element tonight.
He’s charming, magnetic in that understated way that makes people lean in. You’ve always been quietly proud of how he carries himself now. Confident. Warm. Like he’s learned to live without apology, even if part of him still walks like he’s waiting for the floor to give out.
You’re refilling your water when you see her.
She’s stunning. Classic. The kind of woman who wears confidence like silk. She glides when she walks and you recognize her immediately - Alessia DeWitt, a cultural liaison from the Department of State with a talent for high-stakes diplomacy and two bestselling essays on international reconciliation.
And she’s talking to Bucky.
They’re standing near the Degas in the corner, his favorite piece here, you know that. And she’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head just slightly. He’s smiling.
That smile.
Not the politician’s smile. Not the “I’m surviving this photo op” smirk. It’s the one that’s just for you - except tonight, it isn’t.
And God, it hits you.
Sharp. Uninvited.
You swallow it.
You turn away, take a slow sip of water, then walk - measured, graceful - across the room. You check your phone, check your list, check your composure. Every step is a performance.
You do not look again. You don’t get to be jealous. Not of her. Not of anyone. He’s your boss. You are his assistant.
No matter how many late nights. No matter the things unsaid, the silences filled with too much meaning, the tiny glances you store like keepsakes in your memory. None of that changes the title on your business card or the rules you’ve made to survive this job with your dignity intact.
You walk past the bar, scan the guest list again, update the press talking points on your phone. You are a machine. Efficient. Cold.
And then -
“Hey.”
You don’t flinch, even though you want to. You turn and find him beside you. Close. Closer than is appropriate, but that line’s always been blurry with him.
His tie is slightly loosened, and he’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. The kind he uses when it’s just the two of you.
“I didn’t lose you, did I?” he asks.
“No,” you say smoothly. “Just doing my job.”
He studies your face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
You force a smile. “Ms. DeWitt seems nice.”
“She is,” he says, slowly. “Interesting work. She mentioned she might want to collaborate on the cultural diplomacy initiative we’ve been pushing.”
“Good,” you say. “That’ll play well with the foreign affairs committee. We could use a new ally.”
He watches you.
You keep your voice neutral, your smile light.
You don’t say: You smiled at her like you smile at me.
You don’t say: It felt like someone else reaching for something that was never mine to begin with.
Instead, you tap your screen. “You’ve got fifteen minutes before your next meeting. Do you want me to prep your notes on the veterans’ bill or let you wing it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Finally, softly: “Prep the notes. But stay close.”
You look up at him. That quiet charge, always there, flickers again.
You nod. “Always.”
*
The rest of the night passes like it always does; smooth, efficient, under your control. You manage the conversation clusters, escort him out with a practiced smile, and return home hours later, slipping off your heels and letting the mask fall in the dark of your apartment.
You’re not his partner.
You’re not his friend.
You’re the woman who makes him look like he has it all together.
And sometimes, that feels like enough.
Until it isn’t.
***
You’ve gotten good at tuning things out.
The way the Capitol air hums with ambition. The layered lies behind too-perfect smiles. The slow erosion of ideals at the hands of committee votes.
But today, it’s Bucky’s laugh that you try to tune out. Low, warm. The kind he only lets out when he’s surprised, or amused in that rare, unguarded way. You usually feel proud when you hear it.
But today, he’s not laughing with you.
You glance up just enough to see her again - Alessia DeWitt, poised and polished, standing in his office with a folder under one arm and her coat draped casually over the other. She’s saying something clever, probably insightful. Bucky responds with a smirk that creases the edge of his mouth just enough to make your lungs forget how to function.
You go back to typing.
You don’t look again.
You don’t listen.
You’re a professional. This is just your job.
They’re not flirting, not exactly. But it’s there. In the way he tips his head a little when she talks. In the way she steps just a bit closer than necessary when she hands him a document. The kind of subtle tension that’s practiced, elegant, and worst of all - reciprocated.
He walks her out an hour later.
You don’t look up when he passes your desk. You don’t say anything. You just keep moving numbers in a spreadsheet you’re not even going to use.
He comes back a few minutes later, lightly rapping his knuckles against the edge of your desk.
You glance up. His hair’s a little mussed from the wind, and he looks relaxed - happy, even.
“Hey,” he says. “Do me a favor?”
You nod automatically, even before you hear the request. That’s what you do. That’s who you are.
“I need a dinner reservation. Somewhere quiet. Discreet. Doesn’t have to be flashy - just private. For two. Around seven. Tonight.”
You type it out, the motion mechanical.
He continues. “Make sure it’s somewhere the press won’t be lurking. She’s...we just want a quiet place to talk through some strategy stuff.”
Strategy. Right.
You don’t ask if it’s for Alessia. You don’t have to. There’s no strategy that needs candlelight and privacy and the kind of table where your knees could brush under the linen.
Your fingers don’t falter. Your voice doesn’t shake.
“Of course,” you say. “I’ll send confirmation to your phone.”
He smiles. “You’re the best.”
And then he’s gone again, the door closing gently behind him like it doesn’t know it just slammed something shut inside you.
You sit there for a long time after that. Long enough to hear the low buzz of the building begin to die down. Long enough to realize you haven’t moved in ten minutes.
You always stay late. Always.
But not tonight.
You gather your things in silence, ignoring the messages still pinging into your inbox. You leave the office like you’re walking through water, slow, heavy, fragile in a way you swore you wouldn’t let yourself be.
You make it all the way home before it breaks.
Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. You kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the couch, and stand in the dark for a moment longer than necessary, as if standing still will make the ache go away.
It doesn’t.
You cry in the way heartbreak always demands. Quietly. Pathetically. With the kind of hurt that builds from silence and restraint and all the things you never said.
Because he doesn’t want you.
He doesn’t even know he could.
You’re not his to want.
You’re just the one who makes his life easier.
And you hate that part of you—that weak, desperate part—wishes you were the one he wanted a quiet table with.
***
The office hasn’t changed.
Same overhead lights humming softly, same faint smell of burnt coffee and old policy binders. Your desk is as organized as ever, folders arranged by priority, tabs aligned like a battalion. Your posture is straight, expression neutral, voice calm.
But everything feels different.
Bucky notices it on Tuesday.
He comes in late from a closed-door meeting, hair slightly tousled, tie undone like it always is when he’s thinking too hard and caring too much. Normally, you’d make a dry comment, tease him about his “strategic dishevelment.” But today you just hand him a folder without looking up.
“Your three o’clock is confirmed,” you say. “Room 221-B. Notes are tabbed.”
He takes the folder and lingers a moment. You keep your eyes on the screen.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Of course,” you reply, already typing. You don’t see the way his brows pull together.
*
By Wednesday, the change is more obvious.
You’re still thorough. Efficient. Precise.
But the rhythm is off.
You used to finish each other’s sentences in strategy meetings. Now you don’t even glance at him. Used to sit beside him in committee hearings, passing notes with commentary sharp enough to make him nearly laugh in public. Now you stay two seats away, lips tight, eyes ahead.
You don’t laugh anymore.
You barely smile.
*
It’s Friday when DeWitt stops by again.
You see her through the glass before she enters - polished, bright, confident. She’s not trying to be a threat. She doesn’t have to try.
She steps into Bucky’s office with that easy grace, and your eyes flick there once - just once - before you steel yourself and focus on the staff schedule.
You don’t look again. But your hands tense on the keyboard.
They talk for half an hour. The door is slightly ajar. You can hear low tones, soft chuckles. Her laugh.
His.
You stand up, grab a folder you don’t need, and disappear into the copy room for a full five minutes just so you don’t have to hear it anymore.
When you come back, she’s gone. And he’s standing in your doorway. You don’t falter. Just lift your gaze. “Did you need something, sir?”
His expression shifts at the word. Sir. You don’t use that tone. Not with him.
“I...no,” he says. Then, slower: “Can we talk?”
You gesture to the pile of policy notes on your desk. “Bit swamped, Congressman. Can we schedule it for later?”
There's silence. Long enough to sting.
Then he nods. “Sure.”
And walks away.
*
That night, you work late. But not because he asked you to. Not because he stayed behind. You stay because you need to bury the ache somewhere that isn’t your chest. Because if you go home, you’ll remember how he used to light up when you brought him coffee, how he used to look at you like he was figuring something out and almost had it.
Now he smiles like that for her.
And maybe he should.
She’s brilliant. Beautiful. Safe. She doesn’t come with your kind of silence or damage. She’s exactly the kind of person he should want.
So you’ll stay here, behind your desk, under the same office lights, quietly pulling away piece by piece until there’s nothing left to give but your job title.
Because you’re not his to notice.
***
You don’t avoid him - not quite.
You’re still present, still excellent. Every meeting is prepped. Every call answered. Every briefing clean, concise, and delivered with your usual polish. No one would notice the difference.
But he does.
He notices that you’ve stopped sitting beside him during committee briefings. That you hand off documents without your usual dry comment. That the little sparks, the glances, the private smiles, the warmth you wrapped around him like a soft constant - have gone silent.
You’ve become a perfect assistant again.
Just an assistant.
And he can’t seem to stop noticing.
*
It happens late one evening. Not midnight-late, just late enough that the halls are quiet and the sky outside is bruised with dusk.
You’re reviewing talking points for a media interview he has in the morning, going over the phrasing of a sentence for the third time. You hear the soft shuffle of movement behind you before you hear his voice.
“You’ve been different lately.”
You look up slowly.
He’s leaning against the frame of your open doorway, arms crossed - not closed off, not defensive. Just watching you like he’s waiting for a translation of something he doesn’t understand.
“I’ve been busy,” you say, evenly.
“Busy,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. “Right.”
You go back to the document. “Was there something you needed clarified?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He steps in. Closer.
“Did I do something?”
You freeze, just briefly. Then you set your pen down with calm precision and meet his gaze.
“No. You didn’t.” Your voice is so smooth, so neutral, it feels like a betrayal. But it’s not a lie. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And that’s what makes it so much worse.
He tilts his head, studying you. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what is it?”
You pause. “You’re imagining things.”
He doesn’t look away. “I don’t think I am.”
You push your chair back and stand, adjusting your blouse like it’s armor. “Congressman, I’d like to remind you that my role is to support your office. Not to serve as your emotional temperature gauge.”
He flinches; just barely. “So now I’m ‘Congressman’ again?”
You smile, polite and cold. “It is your title.”
“You never used to care about that.”
You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you can’t hold it. You can’t.
“It’s better this way.”
He’s quiet. So quiet.
Then, gently: “Why?”
You could say it. Because you smiled at her. Because the way you looked at me used to feel like gravity and now it’s just drift. Because I stayed up crying like a fool the night you took her to a private dinner, and I hated myself for hoping it was just a meeting.
But you don’t.
You gather your papers instead.
“I’ve booked your morning car. Departure at 8:10. Interview prep is in your inbox. Goodnight, Congressman.”
You start to walk past him, careful not to touch. You’re halfway to the door when he speaks again—soft, a little strained.
“You used to smile at me when you said goodnight.”
You stop. Your throat aches. But when you turn back, your smile is professional. Almost perfect.
“I still do,” you lie.
And then you walk out.
You don’t see the way he watches the door long after you’ve gone.
***
When they first told him he needed an assistant, he’d balked.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he’d said, gruff and tired and barely convinced he even belonged in D.C., much less in a tailored suit and a congressional office.
Then you walked in.
No-nonsense. Unapologetically sharp. Dressed to kill and eyes like you’d already read every briefing in the building. He’d taken one look at you and thought, She’s going to leave. She’ll realize I’m not worth it and walk away.
But you didn’t.
You shook his hand and told him what needed fixing. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just dove into the chaos like it was a puzzle meant for you alone.
And slowly, without realizing it, he started breathing easier when you were in the room.
*
He hadn’t meant to rely on you. But it happened anyway.
It was in the way you handed him coffee before interviews with a quiet, “Don’t let the journalist bait you.” In the way you smoothed over diplomatic snubs, flagged subtle insults disguised as compliments, and always seemed to know when he needed a moment alone.
And he hadn’t realized how much space you took up in his mind until one day he caught himself scanning a committee room and didn’t relax until he saw you walk in.
It scared him, at first.
How essential you became.
How much he looked forward to your jokes, your eye-rolls, even your quiet.
And maybe…maybe it was foolish, but he thought you felt it too. That under all the professionalism and silence, there was something… shared.
Something fragile, maybe. But real.
*
Then there was DeWitt.
She was smart. Polished. Kind, even. She talked policy fluently and made compelling arguments. She made him feel like less of a stranger to this city.
When she invited him to dinner to “strategize,” he accepted. It wasn’t a date. Not officially.
But it felt like a test.
A harmless what-if. The kind of night that people in his position are supposed to have.
And it was fine. Pleasant. Comfortable.
Except… he’d spent most of it thinking about what you would’ve ordered. Wondering if you’d have mocked the place's dramatic wine list. Wondering if you were still at the office, working late, making sure he wouldn’t stumble over tomorrow’s press questions.
You always stayed late.
Except that night, you didn’t.
And when he came in the next morning, your smile was gone.
The warmth - gone.
At first, he thought maybe you were just tired.
But it kept happening.
The distance. The perfect replies. The refusal to meet his eyes for more than a second. The way you said “Congressman” like it burned your mouth to remember what you used to call him.
*
He’s been trying to figure it out for days.
Did I cross a line?Did she hear something?Did I do something?
But the worst part is the question he doesn’t want to ask:
Was that smile, hers, meant to replace yours?
And God, if it was…
Why does it feel like he lost something vital? Why does it feel like he can’t breathe right when you won’t laugh with him anymore?
*
He sits at his desk now, long past dark, flipping through a folder you prepped, flawless, as always. But your handwriting in the margins doesn’t have its usual dry wit. It’s clean. Clinical.
Impersonal.
He runs a hand over his jaw and leans back, eyes closed. You’re still here. Still doing your job. Still brilliant. But something’s missing. And he’s starting to wonder if it’s something he pushed away without knowing.
***
It starts with an oversight.
A detail, buried in a briefing memo, something you would’ve caught a hundred times before. A clause in a veterans’ bill amendment that opens a loophole for private contractors to skim off federal funds. It was buried deep, legalese wrapped in layers of innocuous language. But it was there.
And you missed it.
You missed it because you were too busy not thinking about him.
Too busy pretending not to hear his low voice in the hallway when he spoke with DeWitt. Too busy ignoring the fact that he’s been leaving earlier, dressing sharper, and smiling like he’s moving on from something you never got the chance to be.
So you missed it.
And now it’s on the news.
“Congressman Barnes co-sponsors amendment that could open the door to contractor misuse.”
It explodes faster than you can contain it.
You’ve been working damage control all morning - making calls, issuing clarifications, spinning the press angle so hard you’re dizzy. But the truth is, it’s your name on the draft. Your initials on the review. Your responsibility.
When Bucky storms in, phone still in his hand, jaw tight - you’re already standing.
“Close the door,” he says, flat.
You do.
He tosses the phone on the table. “Tell me this is a misprint.”
You don’t lie. “I missed it.”
His brows knit. “You missed it?”
You nod. “I was reviewing—”
“No,” he snaps, cutting you off. “You don’t miss things. That’s your whole thing. You don’t let anything through.”
Your chest tightens. “I know,” you say. Quiet. Honest.
He paces once, running a hand through his hair.
You’ve seen him angry before. At reporters. At Senators who play games with veterans’ benefits. At himself.
But never like this.
Never at you.
“You handed me a loaded weapon and smiled like it was safe,” he says.
You flinch. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I trusted you,” he says. And that’s the one that stings.
He says it like a wound. Like a disappointment he never expected. And then he says the thing that breaks you.
“I guess I forgot you're just staff.”
Silence.
Complete. Shattering.
Your fingers freeze around the folder in your hands. You look at him; not as your boss. Not even as the man you’ve spent months falling in love with. You look at him as the one person whose approval used to feel like safety.
And now?
Now you feel like furniture. Disposable. Replaceable. Forgettable.
He sees something flicker in your expression, maybe. Maybe too late. His mouth opens. Closes. But he doesn’t take it back.
He doesn’t even try.
You nod, once. “Understood.”
“Look, I didn’t—”
“No,” you cut in, calm and clean and brittle. “You were right. I’m just your assistant.” You gather the papers without meeting his eyes. “I’ll fix it. I’ll work overnight if I have to.”
He doesn’t stop you.
And that hurts worst of all.
*
You make it to the elevator before your hands start to shake. You make it to your apartment before the first tear falls. And you make it to bed wondering why it took this long to finally believe the truth.
You were never his. You were never anything. Just staff. And he said it out loud.
***
You arrive before sunrise.
Not just early - hours early. The halls are empty, lights dimmed, the air still wrapped in silence. You move like a shadow through the space you used to own, like your presence no longer belongs.
You don’t cry.
You cried last night. Quiet, gutted sobs into a pillow that didn’t care. That was enough.
Today, there’s work to do.
You fix everything.
The memo. The amendment. You tear through the legal language, rewrite it clean, consult three experts, and draft a press response strong enough to calm the headlines. You write letters of reassurance to the veteran groups and schedule a follow-up meeting with the senator who’d already started eyeing Bucky’s seat like a vulture.
You do what you’ve always done. You save him. And you don’t think about what it costs.
*
His coffee is waiting on his desk when he walks in.
You time it that way. You know how long he takes to get through security. Know how the elevator doors slide open seven seconds before his second step onto the floor.
You leave the coffee where he likes it, right side, just off center, one sugar, just a little bit of milk.
His briefing notes are already stacked. Speech edits beside them. The folder is crisp, color-coded, your handwriting neat but empty of the small comments you used to scribble for his amusement.
There’s no note today. No sarcasm.No smiley face next to the word “voter engagement.” There’s nothing.
Just you, gone.
Because you don’t want to be there when he comes in. Because you can’t face him, not after those words. “I forgot you’re just staff.”
You’d survived on the illusion that you meant more. That your loyalty, your long nights, your laughter in hallways at 2 a.m. meant something.
But now you know.
You were a convenience.
A tool.
Not the person he trusted. Not the person he saw. Just someone he assumed would never break. And maybe you wouldn’t have. If he’d yelled. If he’d said something cruel in the heat of anger. But instead, he told the truth. And the truth is still ringing in your ears.
*
You take your bag and leave before his footsteps echo down the corridor. Before his keycard clicks. Before you’re forced to see the look on his face, whatever it would be.
Relief.
Regret.
Or worse - nothing.
You spend the day working from the archives room. Buried in logistics. Avoiding the main floor. Scheduling meetings through email. You speak only when needed, answer only when asked. If anyone notices, they don’t ask.
And Bucky doesn’t come looking.
*
At the end of the day, you shut down your laptop, your name still glowing softly in the email signature. You stare at it a moment. Just staff. You repeat it like a mantra. Then you close the screen and walk away.
***
He knows something is wrong before he even reaches the door.
The building is quiet… too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around your spine and tells you something’s missing before your brain can name it.
And it is. You’re not at your desk.
It’s the first thing he sees - doesn’t see - when the elevator doors open and he steps onto the office floor. The chair is tucked in, the desk perfectly arranged, coffee already cooling on his.
But you’re not there. He freezes for a second. Just a second. Then he walks in. The lights are on. His briefing folder is set in its usual spot. Notes prepared. Paper clipped. Tabs aligned. Everything exactly the way it should be.
Except you.
He sets his bag down slowly. Looks at the coffee. Still warm, barely. You came in early. You always do when something needs fixing. When the world’s on fire and you need to put it out before he even smells smoke.
But you’re always here.
You’re always here.
He walks back to the hallway, half-expecting to find you just around the corner, printing something, scolding someone on the phone in your composed, lethal voice.
But no.
You’re gone.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, since you first stepped into his life with that sharp tongue and steady hands, he feels something split open under his ribs.
Because he knows. He knows what he said yesterday. And he knows it’s the reason you're not here now.
“I guess I forgot you're just staff.”
He hadn’t meant it. Not like that.
He’d been angry. Tired. Scared, maybe - not that he’d admit it. The mistake had blindsided him, and for a moment, all he could see was the fallout. Not the context. Not the you behind it.
But he’d said it. And you’d heard it. And now you’re gone.
Not fired. Not even avoiding your job. Just... pulling back in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.
He sits at his desk and opens the folder you left him. Every page is flawless. Every angle covered. You even corrected things that weren’t your responsibility.
But your handwriting is missing that familiar tilt, that little loop you do when you’re thinking fast and scribbling too hard. No small notes in the margins. No sarcastic arrows pointing at someone’s idiotic phrasing. No warmth.
Just work.
And it hits him, how much of you lives in the spaces no one else sees.
It was never just about the coffee or the folders or the schedules. It was how you saw him. Not as a weapon. Not as a headline. Not even as a congressman.
Just him.
And now you don’t even look at him anymore.
He leans back, runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to fix this. But he knows one thing with painful, narrowing clarity. He never should’ve said those words. Because they weren’t true. And losing the version of you that believed otherwise might be the one thing he can’t come back from.
***
You come in early again. Not because you’re ready. Not because the ache has dulled. But because routine is a kind of armor, and you know how to wear it well.
Your desk is pristine. Emails answered. The press release about the revised amendment is in its final draft. You’ve scheduled his calls for the day and rescheduled a podcast taping he never wanted to do in the first place.
You hear his footsteps at 8:07.
You don’t look up.
You feel him pause, like he’s waiting for something. A smile. A comment. The rhythm he’s always counted on without knowing.
But it doesn’t come. You don’t give it to him. You keep typing.
*
You don't say good morning.
He wants to pretend it doesn’t sting, but it does.
Worse than the silence is the precision. Everything is perfect again. Not warm, not soft - just perfect. You’ve always been sharp, but now it’s like all the sharpness has turned inward. Like you’re cutting yourself just to keep from showing him how much he hurt you.
He thinks about saying something. Several things.
“About what I said…”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“You’re not just staff.”
But he can’t find the right words. And he’s never been good at this. At feelings. At making things better when the damage is quiet and deep.
So instead, he stands awkwardly by your desk and offers, “Want to grab lunch today? Just to breathe.”
*
You blink once. Hands still on the keyboard.
Your heart wants to say yes. Please.
But your chest tightens.
Lunch used to mean banter. Paper napkins and shared fries and the feeling of being seen even when you were tired and messy and frustrated with the world.
Now? Now it feels like mercy. Or worse—pity. You don’t look up. “I’ve got too much to do.” You say it calmly. Gently. But there’s finality in it.
He doesn’t push.
You hear the hesitation in his breath. And then, footsteps retreating.
*
He walks back to his office. Defeated isn’t quite the word. It’s worse. It’s guilt and regret and something tangled in his throat he doesn’t know how to speak aloud. Because the truth is…
You weren’t just staff.
You never were.
But now he’s afraid he said it too late to make you believe anything else.
*
You stare at the same line of text on your screen for a full minute after he’s gone. Not because you don’t know what to write. But because it feels like something inside you just cracked again, and there’s no one left in the room to notice.
***
You see them before they speak.
Her laugh. His quiet response. The way they enter the office together like they’ve been talking the whole way from the car. Maybe they have. Maybe they met for coffee. Or maybe they didn’t.
You don’t ask. You don’t look long enough to invite questions. You swallow the sick twist of nausea that rises in your throat, file it under “irrelevant data,” and return to your work. Because that’s all you are now.
Work.
You are bullet points and policy briefs. You are clipped emails and clean schedules. You are early mornings and late nights and not a single word more than is necessary. And if you keep moving, keep doing, keep fixing—maybe you won’t feel it. Maybe you won’t have to face the truth:
That he never smiled at you like he smiles at her.
That you were never the thing he reached for first. That all your closeness, all your almosts, were just silence mistaken for something softer.
You keep working. You forget your coffee. It sits next to your screen, cold by nine a.m. Your lunch stays untouched. You don’t even glance at the time. You answer eighteen emails in a row without blinking. Draft three policy outlines. Reschedule four meetings. Fix a typo in a budget report that no one else would’ve noticed.
You don’t hear your name the first time someone says it.
Or the second.
But on the third, your head jerks up.
It’s one of the junior staffers, hesitating. “You okay?”
You blink. “I’m fine.”
He nods. “You’ve just… been at it for six straight hours. Without a break.”
You force a smile. It hurts your face. “Plenty to do.” He nods again and walks away. Uneasy. You don’t notice that your hands are trembling until you drop your pen.
*
Bucky sees the coffee cup first.
Cold. Full. Forgotten.
He sees your desk next, papers perfectly aligned, schedule immaculate, every window on your monitor open and glowing like you’ve been multitasking across universes.
He stands in his doorway for a second, watching. You haven’t looked up once. You haven’t said a word all day. He glances at your untouched lunch box in the fridge later that afternoon. Checks the timestamp on the last message you sent. Five minutes ago. Another flawless draft.
But you’re pale. You haven’t eaten. Your hands are moving faster than usual - sharp, clipped. You’re not just quiet now. You’re disappearing.
He tells himself you’re just focused. Dedicated. That this is how you cope with pressure.
But something deep in his chest tightens with the thought that maybe it’s not pressure you’re trying to survive.
Maybe it’s him.
*
That evening, the office is empty. You’re still typing. He watches from the hall again - silent. A ghost in his own building. You used to tease him for staying late. Now you outlast him every night.
And he can’t shake the feeling that each hour you spend here is one more hour you’re trying not to feel what he made you feel.
He takes a step forward. Then stops. Because he doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. So he walks away. But your cold coffee haunts him all the way home.
***
It was supposed to be your night.
Not a spotlight or a statement, not romantic, not officially. But it was something.
A promise. A moment.
A few weeks ago, when the gala was first announced - a charity event tied to military families and veteran support - you had half-joked that someone should go with him who could handle the press, the scrutiny, the strategic dance of cocktails and questions.
He hadn’t even hesitated.
"Then you’re coming with me."
Not as a date, of course.
But you were excited.
You’d smiled, actually smiled, and told him you’d need a new dress. And he’d grinned back with that soft, rare amusement that made your stomach flip. You’d even let yourself imagine what it would be like - to walk in beside him. Not in shadows. Not from behind. But beside.
The dress arrived last week. Simple. Elegant. Classic black with a slit just high enough to feel dangerous and a neckline you’d picked because you wanted, just once, to feel like someone he might really look at.
It’s still in the garment bag at the back of your closet.
You told yourself today would be different. That maybe he wouldn’t smile at anyone else like he used to smile at you. That maybe, just once, he’d see you.
That was before he walked into your office late that afternoon.
And said the words that would break you.
*
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says, casual, tired, running a hand through his hair.
You glance up. “Of course.”
He hesitates for a second. That should’ve warned you.
“I know we agreed you'd come with me to the gala. And I’m glad you’re coming. I just…” He pauses again, looking uncomfortable. “I got a request from Alessia DeWitt. She wasn’t invited. Not officially. But it could look good to have her there.”
You blink once.
Then again.
“Look good?” you ask, carefully.
He nods. “Yeah. Politically. If people see her there, see that she supports the veteran funding package we’re building… it adds weight. Optics, you know?”
You know. You know politics. You know optics. You know what you look like, what you are.
Just staff.
“So I was wondering,” he continues, still in that reasonable voice like he's discussing table assignments and not peeling open your rib cage, “would you be okay if she came instead?”
You stare at him.
And for a second, he must see it - your face, your stillness - because something in his expression shifts. Like he’s realizing, too late, that this wasn’t just another task.
That this was the one thing.
You nod. It takes more strength than speaking. “Of course,” you say. Your voice is quiet. Even. Professional. You’re so good at sounding fine. “She’ll need the plus-one pass, then?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just for this event. I appreciate it.”
He lingers for a second longer, like he might say more. But you’ve already turned back to your screen.
You don’t look at him.
You don’t trust what he’d see.
“Right,” he says. “Well… I’m going to get ready. I’ll see you.”
And then he’s gone.
*
You don’t move for a full minute. The office is empty. No one else stayed late today. Just you. Like always. You open the drawer and take out the envelope with the invitation. The one you printed yourself, formatted perfectly, with his name and yours. Plus one.
Your fingers tremble as you tear it open.
And then it happens.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet shatter. You cry. At your desk. Alone. In the soft, humming dark of a place you once called safe. Because it was never about the gala. Or the dress. Or even DeWitt. It was about the fact that, given the choice, he never chose you. Not even for one night. Not even for one room. 
Just staff.
Just someone he can ask to step aside when someone more useful comes along.
***
He shouldn’t have asked. He knows that now. The moment he stepped into the gala, he felt it, something off, something missing.
It was all perfectly choreographed, as these things always are. Chandeliers humming overhead. Velvet panels. The soft clink of cocktail glasses and speeches rehearsed down to the comma. He’s done this before.
And usually, it’s fine. Easy enough to get through with you there, at his side, quietly offering notes under your breath, murmuring names and context as you pass through crowds.
But tonight, you’re not here.
DeWitt is.
She’s beautiful, poised, and sharp. Her presence earns nods from senators, sparks quiet murmurs of alliance, and checks off every political box the gala was designed to fill.
It should feel like a win.
It doesn’t.
*
“Congressman Barnes,” someone says, middle-aged, familiar, a donor he only vaguely remembers. “Where’s your shadow?”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
“The woman,” the man laughs. “The one with the eyes like she knows how to bring down the Senate with a clipboard. What’s her name, your assistant?”
Bucky’s lips twitch, almost a smile.
Almost.
“She’s… she’s not attending tonight.”
“Shame,” the man says, then adds, chuckling, “You’re good, don’t get me wrong. But when she’s around, you look like you could take on the whole floor without backup.”
Someone else later: “That sharp one, your right hand? Thought she never missed these.”
And again: “Where is she tonight? You two are like a package deal.”
It’s supposed to be funny. Harmless. But each comment lands like a stone in his gut.Because they’re right. He’s floating without ballast. He’s standing in a room full of people, dressed to perfection, saying all the right things and he feels off-balance. Because the only person who ever made this circus feel manageable isn’t beside him.
*
DeWitt is talking to a diplomat now. She’s doing well. Smiling in that bright, purposeful way that gets people to listen and remember. She looks over at Bucky and gives him a nod, one of approval. He returns it.
But his chest tightens. Not because of her. Because of you. He sees your face again - how still it went when he asked if she could take your place. The exact moment something in your expression cracked, just before you closed it off completely.
He thought it was fine. He thought you’d understand. You always understand. That’s the problem. You always give. And tonight, he asked you to give again. Not just your place, but your pride. Your presence. The one thing you’d let yourself show you were actually excited about.
And he took it.
He stole something from you with a smile and a half-reasoned explanation about optics. And now you’re not here. And the air tastes wrong. And the smiles don’t reach his eyes.
And for the first time in months, he feels like he’s playing a part again. Like he’s back on a stage without the one person who ever knew the lines behind the script.
*
You weren’t supposed to be here.
You were supposed to be off today. A full day away from the inboxes, the policy memos, the relentless spin of political machinery. Bucky had insisted, weeks ago.
"You’ll need the day after the gala. Hell, I’ll need it. Don’t schedule a thing."
And when you were still supposed to be attending, when your name was still next to his on the RSVP, it sounded almost indulgent. A shared day of silence after the noise.
You nodded, smiled, made a quiet mental note to actually sleep in for once. But that was before. Before he asked you to give your place to Alessia DeWitt. Before he smiled at her in rooms that should have been yours to stand beside him in. Before he reminded you who you were: staff.
So this morning, you erased the calendar block titled “OOO – Recovery Day”. You showed up at the office like it was any other Monday.
You came in at 6:45 a.m.
Coffee brewed. Schedule finalized. Briefings printed.Your dress is dark. Your makeup flawless. There’s no sign of the woman who cried into her sleeve in an empty office the night before.
Just the assistant.
Always the assistant.
*
Bucky walks in at 8:10. Right on time.
He looks… tired. Not in the usual way. Not worn down by policy debates or late-night revisions. No, he looks unsettled. Like he didn’t sleep. Like he didn’t want to.
You don’t ask.
He pauses when he sees you at your desk.
“You’re here,” he says, like it’s a surprise. You look up once. “There’s work to do.”
He doesn’t say anything. You hand him the folder. “Your 10 a.m. was moved to 11. The briefing packet is updated. There’s a quote request from the Times for a follow-up about last night.”
“Right,” he says. He takes the folder from you. The coffee is already on his desk. Perfectly made. Just like always. But you don’t ask if he slept. You don’t make a joke about the tie he’s wearing, one you used to call his “I’m charming but I hate this event” tie.
You just go back to typing.
And he knows.
God, he knows.
*
DeWitt shows up late morning. She’s radiant, composed, floating in with a kind of confidence that belongs in polished rooms with gold trim. She compliments Bucky on his speech. She touches his arm once, lightly.
You don’t look. You don’t need to. You hear every word. You process every interaction. You record every detail in that steel-trap mind of yours, because that’s what you do. You are happy for him - professionally.
A partnership with her would be good. Optics. Strategy. Alignment.
Privately?
You are somewhere else entirely. Hollowed out. Watching from behind a glass you can’t break through. He glances at you once while she’s talking. Your expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker. Just like he asked for. Just like he reminded you he wanted.
*
The day passes in a blur of precision.
You laugh when you’re supposed to. Smile when it’s necessary. Your voice is clear, your notes are flawless, and not a single thing escapes your attention. But you don’t speak to Bucky unless you have to. And when you do, it’s brief.Professional. Exactly what he asked for when he gave your invitation to someone else.
And he feels it now. He feels all of it. Because he finally has what he said he wanted. And it’s colder than he ever imagined.
***
Bucky starts small.
Little things.
He tries to bring back the rhythm.
The quiet back-and-forth. The mid-meeting glances. The subtle jokes he used to toss into briefings just to hear you mutter some dry comeback. He tries to ask questions like he used to. Casual things. About your lunch, about your commute, about your opinion on the proposed bill that’s barely worth a headline.
You answer. Always. Polite. Efficient. But nothing extra. No sarcasm. No heat. No… you. You're still here. But not the way he remembers. And it gnaws at him.
He asks you to sit in on a meeting he knows you could handle alone. You come. Quiet. Immaculate. You pass him a note once. Policy draft missing two attachments.
That’s it.
No comment. No joke about the senator’s rambling. No silent smirk when he almost loses his temper and you tap your pen like a warning.
You’re a shadow now.
Polished.
Professional.
Gone.
*
He tries again later.
You’re standing in the copy room, refilling the machine, and he steps in like it’s nothing. He leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, watching you work.
“You’re quiet lately,” he says, voice low, almost light. “I miss hearing you tell me what an idiot I am before I make it public.”
You glance over, arch a brow. “You haven’t made any major missteps lately. Congratulations.”
He almost smiles. But it falters. You’re not teasing him. You’re not playing. You’re just stating a fact. He watches you lift a stack of fresh copies. The light flickers slightly overhead, catching the faint shadows beneath your eyes.
“You should’ve taken the day off,” he says.
You pause. Then: “There was work to do.”
“Still. You earned it.”
You turn to face him fully, expression calm. You don’t look tired. You don’t look bitter. You just look finished. And then you say something he doesn’t expect. Not cold. Not cruel. Just true.
“You don’t need me to take up space, Bucky. You need me to keep everything moving behind the scenes. That’s my job. To make you look like you’re untouchable.”
He stares at you. Something in his chest shifts.
“I never asked you to—”
“No,” you interrupt softly. “But that’s what you want. That’s what this is. That’s why you asked me to step aside.”
He blinks. “That’s not fair.”
“I know,” you say. And you smile. But it’s a thin, sad thing. “But it’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll keep doing my job. I’ll make the speeches clean. I’ll keep the press happy. I’ll schedule you to the second and write words that sound like your voice.”
You gather the papers in your arms.
“I just won’t pretend anymore.”
You walk past him, steady.
And this time, he doesn’t follow. Because for the first time since all this started, he sees it. You’re not angry. You’re not punishing him. You’ve just accepted it. You’re just staff. And that is what hurts the most.
***
The meeting runs long.
It always does when budget subcommittees get into the weeds, arguing over decimal points and moral high ground like the difference is measurable in soundbites. You sit at Bucky’s right, silent, taking notes. You know the rhythms now, the way he tenses before pushing back, the way his eyes flick to you when he’s about to quote a number you fed him an hour earlier.
You do your job. Exactly as you’ve done every day since he first sat in this seat. But afterward, as you’re gathering papers, that’s when it happens.
You’re walking with him down the corridor, flanked by aides and murmured updates, when Congressman Lee, who chairs the infrastructure committee, falls into step beside you.
He’s older, sharp, disarmingly direct.
“You always make him look good,” he says, nodding at Bucky, like he’s not even there. “Hell, I’d offer you a job myself if I thought I had a shot.”
You blink, caught mid-step.
Bucky slows beside you.
Lee continues, grinning. “You ever get tired of making someone else the star? Maybe you ought to be somewhere you can shine a little more.” Then, like it’s a compliment, he adds: “He doesn’t use you right. Man’s got a Ferrari and drives it like a lawnmower.”
You manage a smile. Professional. Light. “Thank you, Congressman. But I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Lee shrugs. “Your loyalty’s impressive. Just don’t let it chain you.”
And with that, he peels off to greet someone else, leaving the silence behind him echoing down the hall.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
*
Back at your desk, you sit down and open your laptop. Routine. Emails. Drafts. Updates. And then - there it is.
That document.
Still untitled. Still unsaved. The resignation template you opened the night he gave your gala invitation away.
No date. No address. Just a blank space where your name could go. You haven’t looked at it in days. You almost forgot it was there. But now it stares at you. Daring you to admit what you’ve been refusing to even think: Maybe you should leave.
Not for Congressman Lee.
Not for anyone else.
But for yourself.
Because no matter how much you’ve given here, how much of your time, your energy, your heart, this job doesn’t hold space for you.
Only what you do. Only what you fix. Only how well you can disappear behind someone else’s success. And maybe it’s not about punishing Bucky. Maybe it’s about finally understanding that loyalty shouldn’t have to hurt.
*
He didn’t like the way Lee said it. Didn’t like the way your name came out of another man’s mouth. Didn’t like the truth in it. You do make him look good. Better than he deserves. And the idea of you sitting behind someone else’s desk, running someone else’s calendar, standing next to someone else during long nights and high-stakes fights…
It makes his chest tighten.
But you didn’t even hesitate before turning Lee down. And that should’ve comforted him. Instead, it scared him more. Because if you didn’t even blink, it means you’ve already let go of the idea of being somewhere else.
Which might mean you’ve already let go of him.
*
You close the tab. Not because you’ve made a decision. But because your hands are shaking. And because for the first time since this job started, you don’t feel like you belong here anymore. And the worst part? You’re starting to wonder if you ever did.
210 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Work in Progress!
Star Wars
1. Unsteady Me — Anakin x Senator F!Reader
Tumblr media
2. The villa (.02) — Anakin x F!Reader love island AU
Tumblr media
Marvel
1. You’ll be in my heart — Bucky x F!Reader
Tumblr media
2. Voice of Orpheus — Thor x F!Reader
Tumblr media
Tumblr media
A/N: Unsteady me is the one that will be released first. After that it is in no particular order. There are no dates for when they will be released but I am hoping Unsteady Me comes out very soon.
5 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
tower fics that are just endless variations of thor eating pop tarts, clint in the vents, natasha doing ballet and teaching peter russian, tony being ALIVE, magnets on bucky’s arm, and steve saying language COME HOME THE KIDS MISS YOU
440 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Thor Odinson Masterlist
Tumblr media
Oneshots
Voice of Orpheus
Coming soon!
Multishot/Series
Headcannons
5 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Omg I’m working an a Anakin oneshot and I wrote this line. It was so awe :) but also so awh :(
The Jedi weren't allowed such feelings. Love was the biggest sin a Jedi could ever make. And even though he was unruly, wild, and reckless – he would choose the code again and again.
6 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Tumblr media
Oneshots
You’ll be in my heart (Coming soon!)
Description: Living as the Tony Starks assistant meant you had seen a lot of stuff, yet nothing ever amounted to the first look you shared with Bucky Barnes. Now months later, you’re positive you couldn’t be more on his worst side and that worst side seems to like you a heck of a lot more than he does. The winter soldier wasn’t supposed to wake, but he did — and he set his sights on you. You called him by his name, but never answered well to “Bucky”.
Multishot/Series
Headcannons
29 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Tumblr media
𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬
❛ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ❜
Tumblr media
PAIRINGS: Unburnt Vader x Rebel reader SYNOPSIS: You go on undercover mission as an Imperial, catching the eye of none other than the infamous sith lord, Lord Vader. One of your most notorious enemies, it's a good thing he knows you by your alias. Not by your face. For now at least... WARNINGS: Deceit, smut, swearing... NOTES: This is my first time writing smut so it is by no means a masterpiece. But I hope you like it. This Vader x rebel reader series I read ages ago inspired me to write my own. I can’t find it but if you know what I’m talking about please let me know.
Tumblr media
「 You 」
Three years working for the Rebellion, and not once could I have pictured ending up… here.
Bent over, on the desk of Lord Vader. Yes, Lord Vader. Darth Vader, the Emperor’s apprentice. My breath came out shaky. No surprise considering I was being practically impaled by Darth Vader’s cock. Moan after moan tumbled from my lips, my jaw gone slack from my seemingly unending cries of pleasure. My fingers clutched the end of the table like my life depended on it. As it creaked from his unrelenting thrusts, his hips meeting mine. The slapping of skin echoed through the room, followed by his loud grunts and occasional whimpers. His soft yet calloused hands gripped my hips like a vice. My body rocking into the desk with each thrust, his cock stretching me out. It felt like he was about to split me in half, “doing so well for me sweetheart.” He grunts in between sharp thrusts. “Fuck…” He mumbles breathlessly, I could feel his length throbbing inside me. Looking down, I see his balls swinging with each thrust. The warm skin of his palm rubbing my back, “like what you see princess.” Reaching his remaining hand on your hip to your clit. Rubbing circles on the sensitive nub making me jolt. Letting out another moan, “mmm… You like that don’t you sweetheart?” He asks rhetorically, giving another sharp thrust. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, my pussy clenching around his length. As my orgasm hits, cumming all over his cock.
He didn’t relent, continuing to forcefully thrust into me without fail. His cock drilling my cum back into me as he threw his head back. Moaning without shame, “f-fuck sweetheart.” He stutters and I feel his hips tremble as I whine in overstimulation. The tip of his cock kissing my cervix as his breath hitches, his hips jolt forward. Followed by the release of his warm seed, painting my insides white. He collapses forward onto me. His skin sweaty and his weight pinning me to the desk. As he gives a few more slow ruts, a soft whimper escaping him. “Mmm… think I’m gonna have to keep you all to myself.” He whispers, kissing in between my shoulder blades. Stilling his thrusts, running his warm hands up and down my sides gently in a soothing motion. “Hmm? Make you my little Empress, would you like that sweetheart?” He nuzzles into the crook of my neck. Planting soft kisses along the skin there as I caught my breath. “Bet you would…” He whispers, nibbling on my earlobe. “Could have everything you’ve ever dreamed, princess.” Giving my waist a gentle squeeze, “all you’d have to do is warm my bed darling. Have you on your back, taking my cock like a good girl…” He kisses the soft skin behind my ear, making me whimper. “Oh don’t be afraid darling, I’ll take such good care of you.” He whisper sweetly, gently prying my hands off the edge of the table. Rubbing the skin of my knuckles with his thumbs, releasing all the tension.
Intertwining our fingers, his thumbs stroking the back of my hands. He lets out a sigh, his warm breath hitting my neck. Goosebumps forming in its wake. He rests his chin on my shoulder, “how you feeling my sweet girl?” He asks softly, releasing one of my hands to gently brush the hair out of my face. Making me smile softly, oh maker. I nod slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. “I’m okay…” He chuckles softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. While brushing his fingertips along the skin of my cheek, ever so lightly. As if I’d break if he was any rougher, “yeah? You took me so well sweetheart. So proud…” He gives my shoulder a gentle kiss, I could feel his cock softening slightly. “M’gonna-” He gets cut off my his commlink going off. He groans in annoyance, giving my shoulder another kiss. Before pivoting his head to the side. Picking it up from his desk, smirking slightly at the mess we’d made. I watch him roll his eyes, answering. “What?” He asks bluntly, the annoyance at being disturbed clear in his voice. A sheepish voice responds, clearly picking up on his irritation. “I’m sorry to disturb you My Lord, but the Emperor has personally requested your presence at our current meeti-” I hear him growl softly, the vibrations from his chest travelled into my own. Making me shiver slightly, he noticed. His hand on my cheek travelled back to my waist. Rubbing soft circles comfortingly, “I’ll be there.” He responded shortly, before crushing the commlink. Letting the pieces fall to the floor. He let out a sigh, dropping his head down. His forehead resting on my upper back. Nuzzling into it softly, he reminded me of a puppy. This was the almighty Darth Vader? Surely there has been some sort of mix up? “M’sorry sweetheart, I have to go.” He said softly, his voice just above a whisper. His hand on my waist travels up. Cradling the back of my head, turning it to the side gently. So his lips could meet mine, his kiss was surprisingly soft. All traces of previous annoyance had disappeared. Like footprints being washed away by the sea.
He intertwined our fingers again, giving my hand another gentle squeeze. I could feel him smiling into the kiss. Before he pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against the side of my head. He pulled off me a little. His weight no longer pinning me to the desk, but I could still feel a light layer of his sweat coating my back. He gently flips me onto my back, I wince slightly at the change in angles. Watching as his brows furrowed slightly at the stimulation. He leans back on top of me, his weight now pressing again my front. Chest to chest, I felt my nipples hardening again at the contact. He clearly felt it too as I saw a smirk tugging at his lips… His gorgeous, soft, plump lips… Stop that. He brought both hands up to my face, cupping it softly. Pressing his forehead against mine. Our noses brushing against each other. “You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his eyes searching mine. For something I wasn’t quite sure, was he actually worried about me?
I chuckle softly, “I’m fine.” He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, flicking it gently. His eyes were fixated on my lips as he watched it snap back into place, while he ran his tongue along his own. Coating them in a thin layer of his saliva, the lights in the room reflecting off them.
“Don’t do that…” He whispers, causing me to furrow my brows.
“Don’t do what?” I ask curiously, tilting my head to the side.
Making him bite his lip softly in response, “don’t be so adorable.” I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh.
“I’m sorry I can’t help it.” He lets out a puff of air mockingly in response.
Poking the tip of my nose softly, “cheeky little thing.”
I smile softly, “you should probably be getting to your meeting. Sounds… important.” I whisper, observing him. Seeing some of his curls stuck to his forehead from our… activities. I absentmindedly brush them back, out of his face. His eyes watching my movement. Now I noticed his cheeks flushed a pastel pink, from the sex? Or was he… nervous? No way, no surely not…
His gentle voice brings me from my thoughts, “important?” He hums, pressing his soft lips to my forehead. “Probably not,” his husky voice uttered. “Just incompetent imperials needing me to do their work for them.” He all but sighs out, my eyebrows furrowed slightly. And I brought my arms up slowly, wrapping them around his torso. Which felt way more tiresome that it should of, maker what has he done to me? My limbs felt completely useless, I feel him take a deep breath. His chest rising and his stomach pressing into mine. Which also pushed his hips to meet mine, gently thrusting his cock deeper into me. Making me let out a soft whine, as his breath hitches. “Fuck sorry sweetheart I forgot,” he mutters. I could practically feel the grin on his face, as he trails a hand down. Gently pressing on my lower stomach, feeling where he was inside me. Making me jolt, clinging to his back. “Mmm your so warm princess, don’t wanna leave.” He pats my lower stomach softly, I could feel our combined release running down my thighs. “Your pussy’s clenching me so tight, don’t think you want me to leave either… hmm?” I could feel his smirk against my forehead, I poke his ribs in response. He lets out a soft chuckle.
“Your really not as funny as you think you are,” I retort. He lifts his lips off my forehead, looking down at me.
“Aren’t I?” He teases, licking his lips.
I shake my head, “nope-” He leans down, silencing me with a kiss. He sucks on my bottom lip softly, while his hands trail up to my breasts. Cupping them, his thumbs toying with my nipples. Making me moan softly into his mouth, my back arching slightly. I pull back a little, and he lets a soft sigh slip.
“I gotta go to work sweetheart,” he mumbles. The disdain at having to leave clear in his voice. I cup his cheek softly, and he leans into my touch.
I try to fight off a smile, “I know…” With one last kiss he reluctantly pulls away, running his fingers along my cheek. He places his other hand on my hip, steadying me.
He looks down at his cock, a grin on his face. He slowly pulls out, letting out a low hiss from the stimulation. He watches our cum leak out of me. Crouching down he holds my legs apart, placing a gently kiss on my pussy. Licking a strip, making me shiver in response. A moan escaping his lips before he stands back up. His naked form on full display as he looks for his discarded clothes. Littered along the floor of his office.
He yanks his boxers and pants back up his legs, tucking his spent cock back in place. Before bending over, picking up his shirt and robe. Damn he has a nice ass for a man. I shake my head, covering my mouth with my hand. Get a grip. I look back to him and he was struggling to tie his robe, muttering curse words under his breath. I sit up slowly, trying to find my balance. “Here,” I offer. He looks up from the messy knot he made, walking back over. Standing in front of me he places his hands on my waist.
Resting his chin on top of my head, “thanks sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur. Finish tying up his robe, “is it too tight?” I ask, looking up slightly. He shakes his head, cupping the back of mine.
“No it’s good,” he runs his fingers through my hair softly. I felt his Adam’s apple bob as he spoke. His other hand trail down my back to my ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. Before he removes his hand off my ass, scribbling something down on a sticky note. He pulls back to look into my eyes, keeping his hand in my hair. Brushing it softly, his eyes were blue… Weren’t they supposed to be yellow? “What is it?” He asks curiously, I must not of being doing a good job at hiding my confusion.
“Your eyes…” I mutter, before mine drift to something I had yet to notice.
“Oh yes the yellow can be… unnerving.” He whispers the last part, almost as if he was ashamed.
I shake my head, “no that’s not what I meant…” I paused, and he seemed to perk up slightly at my response. I bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing when I see my name on a board behind him. A board of the… rebellion. Oh shit this is bad. “Little Minx?” I raise a brow, he immediately broke out into a grin. Looking behind him, to see the board I was staring at.
“Long story…” He turns back to face me, cupping my jaw gently. “My private chambers are just down the hall if you need anything,” he slides the sticky note to me. With the code to his chambers on it, “if anyone gives you any trouble just tell them I sent you.”
He leans closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. Longer for a moment, breathing me in. “I’ll be right back sweetheart, make yourself comfortable.” He pulls away slowly, as if he was reluctant to. He releases his gentle grip on my jaw, to smooth down my hair. Before giving my ass a gentle pat, before heading to the door of his office. Using the force to open the door, show off. “I’ll be in conference room B if you need me darling. Try not to miss me too much,” he winks.
Heading out the door, shutting it behind him. I let out a sigh, “holy shit.” I mumble under my breath, rubbing my face to try to gather myself. I grip the edge of the desk I was currently on… naked. This was so not part of the plan. The plan! The files, I look around. Standing up on shaky legs, my knees buckling for a moment.
To be continued…
Tumblr media
Dividers by @vibeswithrenai + @diariodefresa
844 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
100 followers?! STOPPPPPPP! I’m so excited rn 💕
0 notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
Oh. My. God.
tumblr didnt let me post for ages BUT yall be eating my edits up so heres another!
tiktok : JDMORGZ
160 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 1 month ago
Text
The Villa — A. Skywalker
Tumblr media
Paring: Islander Anakin x Bombshell F!Reader
Synopsis: Entering the Villa is a hot new bombshell, where you will find yourself falling hopelessly hard for the islander Anakin, making different connections, and will be on national television. Where it’s not just you wanting to catch his eye.
Tags: Love Island AU, being the bombshell, Anakin x Reader, kissing/making out, drama, etc.
Series Masterlist
Welcome back to love island! Now if you remember from where we left off, our islanders have officially coupled up with each other. Ahsoka and Rex, Obi-Wan and Venessa, Anakin and Miraji, Satine and Gideon, and finally Dione is coupled with Cohen.
The first day in Fiji was more stressful than Anakin had originally thought. The day passed way too quickly and before he knew it, he was sleeping in a bed with a woman he had hardly known.
Physical attraction was there, yes, but everything had felt so surreal to him. One moment he was at home and now he was in Fiji. Never did he expect to spend a summer here let alone to find someone to find love with.
When he got that scouting call from love island, a million thoughts ran in his head, but one voice stuck out. His mothers. 'I'm not getting any younger Anakin.'
It was that voice that kept him up that very first night. And when he did find sleep, he was soon woken up in the early hours of the morning by the producers and everyone else.
“So, how was your first night sleeping with Miraji?” Obi-Wan had asked. Anakin enjoyed his company, he was a person to laugh easily with but most of all admirable from what he saw.
“She’s -“ He replayed his night, remembering how she clung to him throughout it. “- touchy.”
“Touchy bad, or touchy good?” What was bad and good? She had kept her hands respectful, they never wandered. That's considered good, but cuddling was never Anakin’s forte.
“Touchy as in just touchy.” A safe answer, one that Obi-Wan had immediately noticed.
“Well, it is the first night.” Anakin felt his hand lightly patting his back before he heard the girls.
Making their way down to the stairs each one by one, dressed and their makeup done pretty. Ahsoka was the first to wander into the kitchen where the boys were making food.
“Good morning gentlemen!” Anakin smiled and came full force when he noticed how her eyes lit up at the toast Rex handed her.
The sun was beaming down onto the villa, Fiji hot weather more blazing than ever it felt like. Anakin had grown up in scorching heat, and hated it more than ever.
Slowly more girls ventured into the kitchen, each excited to start the first official full day at the Villa.
“Goodmorning,” Anakin mumbled to Miraji, handing her the plate with eggs and avocado toast. “How’d you sleep?”
Anakin had to admit that Miraji was beautiful. Even through her makeup freckles scattered across her face making her look sun kissed. She was the kind of beautiful that men would stop in the street to look at, and here she was looking at him like he was her perfect match.
“It was good, a little hot.” And her voice wasn’t soft or kind, it was seduction wrapped in a sweet guise, like caramel. “I was a little nervous sharing a bed with you, I’ll admit.”
“Well, I hope it wasn’t all too bad.” It was pretty words, and as cameras zoomed in on the two it was clear that she liked pretty words.
“Well you didn’t snore, so points for you.” She was right, Anakin thought. He remembered his mom telling him in early mornings before school how loud he snored while he explained his dream. It was a subconscious habit to only snore in his dreams.
“I’m glad to hear.” The conversation between them was cut short when Gideon walked over to the two of them. By the smile on his face the couple both knew he wasn’t here for Anakin.
“Miraji, can I pull you for a chat?”
“Of course.” Her answer was immediate, but as she walked away with Gideon, she turned her head back to the Skywalker. Anakin watched the two walk up to the docs, not in jealously, not in possessiveness, not even with plain pettiness. It was something much more simpler than that, it was an understanding, an okay. 
It was okay she was talking to someone else, it was okay that he was here in Fiji, and it was a realization that it’s time to actually start playing the game. Because if Anakin Skywalker hated anything it was losing, and sand. 
As Miraji and Gideon walked out of his view he dropped his gaze from them and over to the few girls gathered around Satine. Logical play would to also go after Satine, but Anakin wasn’t the logical kind. Instead he went up to Vanessa and Obi-Wan. 
Just before he reached the two of them, Obi-Wan's eye roll was noticeable to every camera, Anakin, and somehow Vanessa missed it. 
“Mind if I steal him from you for a moment?” Before she could even say, ‘yes’, Obi-Wan was standing. “I’ll be back,” he told the girl - while walking off with Anakin. 
“You looked miserable.” The two boys laughed. “She doesn't seem like the easiest person to talk to.” The older of the two said, thinking back to his conversation just before. 
“What happened?” They were well away from the rest of the group, keeping their voices light. 
“Well in her words ‘That was fast, Satine must not be all that much.’” Anakin’s eyes widened, before asking, “She said that?” 
His nod of affirmation left him in shock. No wonder he looked done with the conversation, the thought flowed through his mind effortlessly. Like putting one and two together. 
“Enough of me, what about you?” His head tilted towards the docs, “How do you feel about her getting pulled?” 
The short answer was he didn’t care. However the longer answer was, “I’m thinking that there isn’t going to be any time getting comfortable in couples here.” Which was true. He never watched the show personally, but knew enough to know that drama is the key element of this whole villa. If there aren't problems now, there will be later. 
“I got a text!” 
Dione’s voice ranged out through the villa, lots of islanders cheering – yet Anakin and Obi-Wan confused at the yelling was obvious. Something the fans find enjoyment in. 
They all gathered around the girl, waiting for her to read it out. “Islanders it’s time to see if you like this or that. Each islander will take a turn to pick between two questions, will you keep it classy, or test the waters. #HardTruths #TurningHeads!” 
Each one of them made their way back inside away from the Fiji heat, letting the production team set up the challenge. 
Tumblr media
“First challenge, how is everyone feeling?” Cohen, who was coupled up with Dione, asked the group of men. The gentleman waited in the bedroom area while the girls got ready a floor above them. 
 “I’m feeling excited, after all this is what it’s all about isn’t it?” Rex spoke up next to Anakin who both laid on their beds. Each boy was already dressed, ready for the part they are about to play in the challenge. 
“Is anyone going to play it safe?” Gideon was the one to ask this time, and for a moment Anakin wanted to laugh. Clearly you're not. 
“Where’s the fun in that?” Is what he said instead, keeping the peace. “Where here to explore, that's what these challenges are for.” No shame in that. 
“Wondering what the girls are talking about,” Obi-Wan muttered, off-handedly. 
Wondering indeed. Let’s see what our gal’s are up to.
“So who are you guys interested in?” Ahsoka was the first to ask the burning question, while spraying her setting spray generously on her face. 
“Well, Gideon pulled me away from Anakin for a chat.” Many missed Satine’s cressfallen face, all but Ahsoka who squeezed her hand under the table. “How’d that go?” Vanessa's curiosity seemed genuine in the eyes of the girls, and it was clear that Miraji and her would become quick friends. 
“Good, do you think Anakin will be mad?” Her pencil brushed and flowed on her lips, giving them the perfect outline. 
“I’m sure he will be understanding.” Satine finally spoke up, “He doesn't seem like a jealous person.” The blonde’s blue eyes looked enchanting in the mirror, a perfect sapphire. Each woman here looked truly gorgeous, the casting directors did not disappoint this season. 
“How do you think this challenge is going to go?” Much like her partner, Dione was the only one to ask about the challenge. “Anyone feeling confident?” 
“I am.” Ahsoka had spent her life living in confidence. 
“As am I. I’m excited to explore.” Satine followed right behind her, she wouldn’t let herself be blindsided. 
“Obi-Wan seems like a deep character,Venessa.” Dione struck conversation with her who had in return insisted she call her “Essa”. “And yes, he’s good at conversation as well.” 
“When do you think the bombshell will come in?” Silence followed Miraji's abrupt question. “Probably soon right?” She once again asked, putting the finishing touches with her mascara. 
“Probably.” 
The girls are looking beautiful, and the men are looking charming. However will they still look so good after this challenge?
Each girl came walking down the stairs, some hugging their couple, and some simply holding hands. 
Hold onto your boots, each challenger will draw one card from the ‘this’ and ‘that’ bowl.  The islander then must pick the challenge he chooses. A simple game that is sure to not leave simple feelings. 
They all gathered around the set up stand. Each sitting on a bench, that was split between guys and girls, while the first person stands at the podium with two bowls laid in front of them. 
Around here it is always ladies first, and the first up is Dione. 
It was mid day in Fiji, the sun sitting at it’s all high. The light shining down on her skin, that was sheen with a deep warmth. Her lips pulled in a nervous smile, her lips that were deliciously full and easy to bite some men thought. 
Her hands dipped into both of the jars, pulling out one paper from each.
 “Kiss the person you are most excited to get to know. Or, dump water on who you find most attractive.” 
Each islander was on the edge of their seats, waiting for her answer. Eager, because the first answer could very well shape the way this challenge was set. However Dione was hesitant because of that fact. The woman didn’t want to step on toes, but she wasn’t here for anyone but herself. And that was what she chanted in her head, as she made her choice, like a mantra. 
“Rex, I'd like to dump water on you.” gasps surrounded the group as a few guys, namely Obi-Wan and Anakin, cheered him on - pushing him towards the standing girl.
Dione reached for the bucket filled with water, the weight heavier than she initially thought. Noticing this Rex held her hands, bending down a little lower than her, helping her dump the water on him. 
Clapping blared around the area, and Rex had honestly rejoiced in the cool water. Heat wasn’t something he was used to. 
“Satine, your next!” Dione declared stepping down from the stand. 
The blonde raised, handing Rex a towel in passing, and so while the two Islanders found their seats again Satine stepped up. 
Like Dione before her, she reached, pulling two papers from both glasses. A dry swallow scraped its way down her throat.
“Give a lap dance to a person of your choosing, or call out the person you think is the biggest player in the villa.”
A lap dance? Satine questioned silently. As she read it out she already made her choice. She didn’t know these guys for anymore than forty-eight hours. Still, it was like the producers couldn’t wait to get content. 
Her sapphire eyes trailed across the group, giving each person a look of assessment. Before reaching down for the bucket that had been refilled. 
Her long legs, that even had Anakin looking, slowly walked to the boy's side of the bench. She stopped right in front of Gideon. It was an obvious pick, he had already pulled another girl before even having a conversation with her. Many expected it, including the man himself who had closed his eyes waiting. 
The bucket flipped upside down, the water pouring out dangerously quick, but not onto him. 
Instead the water flooded, Obi-Wan Kenobi. 
Many let shocked sounds escape them, few smiling. However Obi-Wan didn’t let a gasp leave him, he didn’t give a smile, nor a laugh, but a cocky grin directed at her solely. Not the cameras, not the girls or guys, but her. 
“No hard feelings.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the words were heard clearly. “Your next.”
Satine handed him the bucket, and sat down in her previous seat. 
Water dripping down from his hair onto his face was a sight for all, and while he was always good looking - many of the girls noticed him at that moment when he licked his lips slightly before standing. 
Taking his position at the stand he kept quiet, but a teasing look in his eye. “Kiss the islander of your choosing, or dump water on who you think is the most sneaky.” Tossing the papers, he walked with confidence up to the girls. Bucket left behind. 
He slowed himself to a stop right in front of Satine, offering his hand out to her. The blonde raised her brow, surprise clear on her face. Her palm slid against his and for a moment all he could focus on was the warmth of her hand. 
He helped her rise from her seat, and before he took a step closer to her, he instead took her seat. Confusion was evident on her face, before her jaw lightly dropped. 
Obi-Wan reached to Dione, who he now sat next to, wrapping his hands around her neck. Pulling her into a kiss that had felt feverish to her. It wasn’t rushed, instead it was deep and slow – almost as if making a point. 
When he eventually did pull away, Dione felt warmth in her cheeks while Obi-Wan stood right before Satine. They two obviously close to one another. 
“You wet my seat, it's gonna get me wet now.” It was true, Obi-Wan was still wet from her challenge as he opted out from grabbing a towel. 
The man leaned down to her ear, the mics tapping against each other muting any words he spoke to her as static was all the producers heard. But Satine heard him and that's all that mattered. 
“Sure you weren’t already wet before.”
It wasn’t a question, and as he walked away throwing a towel in her direction, she had decided that she was right. He was the biggest player. 
Other challengers went. Miraji opted to kiss Anakin in her round, because he was “who she was most interested in.” Cohen dumping water on Ahsoka, because she was the most intimidating to him. The process went on until two players left.
Anakin and Ahsoka. 
The boy took the same place many others already had. His clothes clung to his body from Rex dumping water on him two rounds before. 
He twisted his neck sideways, popping it, before he himself pulled two papers out. There were only two left in each bowl, now finally at the bottom. 
“Bite your couple, or have a mystery gift.” Many paused, him included. Each time the second option always involved dumping water. 
Anakin’s chest pounded as he thought of the worst things that it could be. Safe option: bite Miraji, which he had no doubt she would be willing, or potentially have sand poured on him. 
Still; “I don’t have much of a choice do I?” It was different, and Anakin liked the excitement in different. “Mystery gift.” 
The sound of heels clicking turned Anakin’s head away from the large group. 
Your hair bounced flowy as you walked, your hips swaying with each step just enough to be subtle. The pink dress you had on showcasing your legs in such a way that could make a man yearn, while your breast filled it out giving the right amount of cleavage. 
However it was your smile that was kind and ever slightly cocky that captured his full attention. His and others.
“Hi guys!” Your voice was like velvet covered in addiction. Some of the girls waved, a ‘hi’ leaving their lips, while others could only stare silently. 
Your eyes drifted away from the ones sitting and to the guy raised. Your heels clicked again, walking onto the stand with him. 
“I’m assuming I’m your gift?” His own blue eyes that look green in the golden light of the sun trailed from your own and for a glimpse of a second they stayed on your lips. 
“Aren’t you a smart cookie.” He wanted to scream, he was failing horribly at flirting. 
The card laid on the podium catching your attention. “I’d hate for you not to have both cards.” 
Before he could speak, let out a word of confusion, you kissed him. Hard. It was rough, and slightly mean. 
Your lips felt on fire like you were a flame he was igniting. His confusion faded and instead Anakin’s grip on you became more demanding. His fingers threading through your hair, slightly pulling, while his other hand traced the fabric of your dress, locking at your lip. 
When you did pull away it was slow, and as promised your teeth lodged themselves in his lip, tugging. 
“Welcome to the villa.” His voice was raspy, eyes lidded.
Welcome for sure.
Tumblr media
A/N: Hello! I finally published this, finally. This is just a chapter to kickstart the series. I feel like it was rushed but I just wanted to give a glimpse into the current couple and everyone’s character/dynamics. Also, SLIGHT SPOILER: Anakin and Reader will not be in an immediate couple, I plan to build onto their tension first. And can we talk about Obi-Wan and Satine?! Surprised myself, to be honest.
Usually, I write chapters anywhere between 3K to 5K. This chapter was just very slightly, and I mean slightly less than 3K, so I hope to make them longer.
Taglist: @venomdollz @riordanness @caramelcandescence @honeyyyimhomee @bugsludge
258 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 2 months ago
Text
The Villa Series
Tumblr media
Synopsis: Welcome to Love Island! Where all your set to find love, friends, and drama. This years Islanders are a more chaotic group than last years, and with new bombshells popping up and challenges arising things cannot get more intense.
Content/Warnings: Angst, Emotional Scenes, Switching Up, Cussing, Drama, Fights, Drinking, Mentions of Smoking, Intense Makeouts, Sexual Themes; Fingering, handjob, nipple play, Oral (F&M), Mutual Masturbation, Breath Play, Orgasm Denial, Slight Exhibitionism, ETC.
Taglist: @venomdollz @riordanness @caramelcandescence @honeyyyimhomee @bugsludge @noir-moons @wizzerreblogs
MAIN UPDATES!: …
Chapters!
Hot New Bombshell!
Here’s pie in the face! — (Coming soon!)
Dreams do come true! — (Coming soon!)
I taste just like candy! — (Coming soon!)
115 notes · View notes
sweetascherry1 · 2 months ago
Text
THIS IS SO GOOD WHAT?! BUT OMG THE SCREAM I DID WHEN I READ ELEKTRA BITCHNESS AHHHHHHH 10/10
Love Island!Bucky (Pt. 2)
Tumblr media
pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 9.2k words
summary | The next morning, instead of questioning bucky, the girls paint you as the problem — the messy one who blindsided sharon and stirred the pot. the judgment builds. the energy shifts. Then comes the dumping. Three girls vulnerable. One will go.
a/n | guys omg, I did not expect so much love for the love island headcanons lollll, anyway I went hella overboard for this. also I wrote this in present tense and it was giving me the ick and making my fingers crawlllll
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1
divider by @cafekitsune
Tumblr media
The Next Morning 🌅
Cue soft acoustic guitar and wide drone shot of the villa bathed in early morning sunlight.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “It’s a brand new day in the Love Island villa, and after last night’s emotionally devastating, slow-motion, whisper-in-the-dark, Soul Ties-level drama, you’d think things might have calmed down…”
Cut to you and Bucky, asleep and cuddled up in Soul Ties. 
“But no. Because this is Love Island, and peace is just a rumor.”
Cut to the girls’ dressing room, where tension is spreading faster than MJ’s lip gloss.
“Elektra’s getting ready to look flawless while ruining someone’s morning. MJ’s in her usual position — two inches from drama. And Trish? Trish is there because no one wants to be the third wheel and the fourth wall.”
The dressing room is thick with hair spray and tension. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden lines across countertops cluttered with makeup bags and hair tools. 
Elektra sits at the center vanity like it's a throne, legs crossed, one brow arched as she slowly runs a brush through her hair. Her voice is soft, almost casual — which makes it sting worse.
“I just think it’s wild,” she says, watching her own reflection with amusement. “Bucky brings Sharon back, and now he’s creeping into bed with her like it’s nothing?”
MJ lets out a gasp that practically echoes off the tile. She's leaned close to Elektra, glossing her lips and pretending she's not dying to be the one spilling the tea. “Wait, they were actually together last night?”
Trish, sitting behind them and stretching like she hadn’t been up for an hour waiting for this conversation to kick off, nods like it pained her to confirm. “I heard he left the bed after lights out. Went straight to her. Didn’t even try to be subtle.”
Elektra gives a low, theatrical laugh. “Please. That girl’s been crying all week — now she’s in Soul Ties with Bucky again? She’s been playing the victim card like it’s her job. It’s giving... manipulative.”
“And Sharon?” MJ adds, voice pitched to sound sincere, but there's that edge in it — the same one she always has when she wants someone to look bad. “She’s literally so sweet. Like, she did nothing wrong.”
“She got blindsided, that’s what happened,” Elektra mutters, tossing her brush onto the counter. “And that one—” she doesn't even say your name, just nods toward the door, “—knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She’s not even subtle about it,” Trish says. “I mean, don’t act like you’re above the mess and then go sneak a boy out of bed.”
Elektra’s lips curl. “Exactly. Some people talk about loyalty like it’s a brand — but clearly she’s only loyal when it benefits her.”
Across the room, Ororo stands by the mirror, arms folded as she slowly applies her moisturizer, not once looking in their direction. Karen sits nearby, silent, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight. Neither of them says a word — but the air around them has changed. They heard every syllable.
“I swear,” Ororo mutters under her breath once the others are too busy giggling to notice, “if she says one more word...”
Karen leans in slightly. “She’s poking for a reaction. They all are. Don’t give it to them.” Then, quieter still, “But we’ve got her back. No matter what.”
You push open the dressing room door with one hand, the other tugging the hood of your sweatshirt further over your head. You don’t say anything — not “morning,” not even a nod. You just walk in with your face mostly hidden, body language tight, and that stiff, quiet air of someone who’s not sure whether they want to cry or scream.
You feel the eyes on you immediately. Not all of them. But enough.
You can practically hear them stop talking.
You know what they’re thinking. You know what you’re thinking — and that’s the worst part.
You're still torn. Still bruised.
He came back with another girl. But then he left her bed, broke the rules, and found you. Held you. Slept beside you like nothing in the world could’ve pulled him away.
So what the fuck does that mean?
You’re still figuring it out when Elektra says, without even turning fully around, “Well. Looks like someone had a wild night.”
You stop in your tracks. You don’t look at her — not yet. But your voice is clear when it comes out.
“Don’t start. Not this early.”
There’s a pause. MJ tries — tries — to stifle a reaction. Trish looks up from her water bottle, waiting.
But Elektra? She’s already smiling. Not wide. Just the kind of smile that says she was hoping you’d bite.
“I’m just making conversation,” she says lightly, flicking her mascara wand up through her lashes. “Didn’t realize that was off-limits now.”
You let out a short laugh through your nose. Dry. Exhausted. “You know what you’re doing.”
Elektra glances at you in the mirror, her tone casual. “What? I can’t ask about the villa’s newest and most confusing love triangle?”
Karen, sitting nearby, shifts slightly — not looking up, but her grip on her brush tightens.
Ororo doesn’t even pretend to ignore it. She turns her head, calm but watching.
Elektra continues, voice cool. “Bucky brings Sharon back from Casa, and not even twenty-four hours later he’s cuddled up with you like it didn’t happen. But sure, I’m the one being messy.”
The way she says it — soft, deliberate — isn’t loud. Isn’t obviously cruel. But it’s sharp. She doesn’t need volume to cut deep.
You lift your head finally, just enough for your eyes to meet hers in the mirror.
“You don’t care about Sharon,” you say flatly. “You just don’t like not being in the middle of the drama.”
Trish stifles a breath. MJ goes quiet.
Elektra doesn’t blink. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be saying anything.”
“You’re not saying anything helpful,” you shoot back. “You’re stirring shit you know nothing about.”
Elektra leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on yours through the mirror like she’s bored, but her smile is too precise for that to be true.
She shrugs, slow and cool. “Hey, if you can dish it out, you should be able to take it.”
You squint at her, that dull throb in your temples starting to flare.
“Dish what out?” you ask, voice quieter now, but sharper. “You’ve been talking shit since you walked in this villa.”
“I’ve been asking questions,” Elektra says innocently, setting down her mascara wand like she’s so done with this. “If that gets under your skin, maybe there’s something worth unpacking.”
Ororo makes a sound from across the room — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Karen just tilts her head down, like she’s reading the label on her moisturizer just to keep from rolling her eyes.
You open your mouth to say something else, heat rising up the back of your neck —
And then the door opens.
Sharon steps in quietly, wrapped in her robe, makeup-free, her expression open and uncertain. She looks around the room, her eyes scanning like she’s stepping into something she wasn’t invited to. Her brows knit just slightly, but she keeps her posture calm.
“Hey,” she says gently. “I just need a few minutes to get ready. Is the shower free?”
Elektra is up like clockwork — the switch in her tone almost whiplash-inducing.
“Yeah, of course, babe,” she says, turning to face Sharon with the perfect balance of warm concern and subtle drama. “You okay? You look kind of... off.”
Sharon hesitates, just a second too long. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Elektra gives her a soft, pitying look that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. I would think so. Must be weird trying to sleep while your guy’s out in another bed.”
That lands like a pin drop.
You lift your head immediately, expression tightening.
“Elektra,” you warn, voice low, but she waves it off like you’re being dramatic.
“No, I’m just saying,” she continues, still looking at Sharon, voice all faux-sympathy. “I’d be pretty torn up too. First night in the villa and he’s already moving on. That’s... brutal.”
You step forward, pulse spiking. “Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.”
Elektra finally looks at you — not angry, not loud ��� just surgical.
“You went off with him. While she was still sleeping in his bed. After everything. That’s not just messy, it’s fucked.”
Sharon shifts slightly, her face still composed, but there’s something behind her eyes now — not shock, just quiet confirmation that she’s already been thinking everything Elektra’s saying.
You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that.”
Elektra lets out a breath of disbelief. “Oh come on. You think that makes it better? You’re not stupid — you knew what it looked like.”
You glance at Sharon — and the worst part is, she’s not glaring. She’s not accusing. She just looks... tired. Like she’s trying not to feel humiliated.
And now, you feel sick.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” you say quickly, eyes still on Sharon. “I didn’t plan any of it. He came to me. I didn’t even know he would.”
Elektra scoffs. “Yeah, but you let him stay.”
Silence.
No one says a word. MJ’s frozen mid-makeup swipe. Trish has stopped pretending she’s not watching.
Ororo stands by the sink, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. Karen meets your eyes from across the room — no judgment, but concern. She knows this isn’t black and white.
But Elektra just tilts her head, all soft venom.
“You can do what you want,” she says sweetly. “Just don’t act like you’re the victim anymore. Not when someone else is standing right there.”
You stare at the floor for a second, jaw clenched, vision hot.
Elektra’s words hang in the air like smoke, still curling around the room, seeping into everyone’s silence. Sharon doesn’t say anything — she’s polite like that — but you can feel the judgment twisting, building, pressing against your chest like a weight.
You laugh once — short, sharp, humorless.
And then it just snaps.
“You know what?” Your voice is low, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “Go ahead. All of you. Dogpile on me. That’s clearly the game today, yeah?”
You look up, eyes bright and full of fire now. “Like I wasn’t the one standing at that firepit yesterday in front of all of you looking like a fucking idiot. Like I wasn’t the one humiliated on national fucking television while he walked in with someone else.”
No one says anything. MJ shifts her weight like she wants to disappear. Trish stares at the floor.
You keep going, voice steady but shaking from the sheer force of everything behind it.
“And now I’m the bad guy because I didn’t shove him off me in the middle of the night? Because for one second I wanted to feel like I didn’t imagine all of it?”
You glance at Sharon again, and your voice softens — not apologetic, but real.
“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. And I’m sorry that you did. But I’m done pretending like I’m the one who fucked this whole thing up.”
You look back at Elektra, finally meeting her eyes head-on.
“You wanna play girl's girl? Cool. Just don’t rewrite the story like Bucky didn’t make the mess. You all wanna call me messy, but none of you have had the balls to say anything to him.”
But Elektra says nothing now.
Because you’re right. And everyone in that room knows it.
You exhale hard, rubbing your face once, then shake your head. “I’m done with this shit.”
And you walk out — hoodie still up, heart still bruised.
You find the staircase that wraps around the back of the villa — barely used, tucked between two walls where the cameras can’t quite catch a clean angle. You sit on the third step, legs pulled up, arms resting on your knees, trying to fold in on yourself like maybe you could disappear if you got small enough.
It’s quiet. For a few seconds. Then soft footsteps approach.
Ororo and Karen don’t say your name. Don’t announce themselves. They just stop a few steps down, careful not to crowd you.
Karen crouches down beside you, her expression gentle but serious. Ororo leans against the railing, arms crossed lightly, watching you like she’s waiting for you to look up first.
You don’t.
Karen’s voice is soft. “Are you okay?”
You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Just because what else are you supposed to do?
“No,” you say. Quiet, but real. “Seriously—no. I’m not.”
You finally lift your head, and the way your voice cracks a little as you speak again makes Karen reach for your hand instinctively.
“I have no fucking clue what’s going on anymore. I don’t know where I stand with him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. One second I’m being embarrassed in front of everyone, and the next he’s sneaking out to hold me like—like that didn’t happen.”
Your eyes glass over, and you blink hard.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m the bad guy, and I don’t even know what I’m defending anymore. I’m just… so fucking tired.”
Ororo still hasn’t moved. She’s quiet for a beat, then says softly, “You’re not crazy. You’re in the middle of something real, and people forget that just because it’s on camera.”
You shake your head. “Yeah, well, it feels crazy.”
Karen squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to have it figured out right now. You just need space to feel it.”
Ororo steps forward, finally, kneeling on the step just above yours.
“You’re not alone,” she says simply. “You never have to be.”
You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles to your eyes for a second before letting your hands drop back into your lap. The weight in your chest hasn’t shifted, and your voice is quieter now, like you're already tired of hearing yourself talk — but it needs to come out.
Karen tilts her head gently. “What… actually happened last night?”
You hesitate, eyes flicking between her and Ororo. There’s no pressure in their faces. Just space. Space to be honest.
You finally speak.
“He found out I was sleeping in Soul Ties,” you say, voice low. “And then… after everyone went to sleep, he came out.”
You stare down at your hands. “Didn’t say much. Just got in behind me and held me. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
Karen watches you closely, her brows pulling together just slightly.
“He said he didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to. That he couldn’t sleep knowing I was out there alone. And then he…” You trail off for a second. The words feel heavier in your mouth than they did in your memory. “He said some things before that. About how he didn’t think I’d pick him. About how he made the wrong choice. And then… we kissed.”
Ororo’s expression shifts subtly — not shock, not judgment. Just concern. Like she knows what’s coming before you even say it.
You let the silence hang for a second longer before your voice comes back, brittle and quiet.
“That was it. That’s all that happened. But—”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek before the rest tumbles out.
“Words are cheap. Anyone can say nice shit when they’re lying next to you at two in the morning. What matters is what they do when the lights are on. And all I’ve seen so far is him choosing someone else and me being the one who looks pathetic.”
You blink again, hard.
“I feel like the biggest piece of shit. Like I let myself be played again. And now Sharon’s hurt, Elektra’s making it her mission to drag me, and I’m just sitting here trying to remember how I even got in the middle of this.”
Karen doesn’t speak. She just lets you sit with it.
Ororo’s voice is calm when it comes, steady and grounding. “You’re not the piece of shit in this story. You’re the one they keep expecting to carry all the guilt while he walks around like he didn’t light the match.”
You press your lips together, shaking your head again, like you can physically will the tears not to fall.
“I just…” your voice is barely there now, hoarse around the tightness in your throat, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
You stare down at the floor, blinking fast, willing yourself not to fall apart in front of them. Not now. Not again.
“I don’t know if what he said meant anything. I don’t know if he’s just playing a game, or if I am for letting him in. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it, and honestly…”
You stop. Take a deep breath. It shakes on the way out.
“I just wanna go home.”
The words fall out small, tired, and honest in a way that makes the air feel still. You don’t say it for sympathy. 
You say it because you mean it. Because for the first time since you got here, the idea of finishing the show doesn’t feel like a challenge — it feels like punishment.
Karen gently leans into you, resting her head against your shoulder without a word. Ororo doesn’t move, but her presence wraps around you like a second spine.
They don’t say anything right away.
Because they know that sometimes the most important thing someone can do is just be there when you can’t carry it anymore.
Tweet Challenge📱
The islanders are gathered around the firepit, energy nervous and unsettled. A few people try to fake-laugh their way through it, but no one’s really relaxed — not with a card on the table marked “#VillaTalks”.
A text informs Trish to take the first card, who reads it out loud.
“It’s time to find out what the world really thinks. One by one, tweets from viewers will be read out loud. Some are nice. Most… not so much.”
The first few tweets are harmless — jabs at random couples, calling Matt a walking red flag, teasing MJ for always stirring the pot (she takes it in stride, grinning). You’re sitting off to the side, Karen beside you, Ororo on your other side, silent support flanking you like armor.
Then the next tweet is pulled.
Elektra leans forward, plucking the card with dramatic flair. Her eyes flick across the words, and you already know — from the flicker of her smile — it’s about you.
She reads it out loud, tone sweet but loaded.
“Not her crying all week then playing sleepover with Mr. Flip-Flop 🤡#PickASide #MessyQueen”
A few people laugh awkwardly. MJ lets out a “Yikes” under her breath. Sharon’s expression doesn’t move, but her hand tenses slightly on her knee.
You stare straight ahead, jaw locked.
Elektra raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oof. Wonder who that could be.”
Karen shifts beside you. “We don’t have to pretend.”
The text prompt: “Islanders, who do you think that tweet’s about?”
It’s rhetorical. Everyone knows.
You speak before anyone else can.
“Me,” you say flatly. “Obviously.”
The next card comes, but the tension hasn’t broken. It clings to you, thick and sharp, like you’ve just been handed a version of yourself that the outside world has already judged.
And the worst part?
They don’t know half the story.
Bucky’s across from you, hands clasped between his knees, head lowered slightly. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his guilt across the firepit.
And still — no one says anything.
The tweet sits there in the air, sharper than anything Elektra could’ve cooked up.
And you sit in the middle of it, stone-still, trying to hold your head up — even though your chest is caving in.
The cards keep coming.
MJ grabs the next one, eyes widening slightly as she reads. Her tone is more neutral now — less playful.
“Her reaction was raw, real, and heartbreaking. Bucky doesn’t deserve her. #StayStrongQueen #KnowYourWorth”
A few murmurs ripple through the group. Karen nods slightly beside you. Ororo doesn’t react — but you feel the subtle shift in her posture, like she’s quietly validating it.
You don’t smile. You just stare ahead. You can’t smile, not when your heart’s still tangled up in all the parts of this that didn’t happen in front of a camera.
But then Sharon — quiet, careful — picks up the next tweet.
Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge under it.
“Bucky's out here doing everything but picking a lane. One day he’s with Sharon, next he’s in Soul Ties whispering sweet nothings to Y/N. Bro’s a full-time shapeshifter. #CasualKing #CuddleContractRenewed”
Even Bucky lets out a quiet breath — part laugh, part groan.
The villa chuckles, but no one’s really laughing.
You don’t look at him. You just fold your arms across your chest tighter.
Then Trish pulls the next one — and you know from her expression before she even speaks that this one’s going to sting.
“I tried to feel bad for Y/N but girl… you let him embarrass you at the firepit and still kissed him? You’re not a victim. You’re a volunteer. #Embarrassing #HaveSomeSelfRespect”
It hits harder than you expect.
Hard enough that your stomach flips.
You breathe in slowly through your nose, eyes locked on the fire like it’s the only thing grounding you.
Karen reaches out, her hand brushing yours in a way that’s subtle but sure.
Ororo doesn’t speak, but her gaze is locked on Trish — and Trish suddenly looks a little uncomfortable holding the card.
Elektra, of course, can't help herself. “People are just saying what we’re all thinking,” she says lightly.
You turn your head slowly, finally looking at her. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Elektra smiles, tilting her head. “I didn’t write the tweets, babe.”
The air stills again. Even Bucky looks up now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally realizing how much this is costing you.
And the producers? They call it there — challenge over. Maybe it’s too real now. Maybe they got what they wanted.
You stand up slowly, brushing invisible dust off your legs, not looking at anyone as you walk off.
After The Challenge ❤️‍🩹
You find the far edge of the villa near the swing bench — not because it’s hidden, but because it’s just far enough from the cameras and the people and the noise. 
You sit with your hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing, your breath coming in that slow, numb way that only happens when you’ve stopped trying to fight the burn in your throat.
And then you hear his footsteps.
You don’t even have to look. The weight in the air changes when he’s around now.
Bucky doesn’t speak right away. He just stops a few feet away, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s even allowed to stand that close to you anymore.
You can feel his eyes on you — studying the way your shoulders are curled in slightly, how you’re blinking a little too often, trying to keep your face neutral.
He steps forward once.
You look up. Not all the way. Just enough to catch him in your periphery.
Your voice is soft. Frayed.
“Not now. Please.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Maybe he wasn’t expecting you to sound so… tired. Not angry. Not biting. Just done.
But then he speaks — quiet, almost like he’s trying not to scare you off.
“I just wanted to check on you.”
You shake your head once, still not looking directly at him. “Too late for that.”
“I know,” he says. “I know I’ve made all of this worse. I just… I didn’t see it until today. The way they’re coming for you. How it’s all landing on you instead of me.”
You finally look at him then. And it’s not with hate. It’s worse — it’s with that expression of someone who’s still holding onto the last sliver of something soft and hurt and doesn't know if it’s even worth it anymore.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you say. “I didn’t want a storyline or screen time or whatever the hell they think I’m doing. I just—” you stop yourself. The rest sits in your throat, unspoken.
He swallows, eyes searching yours. “I know. I’m not here to defend myself.”
You exhale slowly, like each breath is being pulled from your ribs.
“I can’t do this right now, Bucky.”
A pause. Then quieter:
“Please don’t make me.”
And that’s when it finally hits him — fully, deeply — that this isn’t just some tension to smooth over. This is a wound he’s responsible for. One you’ve bled from in silence while everyone else clapped and laughed and read tweets.
He nods once. Not in defeat. In understanding.
“I’ll give you space,” he says. “But I’m not gonna stop trying to make it right.”
You don’t answer. You just close your eyes for a second. And he walks away.
This time, he looks like the one carrying the weight.
Your Confessional 📹
You sit back in the chair, hoodie still on, strings pulled halfway tight around your face like you’re trying to disappear but couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. Your eyes are red-rimmed — not from sobbing, just worn out. Like sleep hasn’t found you in days.
For a second, you just sit there.
Then you huff a small laugh — not amused, not bitter. Just... tired. You shake your head and drag your hand down your face, pausing to press your fingers over your eyes for a moment, like maybe that’ll hold everything in place.
You drop your hand.
Look straight at the camera.
And smile — just barely.
“Apparently America hates me, which is unfortunate. But also kinda impressive, ‘cause America can’t hate me more than I hate myself right now.”
Your laugh is quiet, almost like it escaped by accident.
“No seriously, I got humiliated on national television, kissed the guy who humiliated me, then woke up to be called a messy queen by a Twitter handle named @/hornyforyourdad. Like. What the actual fuck am I doing.”
There’s no self-pity in your tone — just exhaustion. The kind that comes after feeling too much, too fast, for too long. You glance off camera, shrug once. 
“I should’ve just gone home yesterday. But I stayed. Because some part of me thought maybe…”
You stop. Then shake your head.
“Anyway. That’s on me.”
You exhale hard, sit up straighter, and give the camera one last deadpan look.
“Can I go now? Or do I have to read another tweet from someone who thinks I’m ruining feminism.”
Few Days Later — The Firepit 🌙🔥
Cue slow aerial shot of the villa under moonlight. Fairy lights twinkle across the patio. Wine glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too loud.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “The moon is shining. The water is warm. And the tension? Well, that’s about to boil over like Karen after three glasses of white wine and a poorly timed truth-or-dare…”
“After a few blissful days of silence — and by blissful I mean emotionally repressed — it’s time for another Love Island classic: America’s vote.”
Cut to a group text alert. Everyone’s phones buzz at once.
“Islanders, please gather around the firepit immediately.”
The islanders file in, uneasy. You’re not even trying to hide the exhaustion on your face anymore.
Ariana walks in, flawless as always, cards in hand and not a single strand of hair out of place.
“Good evening, islanders.”
They respond — quiet, respectful, nervous.
Ariana wastes no time.
“As you know, America has been voting for who they believe are the least compatible couples in the villa.”
She pauses, lets the silence build.
“The three with the fewest votes are…”
She looks at the card.
“…MJ and Peter.”
Peter stiffens. MJ exhales, muttering, “Knew it.”
“…Karen and Frank.”
Karen swallows hard, jaw tense. Frank says nothing.
“And the third… is Y/N.”
A few heads turn your way. You stare straight ahead. Expression flat. Not surprised.
The firepit glows soft and orange against the night, casting shadows across stiff shoulders and tense expressions. 
Everyone’s sitting upright, backs straight like posture might protect them from what’s coming. You stand with Karen and MJ on either side — the only three girls up for elimination.
Your hands rest neatly at your sides. You’re not shaking. You’re not crying. You’re past all that.
Ariana stands in front of you, perfectly lit, her expression calm but unreadably focused — the kind of expression that means this was not the production plan.
She scans the card again, then looks back up.
“As there are three girls standing here — and only one will be leaving tonight — the decision falls to the islanders.”
The villa goes dead silent. You can feel people looking at each other, calculating, already shifting.
You already know.
The moment Ariana says it’s down to the islanders, you know.
And that’s when you step forward.
Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just one clean step, like you’re simply ready to be done.
“Ariana,” you say, clearly.
She pauses — caught off guard. That never happens.
“Yes?”
You exhale, not even blinking. “Can I volunteer to be voted off?”
There’s an audible reaction. Not gasps — just stunned silence. The kind that comes when people don’t know what to say, because no one expected this to come out of your mouth.
Ariana blinks. “You want to… step forward?”
“Yeah,” you say. Still composed, still poised. “I’d rather go on my own than stand here while everyone pretends it’s not already decided.”
It erupts. Quiet gasps, some whispered “what?” s, one “nah, she’s not serious” from the back.
Karen, standing beside you, instantly shakes her head. “No—no. What? No. Don’t—”
You glance at her just once, soft but steady. “Kare. It��s fine.”
She’s already blinking too fast, her lips parted like she wants to argue, but she’s choking on the emotion. Her hand twitches like she wants to grab yours and hold you there.
Ororo, still seated across the firepit, has her hand over her mouth. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like watching someone walk into oncoming traffic in slow motion.
Ariana, still holding her cue card like it might save her, hesitates. “Are you sure?”
You nod once, then again. “Yeah.”
She takes a half step closer, voice quieter. “You don’t have to do this. You can wait for the vote. You still have people here.”
You let out the smallest breath, and you smile — just barely. Not a performance. Just the kind of smile people give when they’ve already made peace with something.
“Not enough of them.”
The air shifts. You’re not angry. You’re not bitter. You’re just done. And that honesty? It stings more than anything you could’ve shouted.
Ariana’s eyes scan you for a beat longer, like she’s trying to read something off you — trying to confirm you’re not breaking under the surface.
“Last chance to change your mind,” she says softly. “Are you sure?”
You nod again.
“I’m sure.”
The words land like a closing door. No one knows what to say.
Bucky hasn’t moved.
Karen’s face is crumpling now — barely holding it together. You feel her beside you, trembling.
Ororo finally lowers her hand from her mouth, jaw tense, eyes locked on you like she wants to get up and pull you away from this.
You’ve stepped forward. Ariana’s face has softened slightly — professional still, but there’s a flicker of something real in her voice now.
She looks at you one more time, calm, composed. “Well... if that’s your decision—”
“No.”
The word cuts through the night like glass.
Everyone turns.
Bucky’s standing now — two steps out from the bench, his jaw tight, eyes wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening even though he’s been watching it unravel for days.
“No,” he says again, louder now. His voice isn’t angry — it’s broken. “That’s not fair. She didn’t even let us vote. She just—she just stepped forward like it was already done.”
Ariana’s caught off guard again. Her brows lift. “Bucky—”
He keeps going, not hearing her. Not hearing anything.
“You don’t just get to decide that. You don’t get to stand up and walk out like you didn’t matter here. Like we were all gonna pick you without even thinking. You didn’t let us—you can't just leave.”
His voice is cracking, pitching up.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to say—”
He stops himself. But the words are still there, hanging in the silence like smoke.
Karen’s crying now. Not hiding it anymore. Shoulders shaking as she turns away, hand over her mouth.
You still haven’t turned to look at him.
Not yet.
Ariana glances between the two of you, then gently speaks again. “Bucky… she's made her choice.”
But he doesn’t move.
“I didn’t.”
His voice is softer now. Almost to himself.
“I didn’t choose right when I should have. And now she’s leaving before I get the chance to make it right?”
You finally look at him. Eyes rimmed red, but dry. And it’s not anger in your face.
It’s sadness.
Because maybe, just maybe, this is the first time he’s finally saying what you needed — but it’s three days, and a thousand cuts, too late.
You offer him something soft — something you’ve barely had left for yourself these past few days.
“It’s fine,” you say gently.
His head snaps a little, like you just told him the sky isn’t blue.
“No,” he says, voice sharp, shaky. “It’s not.”
He takes a step closer. Not crossing boundaries — just reacting like he physically can’t stand where he is anymore.
“You’re just—what? You’re gonna volunteer to go and act like that’s normal? Like we didn’t all just sit here stunned because no one was gonna pick you. Not a single person.”
You open your mouth, but he keeps going — not at you, for you.
“You think it’s fine because you’re tired. Because you’ve been carrying everything and everyone’s been letting you do it. But that doesn’t mean you deserve to walk out like you don’t belong here.”
His voice drops, quieter now, but tighter. Barely held together.
“You’re still here because people care about you. Because I care about you.”
That hangs in the air. No one moves.
The fire crackles behind you.
You inhale slowly.
The silence stretches long enough that everyone expects you might break.
But you don’t.
You steady your voice — not cold, not distant — just honest. Exhausted. Real.
“I want to go home.”
Bucky’s eyes flash — like he’s about to say something, but you raise your hand slightly, not to silence him, just to finish.
“I don’t want Karen to go,” you say, turning slightly toward her, just enough to feel her body trembling beside you. “She’s been solid since day one. She hasn’t played a single game. She deserves more time here.”
Karen’s hand covers her mouth again, and she shakes her head slightly, trying to stay quiet through it.
“And yeah,” you continue, with the hint of a wry smile, “me and MJ haven’t exactly braided each other’s hair this week. But she has a real connection. Peter has her back.”
You turn back to Ariana.
Your posture straightens — not stiff, just ready.
“This isn’t about who deserves to be punished. It’s about who has something left to do here. And I don’t.”
Your hands are at your sides. Your voice hasn’t cracked once.
Bucky’s chest rises again, and he opens his mouth — but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t speak.
Because what can he say?
You’ve already said it all. And this time, you’re not asking permission. You’re telling them.
You’ve just said your piece.
Your voice is steady. Your decision is clear.
And for a second — just a second — it feels like everyone might finally accept it.
Then Bucky exhales, sharp and short.
And says, “Okay.”
You glance at him — unsure what that means — but then he steps forward.
“I’m going too.”
There’s an audible reaction now. Not just gasps — full-on shock. Heads turning. Elektra's mouth drops. Sam sits forward like he's misheard.
Even Ariana’s expression cracks slightly. “Sorry—what?”
Bucky looks right at her. “I’m going with her.”
You blink — stunned. “Bucky.”
He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His eyes are locked on Ariana. “I’m not gonna stay here and watch her leave like she’s disposable. I’ve done enough of that already.”
Ariana raises her hand, trying to maintain order. “Bucky, this isn’t—”
“I know it’s not how it works,” he cuts in, voice firm but not aggressive. “But I’ve made up my mind.”
You step closer now, voice low and urgent. “You’re going to walk away from the villa for me? After everything?”
He nods once. No hesitation.
But you’re not moved — you’re panicking now, because you know what comes next if he leaves for you.
“You think this is romantic,” you say, eyes shining now, not with tears — with clarity. “But it’s not. This is adrenaline. This is guilt. You’re gonna step out of here, get one breath of air, and start resenting me for it.”
“I won’t,” he says, voice sharp.
“Yes, you will,” you snap, heart racing. “Because you didn’t finish what you started here. And when it all settles and you’re sitting at home thinking about what could’ve happened — you’ll look at me and wonder if I was worth it.”
His jaw tightens. “You are worth it.”
“Then prove it by staying.”
The firepit is dead silent now. No one dares breathe.
He steps forward again, closer now. Not aggressive — just desperate. Real.
“I don’t want a better connection,” he says, his voice cracking at the edge. “I don’t want to flirt around and see what’s out there. I want you.”
You close your eyes for a second, chest tight, trying to hold the line.
“Bucky,” you whisper. “This isn’t the time to figure that out.”
He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s the only time that’s ever mattered.”
The air between you is so charged it almost hurts to stand in it.
Ariana waits for a beat longer, giving you both space to speak — to come down, maybe.
But when neither of you moves, she straightens, the weight of production behind her now.
“I have to ask,” she says carefully, her voice as gentle as it’s ever been. “Y/N, Bucky — is this your final decision?”
She looks at you first, but you glance at Bucky.
He answers before you can.
“I’m going.”
The words come out clear. No hesitation. Just certainty — the kind that makes the rest of the firepit collectively freeze.
Ariana blinks. “Bucky…”
But he’s already stepping forward, standing beside you now. Fully.
“I made my choice too late the first time,” he says, looking at you. “I’m not doing that again.”
It’s real. You can see it in his face.
But then Sam stands up from the bench, shaking his head.
“Buck, man,” he says, voice low, not condescending — worried. “Just think about this. You’ve still got a spot here. Don’t throw it away on impulse.”
Logan joins him. “You guys need space to figure this out — not both get dumped on a firepit and regret it next week.”
Frank speaks up, surprisingly sincere. “This isn’t a movie, bro. It’s your life. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
Bucky doesn’t move.
“I know what I’m doing.”
He looks at you again, quieter now.
“And I’m not staying here without her.”
Sharon's hand is over her mouth again. Trish is leaning forward like she’s witnessing history unfold. Even MJ — lips pressed in a hard line — looks shaken.
You?
You’re just standing there, trying to hold it together while the man who let you fall is now trying to catch you, after you already hit the ground.
Ariana clears her throat once, a beat longer before speaking.
“Alright,” she says gently. “If you’re both sure, then you have thirty minutes to pack your things.”
You nod. Bucky nods.
And just like that — it's done.
Girl's Dressing Room 👜
The villa’s quieter now. Thirty minutes.
That’s all you’ve got left.
Your suitcase is already half-packed. The dressing room feels weirdly still — like even the lights are dimmer, like the walls are holding their breath with you. And Karen is sitting cross-legged beside it, absolutely no help, sniffling so hard she’s practically shaking the floor.
And then Ororo walks in.
She stops in the doorway, blinking fast like she meant to hold it together — and then just doesn’t.
“Bitch.”
That’s all she says before the tears start. She walks across the room with fire in her step and heartbreak in her chest.
“We walked into this place together,” she says, voice cracking as she reaches you. “You and me. Day one. First step through the door.”
Her arms wrap around you so tight it’s like she’s trying to anchor you there.
You’ve been stone-faced for hours. Holding it in. Keeping it neat.
But the second you hear her voice crack, your whole chest caves in.
You don’t say anything — just bury your face into her neck and let go. Sobs shake out of you like they’ve been waiting for permission. You nod against her shoulder, helpless, clinging.
“I know,” you whisper. “Rori, I know.”
She tightens her grip. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not letting you go like this. Not like this.”
Karen’s still on the floor beside your suitcase, full-on crying now, her hands fumbling with a half-folded dress like maybe if she just packs slow enough you won’t really leave.
“I’m so mad at you,” she says through a laugh-sob. “But I love you so much.”
You drop to your knees with her, still holding Ororo, and Karen just throws herself forward into your arms, the three of you wrapped up in one heap of heartbreak and mascara.
In The Bedroom 🏠
The crying from the dressing room is so loud it’s echoing through the villa.
Frank’s lying on his bed, pillow over his face. “Blondie is trying to zip herself into that girl's suitcase.”
Logan’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. “And Storm’s gripping her like she’s got a death grip on a limited edition Birkin.”
They all pause for a second as another wave of sobs carries across the villa walls.
“Damn it,” Logan mutters.
At the end of the row, Sam’s still talking to Bucky, voice low but tense. “Man, just think about it. You walk out now, you’re done. You don’t even know what this is yet. You haven’t figured it out.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bag already half-packed.
His tone is calm. Clear.
“If my girl’s leaving,” he says, zipping his suitcase, “then I’m leaving.”
By The Docks🌙🏝️
The sky is velvet blue now. The moon hangs low over the water, casting silver light across the still surface. It’s quiet — quiet enough that you can hear your own breathing.
Bucky’s already waiting at the end of the dock.
Shoulders tense. Hands in his pockets. But when he hears your footsteps, he turns.
And the second he sees your face, his softens. You’ve cried too much to pretend now. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes red and shining. You don’t even bother wiping them this time.
You stop in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow.
“Are you sure?” you ask, voice raw. “Like really sure.”
He steps forward immediately, hands reaching up — one settling on your shoulder, the other rubbing gently at your upper arm.
“I’m sure.”
You shake your head, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this for me, Buck. I’m not asking you to.”
He nods. “I know.”
You look up at him, hands trembling slightly as you press your palms flat to his chest — not pushing him away, just holding him there.
“This could ruin everything,” you whisper.
He exhales through his nose, then cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the damp corner of your eye.
“I don’t care,” he says quietly. “You’ve been the only thing in this villa that’s ever felt real. And if I stay, I’m not just losing you — I’m staying in something that never meant shit without you in it.”
You press your forehead into his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the emotion from swallowing you whole. His hands stay steady on your shoulders, rubbing soft, grounding circles into your skin like he’s trying to remind your body to breathe.
“I just don’t want you to regret this,” you say, voice muffled, trembling. “Staying would mean a real chance for you. New connections. A shot at the money. Everything.”
Bucky exhales — deep, slow — like he’s been holding that thought in too.
“That’s exactly why I’m not staying,” he says.
You look up, confused through the blur in your vision.
“If I stayed,” he continues, “it’d mean I’d have to explore more connections. Get to know more girls. Do the whole thing again.”
He pauses, gaze locked with yours, calm but serious now.
“I don’t want another connection,” he says. “I just want you.”
Your breath catches. It’s not sweet-talk. It’s not a line. It’s just true.
“But what about the money?” you ask, your voice thin, eyes searching his face for something — logic, doubt, anything.
He lets out a small laugh — not dismissive, just almost surprised that it still matters to anyone.
“I don’t care about the 100K,” he says, gently brushing his hand along the back of your neck. “What would I even do with it if I lost the one thing that made being here worth it?”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tears welling again despite yourself. “You’re gonna ruin your chance.”
He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’d rather leave here broke and with you than win it all and feel empty as hell every time I go to bed.”
You let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt now, and he just holds you tighter.
“You’ve carried this whole thing alone,” he whispers. “Let me carry the rest with you.”
You’re still wrapped in his arms, hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot and silent now as they slip down your cheeks.
You’ve fought so hard to be strong, to be rational, to not let this mess define you — and now here he is, undoing every wall you built with one truth after another.
Bucky leans back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His hand comes up to gently brush a tear away from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing the feel of you.
He’s quiet for a second.
Then he says it.
“I didn’t choose you once.”
You freeze.
“And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”
His voice isn’t trembling anymore. It’s solid. Certain.
“I’m not making that mistake again.”
You look at him — really look at him — and you know this time, he means every word.
This isn’t about guilt. It’s not about saving face.
It’s about finally showing up. And this time… he did choose you. Out loud. In front of everyone. No hesitation.
Your lip trembles as you pull your gaze away from him, turning your face slightly — not because you don’t believe him, but because it’s too much. Too much love, too much regret, too much truth.
You lift a hand quickly, trying to wipe your face, get it together — keep the illusion of being okay just a little longer.
But he notices.
He always notices.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky says softly.
You shake your head, still turned slightly, but he lifts his hand — slow, careful — and gently guides your chin back toward him.
“Don’t hide your face from me,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes never leave yours. “Not now. Lemme see you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, your defenses crumbling all over again — not from his touch, but from his attention. The way he’s looking at you like you're the only person in the world who matters.
And for once… you let him see all of it.
Even the tears. Even the fear. Even the hope that maybe — just maybe — this isn’t the end.
You’re still holding his gaze, breathing uneven, heart thudding against your ribcage like it’s trying to get to him first.
He brushes his thumb gently over your jaw, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves nearby.
“Can I kiss you?”
It’s so quiet — the kind of question that feels like a vow.
You nod, almost instantly, but there’s a hitch in your breath as you do. A soft, shaky little exhale slips out of you, part laugh, part hiccup — like even this feels surreal.
Your hands lift, instinctively, fingers grazing his face — one cupping his cheek, the other resting just under his jaw. His stubble brushes your skin, grounding you. This is real.
He leans in slowly, eyes on your mouth for a breath longer than he should. His hand finds the back of your neck, warm and steady, thumb sliding just beneath your hairline.
And then finally — finally — his lips meet yours.
It starts soft. Delicate.
Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by rushing.
He kisses you like he has all the time in the world — like he wants to undo every moment you felt unwanted, like he’s trying to rewrite all the nights you cried.
But then? You kiss him back. And it changes.
You press into him with something that isn’t just relief — it’s heat. Desperate. Your hands move up into his hair, threading through it as you pull him closer. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, his other hand gripping your waist now, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.
The kiss deepens — no longer slow, no longer sweet. It’s breathless now. Messy. Full of everything you’ve been holding back.
Your mouth parts and he takes the invitation without hesitation — tongue meeting yours in a rhythm that’s equal parts apology and promise.
He’s kissing you like he can’t get close enough.
And you’re kissing him like you’ve waited too damn long.
You pull back slightly, both of you still breathless, lips tingling. You try to catch your breath, your fingers still lightly curled in his shirt, chest rising and falling as you laugh softly.
“I can’t even think straight,” you murmur, voice barely a whisper.
Bucky just looks at you — eyes flickering down to your mouth again, lips parted like he’s considering whether to let you finish that thought.
And then he makes the decision for both of you.
He leans back in without warning and steals another kiss — not soft this time. Hungry.
His mouth crashes into yours, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. His tongue slides deep into your mouth like he’s claiming every inch of you, tasting you like he wants to burn this moment into his memory.
His hands find your body again — rougher now, more confident. One grips the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. The other drops to your waist, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like he needs you pressed to him.
You let out a soft moan, completely overtaken, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as your back arches instinctively under his touch. He groans low in his throat when you push up against him, like you just knocked the last bit of restraint out of him.
Your fingers claw lightly at the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your balance, your lips moving with his like you’re starved — like you’ve both been craving this too long and now it’s spilling out of you all at once.
When he finally pulls back — just barely — his mouth lingers near yours, breathing heavy.
You blink at him, dazed, your lips wet and parted, and let out a breathless laugh.
“Okay,” you whisper, dazed. “Now I really can’t think straight.”
He smiles, breath still ragged. “Good.”
Your Confessional 📹
You’re sitting alone on the velvet bench, the light soft and warm on your skin. For the first time in days, your shoulders aren’t slumped. There’s no hoodie. No deep sigh. No tears.
You look like you again.
And even though you try — really try — not to smile… you fail miserably.
A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you bite your lip, cheeks lifting as your eyes flicker off-camera, bashful but glowing. You shake your head slightly.
“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
You look right at the camera now, eyes bright.
“I’m getting dumped from Love Island…”
You shrug, smile growing.
“…and I’ve never felt lighter in my life.”
There’s something warm behind your eyes now — not fire, not anger — just peace. Peace that only comes after surviving the storm and finding something real in the wreckage.
You pause, playing with the hem of your dress as you lean forward, elbows on your knees.
“For days, it felt like I was trying to hold the world up on my own. Carrying the silence. The judgment. Even trying to protect him.”
You glance down, your smile softening into something deeper now.
“And then… he chose me.”
You say it quietly. Like it still doesn’t feel real.
“But not like ‘I pick you in the next recoupling’ kinda way. I mean, actually chose me.”
Your voice thickens slightly, in the best way.
“Walked away from the game. The connections. The hundred grand. For me.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“This was the ultimate choice. And he didn’t flinch.”
You lean back now, more relaxed than you’ve been the entire season. A sparkle in your eye.
“I’m leaving broke. Dumped. Probably roasted on Twitter.”
You purse your lips trying to contain your smile.
“But I’m also walking out with Bucky Barnes’ hand in mine.”
You glance sideways, that cheeky grin sneaking back in full force.
“And I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a win to me.”
Villa – Main Walkway 🌴
You and Bucky stand just at the top of the stairs.
His fingers lace with yours, firm, warm. You give him one last glance — that kind of look that says are we really doing this? — and he just squeezes your hand tighter.
Yeah. You are.
And then the two of you start walking.
The lights lining the path glow soft gold, like the villa itself is quietly watching you go. The islanders are still gathered at the firepit — Karen’s sniffling again, Ororo’s got her arms crossed like she’s proud and pissed, and the boys are quiet, even Frank, for the first time ever.
But you don’t look back.
Not once.
Because this exit? It’s about moving forward.
With him.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “Ah yes, there they go… Bucky and Y/N. The emotional damage duo.”
The camera cuts to a slow-mo of you both walking in sync, fingers tightly interlocked, the music swelling underneath like something off a season finale soundtrack.
“Dumped by America, walked out by choice, left the hundred grand behind — but gained a man who finally learned how to use his heart instead of his… well, other assets.”
Cut to Bucky opening the gate for you — a tiny, stupidly sweet gesture — and you walking through first, glancing at him with a smirk.
“They say love is a battlefield. But in this villa? Apparently, it’s a firepit, a daybed, one tweet challenge, and emotional devastation wrapped in lip gloss and jawlines.”
The final shot catches your intertwined hands, backs to camera, walking into the night — away from the lights, the drama, the game.
Together.
“Will they make it on the outside? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: they’ve just delivered the most dramatic exit since Natasha tried to storm out in 9-inch heels”
The gate closes behind you.
Cue black screen.
Tumblr media
The Girliesss (in case people didnt understand my love island multiverse): Ororo Munroe (X-Men), you, Karen Page (Daredevil). Trish Walker (Jessica Jones), Elektra Natchios (Daredevil), MJ Watson (Spiderman)
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Bucky Barnes Taglist:
@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @byhuenii @rollsonrollss @shookethslut @a9053 @jasontoddswhitestreak @iah1606 @timelylovergirl @doperebelgoopland @fatlin-23 @500daysofhannah @grovelingmen
those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(
994 notes · View notes