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shortnfreaky · 7 days ago

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a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter [coming soon]

You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to exist in a space that felt suddenly… normal. And then, because your stomach growled before you could think of an excuse, you nodded and stepped in.

Joaquin talked about the grocery store being out of oat milk again, about some neighbour who kept confusing him with his own cousin, and about music. He didn't ask who you were or why you were here. That made it easier.

You ate quietly, letting the rhythm of his voice fill the silence.

When Sam walked in, the room changed. Not with tension—not like it had with Bucky—but with a kind of quiet awareness. He froze in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the table, a plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you, a rare flicker of something soft brushing across his face before he caught it and cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, nodding.

You nodded back, unsure if you were more startled by how natural this felt… or by the way Sam looked at you. Like he was trying not to look too long.

He joined you at the table, grabbed a coffee, and the three of you sat like a real group of roommates — almost.

But even as you smiled faintly at something Joaquin said, you felt it: Sam was watching you more closely than before. Like he wanted to say something, he hadn’t quite found the right words for.

The eggs were almost gone. Joaquin had started poking fun at your lack of hot sauce tolerance, making exaggerated wheezing noises every time you reached for your water. You rolled your eyes, but the amusement was genuine — fleeting, but real.

Sam watched the exchange with a half-smile, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he was cataloguing something in his mind.

“Hey, Joaquin?” he said suddenly, voice steady but layered.

Joaquin glanced over, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Can we get a minute?”

Joaquin blinked. Then his eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression comically exaggerated. “Ooooh. Private talk. Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “It’s not—”

He was already standing. “Hey, I support emotionally mature conversations. You want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything, I will. You want me to eavesdrop through the wall, also doable.”

“Joaquin,” Sam said, a warning threaded through the name.

“Going, going,” Joaquin grinned, walking backwards toward the hall. “If either of you cry, I want a full recap.”

You huffed a breath through your nose. Sam waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet again. Then he turned back to you.

He leaned his elbows on the table, hands laced together.

“I opened my home to you,” he said quietly. “I gave you a safe place. I know it’s only your second day here, but you know I’m on your side. I need two favours from you. I want you to know, they aren’t conditional. You don’t have to answer. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. But I also need you to consider doing the right thing.”

You looked at your plate, then slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“I need the truth,” he said. “About your powers.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The truth. The weight of it. The danger in it. Sam was right. You knew what the right thing was. You knew he deserved to hear it.

You swallowed. “I’ve had them… for as long as I can remember.”

Sam didn’t blink.

“Most of the time, it’s just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put it into words that wouldn’t make you sound unhinged—crazy, even. “I can see people’s emotions. Auras. I can feel things — what’s coming, what’s hidden. It’s instinct, but stronger. Like… something crawling under my skin.”

“And the rest of the time?”

You met his eyes.

“Sometimes I spiral,” you said. “Sometimes it’s not just reading emotions. Sometimes I feel this… surge. A force. I can predict people. Their moves. Their lies. I can see through them. And if it gets loud. Too loud…I…”

Sam leaned back a little. Not away — just adjusting. Digesting.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with it?”

You didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Sam looked down, nodding once. Then he spoke, voice calm but weighted. “There’s a war in space.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“The New Avengers know. Joaquin knows. The government knows. It’s not public, and it’s not simple, but it’s coming. And if it’s already happening above the atmosphere, it could be a matter of days—weeks, even, before it comes to Earth. We don’t have enough people ready for what’s next. And I need all the help I can get.”

You stared at him. “So this is a recruitment speech?”

“This is me telling you the truth. Which leads to my second favour…” He leaned forward again, tone shifting into something firmer, something that settled into your bones. “I don’t want to sign Bucky’s peace treaty. I don’t trust it. But we both know I’m going to do it. For the greater good. Because we don’t have time for egos,” He paused. “And I’m asking you to do the same. Join us.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more for comfort than defiance.

“You want me to be an Avenger?” You bit your lip, looking down at the table. The proposition made your stomach twist with unspoken anxiety.

“Have you ever wanted to be more?” Sam asked softly. “Because now’s your chance. You’ve already survived so much. But if you step up, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have purpose.”

You looked at him. The man who’d picked you up off the street and offered you warmth and protection. A home.

“I’m not a hero,” you said quietly.

Being an Avenger was your brother's dream, not yours.

Sam smiled, just a little. “Neither was I. Until Steve gave me the chance to be. Now, I’m giving you that chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. But something shifted in your chest. The tiniest spark of belief.

And when Sam stood and grabbed the treaty folder from the counter, you didn’t stop him.

You watched him sign it.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered what it would feel like to stop running — and start becoming.

────✪────

The ride to Avengers Tower was quiet—not tense, but contemplative. Sam sat in the front, flipping through the treaty folder. You didn’t get a chance to read it for yourself, but you had gathered that they were filled with terms authored by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine herself, chairman of O.X.E. and figurehead of the New Avengers. You remembered yesterday, Sam’s passing comment about her being Bucky’s girlfriend.

That had to have been a joke.

Joaquin, in the backseat beside you, kept trying to lighten the mood with whispered jokes and dramatic gasps every time the tower came into view.

“Ever been in the Tower before?” he asked, nudging you.

You shook your head. “No, this is all very new to me.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Brace yourself. It's like a reality show in there. But with superpowers and less shame. Maybe.”

“Torres, you haven’t even been to the tower before,” Sam snickered, shaking his head. Joaquin’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink, and you quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Forgive me for trying to impress the lady,” Joaquin grumbled. “Okay, I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“I imagine it’s very different now, compared to what it was like when I lived there with Tony, Steve and the rest of them.”

“I would have loved to be part of that.” Joaquin hummed, his eyes filled with dream and longing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” Sam reflected with a small smile upon his lips.

The car pulled up to the glass entrance, sleek and towering, the A emblazoned above the doors like a warning more than a welcome. Security scanned your faces — or rather, Sam’s — and let you in.

Inside, it was exactly as Joaquin promised.

Before you could say a word, someone shouted.

“Yelena, stop putting gum in John’s helmet!”

“I’m conducting an experiment!”

“Your experiment almost took out my peripheral vision!”

“Maybe use your brain instead of your biceps for once, huh?”

From across the lobby, a burly man with a strong Russian accent called out, “Does anyone know where I put my beer? It is emotional support.”

You blinked.

Sam sighed beside you. “Welcome to the New Avengers.”

A woman with sharp, blonde hair and electric blue eyeliner passed by, muttering under her breath and typing furiously into a tablet. “I swear to God if Bob drops those milkshakes again—”

Right on cue, a clatter, broken glass and milkshake all over the pinewood floor. Bob, you assumed, stood with wide eyes, examining the mess he had made with an almost delayed response. Again? This wasn’t the first time he had done this?

“Why did you even make so many milkshakes?” Yelena sighed, already grabbing a mop to clean the mess.

“Bucky said we might have guests,” Bob replied, looking genuinely disappointed that his time making milkshakes had been wasted.

“Oh my god,” you murmured.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Joaquin whispered, clearly delighted.

And then, amidst the chaos, a familiar figure appeared — Bucky Barnes. Standing at the top of the stairs in full tactical gear, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes swept over the three of you, stopping on you for half a second longer than necessary.

He descended slowly, calculated and unreadable.

“Nice of you to show,” he said to Sam. “Been waiting.”

Sam held up the signed treaty. “Got what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t smile. But he did take the folder, nodding once.

Then his eyes returned to you. Just for a breath.

You met his gaze and said nothing.

Because whatever this was — truce, alliance, manipulation — it wasn’t over. And Bucky Barnes wasn’t just an Avenger.

He was your enemy.

And now you were on his team.

Bucky led the three of you through a winding corridor of glass and steel, toward a meeting room tucked behind reinforced doors. He hadn’t said a word since taking the treaty, and you were fine with that. The less you had to hear his voice, the better.

Still, you could feel his presence — heavy, watchful, tense. And it made your skin crawl.

Joaquin gave you a sympathetic look as the doors closed behind the four of you. “This feels like being summoned to the principal’s office,” he whispered, earning a glare from Bucky that only made him grin wider. “Yup, confirmed.”

Sam ignored them both and took a seat at the table, gesturing for you to do the same. You hesitated — only a beat — before sitting across from Bucky. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages, then set it aside.

“The team’s unstable,” Bucky said bluntly, addressing Sam. “We’re barely functioning. Half the government wants to shut us down. The other half wants to use us as weapons. This treaty… it’s not just a co-leadership agreement. It’s our last shot at legitimacy.”

Sam nodded. “That’s why I signed it. But you know, I still don’t trust the system behind it. This whole thing is like the Accords all over again. Everything that we fought against.”

“I was on Steve’s side that day, regardless of his beliefs. I didn’t care for the politics. Kinda had my own shit going on.” Bucky sighed, running his metal hand through his wavy hair. The metallic black caught a sliver of light and sparkled under the afternoon sun.

“Which is how it’s always been,” Sam frowned. There was that look again. The betrayal. If you hadn’t known any better, you might have thought that Sam and Bucky were ex-lovers, going through the breakup of the century. The tension in the room was sharper than a knife. “You saying you’re okay with being under the control of Val, Congressman?”

“No. No. And I’m not a Congressman anymore,” Bucky corrected like it was an extremely important detail he had to defend himself from. “You know me. You know what I’m trying to do here.”

Sam nodded briefly, something in his face softening. You read his aura, and it glowed with faith. Belief. Hope. “I still don't trust this.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky admitted. “But I trust you.”

Silence settled between them. You watched closely — the decades of history between them pressing into every glance, every pause. There was something unspoken there. Something heavy.

“Then let’s get to work,” Sam said. “She’s in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “You sure?”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the bench.”

“Good,” Bucky muttered, standing. “You start training tomorrow. Physical and tactical.”

“With you?” you asked, unable to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“Problem?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Guess I’ll just have to lower my expectations.”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning to leave.

Sam caught your gaze as the door closed behind him. “He’s rough around the edges,” he said. “But he means well.”

You didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

You had a personal mission. And this was only the beginning.

You were still sitting at the conference table when the door slammed open like a bad sitcom entrance.

“Lena said she’s ordering Chinese food,” Bob announced, stepping inside with the grace of a golden retriever on roller skates. “Anyone staying for dinner?”

Joaquin leaned forward immediately. “Does that include dumplings? Because if so—hell yes.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I could eat.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the door that Bucky left from. You were still recovering from sharing air with the man, let alone sweet and sour chicken.

But... maybe you needed to see what you were up against.

“Sure,” you murmured.

Bob smiled. “Great. Fun. Exciting. Oh! I can make you a milkshake too, if you’d like. I can do vanilla or chocolate, or strawberry. But not banana. They don’t blend properly because John freezes them. And come to think of it, someone keeps hiding the strawberries from me.”

“What do you mean, someone is hiding the strawberries from you?” Sam asked, puzzled with a hint of mild concern. Not concerned for the strawberries, but for Bob.

“I’ve said too much,” Bob stilled. “Gotta run!”

And with that, he was gone, practically leaving an air of smoke behind him.

“I can’t believe this is the team Bucky formed,” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right?” Joaquin grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone.”

────✪────

When the sun set, The Avengers Tower common room looked more like a college dorm—empty takeout containers already littered the table, and someone (Alexei) had managed to crack a fortune cookie clean in half before opening it.

You were seated on the oversized sectional with a plate of noodles in your lap, wedged between Yelena—who kept stealing your spring rolls with zero shame—and Joaquin, who had already named three different sauces after himself and started rating them out loud.

“I call this one ‘Torres Tang,’” he said, holding up a little cup of neon orange sauce. “Sweet with a kick. Just like me.”

Bob laughed so hard he choked on his dumpling. Ava handed him a bottle of water without looking up from her phone.

Sam had taken the big armchair like some kind of dad overseeing chaos. Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, mostly silent, mostly brooding, chopsticks barely touched.

And somehow, somehow, it didn’t feel as tense anymore. You were still wary. Still watching him. But the noise helped. The food helped.

Empty, grease-stained boxes were scattered about, chopsticks poked out of rice bowls at odd angles, and someone had already spilt duck sauce on the rug (Bob, according to Yelena, who’d ratted him out instantly).

You were half-listening as Alexei brought over a full bottle of vodka—his contribution to the evening.

“Let’s make it fun,” he said, plopping it down with a loud thud. “One shot for every ‘Never Have I Ever.’ If you have, you drink. If you lie, I will know.”

“Dad… this is so weird.” Yelena groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You're terrifying,” Joaquin said with an impressed whistle, already reaching for a shot glass.

Alexei didn’t use one. He took a clean swig from the bottle and grinned like it was water.

You blinked.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. “Is that even safe?”

“No,” Ava answered without looking up from her phone. “But here we are.”

“Russia’s finest,” Alexei smirked, licking his lips. “Me, not the Vodka. I got this from Walmart,” He nudged you, and you looked at him with a hardened yet confused expression. “I was Russia’s answer to Captain America, you know? They call me the Red Guardian,” He flexed his bicep. “Touch it.”

“I uh—“ you glanced around the room. Yelena looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Bucky watched, his stare unreadable as usual. And Joaquin was beaming, amused, like this was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen. “No, thank you.”

“One day, you will touch it,” Alexei smiled, proud. “100 percent super soldier serum coursing through my veins. You see how I am much bigger than these two?” He gestured to John and Bucky. “That’s the vodka.”

“The serum actually went to his head and made him delusional,” John said pointedly. “I can bench press 600kg. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand for you to shake, but you just looked at it, speechless and slightly disturbed.

“Can you guys stop being so odd, you’re gonna make her run away,” Ava warned before mouthing an ‘I’m sorry’ in your direction. You smiled, grateful for her comfort.

You had no plans on running away, and in all honesty, you weren’t really that creeped out. You’d dealt with a lot worse, like Shane and some of the men who frequented McCready’s bar. Because of that, you were quick to realise that these guys were no more than just a simple group of harmless misfits. And for the first time, you felt like you could fit in with them. Besides, you were certainly confident that they weren’t going to harm you, and that counted for something.

Everyone settled into positions on the sectional. Sam had taken a seat in the armchair, casually draped like he wasn’t watching every interaction in the room. But you felt it. The way his gaze drifted to you more than once. Not heavy, not unwelcome — just steady. Soft. Like he was trying to read you.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you.

His drink was untouched at first. But when Alexei took his second swig, Bucky gave a quiet sigh and knocked his own shot back. No flinch. No change in expression. You had no idea what kind of alcohol tolerance came with a super soldier serum, but whatever it was, it was intimidating.

“Okay!” Yelena bounced beside you, already a little flushed, a little chaotic. “Never Have I Ever—uh—crashed a government vehicle!”

You stared as Bob, Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, and Alexei all drank.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Sam gave you a sheepish shrug. “It happens.”

“More often than it should,” Ava muttered.

“I’ve never even driven a government vehicle.” You revealed, almost feeling a little left out.

“Don’t worry,” Yelena grinned at you. “You’ll get there.”

Another round.

“Never have I ever... kissed a teammate,” Ava said, a coy little smile playing on her lips.

Joaquin drank immediately.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t explain. Joaquin just leaned into you and whispered, “Regret nothing.”

You didn’t drink. But you did feel two sets of eyes on you.

Sam’s—quiet, full of something like concern or curiosity.

And Bucky’s.

His was different. His stare settled against your skin like a spark. It crawled across your collarbone, dragged over your throat, and stayed. Hot and unmoving. You didn’t dare look back.

You felt your face warm — maybe from the shot, maybe from something else.

“I need another drink,” you muttered and reached for the bottle.

“Atta girl,” Joaquin said, clinking his glass against yours. “Let’s ruin our livers together.”

You laughed. Too loud. You were getting tipsy, and Yelena wasn’t helping — giggling as she told stories about “murder yoga” and missions gone wrong. Joaquin kept the mood light, telling stories about Sam and Red-Wing.

“Who’s Red-Wing?” You asked with a slight stumble over your words.

“Oh, you’re gonna love him, he’s adorable.” Sam beamed proudly.

“He’s like… your dog?”

Joaquin laughed at your suggestion.

“No! He’s my surveillance and reconnaissance drone!” Sam answered, taking a swig of beer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Even John Walker got into the discussion, though he was a loud, cocky drunk. Every time he spoke, you wanted to toss an egg roll at his head.

Alexei, on the other hand, drank like a man built to survive nuclear winters. You were genuinely impressed he was still upright. He did, however, disappear to pee every ten minutes.

And somehow, Bucky had knocked back three shots without blinking. But he had been so quiet all night. You wondered if this was normal for him.

When it was your turn, you found yourself blurting it out before thinking:

“Never have I ever… felt like I belonged on a team.”

The room went still for a beat too long.

Everyone drank, except you.

Yelena bumped your arm. “That’s because you haven’t had us yet. These guys aren’t just team mates, they’re family. And we hope that, now you join us, you'll feel the same.”

You smiled. A little. But your fingers tightened around your glass.

You wanted to believe her.

And as your eyes flicked across the room—to the quiet kindness in Sam’s, to the electric weight of Bucky’s—you wondered if, for once, you finally might.

The chaos had dulled. Yelena had passed out sideways on the couch, her braid tangled in a takeout box. Ava and Alexei disappeared an hour ago—something about a chessboard and bad Russian soap operas. Bob wandered off humming a lullaby in a different language.

Sam was at the door, pulling on his jacket while Joaquin tried to find both his shoes.

“I told you to keep them on,” Sam muttered, exasperated.

“They were cramping my style,” Joaquin replied, wobbling dramatically with one sock on. “Besides, Yelena dared me to do a split.”

Sam gave you a look like this is my life now.

You grinned, maybe a little dazed, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen. The vodka had crept up on you with slow fingers, leaving your limbs warm and your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk, but you were hovering somewhere on the ledge between honesty and recklessness.

“You good?” Sam asked softly, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just need to cool off. And maybe drink a gallon of water.”

Sam gave your shoulder a squeeze, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Don’t disappear tonight.”

You blinked. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes lingered, warm and heavy. Like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. “Call me if you need anything. You know that, right?”

You nodded again, trying to pretend you didn’t feel the heat of his hand even after he let go.

Joaquin blew you a kiss on his way out. “Don’t let the assassin bite.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re thinking of Yelena.”

“Same energy,” he called, already halfway out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

And then you realized you weren’t alone.

You turned — and found him there.

Bucky Barnes.

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You stiffened.

Of course he’d be the last one standing.

The buzz of alcohol still coursed through you, making everything feel a little lighter, a little less sharp. You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the chaotic energy of the night, but your mind had begun to drift in and out of clarity.

You slid off the counter, intending to steady yourself, but the room suddenly tilted, and you stumbled forward, your feet tangled up in the wayward stretch of your own legs.

Before you could hit the ground, there was a hand on your arm, warm and steady. Then another, pulling you back up with an ease that made your stomach flip. His chest was hard beneath your palm, his muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip, the heat of his body surrounding you like a wall.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed your hand a little firmer against him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth and strength underneath. He smelled like soap, leather, and something faintly metallic — unmistakable.

You slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a split second, you forgot where you were. The intensity of his gaze—blues that seemed to see right through you—made your heart flutter uncomfortably. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t look away.

"Got you," he muttered, steadying you, his voice low.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him. How alive you felt in the space between you.

There was a moment of stillness. A breath.

"Are you... reading my aura?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though it carried a hint of teasing.

You tilted your head, eyes locking onto him, your lips parting slightly. "No, I'm just looking at you."

The words came out before you could stop them, and immediately, the flush of heat spread across your face. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt when he adjusted his hold, how his eyes flickered for a second—soft, startled. Almost shy.

And then, just like that, you saw it. The faintest blush creeping up his neck. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time tonight, he seemed... off-balance. The man who had walked into every room like he owned it, now suddenly unsure of himself. It felt like power. Like control slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t help but smirk at that, though your head spun slightly, making it harder to focus.

"Didn't mean to make you self-conscious," you said, your voice a little slurred.

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "No... you didn’t. Just... wasn't expecting that."

You both stood there for a beat, caught in the weird energy hanging between you. He still hadn’t let go, though you didn’t know if it was because you were still too wobbly to stand or because he was hesitant to break the tension. Either way, you didn’t pull away. The air felt thick, charged, and you could sense it—there was something about him that made you feel like you were about to do something you weren’t quite ready for.

But then, in a sudden shift, Bucky cleared his throat, letting go of your arm but standing close enough that you could still feel the heat radiating from him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward, opened the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He held it out to you without a word.

You eyed it like it might explode.

“I’m not gonna poison you,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Reluctantly, you took the bottle from his hand. Your fingers brushed his glove. Static popped between your skin. You pulled back too fast.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you twist the cap, take a long sip, and then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes on you. Focused. Cautious.

Like he was trying to piece you together.

“I guess tonight we learned that you shouldn’t mix vodka and Chinese food,” he murmured.

“Smartass. I’m fine. You sound like an Avenger,” you shot back. You weren’t even sure what you meant by that, or where the relevance was. Maybe you were also reminding yourself that you were an Avenger now, too.

“I am one.” He deadpanned.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sighed.

He flinched—just a flicker of something in his jaw, something regretful—but didn’t fight you on it.

“You still hate me,” he said.

You looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretched, soft and brittle.

You hated how nice the water felt. How steady he was, even when you didn’t want to trust him. He hadn’t tried anything. He hadn’t said anything clever or smug. Just… stood there. Let you exist in your tired, tipsy state without pushing.

“I can get you a cab,” he offered after a moment. “Or you can crash here. We’ve got spare rooms.”

“Why are you being so—” you stopped. Swallowed. “Why are you trying to take care of me?”

He held your gaze. “I just… I don’t know,” he looked away. “We’re family now. And family takes care of each other.”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say something cruel. Wanted to twist the knife, remind him of your brother, of what he did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t feel like spiralling tonight.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Bucky hadn’t moved. You were still clutching the cold water bottle like it was a lifeline, and for once, he didn’t feel like a threat. Just a quiet presence, filling the silence without demanding anything from you.

You hated how easy it was to let your shoulders relax around him.

“I guess I’m just not used to this,” you muttered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Used to what?”

“Someone… noticing,” you said, voice low, almost embarrassed.

His blue eyes softened.

“I don’t need it, by the way,” you added quickly. “I’ve been fine on my own.”

Unlike Sam, Bucky didn’t contradict you. Didn’t say that doesn’t sound fine.

He just stayed quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised a brow. “Cold-blooded killer with a vibranium arm and a brooding attitude?”

“That’s not… entirely wrong,” you smirked faintly, despite yourself. “But you’re less of an asshole than I imagined.”

He chuckled, just once. A real one, deep and unexpected. “High praise.”

You took another drink of your water. Bucky watched. “What kind of name is Bucky, anyway? It’s kind of dumb.”

“My name is James,” He revealed, and something in you shifted at the revelation. A sliver of his personal life. “My sister was called Rebecca, and we called her Becky. My middle name is Buchanan, so my folks called me Bucky. Becky and Bucky.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” Bucky corrected. “Being 111 years old means I don’t really have much family left.”

“Oh," Ditto. "So you’re really old. Like, older than my grandpa…”

Bucky frowned.

“Do super soldiers die?” You pondered out loud.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How does one kill a super soldier?” You giggled through the water bottle, enjoying the sudden confidence that the alcohol had instilled in you.

“You’ve had way too much vodka,” Bucky huffed under his breath, extending his hand and having it hover over your shoulder, like he was afraid to touch you.

“No, no no no, trust me, if I were sober I’d be asking the same questions.” You laughed harder this time. Bucky stood there, watching you, confused, but then he finally let his hand rest upon you, and you let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.

"Come on," he said, a little more briskly, though his voice had the same softness as before. "Let's get you to bed. You need water."

You blinked, still a little dizzy, but nodded. "I’m fine," you protested, but the words felt like they slipped out half-heartedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

The two of you walked quietly back into the living room, but you didn’t miss the way his hand floated just a little too close to your back, as though it might reach out again if you needed it.

But you didn’t need it. Or did you?

You weren’t sure.

You followed him down the corridor. The tower was dim, most of the lights on a motion sensor timer. You could still hear someone’s snores echoing faintly—probably Alexei, given the volume.

He stopped at a door and opened it for you. The room was surprisingly cozy. Not lavish, just… calm. A bed with fresh sheets, folded blankets, and a little chair by the window. It felt untouched, like it was waiting for you.

You stepped inside, but before you could say goodnight, Bucky’s voice followed you.

“Training starts at six.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You want to stay on the team, you train with me. Early.”

You groaned, already regretting everything.

“Water’s on the nightstand,” he added, nodding toward it. “And Tylenol in the drawer. You’re gonna want it.”

You didn’t thank him. Not out loud.

But you lingered in the doorway.

“Why are you like this?” you asked, quieter than before.

He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Like you’re trying to be better.”

He paused for a long time.

“Because I have to be,” he said. “If I’m not, then I’m just him again.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to ask who him was.

He turned to leave, but then hesitated.

“I see the way Sam looks at you,” he said, voice tight. “It’s not just a teammate thing.”

You blinked. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Sam looks at everyone like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room and let the door click shut between you.

But even after you lay down, curled into the strange sheets and tried to close your eyes, you could still feel Bucky’s voice in the room with you.

And the strange, unwelcome comfort that came with it.

Bucky closed the door to his own room with a quiet click.

He leaned back against it, exhaled slowly, and raked a hand through his hair. The dim light from the hallway disappeared under the seam of the door, and for a moment, he stood there in silence. Listening. Thinking.

You.

God, you were loud in his head.

He moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for something to pass—some thought, some feeling—but it didn’t. It just kept building.

The way your lips had curled, tired but amused, when he’d handed you that bottle of water. That small smile like it wasn’t supposed to be there.

The way you looked tonight—dressed in soft cotton and drunk warmth, all fire and fight and something almost tender.

You had a sharp tongue. You didn’t hide your disdain for him. In fact, you wore it like perfume—thick and impossible to ignore.

But he saw the way your expression faltered when you thought no one was looking. The heaviness behind your posture. The moments where you softened, briefly, like you didn’t know how to hold it together anymore.

And your eyes—those damn eyes. Always reading. Always pulling more out of him than he gave.

He hated that.

He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how it pulled something out of him he didn’t have a name for.

You hated him. You should hate him.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. That he knew he didn’t deserve anything else.

But still…

Still, when he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw.

The tilt of your head. The sliver of skin at your collarbone. The sound of your laugh—rare, unpredictable.

He sat back on the bed and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Feelings were messy. Dangerous. They clouded judgment. He didn’t want to want anything—not peace, not forgiveness, and definitely not you.

But wanting had a way of sneaking in. Quiet and slow and relentless.

He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating too loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he’d train you. Tomorrow, he’d look at you and pretend none of this mattered.

But tonight… he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt when you stumbled into his chest.

So, so stupid.

You hated him, and he hated you.

Or, he hated being hated by you.

────✪────

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shortnfreaky · 7 days ago

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Thunderbolts* *The New Avengers (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

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shortnfreaky · 7 days ago

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you or nothing (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | thunderbolts spoilers!!!

content warnings: mentions and descriptions of trauma and physical v!olence; implied m solo pleasure; self-loathing :(

word count: 8k. words.

blurb: when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

“Where’s Bucky?”

Your chest is heaving, breath catching in your throat, refusing to fill your lungs. This whole place is a mangled maze of nightmares. A psychedelic trip that you unwillingly flung yourself into, after sharing one last knowing glance with the other misfit teammates. Somehow, you’d found yourselves together, footed inside of one of Alexi’s rooms: it looks like his house, covered in filth, unkept and unhomely. He’s sitting on the sofa, eating three-day old pizza, methodically avoiding the mold spores. Every other bite is washed down with lukewarm beer. His gaze is half-focused on the television screen, illuminating the otherwise dark room with memories of his past. Memories of his glory days. The Alexi of the past sits harmless on the sofa as the four of you pant and look around in search of the missing super solider.

“Where’s Barnes? Has anyone seen him?” your repeat, louder, more desperate. Ava shakes her head.

“He must still be in his rooms,” Walker replies. He speaks with conviction but there’s a weariness to his eyes, telling of the horrors he relived to try and fight his way to a common ground. “We need to find Bob and Yelena, and put an end to this shitshow.”

“Not without Barnes,” you snap. You look around and take a shuddering breath. “I’ll go find him.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Ava asks. Her British accent almost sounds sardonic.

“I don’t know,” you mumble. You study every window, every mirror, every reflection. You need a passageway to his psyche. Shaking your head, you murmur under your breath, “come on, Bucky. Gimme a clue here.”

A raspy, Russian laugh has everyone jolting. Your head darts to the Alexi on the sofa, half-collapsed in his seat. He’s pointing at the screen, applauding seemingly himself, a chunk of pizza crust catching in his beard. The glorious Red Guardian, nothing more than a washed-up has been. The present-day Alexi cringes, head bowing slightly at the insight into his ‘secret life’. But then something glimmers. It catches your eye. You take a step forward to a framed picture. The glass almost sparkles in an inexplicable phenomenon. Somehow, something in your gut knows. Bucky. You take a breath and swallow. You know Bucky’s life is scattered with shadows. Warping, melting black holes of guilt and shame and terror. Stepping into his mind might shatter yours. But if he’s lived it and survived, you can take a pass through to find him. With that, you let your fingertips reach out to the glass. They slip through it like parting water, giving way to a portal of kinds, and your eyes slip shut as incomprehension overwhelms you. When you open them, you’re no longer in Alexi’s living room .

It’s cold. Water drips in the background, monotonous and repetitive. Drip, drip, drip. You’re standing on concrete, damp with puddles of water, stained with what looks to be oil and something darker. Blood. Metal walls built atop of cinderblocks surround you. Grey and dying. Lifeless. Fluorescent overhead lights dangle from the ceiling, lighting the facility like a morgue. You swallow your dread as you take in the view. It’s easy to denominate where you are without looking at the emblem shining proudly on the wall, like a hunter’s buck head mounted. Hydra.

Movement behind you has you turning, startled. You suddenly miss the company of the others. Of the Alexi sat slouched on the sofa. Your eyes fall on phantoms of Hydra, men dressed in white lab coats as if pretending to be doctors, dishonoring the name of scientists. That isn’t what makes your stomach drop though. What is, is the sight of the man between them. The man whose legs are dragging limply on the floor, arms slung over their shoulders. The man whose chest is barely moving, life barely flickering in his body, soul barely alive. Bucky. But not your Bucky - not the Bucky you know now, the Bucky you have the honour to call your closest friend and deepest confidant. No, a Bucky from the past. A Bucky whose mind was splintered into fragments, forced together to form the image of a Hydra. A mind that was wired to know only one thing: compliance.

Bucky’s sometimes shared bits from his past with you. Back when you were in Wakanda together, he’d sometimes find it therapeutic to share snippets of his nightmares that had awoken him. You’d talk over glasses of whiskey or tea, sitting before a bonfire, swatting away mosquitos, absorbed in the noises of nature. The pictures you’d paint in your mind from his stories were like stills from horror movies no director would even dream to make. You’d listen, allow him to free himself from the clutches of them by sharing the load, if only slightly. It brought the two of you closer. A friendship no longer forged out of happenstance but instead out of trust. Understanding.

But seeing it here, before you, played out like some twisted theatre, was different. This was almost a torture of its own.

You feel bile scratch at your throat when they force him into the chair. They’re careless with his body as though he’s nothing more than a thing. A weapon with the inconvenience of organs. And like all weapons, he needed to be cleaned.

The headpiece whirs to life, slowly inching down towards the frontal lobes of his head, as if taunting him with what was to come. You shake your head as if that might stop what’s about to happen. When the power whizzes to life, your hand clutches desperately at your thigh, clenching the thin, form-fitting fabric of your suit in a pathetic attempt to ground you. Blood draws from how hard you bite your lip. Tears sting your wide eyes. It’s like watching a car crash: you can’t look away. The human mind frozen in shock, gluing your vision to the horrible, detailed recreation of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes being scrubbed into the Winter Solider. His cries are the worst part. You never imagined them before. Your mind wouldn’t allow you to. Everytime it tried to conjure a picture, his mouth would open with soundless cries. But here, they echo off the walls. Bounce off each hard surface, shattering your eardrums, cracking your heart. They’re guttural. Feral. Something almost inhuman, primal that one would never need to tap into.

The words. Those Godforsaken words that held Bucky prisoner for years. The Russian sounds jagged like rocks on the soldiers tongues as they speak them. Demand them into his head, for him to comply. For him to be theirs. He’s heaving, forehead sticky with sweat, hair thick and greasy. Uncared for. Nothing more than a means to an end. The shiny silver metal of his arm is near unrecognizable. You’re so accustomed to the sleek black Vibranium one that it’s hard to recall this former appendage. The memories it held. The history. There’s a twinge of guilt when you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to witness anymore. It’s a luxury to close your mind to it - a luxury he never had. But you know Bucky. He wouldn’t want you to see this. Wouldn’t expect you to stand there and subject yourself to his torture. He was considerate like that. Sympathetic in a way you endlessly envied.

There was a job to do.

Bucky wasn’t here. That means he must be lost in another room. A room shrouded in shame.

Shame.

What was shameful about this memory? Maybe all memories of Hydra came with that gnawing guilt, that he was their fist for so long. But as the scene continues to play, you realise why this particular reawakening. The briefing begins once The Winter Soldier confirms his compliance to the soldiers: Two people. Murder. Make it look like an accident. Steal the serum from the vehicle. No witnesses.

Tony Stark’s parents.

The scene before you hazes like you blinked, and then resets. Bucky is no longer in the seat, the soldiers and so-called scientists no longer gathered around him. Instead, he’s being dragged over, hauled into the chair. There was no time to dwell, not when Bucky needed you. God knows where he is. You look around you, searching for something - anything - that might pull you into the next place. No glimmer. No reflection. Nothing.

“Bucky!” You yell. You cup your hands around your mouth and try again. “Bucky!”

It echoes off the walls of the base. Nobody pays you any mind. Then, Bucky’s own yells shadow your own. You whimper, clenching your eyes, turning your head away. You can’t bear to hear it again. Your hands twitch as if to go help him, but you know it’s futile. You learnt that from your own rooms. After what feels like an eternity, the cries stop, and the room falls silent. Completely silent. There’s no dripping of water, no utterance of Russian words. Nothing. Your eyes hesitantly blink open and–

It’s daylight. You’re outside. It looks like…a park? You frown, glancing around and taking in the surrounding view. Trees. Lots of trees. Bushes and shrubs and plants. A long, stretching field of grass. Some schoolboys kick a soccer ball between them, calling at each other to pass! Pass to me! There’s a couple sharing a picnic. Children playing in the playground, chasing each other from the slides to the climbing-frame, chattering as they swing side-by-side. Parents sit on the bench and observe, chatting amicably between themselves. A dog-walker here; a duck-watcher there. It’s peaceful. Serene.

“Mommy look,” a little girl whispers. Your ears prick and you turn your attention. She’s tugging on who you assume to be her mother’s sleeve of her coat. A small finger points over at something. “Look at that man.”

You remember where you are. Bucky’s rooms, resembling his shame. Your face crumples as you reluctantly follow the line of her finger. Bucky is walking, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other exposed. It’s only for a flash: he’s brushing some hair off his face. It’s cut short. It must have been from after the Battle of Thanos. The black metal of his hand catches the sunlight. It’s mesmerizing, the way the golden lines shine. You finally place where you are. Central Park.

“Isn’t that–”

“Don’t look at him, dear,” the mother interrupts. She sounds alarmed. You clench your teeth.

“But isn’t that–”

“Yes, dear. It is,” she hisses. She tugs the child protectively behind her legs, as if Bucky were to lunge for the child. Your patience wears thin. Bucky pauses his walk. He heard them, no doubt. He hears most things, whether he likes it that way or not. The mother gathers her daughter’s hand in hers and guides them away from the park. “That’s a dangerous man, Millie. A murderer. He should be ashamed, walking around a park near these children. There’s no damn justice left in this country.”

The mother leads them away from the park, the daughter in tow. The little girl spares one last glance at Bucky. He’s staring at his feet. His metal hand slips into his jacket pocket. You can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him. He nearly shrinks into his frame. You begin to make your way over to him, to comfort him in the way you know best: a pat on the shoulder, to test the waters, then a hug, if that’s what he needs. Touch - gentle and caring in a way that he hasn’t known for so long. But he flashes out of sight before you can reach him. You glance around frantically. He’s reset, back to where he was before. You remember what’s happening. Remember the goal, the target, and shake your head.

Looking around, you search for something that might lead you to the next space, but once again, nothing gives a tell. You break out running into the distance, towards the park, and the futherer you get, the sooner you realise it’s a mock-up. Walls painted like trees and people. You brace yourself, raising your arms up to your face to soften the impact, and force yourself through the walls. They shatter around you, breaking apart like drywall and paper mache, and you tumble forward. It’s reflexive, the tuck and roll you catch yourself with. You return to your feet, panting lightly, hands raised and ready for battle.

You’re inside. No, not inside, but in an object of some kind…Wind rushes through your hair, nearly knocking you off your feet. There’s something tonally different to the park, and to the Hydra base. It’s tense. Hairs prickle on the back of your neck and you scan the area for threats. Force of habit, with so many years working for Shield, and later as a vigilante. The price to pay for helping Captain America. You finally recognise where you are. It’s the helicarriers. The ones from…

Oh no.

You know this memory. You know it well. It’s seared into your hippocampus, stained with blood, and no matter what you do to dispel it, it remains. You can understand why. It’s hard to force yourself to forget the day you nearly shook hands with death.

It smells like jet fuel and fresh air. You frantically look around in search of the two bodies you know are here. On the thin metal bridge opposite to the one you stand on, you make out your figure. It’s strange seeing yourself, almost hard to recognise it as you. But you know it is: can tell by the hair and the suit. You’re determined, face stoic, as you race forward to the motherboard of the ship. The chip is in your upper legging pocket. You can almost feel the press of it against your skin now, as you watch. Then, your eyes land on something you never saw that day. They spot The Winter Soldier climbing up soundlessly onto the metal bridge. They spot him following you with measured footsteps, moving fast but with deadly quiet, like a fox stalking prey. You’re unaware of him, eyes focused on the target. Watching on, your throat turns dry as the Soldier retracts a knife from his belt.

“Helicarrier two is nearly secure, Cap,” you inform the team through your earpiece. You pause to pull out the chip, and that’s when he gets you.

The soldier loops an arm over your shoulder, tightening it around your neck. You stumble backwards, gasping out painfully as your air supply suddenly cuts off. A hand scrambles to his arm only to find hard, unmoving metal. You can still feel the pulse of dread that ran through you in that moment. You’d seen him before, fought him on the bridge with Sam and Nat and Steve. He’d done a number on Natasha and she was three-times the agent you were. He was quick, relentless, free from remorse. Your other elbow jams into his ribs and it’s just enough to have his grip loosen. You waste no time, whipping a leg around his ankle, tilting him enough off balance that you both stumble backwards. Another elbow, this time to the nose, and he grunts, falling away from you. You pivot and raise your fists, only in time to dodge his swing. You’re not as lucky the second time: he catches you on the brow. A fist-fight follows, of jabs and ducks. You land a few but they hardly affect him. It’s like he’s made of brick. Then, he sucker-punches you in the chest. The air flew out of you, winding you, and you catch yourself on the railing of the bridge with a pained gasp. He lands another to your ear and you whimper out, head falling forward. Blood trickles slowly from the lobe. You watch the scene from afar, but something shifts in you when the soldier raises the knife.

“No!” you scream. You sprint ahead and collide with the soldier. You grab for his wrist and he looks at you. There’s pure ice in his gaze, no trace of Bucky in his eyes, and your blood runs cold. His metal hand locks around your throat and you gasp out. The ground slips away from you as he slowly lifts you. And then, you’re tossed onto the floor. Gasping for air, you scramble for purchase, desperate to stop the inevitable. You turn your face in time to see the Soldier plunge the knife into the side of your former self.

The scream she lets out has tears springing to your eyes. Her hand quivers as it hovers by the hilt of the knife, body immediately spiralling into shock. You can still remember the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle. Tearing through the fragile casing of your organs. He twists the weapon and she cries out in agony, eyes clenched shut, drool falling from her lips. As you watch on helplessly from the floor, eyes wide in horror, you shake your head as if to plea for the Soldier to stop. But he doesn’t. He signs the death certificate as he pulls the knife from her body. Blood quickly seeps through her clothes. It pushes through her fingers as she desperately tries to force pressure on her own wound. The chip is forgotten by both you and the soldier. His mission is complete, for now: eliminate you. The soldier turns heel and strides away, ready to take down the next member of the team, to keep Hydra’s empire from falling. You rush over to the body of your former self, hands shaking as you check her over. Blood. So much fucking blood.

“Please,” she gasps. You realise then, that she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at him. You forgot this happened. The pain mostly blacks out the memory, after he removed the knife.

The soldier freezes. He heard you.

Your voice sounds powerless, raspy as you struggle to intake air. “Please,” you try again, half-whimpering. “Please help me.”

He hesitates. You see it. It’s a flicker. Nothing more than a twitch of one of his metal fingers. But it’s something. A sign that he was still in there, fighting to come out, to help you.

But he doesn’t. He has a mission. He walks away.

The warm body in your hands vanishes. It’s as if you hallucinated her. That is, until you see her running towards you, past you, for the motherboard. It reset.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. Your eyes press shut, taking a beat to calm yourself.

The two of you had discussed that moment more than enough. You’d forgiven Bucky long before he even knew who you were. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a choice. You never held it against him. Never blamed him for those months spent in hospital, in and out of surgery, tiring yourself out in physical therapy. And yet, it seems that despite those restless nights of talking it out, of you listening to his apologies and accepting each one without hesitation, it seems the moment still haunted him. You could understand why, the same way you understood why it still remained in your brain. It can’t be easy, letting go of the thought that he nearly ended your life. You just wished he wouldn’t blame himself for it.

Before you open your eyes, you feel the ground beneath you change. It warps into something squishy and plush, and your knees give way slightly at the feel. Carpet. You blink your eyes open into warm, orangey lamp light. You recognise this place like an old friend. It’s your apartment. Your brows furrow. No, that doesn’t make sense.

Bucky was your friend. Ever since Wakanda, the two of you had made some wordless pact to stick together. He understood you in a way that didn’t need verbalising. Could read you like a book from childhood, well-versed in your tells, your wants and fears. That’s what made him such a wonderful friend. You never had to perform with him. There was no need for filters, no room for embarrassment. You’d complain about your crappy dates over take-out; binge watch corny movies whilst sharing beers; try and bolster him up at bars when you went out with Sam and Jouqian for a drink; listen to him practice his speeches for his run for congress. There was no room for shame in your friendship. So…why were you here?

“You sure this ain’t too much trouble?” Bucky asks you. Your attention quickly pivots to you and Bucky. He’s hovering by the bookshelf, arms folded over his chest, dressed in sweatpants and a vest. You’re straightening a quilt over the sofa-bed that resided in your living room.

“Would you stop whining already? You’re worse than Wilson, y’know that?”

Bucky chuckles at that, bobbing his head. You straighten, hands landing on your hips, and nod to yourself as you take in your handy-work.

“That should be good. You want an extra pillow?”

“I think I’ll survive with three,” Bucky replies, humour evident in his voice. You roll your eyes and cross the room to him, pinching his cheek chidingly.

“Just trying to be a good hostess,” you sing-song, walking past him and into the kitchen. Curious, your eyes remain on Bucky. He’s watching the past-version of you. A smile rests on his lips. One that you’ve never noticed before. It seems almost secretive, because the minute you turn to ask him something, it’s fading into a different kind of smile. One you now recognise. Your brows furrow at the picture. Weird. “A’right, here’s your water. You think you’ll need anything else?”

Bucky shakes his head. He takes the glass from you as he replies, “this is perfect, doll. Thank you.”

“Course. Me casa est su casa,” you smile, stumbling through disjointed Spanish. You cringe at your former self. Bucky chuckles, as if it might be endearing.

“It’s es, not ‘est’,” he corrects. Then, he utters the phrase in perfect, fluent Spanish. The other you rolls her eyes mirthfully at him.

“A’right, we get it Mister ‘I can speak twelve languages’.”

“Thirteen if you count–”

“--Hey! Keep rubbing it in my face and you can sleep in the bathtub,” you warn, pointing a finger at him. He raises his hands in surrender, laughing quietly. You then melt into a smile, easing up the act. Crossing the room to him, the you of the past tosses her arms casually over his shoulders in a warm embrace. “G’night, Buck. See you in the morning.”

You never noticed before, too caught up in the act of doing, but watching it unfold now, you realise Bucky’s reaction. He seems startled, which is strange, considering you hug him rather often. His arm slowly loops around your waist, holding you to him, and you watch that smile return. His eyes slip shut and he presses his chin gently against your shoulder.

The moment shatters when you pull away, oblivious. You wave farewell as you leave the room, closing the door behind you.

You stand and watch, befuddled, as Bucky finishes getting ready for bed. This is bizarre. What the hell is so shameful about crashing on his friend’s couch for the night? He does it rather often, especially when he moved back to New York. The nightmares caught up with him then, after the pocket of peace in Wakanda was sacrificed. People knew who he was. The government had burdened him with a pardon that he always felt was undeserved, and that seemed to trouble his psyche more than anything. Couple that with the ghosts of his past, from a lifetime ago before the war, back when things were more simple and familiar, and Bucky was knocking on your door with an apologetic smile. You’d always welcome him in, would never turn him away. The two of you would watch a movie or show, talking over most of it with mindless commentary, before you’d set up the sofa for him. It got to the point that you decided to invest in a sofa-bed.

Now, watching the scene play out, you wonder if he feels ashamed for reaching out. For needing company and comfort of another’s home. You wonder if Bucky felt as though he should shoulder the burden of being alone. Men often felt shame for their mental health, so it would be wrong to assume that Bucky was different.

The lamp remains on. You glance around the room in search of something that might be the root of the room. Maybe you left a pair of panties drying on the radiator, and he was ashamed of seeing them? That seemed rather tame compared to the other horrors embodied in this maelstrom of pain…

Bucky shifts under the sheets. Looking over to him, you watch, intrigued, realising the scene isn’t over. His eyes are shut, metal arm whirring as he brings it up towards the pillow, messing with it until it’s how he likes. He’s rather…cute. Sweet as he tries to get comfortable. An unseen side to him, human and regular, that’s weirdly endearing. You begin to smile. Then, your brows furrow slightly. He presses his nose into the pillow - your pillow - and inhales, slow and deep through his nose. He isn’t just taking a breath. He’s smelling the pillow. Your stomach twists tight, as if trying to knot itself. A small groan pushes through his closed lips, muffled into the case, and your eyes widen. Is he…

He takes another deep breath in. His eyes squeeze, lips purse, and something akin to…pleasure twitches his features. He rolls onto his back, the blanket shifting with the movement, and then you watch, alarmed, as the silhouette of his arm inches below the sheets. You can’t seem to look away from his face. His brows twitch together, teeth catching his lower lip, and then–

He hums, deep, guttural.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, quickly turning your back to him. Your hands fly up to your burning face, lips agape, eyes wide, stupefied. The sheets rustle behind you and he groans, quiet enough to go unnoticed by other you, who lays unaware in her bed. You squeak, hands flying up to your ears, mortification flooding over you like a bath of cold water as you accidentally intrude on a very private moment.

A private moment, which happened in your living room.

A private moment, which sparked from Bucky smelling your pillow.

A private moment, which began from the mere smell of you.

He rasps your name, no louder than a breath. You only just catch it. The way your name sounds on his tongue...It's hotter than sin, and you let out a startled breath. You’re ashamed at the arousal that pulses through you at the sound. Shaking your head, you straightened yourself out. You can’t listen to this any longer. It feels wrong. No, it doesn’t just feel it - it is wrong. Bucky has spent his whole life having his humanity stripped away from him, as if he didn’t deserve it, and you refuse to be another name added to that list of people who didn’t treat him like a person. You rush to the door of the living room and swing it open. You don’t look as you step forward. Rookie error.

A scream rushes through you as you fall down, down, down.

You nearly bounce back up when you land. It’s soft, softer than the carpet, and gives easily under your weight. A mattress. Thank God, you think to yourself, pushing up onto your knees with a huff. You look around the room, searching for the man you’ve been chasing through each twisted, turning memory. Returning to your feet, you straighten your suit.

“Bucky?”

There��s no reply. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. Where the hell is he? Worry curls in your gut. What if something went wrong? What if his rooms were too heavy for him? What if he–

“Come on, doll. One more step.”

It’s his voice, but it isn’t him. You startle when the bedroom door opens. It’s only then that you register your surroundings. It’s his bedroom, the one from his old flat back when he lived in Brooklyn. God, that place was like a prison. He was punishing himself when he lived there. A sofa made of stiff leather sat before a flat-screen television. A kitchen barren of appliances or plants. The fridge was only filled with necessities. No art on the wall, not even a clock. The bedroom was just as desolate. A wardrobe organised with too much precision, almost display-art in its meticulousness, and a desk without any books or computer. The bed was comfortable at least, not that Bucky used it much back then. He preferred the floor. Would sleep on it in the living room with nothing more than a blanket, the hard wood cradling his body.

You take a step back as if to make way, as Bucky and this former version of you step into the bedroom. You’re hanging onto him, nearly blackout drunk, practically dragging his sturdy frame down like a heathen. You can’t help but cringe at the sight, bringing a hand up to your forehead. It seems your legs are rather useless as you practically trip over yourself. Bucky catches you, keeps you steady.

“Easy there,” he chuckles.

You groan, flopping onto the bed face-first. Bucky stands, watching, hands on his hips, and laughs to himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you slur into the bedsheets. You raise a finger in the air, arm wobbling as you do so, and Bucky laughs harder. He struggles to stifle them. He’s pretty when he laughs. Sounds young, carefree. It makes you smile as you watch.

“Come on, party animal,” Bucky chuckles, grabbing your hand to help twist you onto your back. He kneels by your feet and undoes your heels, metal fingers meddling with the tiny clasps. You smile to yourself, unable to place the memory in your own mind. You couldn’t remember this moment, just the incredible hangover you were met with the next day.

Once again, the question begs: why this memory? Bucky is a perfect gentleman as he helps you get ready for bed. You can barely keep your head upright. Your body rattles with hiccups, eyes half-closed, make-up smudged under your eyes. It’s not a good look, to say the least. Bucky eases your heels off one by one, placing them neatly by the wardrobe. You watch as he hesitates, unsure whether to offer you more comfortable clothes to sleep in or leave you in your dress. He stands, glances to his wardrobe, and runs a hand over his head, fingers brushing through his hair, as he thinks.

Your eyes catch a moving figure on the bed. You watch, mildly amazed that you even have the strength and coordination to do so, as you rise to your feet. Bucky hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy weighing up what to do next. He nearly jumps out of his skin when your hand lands on his shoulder. He turns his head quickly, body following soon after. One of his hands instinctively reaches for your waist to steady you on your feet. He’s confused and concerned, brows furrowing as his eyes scan over your squiffy features.

“Doll, what’re you–”

Your mouth presses against his in a heated kiss. You gape at the sight, mind drawing a complete blank at the supposed moment you lived. Bucky’s hands fly up, hovering, frozen like statues, by your sides. His eyes are blown wide. Your hands cradle his face, holding him close, turning his face just-so as you kiss him with unexplained fever. Shaking your head, you watch on, mortified, as drunk-you forces Bucky into a kiss.

And then…his eyes slip shut. One of his hands slowly lowers to rest against your waist, a shadow of a hold on your body, sinking into your skin like rocks on wet sand. He turns his head, chasing your taste, your tongue. Then, you listen as other-you sighs against his lips. That seems to flip a switch in Bucky’s head. He quickly pulls away with a gasp. His hands take you by the shoulders, holding you away from him, arms outstretched. He looks horrified, staring at you with damp lips and a heaving chest. You feel yourself wither with embarrassment and shame at the thought of forcing yourself upon him like that. Drunk or not, it was no excuse.

But then he’s closing his eyes and shaking his head. It hangs, low, defeated, and he takes a slow, almost sad, breath.

“Not like this, doll. I– You’re drunk and…It’s not…It ain’t how I pictured it…” he murmurs. Drunk you hardly seems to hear him. She takes a step back and melts down onto the mattress. Bucky helps you into bed with a distracted mind; guiding you under the covers and ensuring you lay on your side. Then, he heads for the door. He lingers in the doorway, finger hovering over the light switch, and watches you. A smile tries its way onto his face - that smile from before - but it is chased away by his frown. You recognise the shadow that casts over his face. You’ve seen it in the dead of night, when he’s awoken from a nightmare. You spotted it in Wakanda, when he pieced together who you were and what he did to you. You remembered it from the funeral, when Bucky realised that he’d never be able to apologise to Tony for what he did to his parents. Shame. One of his metal fingers lifts to his lips, as if he’s recalling the feel of yours on his. The room becomes engulfed in darkness.

It’s only for a moment. You’re left alone with your thoughts, trying to organise them into some sort of coherent system. Guilt, for kissing him; embarrassment, for, well, all of it; sadness, for not even remembering it; and…longing. Was that what that was? That odd twisting feeling in your gut, reaching out like vines, clutching at your heartstrings. Sadness, maybe? You can’t make sense of it. The one thing you can make sense of is the recognition that not one part of you is angry at him. Not even remotely. If anything, you’re curious about his moment of weakness. About that brief half-minute, when he allowed himself to kiss you back. About the way he looked at you before leaving the room. Had he looked at you that way before? Did you never even notice the way he–

The light flashes on and it nearly blinds you. You groan, rubbing your face, and you can make out muffled voices down the hall. The scene is resetting. Bucky still isn’t anywhere to be found.

It’s becoming exhausting, wading through these memories, confronting these pockets of Bucky’s conscience without him even knowing. Would he be mad at you, when you do find him? Or will he understand? There’s only one way to find out…

You slip out the bedroom door after you and Bucky make your way inside. To your surprise, instead of stepping into another memory or room, you simply enter his living room. You freeze. There’s a silhouette sitting on the floor, staring at the TV. Bucky. His knees are brought up near his chest, arms wrapped around them. Despite his large frame, body mostly muscle, he looks small. Fragile and scared, like a child trying to self-soothe. You glance around and wonder if this is another memory. But as your eyes adjust to the scene before you, you recognise his tactical suit from before you stepped into the void. His hair is longer, nothing like how it was in the memory, and his black vibranium arm glimmers in the flashing colours of the TV. He’s watching a soccer match. Although, something tells you that he isn’t actually watching. You swallow and take a step forward.

“Bucky? Is that you?” you tentatively ask. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He refuses to look at you, it seems. “Buck?”

His head hangs. Relief consumes you and you let out a sigh, clearing the rest of the distance. You drop to your knees and throw your arms around him, grateful he’s in one piece.

“Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried when you didn’t find us in Alexi’s–”

He’s stiff, still like a statue, unmoving like a corpse. Your words die on your tongue as you pull away, a hand lingering on his back.

“Bucky?”

He swallows. His voice is hardly more than croak as he asks, “how’d you find me?”

“I uh…” You hesitate, unsure whether you should be transparent or not. It doesn’t take you long to decide. “I went through your rooms until I found you.”

His eyes press shut as if you’ve delivered news of death. His silence unsettles you. Your hand rubs his back and he leans forward, out of your touch. A pain stabs through your chest.

“Bucky?”

“If you went through them…Then you saw it, right?”

Your lips move but no words come out. Instead, you swallow. Bucky isn’t looking at you but he must be able to catch you nodding your head in his peripheral, because his face becomes twisted with agony.

“Oh God,” he mumbles. Balling his hand into a fist, he presses it firmly against his forehead. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

You shake your head, going to touch him again before freezing. Your fingers hover half a centimetre from his back.

“Look, we…We need to go help the others and stop whatever the hell is going with this…thing that Bob’s become but…” He looks up at you then. Bucky’s eyes are damp with unshed tears as he holds your gaze, and you know you can’t bring yourself to look away even if you tried. “But I promise you, you don’t ever gotta see me again after that, yeah? I promise you that.”

Your stomach opens with a pit of dread. “Bucky, I–”

“--I’m so sorry, okay? You gotta believe me when I say that. I…” He gasps, trying with all his might to keep it together, “I tried so hard not to want you, I really did. I tried so fucking hard but I…I couldn’t help it…”

He clenches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, jaw going taut. He presses further into his fist, knuckles turning white. A single tear slips down his cheek. Your heart splinters and you fight the urge to wipe it away.

“I couldn’t help it,” he whispers, as if admitting a sin to God himself.

You shake your head slightly, mouth moving uselessly. A small, shaky breath escapes you. Tears prick your waterline as everything you’ve seen hits you like a freight train. It barrels through your mind and tears your hippocampus open, flooding you with memories. A new light is shed on them. A perspective you never allowed yourself to see before. The unexplainable serenity and safety you felt in his company, despite the start of your friendship. The kind of safety that enabled you to share stories of your life with him without fear of judgement or rejection. The kind of safety that you sought out after a hard mission or a nightmare haunted you. The kind of serenity you craved when you were bored out of your mind on a mission, and Bucky’s off-handed quips were your only company through a cracked phone screen. The kind of serenity you were consumed by during the nights spent by his side, laughing as he teased you, raving over your favourite shows and sharing the theories and backstories to each storyline. Never afraid to be too much or too little. No, it was always just right.

And now you see it. The longing glances. The tenderness in his gaze when his eyes landed on you. The extra layer of panic when you were in battle, scanning over your body to make sure you’re alright. The smile that you kept catching sight of as you ventured through his shame that was reserved just for you, when you weren’t even looking. And how couldn’t you look, because he was right there, all this time.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you breathe.

Bucky frowns. His brows furrow, mind struggling to parse together your words. You shake your head, slow then fast, and swallow your anxiety because this was much more important.

“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t…I don’t care about any of that, I just…I don’t…” You can’t find the words. Every sentence is weak, sandcastles in rain, and you shake your head and grunt, annoyed. Bucky looks at you, addled, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks with an aggressive sweep of your hand.

That’s when the answer comes to you.

Pushing to your feet, you extend a hand down to him. He blinks at it, then up at you. “Do you trust me?”

It takes less than a second before he’s lifting his hand and guiding it into yours. You help ease him to his feet. Then, you turn and face the door to the bedroom. As you begin to move, Bucky holds the two of you in place. You look back at him. He’s reluctant to meet your eyes.

“I don’t…I can’t see that again,” he admits. Your heart squeezes. You gently clench his fingers in your hold.

“Trust me, yeah?”

He takes a shuddering breath before nodding. His feet give way as you guide the two of you to the door. You turn the knob and close your eyes, steeling yourself for what you’re about to face.

The only room you couldn’t bring yourself to face before, instead fighting your way to Alexi’s horrors.

The door opens to a well-lit room. It’s modern, with floor-to-ceiling length windows lining one of the walls, and a sleek, silver bartop busied with guests and party-goers. Streamers decorate the ceiling, twinkly lights looped around pillars. Music plays from speakers in every corner of the room. Classic hits that everybody knows. Some people are dancing, others tapping their feet along and drinking, good-natured. There’s sofas which are occupied by chattering groups of friends and co-workers. A pool table crowded by primarily men, likely congratulating themselves on being the masters of the universe for another year.

“Where’re we?” Bucky asks after a beat. You take a small breath before looking at him, forcing a smile that you know he’ll tell to be fake.

“One of my rooms.”

Bucky frowns. You slowly let his hand slip from your hold. You know this evening well. It’s a repressed memory that enjoys making a guest appearance, most often when you’re around Bucky. The evening you realised that there was something more there, something deeper under your skin, but that you refused to touch.

Dressed in a floor-length gown, you saunter up to the bar, sadling by the side of the present-day you. There’s no need to look at Bucky to know he’s watching.

You order a drink and toy with the olive skewered on a cocktail stick, sloshing it in and out of the martini. You take another glance over for the millionth time that night, eyes landing on Bucky. Not this Bucky, but the Bucky from the party. The one dressed in a suit that was designed for him to wear it. The suit that ruined all other men for you, because nobody else could possibly make it look that good. The Bucky that was currently talking to a gorgeous, tall blonde lady, with eyes that could bewitch and thighs that could kill. The Bucky that was talking to his date for the New Year’s Eve Party.

“I don’t…” Bucky’s words fade into the rhythm of the song currently playing. He glances at you - you see it in your peripheral - but you keep your eyes trained on the phantom of your memory as she drinks. You know there’s bigger things at stake, an entire city in peril, but this feels a thousand times more pressing and important. If you don’t have Bucky, you have nothing. It’s a terrifying but simple conclusion. So you need him to see.

You take a sip of your martini and let out a sigh. Your head hangs and you purse your lips, and for a long while, just stand there, alone, thinking. Then, your head darts up. You toss back your drink, leaving the olives neglected in the glass, and stride back into the party, eyes set on a random former-Shield agent who has been occupying the pool table for the larger portion of the night. You watch as you shake his hand, smiling all pretty at him, before the scene flickers and resets. Bucky shakes his head, looking at you.

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs. “What’s so shameful about that?”

“It’s not what I did,” you tell him, unable to look away from the Bucky in the distance, talking to his date. He’s smiling. You think that’s what had bothered you the most. That he wasn’t smiling at you. “It’s what I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

You chuckle humourlessly, dropping your head and gaze. A moment to still yourself, then you face him.

“That I hated your date. That I hated everything about her, and wanted to fucking gut her in the middle of the party, and rip her hair out of her head, and scratch up her face. I was thinking that I hated her because…Because I could never be her. And I wanted to be her so bad, because I realised - at that stupid New Year’s Eve party - that I wanted to be the only person you looked at like that. The only person you wanted to see. I realised I wanted to be the best thing at the party, to you. And I wasn’t…And I hated her for that and I…” You take a gasping, short breath. The words that follow are guilt-ridden, your body shrinking with shame, “I hated you for it too. But most of all, I hated myself, because I’d…I’d let myself...want you.”

Bucky stares at you. His eyes dance over your face, searching for some lie, some sign that this itself was part of the mind games you’d both been thrown into. But instead, he just saw you. Saw it plain and simple, written across your face in big, black ink.

“Why were you ashamed, of those things? The things in your rooms?” you quietly broach.

Bucky grunts, shaking his head. “It was wrong. You were my friend - you are my friend - and I…I let myself fucking…” He shudders at the memory. You think you know which one is playing in his mind right now. Then, his expression deepens. Sadder. “I kissed you back. You were drunk, and you trusted me, and I took advantage and I let myself kiss you back, when I knew it was wrong.”

“Only for a second,” you tell him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, quick, like he’s rehearsed this apology a thousand times before. You wonder if he’s thought of confessing, to clear his conscience. Wonder how long he’s let himself rot under the shame of harbouring feelings for you. Because that was what this was, right?

“I don’t even remember that night.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to like the sound of that. His eyes close and he tries not to wince.

“I wish I did though,” you whisper. “Cause that was the first time we kissed, I don’t even remember it.”

He’s hesitant when he opens his eyes, as if waiting for you to take it back. But you don’t. You stand there, a shadow of a smile on your lips, and shrug.

“I’m sorry I did that to you, but I’m not sorry I…I’m not sorry I…”

“You’re not sorry you what?” he pushes, wide eyes staring at you. It’s as if his whole world hangs on your next words.

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you. No matter how hard I’ve tried to be.”

Bucky gazes at you, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hand twitches, fingers reaching out towards yours, and you meet him halfway. Loosely intertwine your digits with his. He shuffles a step forward, and his forehead slowly eases down until it rests against your own. You let out a small huff and he takes a breath in, and the two of you stand in the room of your shared past.

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you, too,” Bucky admits in a low rumble of his voice.

Your hand lifts to his face, cupping his cheek in your hold, cradling his jaw. He finds your lips like ships returning home in the night, guided by the glow of a lighthouse. It’s sweet, and tender, and wistful from years of wanting. His tongue darts across your lower lip and you gladly give way, sinking into the taste of him as his hand wraps around your waist, tugging you closer, holding you near. Eventually, the two of you break apart, but you refuse to step out of his orbit. His nose nudges yours in a silent kiss, and you smile. A strand of his hair curls around your finger and he sighs, content.

“What say we go save the world now, huh?”

“Only if you’re there too,” Bucky replies, tone lighter than you've known it to be before.

You realise then that your absolute truth is the same for Bucky: if he didn't have you, he didn't have anything.

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shortnfreaky · 9 days ago

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need to go watch thunderbolts so bad

#shortnfreaky #thunderbolts

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shortnfreaky · 9 days ago

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How is writing going? Anything new coming? :)

i'm trying to work on a few things, having a bit of writers block at the moment though

#shortnfreaky

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shortnfreaky · 10 days ago

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the twins!!

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shortnfreaky · 10 days ago

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Top canonical events in a girl's life:

1. Listening to Lana del Rey for the first time

2. Locking yourself in your room all the time

3. Trying at some point to fit in with a group but just can't

4. Feeling awkward around boys

5. Daydreaming

6. Not being talkative

7. Obsessing over some actor who could be your grandfather

8. Ruining your sleep schedule to get more alone time

9. Tumblr and girlblogging

10. Feeling like no one really knows you

11. Feeling lost in a group of friends

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shortnfreaky · 15 days ago

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you know the fic is about to be fire when i'm writing it while sleep deprived

#shortnfreaky #niall horan x reader #niall horan fanfiction

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shortnfreaky · 17 days ago

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I see us in black and white!

🤍: u & niall just really, really love each other. and seeing him hold a baby made u feel crazy!!

☁️: fingering, p in v, fluff

🖇️: masterlist

🖋️: 2.4k words

niall is holding a beer loosely between his fingers, laughing at something one of his friends says. you’re curled up in the corner of the couch, plate balanced on your knees, but you’re not really eating. you're watching him.

the party buzzes around you with glasses clinking, silverware scraping plates, low music playing from someone's phone left on the counter. you should probably be mingling, should probably be doing something more social, but niall’s got that easy smile on his face, the one that always knocks the air out of your lungs a little bit.

he's so good at this. talking to everyone, making jokes, remembering little details about everyone's lives. you watch the way he leans in when someone else is talking, how his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how he taps the side of his beer bottle against the table like he's keeping time with the conversation.

he glances over at you once, like he can feel you staring, and his mouth lifts into something a little softer than the smile he’s giving everyone else. he tips his head like he’s asking if you’re okay. you nod, giving him a small smile, and he winks before turning back to the conversation.

your chest aches. you love him so much you can feel it in your fingertips, in the hollow of your throat, in the way your ribs feel too small to hold it all in.

someone calls niall’s name, and he shifts, looking over. a couple is standing near the fireplace, beaming, holding a small baby in a blue blanket.

niall's face changes instantly — something tender blooming over his features like he can't help it. he’s already moving toward them before you even register it, setting his beer down and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly when they hold the baby out for him to see.

he’s cautious at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the baby just by breathing too hard. his hands hover awkwardly in the air until the mother laughs and settles the baby into his arms for him.

you see it happen, the moment he relaxes, the moment he looks down at the tiny, blinking face and smiles like the whole world just cracked open at his feet.

niall whispers something you can’t hear, and the baby blinks up at him like they understand each other. you could cry just from looking at them.

he's so gentle. big hands supporting the baby's head, rocking side to side without even thinking about it, murmuring nonsense words under his breath like he's been doing it his whole life.

you bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling too big. you're not even sure he knows he's swaying. you're not even sure he knows he's glowing.

someone says something that makes the group laugh again, but niall doesn't look up. until he does and he’s looking directly at you. with the softest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. he nods his chin at you, beckoning you over with a small tilt of his head.

"this is henry," niall says, voice low and warm. the baby blinks up at you, impossibly tiny, his little fists flexing against niall’s shirt.

you stick your finger out like you’re about to shake hands with him, pitching your voice a little deeper just for the joke. "hello, henry, how are you?"

it’s your one joke with babies, the one that always gets a laugh, and sure enough, niall chuckles under his breath, and henry’s mum lets out a soft laugh too.

the baby latches onto your finger, tiny hand curling tight like he’s taking you very seriously.

"do you wanna hold him?" niall asks, already sounding like he knows your answer.

your eyes go wide. "what? no, i couldn’t!" you stammer, half-laughing, half-terrified.

"oh, come on, darling," niall teases, bumping your hip with his, "he’s just a baby. you’ll be grand."

you hesitate, but niall’s looking at you with such easy faith, like he believes you could hold the whole world in your hands if you wanted to.

"i'll help you," he says, soft, reassuring. "i’ve got ya."

you nod, and between niall’s careful instructions and steady hands, henry is transferred into your arms. he's heavier than you expect, warm and wriggly and so impossibly small.

"see?" niall says, grinning, his hand lingering at the small of your back, "natural."

you look down at henry, marveling at the tiny perfectness of him. the soft downy hair, the little button nose, the way he stretches in your hold like he already trusts you to keep him safe. you don’t even feel niall watching you, you’re so focused on not somehow dropping this baby.

"would you look at that," henry’s dad says with a grin, nudging niall playfully with his elbow. "i can see the gears spinning in your head, mate."

niall just laughs, unbothered, wrapping an arm properly around your waist like he’s already decided this is his future. like there’s no question about it.

"he’s already naming your first kid in his head!" henry’s mum jokes, and you can feel your cheeks go hot.

niall groans, all dramatic. "agh, shut up the both of you!" he says, voice full of fond exasperation.

they all laugh, and even you let out a bashful giggle, ducking your head as you gently shift theo back into his mum’s waiting arms.

niall doesn’t let you get far. he slides his arm back around your waist the second your hands are free, tucking you in close like it’s second nature.

if you were checked out before, there’s no saving you now. you don’t even know when niall said goodbye for the both of you, only that one second you were standing in the living room and the next he was opening the car door for you like a gentleman, ushering you inside with a hand on the small of your back.

"woo, it’s so cold out!" niall says as he climbs into the driver’s seat, blowing a big raspberry into his cupped hands to warm them up.

you laugh at him, just a breathy puff of sound, and he grins wickedly across the center console.

"c’mon, darling," he says, voice playful, "lemme raspberry ya."

before you can even properly protest, he catches one of your hands in his and blows a noisy raspberry against your palm. you burst into laughter, trying to tug your hand away, but he just holds on tighter.

“you’re getting spit all over me!”

“oi! you don’t complain when its when we-“

you gasp, caught! as if he wasn’t your lover. “niall don’t finish that!” he just laughs before continuing.

he’s making stupid eye contact with you the whole time, too, cheeky and sweet and utterly unbothered, like this is the most important mission he’s ever been on.

somewhere in the middle of the silliness, he switches tactics, presses a soft, lingering kiss right into the center of your palm. then another to the back of your hand. then another to your wrist. slow and unhurried, like he’s savoring it. like he’s savoring you.

your heart gives a little somersault in your chest.

niall finally pulls back with a grin, starting the car and backing out of the driveway.

"that was a really fun party," he says lightly, eyes on the road but a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "nice to see everyone again."

"yeah, definitely," you say, voice a little breathless still. you hesitate, picking at a thread on your jeans. "and- and the baby was so cute."

niall shoots you a look, soft and knowing.

"everyone’s betting on when we’re gonna get on with it," he says, casual as anything.

your face burns, but before you can spiral, niall squeezes your hand where it rests on your thigh.

"but we’ll get there when we do, yeah?" he says, voice gentle. "doesn’t matter until we’re ready."

he says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world. like he’s got all the time in the world, as long as he’s spending it with you.

niall continues to drive, only humming occasionally to the soft album playing through the speakers. his hand stays resting on your thigh, easy and absent like he’s forgotten it’s even there.

you haven’t.

you admire it where it rests — how expansive his hand is, the way it spans from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger, covering more of you than it really should.

the same hands that wrote songs about you.

that held you at crowded parties when the noise got too much.

that touched you so perfectly it made your head spin.

his hands are rough in places, calloused from years of playing and working and living, but when it comes to playing you, they’re perfect.

as his fingers traced gentle circles on her smooth skin. you felt a tingle of excitement run through your body, and you couldn’t resist the urge to guide his hand higher, towards the heat between your legs.

niall smirked, his eyes flickering to you before returning to the road. “someone’s eager tonight,” he teased, his fingers finding the hem of your dress and slipping beneath it.

you bit her lip, your breath hitching as niall’s fingers brushed against her lace panties. “you know i can’t resist you,” you whispered, voice thick with desire, “seeing you tonight,” you started already breathless, “i need you”

niall chuckled, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your panties to stroke your wet folds. “that’s my sweet girl,” he murmured, his thumb finding your clit and circling it slowly.

you moaned, your hips bucking against niall’s touch. niall continued to tease, his fingers dipping inside you and curling against the perfect spot, making pleasure shoot through you every time, but he refused to let you cum.

“niall, please,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the leather seat.

“not yet, baby,” niall said, his voice low and rough. “we’re almost home.”

you whined in frustration, but the anticipation only heightened her arousal. as soon as niall parked the car, you were out of the passenger seat and rushing towards the front door, body trembling with need.

niall caught up to you, his strong arms wrapping around her waist and pulling you back against his chest. “so impatient,” he growled, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

you gasped, head falling back against niall’s shoulder. “you’re the one who started it,” you accused breathlessly.

niall spun you around, his hands gripping your hips and pressing you against the wall. “and i’ll be the one to finish it,” he promised, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss.

you melted into the kiss, hands tangling in niall’s hair. you loved the way he took control, the way he made you feel like the only woman in the world. niall’s hands roamed her body, slipping beneath your dress to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.

“bedroom. now,” niall commanded, his voice rough with desire.

you nodded, leading him upstairs to your room. as soon as you crossed the threshold, niall pushed you against the door, his body pinning yours. his hands found the zipper of your dress, pulling it down slowly, torturously.

“niall,” you whimpered, body aching for his touch.

niall pulled back, his eyes dark with lust as he took in the sight in fromt of him. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his hands sliding the dress off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet.

you stood before him in nothing but her lace panties. niall’s hands explored your curves, his fingers tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips.

“on the bed,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

you obeyed, crawling onto the bed and positioning herself on your hands and knees. you looked back at niall over her shoulder, eyes heavy with desire. “like this?” you asked, your voice breathy.

niall groaned, your hands gripping her hips and pulling you back against him. “just like that,” he growled, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down.

you groaned as the cool air hit yout heated skin, body trembling with anticipation. niall’s fingers found your wet folds, teasing your entrance before plunging inside.

“oh god,” you moaned, her hips rocking back against niall’s hand.

“that’s a good girl,” niall fingered you slowly, his thumb finding your clit and circling it in time with his thrusts. your moans grew louder, body tensing as you neared your peak.

“not yet,” niall commanded, pulling his fingers away.

you whined in frustration, body aching for release. “please, niall,” you practically begged.

niall chuckled, his hand delivering a sharp smack to your ass. “patience, baby,” he said, his fingers returning to your dripping core.

your hips bucked once more, body shaking as niall continued to tease. you could feel his hard length pressing against her, and ached to feel him inside you.

“niall, please,” you cried, voice desperate. “i need you now.”

niall groaned, his fingers disappearing and his hard length replacing them. he pushed into you slowly, his hands gripping your hips as he filled you completely.

“fuck!” he growled, his hips starting to move.

you let out a noise only he could summon, your body arching to meet niall’s thrusts. he felt so good inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. niall’s pace increased, his hips slapping against your ass as he drove into you.

“harder,” you panted, hands fisting in the sheets.

niall obliged, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. your moans grew louder, body tensing as she neared her peak. niall’s hand snaked around your waist, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles.

“cum for me, sweet girl,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

you shattered, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashed over you. niall continued to thrust, his own release following shortly after. he collapsed on top of you, his body covering yours as you both caught your breath.

the room hums with the aftermath of laughter, kisses, whispered nothings. but now it's quiet, the kind of quiet that feels safe. the kind that feels earned.

you’re half on the edge of sleep when niall stirs, his voice cutting through the dark.

"hey," he says.

you turn your head to look at him, blinking slow. "yeah?"

niall’s already looking at you, hair mussed, eyes soft. he smiles, just a little.

"you’ll marry me one day, yeah?"

he says it so simply, so gently — like he’s talking about the weather. like he’s asking if you want another cup of tea.

you know it’s not a proposal. not yet. it’s a promise. a dream, floated between you in the quiet dark.

you feel yourself smiling without even thinking about it.

"yeah," you say.

niall hums under his breath, the sound low and satisfied, and tugs you closer, both drifting off to sleep.

77 notes · View notes

shortnfreaky · 22 days ago

Text

Bordersz

Masterlist

A round of Never Have I Ever turns revealing when you admit you’ve never had sex—and suddenly, Zayn Malik is looking at you like he’s found something he didn’t know he was missing. One slow, heated night later, it’s clear this isn’t just casual anymore.

Tags: Zayn x reader, smut (virgin reader, fem receiving oral, protected p in v)

...

It’s loud, but not overwhelming—the kind of bar that smells like lime and beer, where the lights are low enough to feel cozy, and the music hums just below the chatter. You’re tucked into a booth that barely fits six, pressed between Zayn and Liam, a mostly-melted mojito in your hand.

You’re not really sure how this happened. One minute you were doing final touch-ups backstage, brushing powder over Harry’s nose while Louis heckled from the couch, and the next you were being dragged along to their night out. No time to change, no time to overthink it.

Zayn had just said, “She’s coming,” like it was obvious. Like no one needed to ask you.

So now here you are, squeezed between two popstars in a booth sticky with spilled rum and laughter, trying to pretend this is normal.

You’re their junior stylist—junior being the keyword. Lou brought you on a few months ago, and you’re still learning the rhythm of tour life. You handle the minor jobs—foundation touch-ups, hair gel emergencies, panic-bought concealer when someone’s breakout threatens a photo op. Most days you feel invisible, floating around the boys while they joke and banter like brothers.

But tonight, they’ve pulled you in. Not just physically—though Zayn’s thigh is warm against yours, and Liam keeps refilling your drink without asking—but socially. Properly.

“We’re playing something,” Louis announces, tossing a coaster at Niall. “Before I get too drunk to speak words.”

Niall catches it with one hand, somehow already flushed. “Truth or dare?”

Harry shakes his head. “Too chaotic.”

“Spin the bottle?” Liam teases, raising a brow.

“Oh, please,” you mutter, “You’d all die before kissing each other.”

“I wouldn’t,” Zayn says casually beside you, and you nearly choke on your drink.

Louis grins like he’s just won something. “Never Have I Ever, then?”

A chorus of nods follows. Glasses clink. A fresh round is ordered.

“You ever played before?” Liam asks, leaning in just enough that you can hear him over the music.

You nod. “Once. Uni party. Someone puked on a bean bag halfway through.”

“Charming,” Zayn murmurs near your ear. You swear you feel the ghost of a smile on your neck.

Louis slams his hand down. “Right. I’ll start. Never have I ever… worn eyeliner.”

Everyone groans and drinks.

Even Liam.

You laugh into your straw, relaxing a little as the game rolls on. The questions start off easy—silly tour stuff, harmless confessions. Harry admits to stealing conditioner from hotels. Niall cops to crying during The Lion King. Zayn hasn’t said much, but you catch him watching you out of the corner of your eye more than once.

And then Louis leans forward, smirking like he’s about to drop a bomb.

“Never have I ever… had sex in a tour bus bathroom.”

Groans. Laughter. Drinks raised.

And just like that, the game shifts.

You feel your stomach flip, your fingers tightening around your glass.

They’re about to start sharing stories.

You laugh along with the others, cheeks warm, limbs loose from the cocktails and the late hour. The game has moved into dangerous territory—no longer silly little confessions, but real ones. Blurred lines. Edging into intimacy.

Zayn’s thigh is still pressed against yours, the leather of the booth creaking when either of you shifts. He hasn’t said much since Louis’ bathroom story, but you feel him there. Solid. Present.

“Alright,” Harry says, swirling the last of his drink, voice low and mischievous, “my turn.”

“Oh no,” Liam groans. “Here we go.”

Harry grins. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”

The table explodes.

Niall howls, immediately downing his drink.

Louis slaps his hand to his heart. “So many sins. So little time.”

Liam drinks with an awkward little cough. “University was… a time.”

Even Zayn lifts his glass and sips—no drama, no explanation.

And then they all look at you.

You hesitate.

Smile faintly.

And slowly shake your head.

You don’t drink.

At first, no one reacts.

Not really.

Louis is already halfway into another story—something about a girl who turned out to be a twin. But then he falters, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Wait,” he says, pointing at you with a squint. “Not even once?”

You give a small shrug. “Nope.”

Niall frowns. “But you said you’ve been in relationships.”

“Not… really,” you say. “I’ve dated. But nothing serious.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Liam’s brows lift, something dawning in his expression. “So… wait—”

“I haven’t,” you say quickly, cheeks burning. “Had sex. Ever.”

The words feel loud, too loud.

You wish you could grab them and stuff them back in your mouth.

There’s another pause, longer this time.

Then—

“Oh.” Niall says, soft and surprised.

You brace yourself for awkwardness. For teasing. For the boys to make it weird, even if they don’t mean to.

But instead—

“That’s alright,” Liam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Louis blinks, then grins. “Shit, I think that just means you’ve got standards.”

Harry laughs. “High ones, clearly, if none of us ever made the cut.”

You snort, tension starting to break. “Please. You lot couldn’t handle me.”

That earns a chorus of laughter, and the mood shifts again—gentle now, softer around the edges.

Niall leans across the table, eyes kind. “You don’t have to feel weird about it. Honestly. If anything, you’re the only one here who hasn’t had some tragic, messy story.”

“Oh yeah,” Louis nods seriously. “You’re the only one who’s still pure. You must be protected at all costs.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks is fading, replaced by something warmer. Something steadier.

But beside you, Zayn hasn’t said anything.

You risk a glance, and he’s still looking at you—jaw slightly tight, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass like he’s trying to work something out.

“Zayn?” you say quietly, half-joking. “You alright?”

He snaps out of it, blinking once. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—”

He pauses.

Then, softly, “Didn’t expect that.”

You smile nervously. “Surprise.”

But he doesn’t laugh.

He just keeps looking at you, like he’s seeing you differently now. Not in a bad way. Just… deeper.

“How’s someone like you never…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “I mean—you’re beautiful. And kind. And smart. And—”

You blink, caught off guard.

He shakes his head, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Sorry. That sounded—fuck. That sounded weird.”

“No,” you say quickly, voice smaller than before. “It didn’t.”

Louis whistles. “Alright, loverboy.”

Zayn shoots him a glare, but there’s no real bite in it.

You can feel your pulse racing again—but this time, not from embarrassment.

From something else entirely.

Something new.

And maybe a little electric.

You try to laugh off the moment, but Zayn’s words linger in the air like smoke—visible, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

He’s still watching you, jaw tight, one hand wrapped around his drink like he’s forgotten it’s there. The way he’s looking at you now is… different. Focused. Almost reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Which, apparently, is also not going unnoticed.

Harry is the first to clock it. His eyebrows lift slowly, mouth twitching like he’s about to say something but—shockingly—chooses not to.

Louis, however, is less restrained.

He leans across the table, nudging Niall. “Is it just me, or did Zayn’s soul just leave his body for a second there?”

Zayn snaps out of his trance with a slow blink. “Piss off.”

Niall grins, catching on immediately. “Mate, you alright? You’ve gone a bit… soft in the eyes.”

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands.

Zayn shifts beside you, clearly trying to play it cool. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?” Louis says innocently, clearly delighted. “We’re just admiring how smitten you look.”

“Yeah,” Harry adds, voice smooth, “it’s kind of sweet. Like watching a Victorian man fall in love with a scandalous woman who just showed him her ankle.”

Liam lets out a loud laugh. “Ankle, wow.”

You finally lower your hands, aiming a glare at the whole table. “You’re all children.”

Louis grins. “And yet you’re the one being courted in public.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter.

Zayn tries to lean back, casual, but the blush rising in his cheeks gives him away. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Liam says with a shrug, “but we’re not wrong.”

Niall lifts his glass. “To sexual tension.”

You slap a hand over his mouth before he can say more, laughing despite yourself.

Zayn shoots you a sideways glance, something soft behind his eyes. “You okay?”

You nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s something heavier in his voice. “I just… didn’t think you’d be full of surprises like that.”

You tilt your head, trying to keep things light. “You saying I seem like the type?”

He looks at you for a long beat, eyes warm. “Nah. I’m saying I don’t think I’ve figured you out yet.”

Your breath catches.

And across the table, four smug idiots exchange glances.

“Oh, they’re definitely gonna hook up before the tour ends,” Louis whispers loudly to Harry, who nods like he’s observing wildlife in its natural habitat.

You and Zayn say nothing.

But neither of you look away.

You try to shake it off—try to join back into the game, sip your drink, laugh at Harry’s impression of their old vocal coach—but it’s impossible to ignore Zayn’s presence beside you now. Like the heat of him has increased, the space between your bodies charged with something electric.

Every time you move, your thigh brushes his. Every time someone laughs too loud or leans too close, you feel his hand lightly graze your lower back as if instinctively grounding you.

The others keep stealing glances. Less subtle now.

“God, the vibes,” Louis mutters under his breath, dramatically fanning himself with a coaster.

“Should we leave them alone?” Niall asks, not even bothering to whisper.

“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t so hot,” Harry adds, sipping his drink with a smirk.

You shoot them all a look, but your heart is beating too fast for it to land properly.

Zayn, to his credit, doesn’t say anything. But you feel him tense beside you—like he’s fighting the same thing you are.

Liam glances at his watch and stretches. “Alright, I’m calling it. My liver’s begging for mercy.”

“Same,” Niall agrees, dragging his coat off the back of the booth. “And I want chips before bed.”

Everyone starts to shift, gathering phones and unfinished drinks. You follow suit, sliding out of the booth—Zayn moves too, standing beside you like it’s automatic. Protective.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Louis calls, clapping you both on the shoulder as he passes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves a lot of questionable grey area,” you mutter, earning a chorus of snickers.

The group spills out onto the pavement, the night cool and crisp, city lights glinting off the sidewalk. They start debating whether to walk or call a car, scattering slightly in different directions.

You hang back a little.

So does Zayn.

You’re both quiet for a second, until he speaks—voice low, like it’s just for you.

“Wanna walk?”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The others are too busy arguing over the route to notice as you peel away, footsteps falling into rhythm as the buzz of the night folds around you both.

You don’t say anything right away.

Neither does he.

But his hand brushes yours, once.

Then again.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he laces his fingers through yours.

Just like that.

And you let him.

The walk back is quiet. Comfortable.

Zayn doesn’t let go of your hand the whole way, even when you reach the hotel entrance, even when the doorman gives you both a knowing look as he holds the door open.

The lobby is mostly empty—just soft lighting, a few murmured voices from the overnight staff, the faint hum of an elevator arriving. You glance toward the others, who are still bickering near the vending machines, loud and distracted.

No one’s looking.

Zayn doesn’t stop walking.

He gives your hand a gentle tug, and you follow him into the lift without a word.

You ride up in silence. His thumb is stroking along your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you even as your heart thumps against your ribs.

You’re not sure what this is. Or what it’s about to be.

But you don’t want to let go, either.

The doors slide open on his floor, and he turns to you—voice soft, careful.

“You don’t have to,” he says, like he’s offering you an out. “But if you want to come up. Just to hang out. Or talk. Or… not talk.”

There’s no pressure in his tone. No expectation.

Just Zayn. Quiet. Open. Honest.

You nod once, heart catching in your throat. “Yeah. I want to.”

He leads you down the hall, your hand still in his. The corridor is dim and quiet, carpet muffling your footsteps. When he reaches his room, he swipes the keycard and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

It’s a typical hotel suite. Neat. A little impersonal. But it smells faintly like him—warm spice and something smoky.

He lets your hand go gently, just long enough to toss the card on the counter and flick on a lamp.

The room fills with a soft amber glow.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of the silence. The way the door clicks shut behind you. The way his eyes find yours in the quiet.

He steps a little closer. Not crowding you, just… nearer.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You hesitate—then smile, small and a little breathless. “Are you?”

He laughs under his breath. “Not even a little.”

And for some reason, that calms you more than anything.

You let out a breathy laugh, the kind that feels more like a release than amusement. “You don’t seem that nervous.”

“I’m good at pretending,” he says, and for a moment, the smile slips from his lips. “I didn’t expect tonight to go like this.”

You nod, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve. “Me neither.”

He watches you for a second, then speaks again—quieter now. “Is it bad that I wanted to be around you tonight? Even before the game. Even before I knew…”

You look up at him.

His eyes are serious. Warm.

“I think I’ve been trying not to think about you like that,” he says, like he’s confessing something heavy. “Because you work with us. And you’re Lou’s. And you’re… you.”

“Me?” you ask, brows lifting.

Zayn gives a small, almost helpless smile. “Yeah. You. You’re funny, and sharp, and you don’t take shit from any of us. You look after everyone, and you don’t even realise it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, something fluttering and fragile rising in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, the words slipping out before fear can catch them. “And not just tonight.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. Then he nods—just once—and steps closer again.

This time, when he lifts a hand to your cheek, you lean into it.

His thumb brushes your skin.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft—tentative, exploratory, like he’s afraid to break something delicate. But when your hands find the hem of his shirt, and he sighs against your mouth, the kiss deepens. His other hand finds your waist, then your back, pulling you closer until there’s barely space between you at all.

You feel dizzy with it. The heat of him, the scent of his skin, the way he’s kissing you like he wants to know every part of you, every thought.

But then he pulls back suddenly, breath hitching. His hands still on your hips, but his face just inches from yours.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “Wait.”

You pause, blinking up at him. “Zayn?”

He lets out a rough breath. “I didn’t bring you back here just to sleep with you.”

You smile softly. “Okay.”

“I mean—I wanted to be with you tonight, yeah,” he says, words tumbling out fast now. “But I didn’t have some plan. I didn’t think, oh, she’s a virgin, now’s my chance. I swear I didn’t. I just… wanted more time with you. Away from them. Just us.”

“Zayn,” you say gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Even if you had brought me back here to have sex with me… I would’ve been okay with it.”

He opens his eyes then. Searching yours like he’s making sure.

“Because I trust you,” you continue. “And because I wanted this too. I still do.”

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension in them bleeding out. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You smile, letting your fingers trace the edge of his shirt. “You keep saying that.”

He leans in again, this time slower, more certain. “Because I keep meaning it.”

And when he kisses you again, there's no more hesitation.

It’s still gentle—deliberate—but deeper now. Slower. The kind of kiss that makes your knees a little unsteady. He backs you toward the bed with soft touches and quiet breaths, never rushing, never letting his hands wander too far too fast. Just enough to let you feel him. To know he’s there.

You fall back onto the mattress with a breathless laugh, and he follows, crawling over you with a low, fond hum. His hands settle at your hips, grounding you, but his eyes search yours again.

“You good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your throat. “Still gonna say it. As many times as you need.”

You reach for him, curling your fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt, tugging gently. “Take this off?”

Zayn sits up just enough to pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. You drink in the sight of him—bare skin, warm tattoos, the soft shadows that curve down his stomach. He doesn’t flex. Doesn’t show off. Just watches your face as you look at him.

You reach up and run your hand down his chest, slow. He shivers under your touch.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

You nod, and he helps you—soft and careful, lifting your shirt over your head and unclasping your bra without fumbling or asking questions. Like he wants to make it easy. Like he’s been thinking about this longer than he’ll ever admit.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes roaming your chest, your waist, the soft curve of your stomach. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

You flush, but he doesn’t give you time to hide. He kisses you again, slower now, and lets his hands explore—palms dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it. His mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, sucking a soft mark just under your breast. You arch up into him, a shaky gasp escaping your lips.

“That feel good?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yes.”

His hands work down your body, undoing the button of your jeans, slipping them down your legs with the same kind of reverence he’s shown all night. You’re bare beneath him now, just your underwear still on, and Zayn kisses your inner thigh before glancing up.

“Can I taste you?”

You feel your breath leave you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Zayn lowers himself between your legs like he’s worshiping, not rushing, just sinking onto his knees at the edge of the bed with maddening calm. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, thumbs sweeping in slow circles as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee—then higher. Another kiss, hotter now. Then higher still.

You’re already trembling.

No one’s ever done this before. Not even close.

He leans in and kisses you over the thin fabric of your underwear, warm breath ghosting across your skin, and the sound you make is barely human. A choked gasp, hips jolting slightly before his hands tighten to keep you grounded.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, voice full of awe. “So responsive already.”

You manage a shaky breath. “I’ve never…”

Zayn glances up, eyes dark and soft. “No one’s ever gone down on you?”

You shake your head, suddenly shy again. “No.”

He lets out the quietest groan, his thumbs grazing along your hips. “That’s gonna change. Right now.”

And then he peels your underwear down.

Slow.

Torturous.

He watches as he does it, his eyes fixed on the way your body’s revealed to him inch by inch. When the fabric is finally gone and you’re bare before him, he exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re dripping.”

Your whole body lights up at the way he says it—rough, reverent, hungry.

Then his mouth is on you.

It starts with a slow lick, from bottom to top, just enough pressure to make your back arch. You gasp—your fingers shooting down to tangle in his hair—and he groans against you like your reaction alone is enough to wreck him.

He flattens his tongue and licks again, firmer this time. Then a flick—precise, teasing—over your clit that makes you moan, loud and raw.

“Oh my God—”

He hums, mouth closing around you, and the vibration nearly makes you come undone.

His tongue moves in perfect rhythm, unrelenting but still somehow patient, like he wants to savor every twitch of your body, every breathy moan. He circles your clit with slow, steady flicks, then sucks gently, just once—enough to have you clenching around nothing, toes curling, a whimper breaking from your lips.

Your thighs start to shake, and he slides his hands under them, spreading you wider, holding you open for him like he never plans to stop.

“Zayn—fuck—” You grip the sheets with one hand, the other still tangled in his hair. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he murmurs, barely lifting his mouth. “You’re doing so fucking good. Just let go.”

You’ve never felt anything like it—like every nerve ending is alive, like the pleasure is building too fast to contain. It rushes up your spine, through your core, until it’s all you are—heat and tension and Zayn’s mouth and—

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits hard, your entire body shaking with it, a cry tearing from your throat as you grind against his tongue. Zayn groans again, deeper this time, holding you through it, licking you gently as your body pulses with aftershocks.

He doesn't pull away until your legs twitch and you whimper from overstimulation.

Then—finally—he lifts his head, lips shiny, pupils blown wide.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.

You’re breathless. Boneless. Floating.

“I don’t even know my name right now.”

Zayn grins, crawling back up your body and pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips—slow and filthy and sweet all at once. You taste yourself on his mouth and moan softly into him.

“I’ve been dreaming about doing that,” he admits between kisses. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.”

You cup his face, still flushed and dazed. “That was the best thing anyone’s ever done to me.”

His smile softens. “Then let me keep going. Let me make the rest just as good.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s the promise in his voice that makes your heart race all over again.

Zayn’s mouth is still warm against yours, his weight pressed carefully into your body, one hand stroking your side like he’s trying to calm you—but it’s your pulse that’s thundering now, a different kind of need building in your chest.

You trail your fingers down the line of his chest, over the tattoos you’ve only ever seen peeking from under his shirts, your touch featherlight. He shivers.

“You okay?” he murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

You nod. “Yeah. I just… I want to touch you.”

His breath catches.

“You can,” he says, voice rough. “You can do anything you want.”

You slide your hand lower, fingers tracing down the ridges of his stomach, then over the waistband of his jeans. There’s a sharp tension in his jaw now—like he’s trying to stay still for you, to be good, to give you time.

You palm him gently through his jeans, and he lets out a low, shaky exhale, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You smile, gaining a bit of confidence, and undo his button. He lifts his hips slightly to help as you tug his jeans down, then his briefs, revealing him fully. And for a second, you just look.

He’s thick, flushed, hard already from everything you’ve been doing—and from the look of restraint on his face, he’s been aching for you this entire time.

You reach out, fingers curling around him, and he lets out a strangled sound.

“Jesus—okay, slow down—” His hand covers yours, not to stop you, but to guide. “Like this.”

He shows you, gently—how to stroke him, how to twist your wrist just enough at the top, how to run your thumb over the sensitive underside. You follow his lead, watching his face as his eyes fall shut and his lips part.

He groans again, deeper this time, hips rocking up into your fist.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “I like seeing you like this.”

His eyes open—dark, wild, and reverent.

“I like you seeing me like this,” he whispers, and the honesty in it makes your stomach flutter.

You keep stroking him until his breath turns ragged, his hips twitching, his muscles trembling under your touch.

Then he catches your wrist gently, stilling you. “If you keep going, this’ll be over too fast.”

You smile, flushed and pleased. “You make it hard not to.”

He leans down and kisses you again, this time with heat behind it. “Come here.”

He reaches into the drawer again, his hand finding a condom—because now, there’s no more pausing. No more slowing down.

It’s time.

And he’s going to make it just as good for both of you.

Zayn kisses you again as he rolls the condom on—slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off yours for long. His hand glides down your side, grounding you, while his body settles between your thighs, warm and solid and trembling with restraint.

“You still okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper, breath catching. “More than okay.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your throat, then the center of your chest—like a silent thank you. Then he positions himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, and pauses.

“This might sting a little,” he says softly. “But I’ll go slow. You just tell me anything you need.”

You nod, and he watches your face as he starts to push in.

You feel the stretch first—thick, deliberate, burning in a way that steals your breath. Your fingers dig into his biceps as your back arches off the mattress, and Zayn stills instantly.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’re doing so fucking well.”

You exhale shakily, and he continues—inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt, his body trembling above yours with the effort of holding back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. You feel unreal.”

You feel full, completely overwhelmed in the best way—your body stretched and aching and lit up all at once. But with Zayn’s body wrapped around yours, the pressure starts to ease. The burn fades into heat, into want.

He doesn’t move until you shift beneath him, pressing your hips up gently in silent invitation.

“You sure?” he breathes, voice strained.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining. “Please.”

Zayn kisses you again—slow and deep—before drawing his hips back and pushing in again, slow and measured. The first few thrusts are tentative, shallow, but they still make you gasp, your nails biting into his arms.

He’s careful, watching every reaction you give him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more. “Zayn…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans your name and moves deeper, hips rolling with just enough force to drag a moan out of you. You grip him tighter, the friction growing with every stroke, pleasure curling low in your belly as your body starts to adjust, to crave it.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that, baby. You’re taking me so well.”

His voice wrecks you—deep and reverent, like he’s in awe of you. Like he can’t believe he’s the one making you feel like this.

He starts to move faster now, his thrusts harder but still controlled, like he’s desperate but still focused on you. You cling to him, breathing hard, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants. “So fucking good for me.”

Your hips roll up to meet his, desperate for more, chasing that spark again. “Zayn—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he groans, his pace quickening. “Wanna make you come again. Want you to fall apart on me.”

You cry out when he hits that spot deep inside you again, over and over, and it’s like everything coils tight—your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking, heat blooming hot and fast.

“Zayn—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, his hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit. “Come for me. Let go.”

And you do.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, harder this time, ripping through your body like a wave. You cry out, shaking under him, your muscles fluttering around his cock as he fucks you through it.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight, and then he’s groaning your name as he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt, every muscle in his body trembling.

Zayn collapses onto his elbows, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

For a long moment, there’s just silence.

Heavy breathing. Heartbeats pounding.

Then he kisses you again—soft, slow, almost dazed.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, still clinging to him. “That was… incredible.”

Zayn exhales like he’s been holding that breath the entire time. He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the feel of your lips against his. His hand moves gently over your side, fingertips dragging lightly down your skin, grounding you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, brushing his nose against yours. “Not too sore?”

“I’m good,” you whisper, still breathless. “Sensitive, but… yeah. I feel good.”

He smiles softly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “You were so perfect, you know that?”

You laugh, flushed and floating. “I don’t think I did anything.”

“You let me see you,” he says, voice quiet, reverent. “That’s everything.”

You blink, your throat tightening a little at the way he says it—like you gave him a gift. Like it meant something.

Zayn starts to shift, carefully pulling out of you. You whimper softly at the sensation, and his hand strokes your thigh instantly, soothing.

“Sorry, I know,” he murmurs. “Hang on, I’ll take care of you.”

He slips out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the water run, the rustle of something soft, and a moment later he’s back, warm towel in hand. He moves gently, kneeling between your legs again, cleaning you up with slow, careful strokes. You’re already squirming, body overstimulated, and he presses a kiss to your knee.

“Almost done, sweetheart.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname.

Once you’re cleaned up, he tosses the towel aside and crawls back into bed, pulling the sheets over you both. His arms slide around you instantly, tugging you into his chest like he can’t stand the thought of space between you now.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in—sweat and skin and something warm and smoky that’s just him. His fingers trail lightly up and down your spine, lazy and soft.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs after a beat. “You sure you’re alright?”

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. “I’m just… kind of in shock. In the best way.”

Zayn watches you, eyes soft in the low light.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his fingers never stopping their gentle glide along your back. “What kind of shock?”

You smile faintly, cheeks warm. “Like… I didn’t know it could be like that. I thought it would be awkward, or painful, or…” You trail off, tucking your head under his jaw again. “But it wasn’t. It felt… safe. And really, really good.”

He exhales a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Good,” he whispers. “I wanted it to feel like that for you. I wanted to take care of you.”

“You did,” you murmur. “You do.”

He’s quiet for a second, then tilts his head to rest his cheek against your temple. “I know it was your first time,” he says slowly, “and I don’t ever want you to think I—fuck, I don’t want this to feel like it was some kind of heat-of-the-moment thing for me. Or like it didn’t mean anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t just bring you back here to fuck you,” he adds, voice quiet but firm. “I brought you back because I wanted you close. Because I’ve been wanting you for a while now, even if I’ve been too much of a coward to say it.”

You lift your head, eyes searching his.

“Zayn…”

He brushes your hair gently behind your ear, his gaze steady. “I care about you. More than I realized, maybe. And I know we’ve been tiptoeing around it, but tonight just—” He swallows. “It made me sure. I don’t want this to be a one-night thing. I want you. For real.”

Your heart thuds hard, and you blink, surprised by how fast the emotion wells in your chest. “I want you too,” you whisper. “I thought maybe I was making more of this in my head, but… I didn’t want it to be just tonight either.”

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face, like he’s been waiting to hear that. “Good,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

You laugh softly and curl into him again, one leg hooking over his, your arms sliding around his middle like you never want to be anywhere else.

His hand comes to rest at the small of your back, thumb sweeping in slow, comforting strokes.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur against his chest.

“Anything.”

“Was I okay? Like… did I do okay?”

Zayn freezes for half a second, then lifts your chin gently so you’re looking at him.

“You were incredible,” he says, eyes dark with sincerity. “You were so responsive, so open. You let me see you, and feel you, and… I’ve never been with someone who made me feel like that. Don’t ever doubt it.”

You bite your lip, flustered, but his words settle deep in your chest like something solid. Something warm.

“I meant it,” he adds, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

You blink back sudden tears, overwhelmed and aching in the best way.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then I’m yours.”

He pulls you in closer, burying his face in your neck, and holds you like he never wants to let go.

“Mine,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I like the sound of that.”

And the way he holds you after that—tight and tender and secure—tells you he means every word.

...

You wake to the feeling of warm fingers tracing lazy circles along your back and the low rasp of Zayn’s voice in your ear.

“Mm. Stay.”

You shift slightly, face still pressed against his chest. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” he mumbles, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist.

You smile against his skin. “We’re supposed to be at hair and makeup in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “But we’re here.”

You laugh, eyes still shut. “That’s not how time works.”

Zayn hums and pulls you even closer, one of his legs slipping between yours, like he’s physically anchoring you in bed. “Five more minutes.”

You give in. Of course you do.

The five minutes turn into ten. Then fifteen. You only finally drag yourself up when your phone buzzes with a message from Lou: “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. GET YOUR ASS HERE BEFORE I LET LOUIS DO HIS OWN FOUNDATION AGAIN.”

“Shit,” you mumble, fumbling to get out of bed. “We’re so late.”

Zayn groans, rolling onto his back with one arm draped over his eyes. “I’d rather die than go to glam right now.”

You toss one of his hoodies over your head—it smells like him, and it’s soft and worn in the best way. He watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and slow-blinking like a cat in the sun.

“You look good in that,” he murmurs, voice still sleepy. “You should keep it.”

You pause at the mirror, cheeks warming. “You saying that because you want to see me in it again, or because you’re too lazy to wash it?”

“Both.”

You huff a laugh and toss him a clean shirt from his suitcase. “Get dressed, Malik.”

...

You both slip into the makeup trailer twenty-five minutes late, trying to be casual about it—but the second you open the door, the entire room freezes.

Harry’s halfway through a pastry, Niall’s drinking coffee, Liam’s looking over his shoulder at something on Lou’s phone, and Louis is—of course—the first to break the silence.

He points dramatically. “You two had sex!"

You freeze mid-step. Zayn stops beside you, one hand still in his hoodie pocket like this is all very normal.

Harry chokes on his pastry.

Liam sighs, rubbing his forehead like he’s already tired.

Niall mutters, “Took them long enough,” and goes back to his coffee.

You stare at Louis, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

Louis stands from the makeup chair like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? You’re late. You’re glowing. You’re wearing his hoodie. And Zayn hasn’t looked away from you once since walking in. I rest my case.”

You blink. “You just described coincidence.”

“Oh, please.” Louis turns to the others. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Harry just smirks and says nothing.

Liam coughs behind his hand. “She does look a bit… soft.”

“And he’s smiling,” Niall adds, like that alone is suspicious. “Zayn never smiles this early.”

Zayn finally speaks, calm and cool as ever. “You’re all deeply annoying.”

“And deeply right,” Louis fires back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You roll your eyes and move around the boys toward the makeup counter, trying to pretend you’re not wearing Zayn’s hoodie, trying to pretend you’re not still a little wrecked from last night. “Can we focus on the actual job now, maybe?”

“Sure,” Harry says, leaning casually against the wall. “Just as soon as Zayn stops looking at you like he wants to write poetry about your mouth.”

You freeze for half a second, brush case halfway unzipped.

Behind you, Zayn hums. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

You toss a makeup sponge at him without turning around. It hits his chest and bounces off.

Lou finally speaks, tapping her fingers impatiently on her palette. “Unless someone here wants to explain to management why I was forced to airbrush Liam using my elbow, I suggest we get back to work.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, stepping beside her and grabbing one of the brushes from your kit. “Finally, someone with sense.”

“Mm,” Lou hums as she inspects a compact. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Your head snaps toward her. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. That’s not your usual concealer routine. That’s the kind of glow that comes from… well.” She glances at Zayn. “Clearly a good night.”

Louis absolutely howls with laughter. “Lou!”

Even Liam lets out a surprised chuckle. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your forehead. “You’re all children.”

Louis gasps, clutching his chest. “She confirms it with sass! Look at her—feisty, radiant, tangled in Zayn’s hoodie like a love-drunk woodland creature.”

“I will stab you with this eyebrow pencil,” you mutter, pulling a brush from your kit.

Zayn, still seated in the chair with an air of practiced patience, lifts a brow. “Will you all leave my girlfriend alone, please?”

The room goes very still.

You blink.

Louis gasps again, somehow louder this time. “Girlfriend?” He turns to the others like he’s just witnessed a royal announcement. “Did you hear that? Girlfriend!”

“Confirmed by the man himself,” Niall says with a grin.

Harry gives Zayn a slow clap. “I honestly didn’t think you’d admit it first.”

Liam raises both hands. “I didn’t have that on my bingo card, but I’m not mad.”

Lou doesn’t even look up from her brushes. “Finally. Now maybe we can stop pretending none of us saw this coming two months ago.”

You glance at Zayn, stunned but smiling, and he just shrugs like it’s no big deal—like he hasn’t just casually dropped a title that makes your stomach flip.

“Was that okay?” he murmurs, soft enough only you can hear.

You nod, heart racing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Louis, meanwhile, is pacing the trailer like he’s narrating a documentary. “First she was just the junior stylist. Quiet. Unassuming. Then—bam!—Zayn Malik’s girlfriend. What a plot twist. What a hero’s journey.”

“Someone sedate him,” Lou mutters.

“I’ve got a setting spray I could use like pepper spray,” you offer.

Zayn smirks. “Use it.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to work, trying not to grin too hard as you catch your reflection in the mirror.

Zayn watches you from his chair, one leg bouncing, one hand curled loosely around the edge of the counter—completely relaxed now.

And when your eyes meet again in the mirror, he winks.

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shortnfreaky · 22 days ago

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𝜗𝜚 — i love pinterest.

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shortnfreaky · 24 days ago

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my tumblr is my private secret account

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shortnfreaky · 25 days ago

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It's You (Zayn Malik x reader) - Fic Request

Request for @partyb0yyyy: girl ur writing is literally perfectionnnn. please write sum smut for zayn 🤍🙏🏼 sorry, adding to my zayn smut request 😓 can it be like recent zayn, or like when he gets home from tour?

Tags: Zayn x reader, basically just smut with some fluff

Masterlist

It’s been months. The quiet of the rural Pennsylvania property wraps around you like a thick blanket, making everything feel even more isolated. You’ve grown accustomed to the stillness, but it’s not the same without him. The calls, FaceTimes, and late-night texts have kept you going, but they’ve only made the ache of missing him deeper. Each night, you fall asleep clutching your phone, watching his livestreams, wishing you could be there, right beside him.

Zayn's been in the UK for what feels like forever, finishing up the final leg of the Stairway To The Sky tour. And now, as Christmas nears, you can feel it—the anticipation building as you count the days, hours, minutes. He’s coming home. Finally. The thought of him being back fills you with a rush of warmth and excitement, but beneath it, there’s a longing that’s impossible to ignore. You want him. You need him in ways that go beyond just his presence.

The days drag on, but as the time ticks down, you find yourself unable to concentrate on anything but him. You’ve been patient, but the last few weeks have tested your limits. You know you’ll be reunited soon, but the thought of how much you've missed him, not just emotionally, but physically, has been gnawing at you. Every touch, every kiss you’ve imagined over the phone, has built up into something almost overwhelming.

Zayn’s finally wrapping up his UK shows. The idea of seeing him, holding him, feeling him close again makes your heart race. You can barely wait to feel the press of his lips against yours, to breathe him in and have him all to yourself. The longing is almost unbearable. It’s been too long, and the thought of having him back—of being able to show him just how much you’ve missed him—fills you with a fiery anticipation.

He’s coming home soon. And when he does, you’ll finally be able to kiss him like you’ve been craving, touch him like you’ve needed. The thought makes everything feel like it’s building to one perfect moment.

...

You’ve barely managed to sleep, the excitement keeping you up all night. The clock ticks slowly, every minute dragging as you wait for the moment when the plane lands and Zayn is finally back. You’ve prepared everything—cleaned the house, made sure everything is perfect, but nothing could be more perfect than him walking through that door.

When the sound of a car engine finally reaches your ears, your heart leaps in your chest. You stand from the couch, pacing for a few moments before you rush to the door. You barely remember to grab your jacket before running outside, your breath sharp and quick in the chilly air. You don’t even care that you might look a little crazy.

And then you see him.

Zayn’s figure is illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light, his tall frame outlined by the moonlight behind him. You freeze for a second, overwhelmed by the sight of him, finally home. He’s in a black hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly tousled, eyes already searching for you as his lips curl into that familiar, intoxicating smile.

The distance between you doesn’t last long. You rush toward him, your body moving almost on instinct, and in an instant, he’s there, pulling you into his arms, squeezing you tight, as if he can’t get enough of you either.

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him—musky, warm, everything that reminds you of him. His arms wrap around you, pressing you close to him like he’s afraid you might slip away again. The world seems to stop, just for a moment, and all that matters is the fact that he’s here, right in front of you.

“Missed you so much,” you whisper, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I missed you too, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head back so he can look at you. His eyes are softer than usual, filled with something deeper. "It’s been too long."

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat between you both, and that pull—the magnetic force that’s been building for months—hits you like a tidal wave. His hands cup your face gently, his thumb tracing over your lower lip as if he’s memorizing every detail of you, like he’s never going to let go again.

“I couldn’t wait to get home to you,” he breathes, his voice low, raw with need.

The space between your lips feels unbearable now. You both lean in at the same time, a spark of urgency, of everything you’ve been holding back these past few months, and finally, you kiss.

His lips are softer than you remember, but there’s a hunger in the way he presses them against yours. Your chest tightens as you melt into him, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes, his hands on your skin sending shivers down your spine.

The kiss deepens, more desperate now, as if you’re both starved for this closeness, this connection. His fingers slide down from your face to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you let out a soft gasp as his body presses against yours. The heat between you builds, a growing fire that has you both tangled in the sensation of each other. His lips move slowly against yours, teasing and gentle, before he pulls back just enough to catch his breath.

He grabs your hand and without a second thought, pulls you towards the bedroom. Then his mouth is on you again as you fall onto the bed together.

“Zayn…” you murmur, breathless, your lips brushing against his. You’re barely aware of your own hands as they move to his hair, pulling him closer, not wanting to break the kiss, the connection, not for a second.

He groans low in his throat, a sound that sends a jolt straight to your core. He pulls you tighter against him, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on. His lips travel to your neck, hot and hungry, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin. You tilt your head back to give him more access, your pulse hammering in your throat, every touch from him setting your skin ablaze.

His lips find your ear, nipping at the soft skin there before he whispers, “I’ve thought about this... about you, so many times…” His voice is rough with want, the sound sending heat straight to your core.

You can’t stop yourself, your hands moving to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward again, desperate to feel the heat of his bare skin against yours. When it finally pulls free, you slide your hands over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips, the heat of his body driving you wild. His skin is warm, his heart beating against your palm as he pulls you even closer, your body pressed so tight against his that there’s no room left for air. Your clothes start to disappear, leaving more of you exposed.

Zayn's lips find yours again with a searing intensity, his mouth moving against yours as though he’s trying to reclaim everything he’s been missing. His kisses are deep and urgent, with each press of his lips sending waves of heat through your entire body. He pulls back just enough to let out a shaky breath before his lips trail lower, down your neck, each kiss sending shivers that radiate to the very tips of your fingers.

His hands roam over your body with a hunger, the rough pads of his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your stomach, making you arch into him. You gasp as his lips travel further, his mouth hot against the soft curve of your collarbone, his breath brushing your skin like fire. You’re lost in the feeling of him, in the way he touches you, as if he’s memorizing every inch of your body, and you can’t help but writhe beneath him, craving more.

He reaches the swell of your breasts, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin there, and you feel your breath catch, your heart racing. He doesn’t hesitate, his mouth closing over your skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation is electric, making you gasp as your back arches off the bed. Zayn groans, the sound sending a thrill through you, his hands sliding to your back to pull you even closer.

You run your hands through his hair, tugging him closer as your body responds to his every move, every touch, your heart pounding in your chest. His mouth travels lower, down your body, each kiss leaving a trail of heat behind it, and you shiver in anticipation of what’s to come. Your skin feels alive under his touch, every nerve tingling with the need for more, and when his lips finally reach the waistband of your jeans, you can’t help but let out a shaky breath.

His hands slide over your hips, undoing the button with careful precision before slowly pulling the fabric down, exposing more of your skin to him. You can feel your pulse quicken as his eyes catch yours, dark with desire, before his mouth lowers once more. He places a single, teasing kiss on your inner thigh, the softest of touches that makes you tremble with need.

"Zayn…" you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make him pause, his lips hovering just above your skin. His eyes meet yours, and in that moment, you know he’s giving you the choice, allowing you to take the lead if you want it. But all you want is him, to feel him, to have him closer than you’ve ever had him before.

"Please," you whisper, your hands desperately gripping his shoulders, wanting to feel the heat of his skin against yours once more.

That’s all he needs.

He moves with a purposeful slowness, his lips never leaving your skin as he pulls you fully out of your jeans. He wastes no time, his hands spreading your thighs apart, his breath hot and shallow against your skin as he kisses his way down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

And then, just as you’re about to lose yourself entirely, Zayn's lips press gently against the sensitive skin between your thighs. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before—slow, deliberate, and achingly tender as he tastes you with a hunger that has you gasping in anticipation.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as his mouth works against you, and you can feel the heat building, rising in waves with every stroke of his tongue. Your body trembles, unable to hold back the moans that spill from your lips. Zayn moves with purpose, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he continues, each stroke, each touch bringing you closer to the edge.

The way he touches you, the way he makes you feel—alive, wanted, like you’re the only thing that matters—has you losing yourself in him. You can’t think, can’t breathe, only feel as he brings you closer to the precipice, the ache inside you building to an unbearable level.

When you finally break, when you come undone beneath his mouth, you’re lost to the sensation, to the fire that he’s kindled inside you. His name slips from your lips in a breathless cry, and Zayn groans at the sound, his hands tightening around you as he continues, coaxing you through the waves of pleasure until you’re left trembling beneath him.

He finally pulls away, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your inner thigh before he moves up your body, his gaze meeting yours once more. You can see the raw hunger in his eyes, the need that mirrors your own, and without a word, he leans down to kiss you, a soft and tender kiss that leaves you breathless.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of concern mixed with the desire that still lingers between you.

You nod, your breath still ragged as you pull him closer. “Better than okay. I need you, Zayn. I need all of you.”

The tension between you both rises again as Zayn pulls you closer, his hands roaming down your body with a hunger that matches your own. His lips find yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, the heat between you both undeniable. You can feel his breath in your mouth, warm and deep, as he begins to move over you with a purpose that makes your heart race.

You cling to him, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath your fingertips as his body presses against yours. You can feel him hard against you, the heat of him seeping into your skin, and you can’t hold back the soft gasp that escapes you when you feel him enter you.

His hands slide to your hips, pulling you closer as he moves with you, guiding you as if he knows exactly what you need, where you need him. The feeling of his body moving with yours, in sync, makes your breath catch. There’s nothing else in the world—just the rhythm of your bodies, the heat, the connection. Each movement of his is a silent promise, a declaration of everything he’s felt while he’s been away, and everything he’s been longing to give you.

The slow burn of his movement builds, the friction between you both intensifying with every shift of your bodies. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, urging you to meet his rhythm as he moves deeper into you. You can feel him everywhere, filling you completely, and the tension in your chest tightens, your heart thundering as the intensity grows.

Zayn’s breath becomes shallow, his lips brushing against your skin as he moves with you, slowly, intentionally. You match his rhythm, your body responding instinctively to his, every shift, every brush of his skin against yours sending a shock of heat through you. You lose yourself in the sensation of him—every touch, every kiss, every movement, until the world outside doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just him, just the two of you.

His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, and he groans in response, his grip on you tightening as he presses you even closer. You feel him deeper now, the intensity building, the pressure coiling tighter between you both until it feels like you can’t take it anymore. You cry out his name as you reach your peak, with him following not long after. He holds you for a moment longer before moving away—but not too far.

Afterward, the world feels suspended in time. You and Zayn are tangled together, breathless, your bodies still humming with the echoes of what just happened. The room is quiet except for the sound of your heartbeats, slowly settling into a steady rhythm, as if your bodies are syncing in more than just movement.

Zayn pulls you into his arms, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, his fingers softly tracing the line of your back. His touch is gentle now, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you, making sure you’re really here, in his arms. His lips press to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” you whisper, your voice still raw from everything that just transpired.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much. This... this is everything.”

You curl into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the sound that grounds you both in the moment. His fingers find their way into your hair again, brushing through it gently as if he can’t help but touch you, as if being this close to you is the only thing that matters.

The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the unspoken words that you both know need no explanation. You feel whole now, complete in a way you hadn’t realized was missing until this moment. Every part of you feels alive, buzzing with the connection you share.

Zayn’s thumb strokes over your wrist, the gesture tender and slow, as if he’s savoring every second of this quiet moment. “I’m never going to leave you again,” he says softly, his words a promise, and you feel them settle deep inside of you.

You lift your head to meet his eyes, finding warmth and sincerity there. “I know,” you reply, your voice steady now, the ache in your chest a soft glow of contentment. “You’re home.”

And for the first time in a long time, everything feels right.

149 notes · View notes

shortnfreaky · 25 days ago

Text

In The Silence (Zayn Malik x reader) - Fic Request

Request for @cletumblsblog: Hello love!! I hope you’re doing well! Can you write an imagine about Zayn. Reader as a sixth member and some angst like zayn and reader arguing about something. And doing thé silence treatment!!! Thank you!!

Tags: Zayn x reader, angst, fluff, mentions of injury

Masterlist

You’ve been part of One Direction since the beginning—the sixth member in a group of five. The boys make sure you never feel out of place, but with Zayn, it’s always been different. From the start, he’s been your person, your confidant. When the chaos of fame feels too loud, he’s the quiet you can retreat to.

Or at least, he was.

For weeks now, Zayn’s been pulling away. At first, it was subtle: fewer late-night talks, his replies turning short and distant. You told yourself he was just tired or stressed, but now it’s unmistakable. He avoids you in the bus, during rehearsals, even in interviews. He’s there—but he’s not really there.

And it’s killing you.

...

The bus is quiet as it rolls through another dark stretch of highway. Everyone else is in their bunks, either asleep or pretending to be, but you’ve spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, the knot in your chest growing tighter.

You can’t take it anymore.

Sliding out of your bunk, you pad toward the kitchenette, where Zayn is slouched at the table, headphones in and sketchbook open. His pen scratches against the paper, his jaw tight, his focus unrelenting.

“Zayn,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t look up.

“Zayn.”

This time, your voice cuts through. He pulls out one earbud and glances at you, his expression unreadable. “What?”

The one word sends a spark of frustration through you. “We need to talk.”

“Not now,” he mutters, putting the earbud back in.

“No,” you snap, yanking it out before he can tune you out again. “We’re doing this now. What the hell is going on with you?”

He sighs heavily, sitting back in his chair. “I’m not doing this, alright? Just drop it.”

“Drop what? The fact that you’ve been avoiding me for weeks?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “I’m not stupid, Zayn. Something’s wrong, and I’m done pretending it’s not.”

He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I said, drop it.”

“No,” you say, stepping in front of him as he tries to walk past. “You don’t get to just walk away. Not from this. Not from me.”

He freezes, his jaw clenching. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need to do.”

The air leaves your lungs, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can’t keep doing this,” he says sharply, his voice cold and cutting. “This—whatever this is between us—it’s too much.”

You blink, stunned. “Too much?”

“You don’t get it,” he says, his voice rising. “You don’t get how exhausting it is, being around you all the time, pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not.”

You take a step back, his words hitting like a slap. “Wow. I didn’t realize being my friend was such a burden for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he snaps, running a hand through his hair.

“Then what do you mean, Zayn?” you demand, your voice breaking. “Because all I see is someone who’s trying to cut me out of his life without even telling me why.”

His silence is louder than any answer he could give.

“Unbelievable,” you say, shaking your head as tears sting your eyes. “You know what? Fine. If that’s how you feel, then go ahead. Walk away.”

For a moment, you think he might say something. His mouth opens, but then he stops, his expression hardening. Without a word, he brushes past you and disappears into the back of the bus, leaving you standing there, feeling raw and exposed.

...

The door to the back of the bus clicks shut behind Zayn, and the silence that follows feels suffocating. You stand frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind, the echo of his words pounding in your ears.

This—whatever this is between us—it’s too much.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat doesn’t go away. Your chest aches, and before you know it, the tears you were fighting finally spill over. You turn quickly, hoping to retreat to your bunk before anyone sees you break down, but you stop short.

Liam is standing at the edge of the hallway, his expression soft but full of concern. He must have heard everything.

“Hey,” he says quietly, taking a cautious step toward you. “You alright?”

The question is too much. You let out a choked laugh, shaking your head as more tears fall. “Do I look alright, Liam?”

Without a word, he closes the distance between you and pulls you into a hug. His arms wrap around you firmly, one hand resting gently on the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

You don’t hold back. The tears come fast and hot, soaking into his hoodie as you cling to him like a lifeline. He sways slightly, his steady presence grounding you in the middle of the storm.

After a while, your sobs quiet, and you pull back just enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, wiping at your face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you, his voice calm and soothing. “I was already awake. Heard the two of you…thought I should check in.”

Your stomach twists in embarrassment. “You heard that?”

“Only bits,” he says quickly, but you can tell by the look in his eyes that he heard more than enough.

You shake your head, stepping back fully and wrapping your arms around yourself. “I don’t even know what happened. One minute he’s my best friend, and the next…” Your voice cracks. “He hates me, Liam. He doesn’t want me around anymore.”

“Hey, hey,” Liam says, his brow furrowing as he reaches out to gently squeeze your shoulder. “That’s not true.”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I heard enough to know he doesn’t hate you,” Liam counters. “Zayn’s…complicated. He keeps a lot inside. But trust me, he doesn’t hate you.”

You shake your head again, tears threatening to return. “Then why does it feel like he does? Why would he push me away like this if he didn’t?”

Liam hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, “people push away the ones they care about the most because they’re scared of losing them. Or of hurting them.”

Your breath catches. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he says with a small, sad smile. “Feelings don’t always make sense. But I promise you, Zayn doesn’t want to lose you. He’s just…he’s got a lot going on in his head right now.”

You sniff, wiping at your face again. “Why does he have to make everything so difficult?”

Liam chuckles softly, rubbing your shoulder. “That’s Zayn for you.”

For a moment, the two of you stand there in silence, the quiet hum of the bus filling the space. Finally, Liam gives your shoulder another reassuring squeeze. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you a cup of tea and a proper chat, yeah? I’ll even let you steal my biscuits.”

Despite everything, you manage a small smile. “Thanks, Liam.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly.

As he leads you toward the kitchenette, you glance back at the closed door to the back of the bus. Your chest still feels heavy, but Liam’s words echo in your mind. Zayn doesn’t want to lose you.

You want to believe him. You really do.

...

The hum of the vending machine is loud in the empty diner as you press a button, watching a cup of tea fill below. You’ve been trying to hold it together all day, but your usual bubbly energy feels like a mask you can’t even pretend to wear.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Niall says, his usual lighthearted tone softer than usual.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing there, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, a lopsided smile on his face.

“Niall,” you sigh, managing a weak smile. “Shouldn’t you be inhaling your burger?”

“Already done,” he says, leaning against the counter beside you. “I’d have saved you a bite, but, you know, survival instincts.”

The faintest chuckle escapes you, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. You stir your tea, staring at the swirling liquid like it holds answers.

“You okay?” Niall asks, his voice softer now.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” you mutter, setting the stirrer down with more force than you meant to.

“Because,” Niall says, nudging your arm gently, “you’re not.”

His words hit deeper than you expect, and for a moment, you can’t speak.

Niall doesn’t push. He waits, his blue eyes watching you patiently. Finally, you exhale, leaning back against the counter.

“Zayn and I had a fight,” you admit.

“Figured as much,” he says simply, but there’s no judgment in his tone.

Your shoulders slump. “He’s...he’s been shutting me out, Niall. I don’t even know why. I thought we were close, but now it feels like he can’t stand to be around me.”

Niall’s brow furrows, and he looks down at the floor for a moment. “That’s not it,” he says eventually.

You glance at him. “How do you know?”

“Because I know Zayn,” he says with a shrug. “He gets in his head sometimes. Pushes people away when he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling.”

“What he’s feeling?” you echo, confused.

Niall hesitates, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know the details, but...he cares about you. A lot. Don’t let whatever this is make you forget that, alright?”

You nod, though his words do little to ease the ache in your chest.

...

Back on the bus, you retreat to your usual spot near the front, curling up with your headphones and trying to pretend you’re invisible. Harry sits across from you, a magazine in hand, but his eyes keep flicking toward you, his concern painfully obvious.

Zayn is in his usual corner by the window, headphones on and sketchbook in his lap. He hasn’t said a word to anyone all day.

The tension is unbearable.

Louis, lounging dramatically on the couch, finally throws his hands up. “Alright, I’ve had it. What is this? Sad Direction? Where’s the fun? The laughs? The terrible puns?”

No one answers.

“Come on, you lot!” Louis continues, sitting up. “This silence is unnatural. It’s like a funeral in here. Except nobody brought sandwiches.”

“Louis,” Liam says in that calm, warning tone.

“What?” Louis snaps, gesturing wildly. “Am I the only one who feels like we’re stuck in the world’s most depressing episode of EastEnders?”

“Can you not, mate?” Zayn mutters without looking up, his tone sharper than usual.

“Oh, now you speak,” Louis fires back, crossing his arms. “Careful, Zayn. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Louis,” Liam says more firmly, his eyes darting between you and Zayn. “That’s enough.”

For a moment, the bus is silent again, and you feel everyone’s eyes on you. Finally, you stand, muttering, “I’m going to bed.”

You don’t look back as you climb into your bunk, pulling the curtain closed.

...

Later that night, you hear the sound of someone climbing into the bunk opposite yours. You don’t look up, hoping they’ll take the hint and leave you alone. But then a quiet voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to talk, but...I’m here if you want to.”

It’s Harry.

You don’t respond at first, biting your lip as you stare at the ceiling. Finally, you whisper, “I don’t know what to do.”

Harry shifts, leaning closer so his voice is low but clear. “About Zayn?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Maybe don’t do anything,” he says after a moment.

You glance toward him, confused. “What?”

“Just...give it time,” he says softly. “I know it’s hard, but sometimes people need space to figure out their own mess. Doesn’t mean they don’t care about you.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of hope.

...

The six of you stand in a loose line across the stage, the familiar hum of the speakers echoing in the empty arena. This should feel routine—just another day running through the setlist before the show tonight—but everything feels off.

Zayn is positioned as far from you as he can manage, his body turned slightly away. You try to focus on your mic, on the lyrics, on anything other than the hollow ache in your chest. But it’s impossible to ignore the tension crackling like static between you and him.

The opening notes of You and I start, and you all join in. Harry sings his part smoothly, his voice warm and confident. But by the time it’s Zayn’s turn, the rhythm falters. His voice is good—of course it is—but the energy is flat.

Niall, usually so laid-back, frowns as he strums his guitar. “Zayn, mate, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Zayn says curtly, barely sparing him a glance.

“You don’t sound fine,” Louis pipes up, leaning casually on his mic stand. His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it. “Actually, none of this sounds fine. It sounds like sh—”

“Louis,” Liam cuts in, his voice calm but firm.

“No, I’m serious,” Louis says, pushing off the stand and waving his hand between you and Zayn. “This? Whatever this is? It’s dragging everyone down.”

“Maybe mind your own business,” Zayn snaps, his voice icy.

Louis raises an eyebrow, undeterred. “Kind of hard to do when the two of you are radiating misery all over the stage.”

Your face burns, and you take a step back, gripping your mic tighter. “Just leave it alone, Louis.”

“Why?” Louis fires back, gesturing toward you. “You’re usually the loudest, bubbliest one here, and now you’re acting like you don’t even want to be in the same room as us. And Zayn—”

“Enough,” Zayn says sharply, his voice louder than it’s been all day. His eyes flash as he looks at Louis, then at you. “I said there’s nothing to talk about.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Harry, standing closest to you, shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe we should take a minute. Cool off.”

“We don’t need a minute,” Zayn mutters, running a hand through his hair. “We need to just get on with it.”

You snap then, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “You mean you need to just get on with it, right? Because that’s what you’ve been doing—pretending like I don’t even exist.”

Zayn’s head snaps toward you, his jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” you repeat, your voice trembling. “You’ve already started, Zayn. You started when you decided to shut me out without even telling me why.”

“Maybe I don’t owe you an explanation,” he says, his tone cold.

That stings more than you expect. Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. “I thought we were friends.”

Zayn opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. His expression flickers—anger, guilt, something you can’t quite name—but then it hardens again, and he looks away.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Liam interjects, stepping between you two. His voice is calm but commanding, the way it always is when things spiral. “Everyone take five. Now.”

...

You turn on your heel and walk off the stage, your chest tight. You don’t stop until you’re in the empty green room, slumping onto the couch and burying your face in your hands.

Moments later, you hear the door open and close softly. You look up to see Liam standing there, his hands in his pockets, a worried crease in his brow.

“You okay?” he asks gently, sitting down beside you.

“No,” you admit, your voice cracking. “I don’t even know what I did wrong, Liam. He just...he hates me now.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Liam says firmly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “He’s just...complicated.”

“That’s what Niall said,” you mumble, wiping at your eyes.

“Because it’s true,” Liam says with a small smile. “Zayn’s got a lot going on in his head, and he’s not great at talking about it. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. If anything, it probably means he cares too much.”

You blink at him, your heart skipping. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liam hesitates, as if debating how much to say. But before he can answer, the door swings open again, and Louis strides in, followed by Harry and Niall.

“Well, that was fun,” Louis says dryly, flopping onto the couch opposite you. “Nothing like a public meltdown to kick off the day.”

“Louis,” Harry says, shooting him a warning look before sitting down next to you. “Ignore him,” he says softly, his green eyes kind. “You okay?”

“She’s not,” Liam answers for you, his gaze shifting to Louis. “And you’re not helping.”

Louis raises his hands defensively. “What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. This whole thing between you and Zayn needs to be sorted, like, yesterday.”

“Thanks, Louis,” you say flatly, resting your head in your hands.

“Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk,” Louis says, leaning forward. “But the rest of us? We’re stuck in the middle here. And it’s not fair to any of us—especially you.”

“I’m trying,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t fix something if he won’t even talk to me.”

Harry places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t be the one trying to fix it. Let him come to you when he’s ready.”

“And if he doesn’t?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Then he’s an idiot,” Niall says simply, offering you a soft smile.

...

The stadium lights blaze down, the crowd’s deafening screams echoing in your ears as you step toward the edge of the stage. The energy of the night is intoxicating, and you’re caught up in the moment, belting out your part of Live While We’re Young.

The boys are scattered across the stage, each engaging with the audience. Zayn is closest to you, his voice harmonizing effortlessly with yours. It should be one of those perfect moments.

But you don’t see it—the gap between the edge of the stage and the platform below. The adrenaline masks the spatial awareness you usually have, and when your foot slips, there’s nothing to grab onto.

Your body lurches into open air, and for a split second, it feels like time freezes.

The screams of the crowd turn into collective gasps.

You hit the ground hard, the sharp edge of a speaker grazing your side as you land awkwardly on your shoulder. Pain radiates instantly through your arm and chest, knocking the wind out of you.

The music abruptly cuts off, and there’s a commotion above you.

“[Y/N]!” Zayn’s voice cuts through the noise, raw with panic.

You hear the heavy thud of his boots as he jumps down to where you’ve fallen, pushing through the security staff. His hands find your face, cupping it gently, his eyes wild with fear.

“Hey, hey, look at me. Are you okay?” His voice trembles, his usual calm veneer shattered.

You try to answer, but the searing pain in your shoulder makes you wince instead.

The other boys are shouting above you, their faces pale as they crowd the edge of the stage. Liam is already barking orders at security to clear the area, while Harry crouches on the platform, his hand gripping the edge like he’s ready to leap down too.

Zayn doesn’t wait for anyone’s permission. He slides an arm under you, careful but determined, despite your soft groan of pain. “We’re getting you out of here.”

...

Backstage is chaos.

You’re seated on a couch in the dressing room, clutching your arm as the medic examines you. The diagnosis is clear: a dislocated shoulder and a deep gash along your side that will need stitches. You nod silently, blinking back tears, more out of embarrassment than pain.

The boys hover nearby, their faces a mix of concern and helplessness. Liam keeps pacing, his hands on his hips, muttering to himself about how this should have been prevented. Niall offers quiet reassurances, holding a bottle of water he keeps forgetting to hand you.

Zayn, however, is a storm of emotion. He stands rigid against the wall, arms crossed, his knuckles white. His jaw is clenched so tight you wonder how he hasn’t cracked a tooth.

The medic presses lightly on your shoulder, testing the range of motion before preparing to reset it. You bite down on your lower lip, trying to steel yourself against the pain you know is coming.

“I’m going to need you to relax your arm as much as possible,” the medic says, his voice calm but firm.

Relax. Easier said than done when every movement sends a fresh wave of agony shooting through you.

Zayn steps closer, his dark eyes locked on you, his hand reaching out. “Take my hand,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “It’ll help.”

For a moment, you hesitate. His presence is magnetic, his worry for you palpable. But then the memory of his cold distance over the past few weeks rushes back, and your jaw tightens.

“No, thanks,” you say sharply, turning your head away from him. “I’ve got it.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Zayn flinches as if you’ve struck him, his outstretched hand slowly falling to his side.

Before the silence can stretch any longer, Liam is there. He kneels beside you, his warm, steady hand finding yours without hesitation. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he says softly, squeezing your fingers.

You nod, your lips pressing into a thin line as you grip his hand. The medic counts down—three, two, one—and then your shoulder is forced back into place with a sickening pop.

The pain is blinding, sharp enough to bring tears to your eyes. Liam holds firm, murmuring reassurances as you ride it out.

The medic moves on to the deep gash along your side, cleaning the wound and preparing to stitch it up. He warns you it might sting, but you’re already beyond words, exhausted from the ordeal.

Louis hovers near the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame. “You know, if you wanted some extra attention, [Y/N], there are easier ways to get it. Maybe a sprained wrist or a dramatic fainting spell?”

Harry glares at him, his usually calm demeanor slipping. “Not the time, Lou.”

Louis raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying! Trying to lighten the mood. The tension in here is thicker than Zayn’s hair gel.”

“Not now, Louis,” Zayn snaps, his voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Louis’s smirk falters for a split second before he shrugs. “Fine, fine. I’ll save the comedy for the post-show debrief.”

Harry and Niall exchange a look, their shared worry evident. Niall runs a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath about how close you came to something worse.

Meanwhile, Zayn stands apart from the group, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes don’t leave you, but the distance between you feels insurmountable.

As the medic finishes stitching your side and starts wrapping the wound, you finally glance up, your eyes meeting Zayn’s for a fleeting moment. His expression is a storm of emotions—guilt, fear, something deeper you can’t quite name.

He takes a tentative step forward, but you immediately look away, focusing on Liam instead.

“Thanks for staying,” you whisper to him, your voice barely audible.

“Always,” Liam replies without hesitation, his hand still resting on yours. “You’re family. You know that, right?”

His words hit you in a way Zayn’s didn’t. You nod, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Alright, all done,” the medic announces, stepping back. “You’ll need to rest that arm and avoid any strenuous activity for a while. And keep an eye on the stitches. They’ll need to be checked in a few days.”

“Got it,” you mumble, your voice hoarse.

As the medic packs up his kit, the boys slowly move closer, their concern filling the room.

Niall kneels by your other side, his blue eyes soft with worry. “You sure you’re okay? I mean, properly okay?”

You nod, giving him a tired smile. “Yeah. Just...shaken, I guess.”

Harry crouches in front of you, his green eyes scanning your face. “If you need anything—anything at all—we’re here, alright? Don’t even think about toughing it out on your own.”

“Especially not when we’ve got Liam to play nurse,” Louis quips, his grin returning. “He’s practically a saint, and I hear he gives top-notch sponge baths.”

“Louis,” Harry mutters, exasperated.

But you laugh softly, and the tension in the room eases just a little.

Zayn stays silent, his fists clenched at his sides. He watches you interact with the others, the warmth in your voice when you thank Liam, the soft laugh you give Louis. It should comfort him to see you surrounded by so much love and support, but it doesn’t.

Because it isn’t him you’re leaning on.

As the boys help you to your feet, Zayn steps forward as if to assist, but Liam is already there, slipping an arm around your waist to steady you.

“Got her,” Liam says, his tone gentle but firm.

Zayn freezes, his hands dropping to his sides. The others don’t seem to notice, but you do. You catch the flicker of pain in his expression before he turns away, walking out of the room without a word.

The sound of the door clicking shut feels louder than it should, like the final note in a song that doesn’t end the way it should.

And for a moment, all you can do is stare after him, your chest aching with something far more complicated than the pain in your shoulder.

...

The hotel suite is a palace compared to the tour bus—plush furniture, soft lighting, and plenty of space to breathe. You’re grateful for the change, even if it’s mostly for convenience. The medic insisted you rest, and the thought of being jostled around on a moving bus with a freshly stitched side and a sore shoulder wasn’t appealing.

The boys helped you settle into the biggest couch in the shared living area, surrounded by fluffy pillows and a blanket they’d draped over you like you were some kind of fragile doll.

“You’re sure you’re comfortable?” Liam asks for the third time, crouching beside you like a protective older brother.

“I’m fine, Liam,” you say with a small smile, your voice softer than usual. “You can stop fussing now.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Not a chance. Someone’s got to make sure you’re actually following the medic’s orders.”

From across the room, Louis lounges on another couch, tossing a grape in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Oh, come on, Payno. She’s survived a literal fall from grace. I think she can handle a night on a cushy hotel sofa.”

“Not funny,” Harry says, his sharp tone a rare occurrence. He’s sitting on the arm of your couch, his eyes fixed on Louis. “You saw the way she landed. It could’ve been worse.”

The tension in the room is palpable, and you feel a pang of guilt. You hate being the center of attention like this, the source of everyone’s worry.

“Guys, I’m okay,” you say, your voice firmer now. “Really. Can we just…relax for a bit? I think we all need it.”

Niall perks up from where he’s rifling through the mini-fridge. “Relaxing? I’m on it. Who wants snacks? They’ve got these little fancy chocolates—”

“They’re not yours, Niall,” Louis cuts in with a smirk. “Pretty sure those are complimentary for [Y/N]’s sake.”

“Eh, what’s hers is ours,” Niall jokes, tossing a chocolate onto the coffee table in front of you before plopping into an armchair. “Right, love?”

You laugh softly, the sound lightening the mood. “Knock yourself out, Nialler.”

...

When the yawns start spreading through the group, Liam claps his hands softly, breaking the comfortable lull. “Alright, I think it’s bedtime. [Y/N], let’s get you settled properly.”

You start to protest, but Niall cuts you off with a grin. “Don’t even try, love. We’ve got this covered.”

Before you know it, the boys are springing into action. Liam scoops up the pillows and blanket you’d been using on the couch, while Harry gently helps you to your feet, mindful of your injured side.

“You good?” Harry asks, his voice quiet as his arm stays steady around your waist.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, even though you lean on him more than you’d like to admit.

They guide you to the spacious bedroom at the end of the hall, where Louis has already pulled back the covers on the massive bed. Niall’s fiddling with the thermostat.

“Nice and cozy,” he announces with satisfaction, giving the dial one last nudge.

Liam sets the pillows just right and fluffs them unnecessarily, his focus intense. “You need anything else before we head to bed?”

“Maybe an emergency bell to ring when she wants us to bring her snacks,” Louis quips from the doorway, earning a small laugh from you.

“I think I’ll manage,” you say, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.

Liam crouches in front of you, his eyes soft but serious. “If you need anything—anything at all—you wake one of us up. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

You nod, your throat tightening. “I will. Thanks, Li.”

One by one, they each find their way to your side.

Niall is first, his boyish grin softening into something almost shy as he bends down to kiss your cheek. “Night, love. Rest up, yeah? We need you in one piece for the next sound check explosion.”

You laugh, swatting weakly at him, but the gesture warms your heart.

Harry is next, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Sweet dreams, [Y/N]. Don’t overthink anything tonight. Just sleep.”

“Easier said than done,” you tease, but his calm presence makes you feel lighter already.

Louis steps up, dramatically straightening an imaginary tie. “And now, the best for last.” He leans down to plant a loud, exaggerated kiss on your cheek, then stands back with a smirk. “Dream of me, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile is genuine. “Goodnight, Lou.”

Liam lingers the longest, kneeling by the bed again so he’s at your eye level. He rests a hand on your good shoulder, his voice soft. “We’ve got you. Don’t forget that, alright?”

“I won’t,” you whisper, your voice almost breaking.

He presses a kiss to your forehead and then stands, gently tucking the blanket around you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The door closes behind them, and the room falls silent. For the first time all day, you’re alone. The bed is comfortable, the blankets warm, but your mind won’t stop racing.

You glance at the empty space beside you, the absence of Zayn’s presence heavy in the quiet. For all the love and care the others had shown you, a small part of you still yearned for something—someone—else.

You close your eyes, willing sleep to come, but all you can see is the look on his face earlier that night. The storm in his eyes, the way he flinched when you pushed him away.

And as much as you want to forget it, your heart aches just a little more.

...

The minutes stretch endlessly, the silence in the room so thick it feels suffocating. You’re still wide awake, lying there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape the whirlwind of thoughts. Zayn’s face keeps appearing in your mind—the pain, the distance, the way he’d turned away from you earlier.

You wince as you try to shift slightly, the ache in your shoulder sharp and uncomfortable. It’s hard to get comfortable, hard to relax with the weight of everything still hanging in the air between you.

And then, like a soft sigh of relief, there’s a knock on the door.

It’s hesitant. Almost like the person on the other side is unsure if they should even come in. But you already know who it is.

“Come in,” you whisper, your voice faint, barely above a breath.

The door creaks open, and there he is. Zayn. His figure darkens the doorway for a moment before he steps inside, his face drawn, his shoulders tense. He stands there for a second, just looking at you, as if trying to gauge whether or not he should even move forward.

Your heart skips a beat, and before you can stop yourself, your eyes search his for something—anything—that might give you a sense of what’s going on in his mind.

Finally, he moves, his footsteps slow but purposeful.

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse, almost fragile.

“Hey,” you reply, though the word feels small, like a pale echo in the emptiness.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The tension between you is almost unbearable. But Zayn finally breaks the silence.

“Can we talk?” His voice is quiet but firm, his eyes intense as they search yours.

You nod, almost without thinking, and the air between you feels thick with all the things left unsaid.

Zayn moves closer, but he stays a little ways off, standing at the edge of the bed, as though not wanting to overstep. His hands are buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his body stiff and uncertain.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he begins, the words coming out heavy, like he’s carrying something far too large for his shoulders. “I’ve been pulling away from you, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to deal with…” He trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he looks back at you, his eyes full of regret. “I’ve been scared.”

Your chest tightens, a wave of hurt and confusion rising in your throat, but you say nothing. You just wait.

“I didn’t want to ruin everything,” Zayn continues, his voice quieter now. “You’ve always been my best friend, [Y/N]. But… somewhere along the way, I started feeling something more. Something deeper that I didn’t know how to handle. And I thought if I let it out, it would mess everything up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. You blink, trying to absorb what he’s saying, but it feels like your mind is moving too fast to catch up.

“Ruining what?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper.

Zayn steps closer, and this time, he sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you too much. His gaze never leaves yours.

“Us,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t want to lose you as my best friend. But I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I love you, [Y/N].”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t seem to find the words. His confession hangs in the air between you, and your heart pounds louder than you can even hear your own thoughts.

You’ve been waiting for this moment—for so long, you didn’t even realize how badly you needed it until it was there, right in front of you.

And the words finally spill out, almost without thinking. “I love you too, Zayn.”

His eyes soften, and a relieved smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He reaches out slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he touches your good shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin lightly. The tenderness in his touch makes your heart ache, and you instinctively lean into him, despite the injury still throbbing at your side.

Zayn leans in closer, his lips hovering near yours, and for a long second, you both simply breathe, savoring the moment. His fingers gently brush your cheek before he closes the distance, his lips brushing against yours. It’s a soft, tentative kiss at first, careful of your injury, but it deepens quickly.

The kiss is filled with everything unsaid—the years of friendship, the longing, the unspoken desire that’s been simmering beneath the surface. You feel your heart race in your chest, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

Zayn pulls away just enough to whisper against your lips, “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, your hands moving to his neck, pulling him closer as if you never want to let go.

Carefully, Zayn pulls you back gently against the pillows, mindful of your shoulder as he shifts beside you. He tucks you in, making sure you’re comfortable, and then settles beside you, his body warm against yours.

You rest your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He wraps his arm around you, holding you close. You’re both quiet for a long moment, but the silence now is comforting. There’s no more tension, no more hurt, just the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the steady pulse of his heart against yours.

“I feel like I’m home,” you murmur, your words soft as sleep starts to take over.

Zayn’s fingers brush through your hair, the movement slow and soothing. “You are, [Y/N]. You always have been.”

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, you feel a sense of peace you’ve never known before. Safe. Loved. At home.

...

The soft rays of morning light filter through the curtains, gently waking you from one of the best sleeps you’ve had in a while. Despite the pain in your shoulder, you feel remarkably comfortable—maybe it’s the way Zayn is still curled up beside you, his arm around you, holding you close as if he never wants to let go. The warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it feels like home, like everything is finally right.

You shift slightly, careful not to disturb your shoulder, and the faintest of smiles tugs at your lips. It’s surreal, really. After everything—the fight, the tension, the painful silence—everything feels different now. You’re finally at peace, something that had eluded you for a while. And you don’t want to let go of that feeling.

As you settle back into Zayn’s chest, you can hear his steady breath, and it brings you a sense of calm. You’re warm, safe, and surrounded by the familiarity of his presence. You allow yourself to stay there, letting sleep pull you back under for just a few more minutes.

But soon, a soft knock at the door breaks through the quiet. You freeze for a moment, instinctively pulling away from Zayn, though not enough to disturb him. The knock comes again, louder this time, followed by a faint voice you recognize.

“[Y/N], are you up?” Liam calls, his voice muffled through the door.

You glance at Zayn, who is still fast asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. You’re torn for a moment—do you want to wake him? Do you want the others to see you two like this? But before you can decide, the door creaks open, and you’re met with the grinning faces of Liam, Niall, Louis, and Harry.

The moment they see you both, their expressions flicker between surprise, relief, and—of course—teasing.

“Well, well, well,” Louis drawls, his eyes scanning the room with a dramatic sweep. “Look who decided to finally get it together.” He smirks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.

Liam, ever the soft-hearted one, smiles warmly as he walks over to you, placing a tray of breakfast on the nightstand. “You okay?” he asks, his eyes soft with concern. “How’s the shoulder?”

You sit up carefully, trying not to jostle the injured side too much. “It’s better today,” you reply with a small smile. “Thanks for asking.”

Niall grins and steps closer to the bed, handing you a cup of coffee. “We brought you breakfast in bed. Figured you’d need the extra comfort today,” he says with a wink.

You take the coffee, your fingers brushing his, and give him a grateful nod. “You guys are the best, thanks.”

Harry, who’s been standing at the foot of the bed, crosses his arms and watches the two of you closely. There’s an amused glint in his eyes as he finally speaks. “So… looks like things are sorted out between you two?”

You glance at Zayn, your lips curving into a shy smile, and it hits you all over again—everything feels so right. You don’t want to hide anymore.

Zayn, who’s just begun to stir, shifts and rubs his eyes, clearly not used to the attention but still managing to give a soft, sleepy smile as he looks at you. “Yeah, things are sorted,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

Liam lets out a relieved sigh and pats Zayn on the back. “Finally, man. You two have been dancing around it for so long, we were starting to think you’d never figure it out.”

Louis snorts, looking far too pleased with himself. “Told you it would happen. It was written all over you two from the start. Took long enough, though.” He winks at you, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his teasing.

“But seriously,” Niall adds, his expression softening as he sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m glad you two worked it out. It’s good to see you both happy.”

You smile at Niall, grateful for his genuine happiness for you. “Thanks, Niall. I think we’re finally there.”

Harry’s gaze lingers on you and Zayn for a moment longer, his usually playful demeanor softening. “I’m glad,” he says, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity. “You guys deserve to be happy.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence for a moment as the boys settle around the bed, chatting with you and Zayn, and everything feels… different. Lighter. It’s like the air between you has shifted, like you can finally exhale after holding your breath for so long.

But Louis, of course, can’t resist a little more teasing. He raises an eyebrow and grins, his tone a little too casual. “So, when’s the wedding, huh?”

You groan, tossing a pillow at him. “Louis, you’re impossible.”

Zayn chuckles, clearly relaxed for the first time in days. “Give it a rest, mate. We’re just figuring things out.”

Liam watches the two of you with a fond smile before turning to the rest of the group. “Well, I think we should leave these two to it for now,” he says, standing up and motioning for the others to follow. “You’ve got some catching up to do, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis mutters as he stands, giving one last wink. “Just don’t make it too sappy, alright? We don’t need to hear all about your feelings.”

The others laugh, and one by one, they make their way out of the room, leaving you and Zayn alone once more.

Once the door clicks shut, Zayn turns to you, his eyes soft and full of affection. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You shake your head, your smile wide. “No, not bad at all. I think we’re officially out of the ‘silent treatment’ phase now.”

He laughs and leans in, brushing a gentle kiss across your forehead. “Definitely. And just so you know…” He pauses, looking at you with a smirk. “I plan on making up for all the time I wasted not being honest with you.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eye. “Oh, do you now?”

“I do,” he confirms with a wink. “Big time.”

And as you both settle back into the comfort of each other’s company, you know that, no matter what comes next, this—what you have together—is exactly where you’re meant to be.

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